Chapter Text
What was a boy supposed to do when faced with the person who caused their father's downfall?
I sure didn't know. I was only eleven and had never met the man who had sired me, or at least, I couldn't remember. Truthfully, the stories I'd heard about my father, and mother for that matter, reminded me greatly of the people that I saw leering at me in my nightmares. Uncle Lucius seemed to expect extraordinary things from me, like I would grow to fill my father's position and become Lord Voldemort 2.0. I wasn't sure how to explain that I wanted to be nothing like him.
So when a messy haired boy stepped into Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions while my cousin and I were being fitted for our hogwarts robes, I froze. He looked nervous as he stepped up beside Draco, who turned his pointed face towards the boy and greeted, “Hello, Hogwarts too?”
“Yes.”
“My father's next door, buying our books and mother's up the street looking at wands,” Draco drawled, like he was bored despite the excited conversation we'd been having just moments before the boy arrived. I zoned my cousin out as he went on, droning about broomsticks and quidditch. I tried to keep my eyes away from the odd, anxious boy but they seemed to always find their way back to him, his messy hair and brilliant green eyes that were hidden behind a pair of old circular glasses, “know what house you'll be in yet?”
The boy shifted slightly, “No.”
“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been; Right Mattheo?” I couldn't even nod my answer before Draco went on, “Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?”
“Mmm,” The boy affirmed half-heartedly. He seemed more confused than anything, not that Draco was taking notice.
Suddenly Draco paused his incessant rambling and pointed, wide eyed, out the shop window, “I say, look at that man!”
I turned to see a gigantic hairy man, grinning and holding two ice cream cones at the same time that the boy spoke, “That's Hagrid, he works at Hogwarts.”
“Oh,” Draco pinched his lips haughtily and I just knew he was about to say something offensive, “I've heard of him, he's a sort of servant, isn't he?”
“He's the game keeper,” The Boy's green eyes narrowed slightly
“Yes, exactly, I heard he's a sort of savage, lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his bed.”
“I think he's brilliant,” The boy hissed coldly.
“Do you?” Draco sneered and I couldn't help but sigh at his behaviour, always defensive, “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”
“They're dead,” said the boy shortly, his lips now pinched into a tight line. His eyes flickered to me momentarily, his hair moving over his forehead as he turned. My breath caught in my throat and I felt the blood drain from my face. Sat there upon his forehead, was a lightning bolt scar.
“Harry Potter,” I breathed, quiet enough that neither of them heard. Bustling to my feet and knocking over the chair behind me, I gasped, “I'm not feeling great, Draco, I'll wait outside for your dad to come.”
With that, I ran from the store without waiting for an answer.
So, what was one Mattheo Riddle supposed to do when faced with the Boy Who Lived? Because surely running away was not the answer.