Chapter Text
“Did you hear?”
Between roughly 6 and 9 of the neighborhood ladies enjoyed the privilege of being invited to partake in one of Privet Drive long-held social traditions: The weekly Sunday lunch, a gathering for the respectable members of their small community, which one could quickly find oneself excluded from if the oldest members deemed you unworthy.
For someone like Petunia Dursley, who was especially conscious of how others perceived her, such social humiliation was unbearable, therefor she went through great length to always stay in their good grace. When she was once again chosen to host the get-together, she worked tirelessly to prepared an excellent buffet lunch and provide a hospitable setting, for which she received a small nod of approval from the notoriously difficult to please Mrs. Thompson.
So, she was in high spirits when Mrs. Williams spoke one of the most frequent uttered phrases of their lunches; ´Did you hear? ´
Petunia sipped her tea before asking, “Hear what?”
“About the incident with the Riddles,” Mrs. Williams whispered in delight, immediately capturing the attention of all the attendees, and knew it, judging by her smug expression. Her voice carried all the way from the dinner room to where Harry laid hidden in the cupboard, trying to be very quietly and generally pretending not to exist.
“No, has something happened?” The young and pretty Mrs. Sallow asked with a definite note of curiosity in her voice.
The unusual Riddle family was popular topic of gossip among the residents of Privet Drive. Judging looks and mean-spirited comments followed trio from the moment they moved into the shabby house at the far most corner of the street. There were numerous reasons for this; Their house always remained unkempt, the pair rarely socialized and Mr. Riddle was unemployed! But, the most important reason was undoubtedly the fact that the family was downright bizarre.
Mr. Riddle was a tall, handsome man with aristocratic features, while his wife was a withered and frankly, ugly creature. Their union was often mocking referred as an example of ´ Beauty and the Beast´, and the consensus among the community was that it was unnatural; like a warped joke taken too far.
Their demon spawn was a troublemaking nightmare, if the teachers at St. Grogory’s Primary School could be believed. And thus, it had become a universally acknowledged fact that the Riddles was no good.
“Certainly, something very horrible has happened,” Mrs. Williams paused for dramatic effect, enjoying how everyone was listening with rapture, “The Riddles has been murdered!”
There was an audible gasp from every single one of them, and justly so, people didn’t just get murdered in their peaceful little corner of the world.
“Surely you jest!” Petunia eventually managed to speak out.
Mr. Williams gave a sniff of disapproval, “I would never jest about such a grim matter.”
And while the strict glare leveled at Petunia could fool one to think Mr. Williams did in fact take this very seriously, her smug smile when she continued suggested she thought of this as great entertainment.
“I heard it from a very credible source, you see, my brother was discussing it with the police chief this morning.”
“What utterly terrible news! How could such tragedy find place here?” Mrs. Sallow cried and none of the attendees could gauge if the sentimental was sincere. For you see, Mrs. Sallow was known to harbor an especially vicious dislike for the Riddles. The cause of this was, unbeknownst to everyone, that she had tried to seduce the handsome Mr. Riddle, who had cruelly rejected her with an almost robot-like disposition. This was very galling to her pride, seeing as she had always regarded herself a great beauty, and could not for the life of her understand what he saw in Mrs. Riddle.
They broke out in mutters of; “Outrages!” “Good Lord!” “Horrible, just horrible,” interrupted by the soft voice of Mrs. Fernsby fearfully asking “Is there a murder on the loose? M-my children are home alone right now!”
And with that an air of uneasiness and dread invaded the dinning room, intensified by the heavy drops of cold autumn rain drumming on the window. The ladies exchanged alarmed looks, the possibility of them or their love ones being next quickly gaining focus. They swapped more frightening scenarios that only added to the creeping panic before the stern Marjorie Dursley put a stop to it.
Petunia’s sister-in-law debunked that idea by adequately pointing out, "Nonsense. Mark my words, this incident is no doubt a result of their abnormality, and nothing any one here should fear to get involved in.”
And that was something everyone in the room desperately wanted to believe, so they accepted it. Their voices dropped to a lower volume after that and Harry could only catch snippets, but there seemed to be an agreement that whatever happened, the Riddles had probably caused themselves.
-
Harry Potter, commonly referred to as ´boy´ or ´freak´ by his relatives, was 9 years old. He was short, scrawny and wore oversized clothes that made him look like a street urchin. According to his relatives, this was more than he deserved, and he should be very grateful they even bothered to take him in. Every day they tolerated his presence was a saintly accomplishment on their part, and the least he could do was help around the house to not completely leech of their generosity.
However, as Harry tried to frequently remind himself, there was more to him than his relatives opinion.
Harry Potter liked playing football, but he hated that he was always being picked last, it was not fair, he played much better than many of the other boys. Math was his favorite subject in school, mostly because the teacher was nice to him, and history his least. He could run very fast, hold his breath for 2 whole minutes and sneak around very quietly (all three abilities had served him well).
Another thing you must know about Harry Potter, was that he was very, very lonely.
With no parents or friends to speak of, his cousin Dudley made sure of the later one, the boy spent most of his days in lonesomeness. He did not partake in the raging gossip about the murder of the Riddles, for he had no one to discuss it with, but he heard enough to be horrified over it.
“Did you hear? Mr. Riddle bashed his wife’s head against the wall, there was apparently blood splattered everywhere!”
“Did you hear? He choked his son half to death?”
“Poor kid!”
“And, and?”
“Well, the thing is, no one understand how Mr. Riddle died. The doctors can't verify the cause of death.”
“I heard his heart exploded!”
Every piece of gossip and speculation was spoken with morbid enthusiasm, often carrying a malicious undertone, as thought enjoying a tremendous scandal. Nobody wasted much breath pretending to feel very sad about the Riddles, for they had been most unpopular. In fact, the opposite was frequently displayed. Many participated in gleeful mocking of the deceased couple.
“That Mr. Riddle was not right in the head, all right. At least that does explain his marriage choice.”
Every time Harry heard them, he felt something twist in his stomach, and he would get unbearably warm, like he was boiling over. It just felt…wrong. What happened to the Riddles was tragic, wasn’t it? It was not like he personally know the youngest Riddle, well; he had seen him around in school sometimes, but Tom was 2 years younger than him, and thus they had little reasons to interact. Nor did he know the Riddles, and yet, he wasn’t able to treat what happened with the same callous everyone else exhibited. He couldn’t connect the horrific news with the thrilled manner everyone was talking about it. Yet, he seemed to be the only one finding it odd.
Even the weather on the funereal day for Merope Riddle was inappropriate; Bright shining sun and clear blue skies did very little to convey a mournful mood fitting for a last goodbye to a love one. Indeed, the only source of gloominess was the young Tom Riddle.
The young child was momently discharged from hospital and had a nurse accompanying him (Harry heard derisive whispers of the Riddles, his grandparents, not daring to show their face). The white bandage around his neck stood painfully out against his black mourning clothes.
Harry gravitated towards him under the ceremony, drawn in by the dark despondency he was emitting, like a black hole sucking in all light around him. That's not to say he looked sad exactly; there was no crying or screaming. Tom’s face was blank throughout the whole affair, never changing, his eyes dulled with emptiness.
Harry was hit with the unreasonable fear that Tom’s soul had already left his body and that he would crumble to dirt any moment. However, he couldn’t quite muster up the courage to talk to him. What could he even say?
“What an odd child.”
Harry wiped his head to the side, where two women were conversing not so quietly, and winched when the woman continued with, “It his mother’s funeral and he has not shed one tear. “
Said child only stood a short distance away, and could probably hear them just as well as Harry if the slight trembling of his shoulders were any indication.
The other woman nodded solemnly, before adding with a snide tone “It is very unnatural.”
It was then Harry made a decision that would lead him to be locked away in his cupboard for two weeks, only allowed to come out to go to the bathroom, and receiving minimum food that would leave him too hungry to properly sleep.
One might speculate that he did this because it was the right thing to do, that those women were behaving very unfitting to the point he felt morally obligated to speak out. Or one might think it was out of compassion for the seven-year old who’s breathing became irregular the second the word ´unnatural´ was spoken, but neither of those explanations would be sufficient.
Harry acted because he was the insignificant child of a dead-beat drunk and a stupid tramp that died in a car accident. A cheater, bully and troublemaker; A freakish boy who, no matter what he did, couldn’t make his aunt and uncle happy.
Harry acted because he had been subjected to does same condescending and mocking remarks his whole life, and seeing someone else go through made him see for the first time how incredible wrong it was. And fierce anger, one that had always been suppressed by a sense of hopelessness, erupted in full force.
“Hey!” He turned towards them, making the women jump in fear, they turned their startled gaze at him, and Harry pointing an accusatory finger at them, “We can all hear you. And the only unnatural thing here are you two acting so mean to someone who just lost their parents!”
They looked at Harry positively scandalized, mouths gaping and everything, but Harry paid them no mind. He spun around and grabbed Tom’s hand, ice cold as it was, and ran.
And run they did, all the way through the cemetery that twisted like contorted bones, careless of the countless corpses that rested beneath them. All Harry could think was that they needed to get away from this place, to leave the sorrows and despairs behind, and Tom surprisingly enough kept up with a deadly grip on Harry’s hand.
Harry’s feet almost slip outwards on the wet autumn leaves as they rounded the corner, the cold air shocking his throat and lungs as he inhaled deeper, faster. Eventually, they stopped, both exhausted and their hearts beating heavily.
Harry’s chest heaved as he struggled to control his breathing, and when he lifted his head to see how Tom was faring, he was meet with dark eyes locked at him. Tom Riddle was unabashedly staring at him with an intensity that left him flustered with embarrassment.
Letting out a nervous laugh, Harry felt awkwardness sink in as he realized that had essentially pulled a stranger away from his mother funeral. Mortified he quickly tried to let go of Tom’s hand, but the other boy tightened his grip at the first sign of struggle.
Despite being younger than him, Tom Riddle was barley any shorter than him, something that became adamantly clear when he stepped closer, their faces only a few inches apart. Harry blinked, Tom had a very doll like face, the lines of his face are smooth and pale and his dark hair orderly despite all the running. When he spoke, his voice came out as soft and careful, “Who are you?”
“Erm, I-I,” Harry stammered, believe it or not, it was not often he was asked that question, “Potter, Harry Potter.”
For a moment that seemed to stretch on forever, Tom said nothing. Instead the younger boy continued to stare at him with those deep, greyish brown eyes that imitated black. And then, he said very softly, as though the words were something precious he loathed to part with, “Harry Potter.”
Silence descended on them once again, as Tom seemed perfectly happy to just drink in Harry’s features, unlike Harry who was getting increasingly uncomfortable. He…he just didn’t know what to say. He had also lost his parents, but he had been too young to really understand it at the time. Not mention neither of them had murdered the other, except aunt Petunia did occasionally mutter that his father got his mother murdered — presumably by being the one drunk driving — but he didn’t think it was comparable. At least he was reasonable certain none of them tried to kill him.
His eyes darted around, desperate for a solution; any solution, before settling on the bandage around Tom’s neck. Once more a feeling of profound sadness overcome him. So, as earnestly as he has ever been, he said, “I’m sorry for what happened to you.”
Startled, as if never expecting those words, Tom’s eyes widened. Then Harry witness the most heartbreaking sight as the younger boy started to tremble. Harry managed to free his hand so that he could pull Tom into a hug. He was not certain if he was doing it correctly, seeing as he hadn’t received many hugs himself, but he knew he had made the right call when Tom clutched to him as though he was a lifeline.
They stayed together until the nurse finally found them and took Tom back to the hospital, and despite the harsh punishment that followed from the Dursley, Harry managed to smuggle a get-well card to Tom through a sympathetic teacher.