Shopping thrill
— CHAPTER NINE —
Shopping thrill
Harry Potter ran through Diagon Alley, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. The late February chill bit at his skin, but adrenaline coursing through his veins made him numb to the cold.
The cobbled street was a gloomy, slushy mess. The remnants of winter melted into dirty puddles that splashed beneath his feet. The sky, a heavy blanket of clouds, seemed to press down on him, a reflection of the suffocating fear that gripped his heart.
Harry dodged and weaved around the witches and wizards on his escape route, his eyes searching desperately for a spot or a gate that might offer him refuge. His wet shoes slipped on the slick stones, almost sending him sprawling more than once. His mind raced as fast as his legs, trying to formulate a plan, any plan, that would put distance between him and the wizard who had controlled his every move for the past two weeks.
He hadn't planned this escape. It was a moment of pure instinct — a split-second decision made in the chaos of Diego Balenciaga's shop, in the midst of the distraction provided by a noisy family. He knew it wasn't the best of his decisions, with all the restrictions Riddle had placed on him, it was better to wait for a more convenient time, but having made up his mind, it was necessary to finish what he had started. The alternative wasn't encouraging. Riddle had made it crystal clear that if he was caught even thinking about escaping, Crucio would be waiting for him at home. And this time there will be no negotiation.
And there he was, running away anyway. Without a wand, without a plan, but with a fiery determination that gave him strength.
Screw the self-preservation instinct.
The rain, light but persistent, stuck his hair to his forehead and seeped through his thin robes. Wiping his splashed glasses with his sleeve, Harry glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see Riddle emerge from the rain, his handsome face twisted in fury. Luckily, he had only a crowd of witches and wizards behind him, unaware that the fate of the wizarding world and their own futures were at stake. He ran faster.
Few moments later, catching his breath, Harry paused, hands pressed against his knees. He couldn't just keep running, he had to think of something that would ensure that even if Riddle tracked him down and caught him, he wouldn't be able to drag him back to his apartment.
Easier said than done.
Straightening up, Harry lifted his gaze and his eyes fell on the rain-soaked sign of the Leaky Cauldron. And suddenly he was struck with an unexpected idea.
o.O.o
"It's time to give Harry Potter back to the world. And you don't think I'm going to let someone pretending to be my little brother parade around in ill-fitting robes, do you?" Riddle's voice, though smooth, had also a teasing edge. As if the older boy was amused by the mere thought of it.
Harry, on the other hand, didn't feel like laughing.
"Pretending to be your little brother?" he repeated, not bothering to hide his disgust and indignation. Pain caused by his hurt hands and the caution induced by the recent punishment were momentarily forgotten. As well as the breakfast. "Seriously, I thought Voldemort was out of his mind, but you managed to beat him in stupidity."
He couldn't fathom pretending to be the younger brother of his parents' future murderer. No way!
Riddle's eyes narrowed, though the future Dark Lord's voice remained calm.
"Potter, remember what I said about showing respect?"
"But I'm just stating the facts. Where's the disrespect in that?"
The expected stinging hex didn't come. Riddle straightened up in his chair, crossing his arms. So, then, the lecture. After two weeks in the presence of the older boy, Harry was beginning to pick up on his body language quite well.
"I thought you wanted to get out of my apartment," Riddle said, piercing him with his steely grey eyes. "Or perhaps your constant snooping around my library is about something other than finding a way to break through my protective barriers?"
Harry felt his heartbeat quicken. Since his last mishap he'd been extra careful not to leave any traces, and as he had set the books down, he had checked five times to make sure they were in the same location and not upside down.
No, nothing could tip him off this time, so it had to be the bloody Bug.
Luckily, Riddle's tone was not chiding, but still infuriatingly patronising.
"I don't see the connection," Harry replied evenly, forcing himself to calm down. The throbbing pain in his hands was an unpleasant reminder that he should be careful. He'd already learnt that calmness did not mean a lack of consequences.
"The connection is that you're supposed to be useful. You won't be if you're remained locked here," Riddle explained casually. "On the other hand, I cannot allow you to leave without a believable explanation for why you’ve suddenly appeared in my life."
Harry snorted. It was ludicrous.
"Well, yes, because the sudden appearance of another family member won't seem suspicious to anyone."
"If everything is carefully prepared, yes, it won't. We are quite similar, and we are both Parselmouth. That alone would be enough, even if you were a redhead with freckles. Besides, don't forget the times we live in. It wasn't so long ago that Hitler in tandem with Stalin were terrorising the Muggle world, and Grindelwald ours. Sudden disappearances, deaths or unexpected come backs take no one by surprise. In the turmoil of war, these things happen. Besides, people's capacity for ignorance is boundless when the narrative suits them. And is there anything more hearth touching than a family reunion?"
Harry had no counterarguments to this. He was all too familiar with the atmosphere of terror and uncertainty. Three weeks ago, he used to start his days by looking over Hermione's shoulder as she flicked through the Daily Prophet to find out who was missing, dead or arrested this time. Unfortunately, in his times, it was not uncommon for someone he had seen in class the day before not to turn up the next day.
But that didn’t make the idea of pretending to be Riddle’s younger brother any more acceptable. On the contrary, it reminded Harry why he should hate the young man sitting in front of him.
"You may be right about people buying it, but.... That's not an option. I have no intention of pretending to be your brother. Come up with something better."
The icy coldness in Riddle's eyes told Harry that he had overstepped this time, but he wasn't going to let that bother him. At worst he would be punished again, no big deal. He could handle a little pain.
As opposed to introducing himself using the name of his parents' murderer.
"Potter, I think you are missing a fundamental and important issue. You have no right to refuse."
"According to our agreement, I can express an objection," Harry reminded him.
And here it went again. The same verbal exchange. How many times had this happened?
"And I can take it into consideration, but I don't have to. And in case you've forgotten, the last word belongs to me."
Instinctively, out of anger, Harry clenched his hands into fists and hissed in pain. For Merlin's sake, how he hated the wizard sitting across the table at that moment.
"So? What's this brilliant plan of yours?" he asked in spite of himself.
He didn't say he agreed with this charade, but Riddle's demeanour changed instantly anyway: the deadly threat was gone, replaced by unabashed satisfaction.
"We're going to carry the same surname because it's more convenient, so we'll tell everyone that we have a same father but different mothers. Mine was from England, yours from Ireland. Yours was also abandoned by our father shortly after he found out she was pregnant. However, you were luckier than me and were raised by her for the first few years. She died of dragon pox when you were seven, and after her death you were sent to her sister, who lived in Dublin with her husband and son. This explains why you didn't go to Hogwarts. In Ireland, they have a completely different system of education for young wizards, so by the way, no one will be surprised by your gaps in knowledge," Riddle began, and the confidence with which he spoke assured Harry that the future Dark Lord had indeed thought everything through carefully beforehand.
Most disturbing, however, was the mention of his mother's sister. This meant that Riddle was listening carefully, remembering what Harry said and drawing his own conclusions. It seemed that the older boy was not only able to extract something from the story of Lord Voldemort's future fate that would serve his plans.
Harry decided silently that he would be more careful in their future conversations.
"Your new guardians didn't treat you very well," Riddle continued. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Yep, definitely too perceptive. "Both your aunt and her husband were squibs, so jealous of your magic that tried to tamper your magical development. They only let up when it turned out that your cousin also had magical abilities, a weak one, but still better than nothing. When you turned eleven, they sent you to one of the schools where magic was taught, but as soon as our father stopped sending them money for your upbringing, they kicked you out of the house and you ended up on the streets. You were taken in by two vagrants, low-level criminals, but they got into some pretty serious trouble. One of them was killed, the other ended up in jail, and you were left alone again. And then you remembered that long ago you had come across an article in the Daily Prophet describing the school achievements of a certain Tom Riddle. You knew from your mother's stories that your father was from England, so you put the facts together and decided that we might be related. Your last guardians had put aside some money for a rainy day, and as you were left alone, you decided to use it, found a smuggler to help you get to England, and almost immediately tracked me down, as everyone on Nocturne knows each other. In a word, you were lucky and I was magnanimous enough to take care of you."
Harry was speechless. Riddle had planned this bloody well. From the whole story, Harry could only point out one stupid thing.
"How on earth, living in Ireland, would I come across an article in the Daily Prophet?" he asked, not without wry satisfaction.
The answer came in an instant.
"One of your last guardians was a Brit who fled to Ireland because he had also made trouble in England. He used to read the Daily Prophet out of sentiment. Oh, and one more thing: if someone asks you what your first guardians were called, you can give them the names of your real relatives. Just change the surname. The same goes for the two tramps; you can name them after your father's friends. What was it like? Padfoot and Moody?"
"Moony," Harry corrected Riddle reflexively, and then it dawned on him what that man was proposing. Outraged, he momentarily sprang up from his seat, slapping his open palms on the tabletop.
"How dare you!" he exclaimed, and at the same moment his face contorted with pain.
Fuck. His hands.
Riddle's reaction was immediate. The older boy also rose abruptly from his seat, and a second later they were staring at each other with murderous glances, their noses almost touching.
"What part of the phrase 'the last word belongs to me' did you not understand?" the future Dark Lord asked icily, his grey eyes narrowed threateningly.
Harry decided not to be intimidated, even though his heart wanted to rip out of his chest.
It's just a pain. And it faded eventually.
"I understood perfectly the first time. You're getting boring repeating yourself," Harry said through clenched teeth.
"You'll spend this morning practising introducing yourself in a new way," said Riddle, ignoring the remark. "And if it ever slips out in front of anyone that you're Harry Potter, not Harry Riddle, believe me, Crucio will be the least of your worries."
o.O.o
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Harry brushed his wet hair back with a trembling hand and stepped across the threshold of the Leaky Cauldron with a resolve that belied his inner trepidation. The warm, slightly musty air, rich with the scent of butterbeer and roasting bacon, enveloped him as he stepped inside.
As Harry's eyes adjusted to the dim light and acrid smoke, he looked around. It was a Friday afternoon so the Leaky Cauldron, as in his times, was bustling with life. The familiar interior was crowded with witches and wizards craving a bit of relaxation. Three old women sat in a corner with their heads close together over small glasses of sherry, while a group of goblins loudly competed in a game of Gobstones at another table. A few stern looking wizards debated vigorously, their arguments punctuated by wild gestures and the occasional burst of sparks from their wands.
With a bit of surprise, Harry noted that the bar hadn't changed much in fifty years; the wooden beams, the slightly stooped ceiling, and the collection of oddities decorating the walls were all as he remembered. Perhaps only the tables looked less worn out, but the chairs were as mismatched as ever.
Behind the bar the bartender, in which Harry recognized Tom from his times, was busy pouring drinks, his movements fluid and practised. The man's face, younger and less wrinkled than the one Harry remembered, had the same friendly expression that encouraged conversation and confidences, though his eyes, sharp and observant, missed nothing that went on around him.
Amidst the air, thick with smoke and filled by the sounds of laughter, lively conversations and the clinking of glasses Harry considered his next move. His plan, born of a desperation that could only be inspired by the worst situation, was risky and breakneck. A few moments ago it had seemed brilliant in its simplicity. But now, as he looked at the customers and searched among them for his potential target, doubt overcame him and dampened his resolve. He might not be caught. Worse still, his victims might deal with him personally, without Aurors. But what other choice did he have? He couldn't just walk up to the first wizard he met and say, "Hi, I'm from the future and I need to contact Dumbledore to help me get back before the whole timeline blows up", Riddle had already taken care of that.
Harry's eyes darted from a group of lively young wizards in brightly coloured robes, looking like fans just back from a Quidditch match to a rack of cloaks standing by the fireplace.
Another brilliant idea formed in Harry's mind.
Rummaging through the pockets of robes hanging on a rack seemed more impersonal and easier than trying to rob someone alive. So, with feigned casualness, Harry approached the rack next to the crackling fireplace. Under the pretext of hanging up his own top robe, Harry began clumsily rifling through the pockets of the other coats with his sore hands. He glanced stealthy over his shoulder, as if to make sure no one was watching, but really hoping he had managed to attract the attention of the bartender or one of the customers. To his surprise, he was able to grab two punches with coins and a bunch of keys before anyone noticed what he was up to.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Tom's sharp voice cut through the buzz of conversations, pinning Harry in place. Without missing a beat, the bartender aimed a stun spell at the supposed thief. Harry, driven by his instincts, leapt aside, the spell narrowly missing him and hitting the wall, where it left a scorch mark.
This, of course, immediately attracted the attention of the other customers, and the hum of conversation quietened instantly. Of course, this was exactly what Harry had hoped for, but he had to play his part to the end. What kind of thief would steal just to get caught? But the Petrification Charm Harry had been hit from his right had taken him completely by surprise.
"Don't think you're getting away, little thief," one of the older wizards said, tucking his wand into his robes pocket. He nodded at the bartender, who was just coming around the counter to approach Harry. At the same moment, Harry's heart sank as the door to the Leaky Cauldron reopened and the figure of Tom Riddle appeared in the doorway.
A very, very livid Tom Riddle.
Shit.
o.O.o
When Riddle told him that they were going to Diagon Alley to buy him some better-fitting clothes, Harry subconsciously expected a fifty years younger version of Madame Malkin, which later seemed silly and naive, since the woman was not that old. And yet he was still strangely surprised when, upon crossing the threshold of the shop (located in the same place), instead of the expected witch, they were greeted by a slender wizard in his forties who spread an aura of controlled chaos around himself. His smooth, shiny hair and thin, curling moustache gave him an eccentric appearance, and when he spoke, the distinct foreign accent in his voice only added to this impression.
"Ah, Mr. Riddle, ever so punctual" exclaimed the tailor as he walked briskly towards them. "What can I do for you today?"
Riddle nodded his head in a gesture of greeting.
"Mr. Balenciaga, punctuality is just a small way of showing respect, and you know the best how much I value your work," the future Dark Lord replied smoothly. The man called Mr. Balenciaga puffed out his chest proudly; it was clear that Riddle's words had tickled his ego pleasantly.
Harry's jaw almost dropped. While he understood sucking up to Slughorn, he did not expect flattery towards the tailor.
"Today, however, it's not I who will need your help, but my younger brother."
Harry felt Riddle's hand on his back, pushing him forward slightly. Potter momentarily had the urge to jump into the bath and scrub the spot where the older boy's hand touched him.
Balenciaga's eyes twinkled with curiosity at the mention of 'brother,' but his professionalism prevailed. "Of course, Mr. Riddle. Diego Balenciaga, at your service," he said, offering a hand to Harry.
"Harry Riddle," Harry introduced himself and returned the handshake. He felt the gaze of the grey eyes drill into the back of his head, but Riddle had nothing to complain. The git had made Harry repeat those two words until he could say them without stuttering before he left the apartment. Worst of all, it worked. Despite the bitter taste of defeat on his tongue, Harry's voice didn't falter.
"And what might young Mr. Riddle require?" the tailor asked.
"Basically everything," Riddle replied evenly. "From socks and underwear to casual and dress robes. Several sets."
"And school robes? Shall I include those too?" asked Mr. Balenciaga, gesturing to his assistant who was now standing some distance away from them.
"No, those aren't needed. My brother's home schooled."
The young witch approached them, smiling brightly, and though she too tried to remain completely professional, her cheeks reddened slightly as the elder Riddle nodded in greeting.
Seriously?
"This way, Mr. Riddle," the young woman said as she led Harry into the next room, where a wooden stool stood in the middle. Riddle and Mr. Balenciaga followed.
Lit by a tall crystal chandelier, the room even smelled exclusive and elegant, a subtle fragrance that suggested the highest quality of materials and service. Against one wall stood a row of tall, narrow mirrors, offering customers a panoramic view of their outfits from every angle. Opposite the mirrors, on shelves reaching the high ceiling, lay bales of multicoloured fabrics whose shades were vibrant and intense, as if saturated with their own magical glow. Around the dressmaking mannequins standing here and there, needles and scissors floated in the air, guided by an unseen hand, working tirelessly to complete the designs. The sight was mesmerising, a ballet of craftsmanship and magic that caught even Harry's attention.
"Let's get you measured, shall we?" the voice of Balenciaga's assistant rang out close to Harry's ear, causing the boy to flinch slightly. With a deft flick of her wand, the woman elegantly removed the top robe Harry was wearing and sent it to a hanger. Without its enveloping weight on his shoulders, Harry felt strangely exposed. "Would you stand on the stool, please?"
Wearing only his shirt and trousers, Harry stepped onto the stool, feeling uncomfortable at being the centre of attention. Mr. Balenciaga watched him thoughtfully, twirling a moustache on one of his fingers. Riddle stood beside him in a more casual pose, his hands in his pockets, clearly amused by Harry's discomfort.
As the tailor's meters danced around him, taking measurements from every possible angle, the young witch began to take meticulous notes. Meanwhile, Riddle and Mr. Balenciaga were discussing the details of the order, and Harry involuntarily began to listen to their conversation.
"I understand only the finest materials?" asked the elder wizard.
"Of course," Riddle replied smoothly, "as always, price isn't an issue. The clothes must be comfortable and fit well. I want my brother to present himself with dignity, as befits a young wizard."
Harry felt a strange, unexpected and treacherous warmth as he heard these last words. He knew that this was merely a game on Riddle's part, a necessity arising from the fact that Harry was not to embarrass him with his appearance. And yet, the very fact that there was someone who wanted Harry to present himself properly struck a chord in the boy that he hadn't known existed. Harry immediately scowled, angry at himself. It was so low, so... malfoyish. It didn't matter what he was wearing. Whether it was Dudley's oversized, washed and torn clothes, or Riddle's robes, refreshed daily with the right spell, or the finest attires sewn especially for him. Clothes were just clothes.
"Mr. Riddle, could you raise your arms and spread them out to your sides? I need the length of your arm so that the sleeves aren't too long."
Clothes like clothes. But Harry, unsure if his voice would crack, just nodded, obeying the order without objection.
"And the colours?"
"Dark robes, light shirts. Nothing extravagant. Blacks, browns, greens..."
"Nothing green," Harry objected immediately, regaining his voice. Riddle might have forced him to introduce himself with the same surname, but there was no way Harry was going to parade around in the colours of the Slytherins.
"Greens, could be navy blue," Riddle finished calmly, giving Harry a warning but slightly amused look.
"If I may?" the witch spoke quietly, cocking her head to look at Harry. "I think a set of emerald green dress robes would suit young Mr. Riddle. They'll be a perfect match for his eye colour."
The witch summoned one of the large mirrors with a wave of her wand. The mirror hovered several inches above the floor, reflecting Harry's entire body. The woman uttered a long incantation under her breath and to Harry's surprise, his reflection in the mirror wavered and when the glass panel calmed, Harry saw himself in the simple yet elegant emerald robes she had just mentioned.
"What do you think, Mr. Riddle?"
Harry just gritted his teeth.
Clothes like clothes. Even the fancy ones meant nothing. The red welts on his hands, hidden beneath Glamour, clearly reminded him of that.
o.O.o
Frozen in place by the Petrification Charm, Harry Potter could do nothing but watch as Tom, the bartender, approached him with a stern, angry expression on his face. With a swift movement, the man snatched the stolen bag of Galleons from Harry's rigid grasp. Perhaps Harry would have been able to talk his way out of it, to pretend that it was indeed his, had it not been for the fact that, at the same moment, one of the customers jumped up from his seat, shouting: "It's mine!". Then, the wizard pushed his way through the shocked crowd and angrily took his property from the bartender's hands.
The bartender turned his stern gaze back to Harry. "You've just got yourself in a lot of trouble, lad," he warned, his tone leaving no doubt as to the seriousness of Harry's situation.
And at the same moment, unnoticed by all but a petrified Harry, Riddle approached them and interjected in his trademark ominously calm tone:
"Would someone please tell me what has happened here?"
The robbed customer, completely taken aback by the question, blurted out without hesitation: "That brat just tried to steal from me!"
"In that case, please accept my sincere apologies for my brother's behaviour," Riddle said, addressing the robbed customer with a smooth, composed demeanour that hid the rage Harry knew was simmering beneath the surface. "He's young and, unfortunately, prone to act without thinking about the consequences. I can assure you, sir, that this is nothing more than a misguided attempt to draw attention to himself, a moment of foolish rebellion." Then, with one deft flick of his wand, Riddle released Harry from under the spell. Harry made an instinctive movement, as if to fly away, but was stopped by a stern warning: "Don't even think about it. And apologise. Now."
The older wizard, the same one who had immobilised Harry with his spell, stepped forward, his voice stern.
"I hope you don't think an apology will be enough, lad. This young man has just been caught trying to steal. He should be punished accordingly to deter him from such actions in the future," he said. "Tom, I'd call the Aurors if I were you," he added, addressing the bartender directly.
Were it not for the fact that the matter directly concerned him, Harry would have admired the wizard's courage in defying Riddle.
Riddle's next words, however, froze the blood in Harry's veins.
"I assure you, sir, the lesson will be well learned. My brother acted out of childish whim, nothing more. He'll face severe punishment at home, far more effective than any intervention by the Aurors."
The conviction in Riddle's voice, coupled with the obvious horror on Harry's face, seemed to satisfy the older wizard. The man stepped back and Tom, the bartender, though still suspicious, nodded in acceptance of this outcome. But before he allowed Harry to leave, he glanced at the robbed wizard. The man merely said with vicious satisfaction:
"I hope the punishment will indeed be as severe as you say."
Harry swallowed. Too bad it hadn't occurred to either of the men just how severe it would be. Maybe in that case they wouldn't have been so willing to let him walk away with this devil in human skin.
"Now, apologise to these gentlemen and we'll go home," Riddle ordered him coldly, placing a hand on his back. The touch was burning, and Harry had no doubt as to its purpose.
"Please accept my sincerest apologies. As has been said, it was a silly, childish act," he forced himself to say through a throat clenched with fear.
o.O.o
"We'll manage to send the first set of clothes by tomorrow, but the rest will unfortunately have to wait until the end of next week," Diego Balenciaga explained, his tone apologetic. He seemed genuinely concerned that preparing everything would take so long. "However, I believe that three sets of day clothes, two pairs of trousers and five shirts should be enough for the first few days. Socks and underwear will of course be sent later today."
Riddle nodded briefly. For the past two weeks, Potter had been walking around in the same robes, refreshed every night by Bug, so the new contents of his wardrobe, even if incomplete, were still a vast improvement over what the boy currently owned.
"Very well. Address it to me."
"We'll begin immediately" the young Balenciaga's assistant assured Tom as she appeared at their side with Potter at her heels.
Riddle's gaze slid towards the teen, who stood obediently beside him. Of course, Tom had warned him before they left the apartment not to even think about trying to escape, but in truth he was surprised that Potter had shown such a submissive attitude. He hadn't tried to break away during the Side-Along Apparition, hadn't made a scene in the shop and had even let go of the argument over the colour of the robes, despite his initial objections. And now he just stood there and waited, making no sudden movements that would indicate a desire to run away. Had Tom's prediction been wrong?
Impossible. Besides, such obedience was not the boy's style.
Mr. Balenciaga, twirling his long moustache, was about to add something, but at that moment the shop's door opened and the sound of bells rang out, announcing the arrival of another customer. It turned out to be a middle-aged witch, surrounded by a bunch of noisy children.
"Dear Mr. Balenciaga, I'm so sorry to be so early, but Aidan and Archie..."
The rest of her explanation was lost in the noise made by her children. Two boys, no more than eight or nine years old, jumped into the shop and, toy wands in hand, began to pretend to duel, shouting at each other the names of curses they had made up on the spot. There was, of course, no light coming from their fake wands, but at one point the uncontrollable childish magic kicked in and the taller boy was thrown backwards, flying straight at Tom, who, with an utter disgust hide beneath perfectly unreadable expression, nimbly stepped aside. The boy landed hard on the floor. A little girl, who had been hiding behind her clumsy mother, leaned over and giggled.
"Aidan! Archie! Stop this at once! And apologise for your behaviour!"
Unfortunately, neither the woman's harsher tone nor her stern face had any effect on her two sons. The taller of the boys picked himself up from the floor and stormed towards his brother again.
"My deepest apologies..."
Riddle dismissed the woman's apology with a wave of his hand, deciding that he had not let her incompetence spoil his mood.
"Please charge the usual Gringotts account," he said to Mr. Balenciaga. Abraxas was kind enough to transfer a few punches of Galleons from his family vault to Tom's from time to time, so Riddle didn't have to worry about such trifles as expenses. When the money ran out, he simply informed Malfoy. "Harry, we're leaving now."
It was then that he realised Potter was no longer by his side.
"Your brother's probably waiting outside as he left a moment ago," said Mr. Balenciaga's assistant, lifting in time one of the mannequins with an unfinished robe that would otherwise have become another victim of the bratty boys.
The corners of Tom's mouth twitched slightly, but not in irritation. So, he hadn't been wrong. Like always.
Riddle unhurriedly say goodbye to the tailor and his assistant and when he found himself outside, he stopped in front of the door, ignoring the drizzle that fell from the sky and soaked his carefully styled hair. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the magic of the tracking spell. The spell allowed him to know exactly where the boy was; if the boy knew his location, the name would just appear in Tom's mind. If he didn't, the spell's magic allowed Tom to Apparate either to the boy's immediate vicinity (if he wasn't in a space with Anti-Apparition Charm), or to the first place closest to the boy's current location.
This time, however, Potter knew perfectly where he was.
The Leaky Cauldron.
Well, the boy could at least have been more creative.
With that in mind, Riddle Apparated.
o.O.o
Riddle had come to the conclusion that he preferred when Potter showed no creativity. He struggled to contain his anger at the brat's behaviour. He seized the boy's arm tightly, yanking him out of the Leaky Cauldron. And then, in an instant, they were no longer in the middle of the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley, but in the austere living room of Tom's apartment.
Tom angrily shoved Potter away from him with such force that the boy nearly lost his balance, staggering to keep himself upright. The sheer fear on the teenager's face did nothing to calm Tom's anger; if anything, it only fuelled it.
Oh yes, Potter should be afraid.
Riddle was furious, and not just at Potter's attempted escape — that was expected, even intended. No, it was the sting of humiliation, the embarrassment of being forced to offer apologies for the boy's recklessness before those he deemed unworthy, that ignited his fury. In addition to the older wizard's audacity in calling him 'lad', his infuriating condescending tone…
The boy will pay for it.
"Explain yourself," Tom demanded, his voice a cold, menacing whisper that pierced the tense air. He stood, hardly controlling his rage, and every muscle in his body tensed with barely contained ire.
Potter, so stupid or so brave, had dared to show defiance even now.
"Wasn't it obvious? I tried to get away from you!" he shouted.
Tom's patience snapped. In the blink of an eye, he had pushed Potter forward and pinned the boy against the wall with a force that left no room for resistance. The tip of his wand pressed against Potter's throat, a chilling reminder of how deadly his anger could be.
"Don't play dumb. What was the point of this pathetic attempt at theft?" Tom hissed, his face inches from Potter's.
There was pure terror in the teen's eyes, but to Riddle's amazement it was almost immediately replaced by an uncontrolled burst of laughter, which seemed absurdly out of place.
"Ah, that's what you mean. I knew I'd be caught," Potter admitted, and his hysterical laughter turned to grim amusement. "I wanted to be caught — perhaps I'd fall into the hands of someone who could actually help me return to my time. The Aurors, Dumbledore... didn't matter, as long as isn't you."
Tom's anger hit a new zenith. "Foolish boy," he sneered, contempt dripping from every syllable. "Did you really think the Aurors would help you? Did you think they'd send you away with a pat on the back and no questions asked? That they wouldn't hand you over to the Unspeakable like an anomaly to be neutralised?"
"Whatever they'd do, still beats being with you," Potter replied vehemently, using all his strength to push Riddle away from him, but the future Dark Lord wouldn't allow it. He pressed Potter harder against the wall, his wand jabbing painfully into the spot under the boy's collarbone.
"You idiot!" Riddle hissed. "Do you fancy being a lab rat trapped in the Department of Mysteries' shadows? Turned inside out by the Unspeakable, vivisected, with no hope of leaving their dark recesses, let alone returning to your own time?"
"Seems to me you're the one scared of what they'd do if they found out what monster you'd become!"
"Enough!"
"Coward! You're the one who's afraid! Admit it!" Potter spat the words in his face. "You think you can win me over with fancy clothes, a few games of chess or a vial of a potion? You're just like him. No, you're worse. Much worse. And I'll make sure you fail."
Tom finally let himself be pushed away by Potter, who uttered out his next words with the speed of a bullet. Red fury clouded Tom's vision for a moment. No one had dared speak to him like that. Ever.
"Enough! On your knees."
Potter's eyes blazed, unyielding. "In your dreams!"
"We have a deal," Tom's words were cold, his fury barely held in check by. "When you ran away, you knew exactly what to expect."
"Fuck off. And go and get treated at Mung's, because there is clearly something wro–"
"So, the harder way. Let it be. Crucio!"
Potter's attempt to evade was futile; Tom's curse was swift, striking him sharply beneath his left ribs and sending him crashing to the floor. It took mere moments before first cry came from the rebellious teenager's throat.
As the boy's screams filled the room, Tom allowed his anger to flow freely into the spell, his control giving way to a savage delight in Potter's suffering. It wasn't a gentle Crucio, oh no. Potter's agonal cries echoed off the empty walls and the slim figure writhed in pain at Tom's feet.
The boy had to learn who's in charge here.
It was a pity he couldn't keep Potter under Crucio for too long, though. If he was going to be useful, he had to remain sane. Still, Tom found it hard to force himself to undo the curse. Those screams... They were music to his ears.
He had waited so long for this.
Finally, after a few moments that must have seemed like an eternity to the boy, but was no more than two minutes, Riddle lifted the spell.
The silence that fell almost rang in his ears.
Tom nudged Potter's limp form with the tip of his shoe, distaste flickering across his face at the smell of sweat and fear. Almost without thinking, he cast a quick Scourgify, then used his foot to roll the teen onto his back, checking for consciousness.
There was pain and fear in the green eyes this time.
"Barely a warning this time," he said, looking at the half-conscious teenager. "Defy me again and you will see what it means to be punished."
And with that, he walked out of the living room.