Son of Magic

Chapter 23

12th December, 1941

Tom Riddle's Dorm Room

"Mr. Riddle," Harry breathed formally. "Would you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you out sometime?"

As soon as the heedless words left Harry's lips, he immediately regretted them, because not even a moment later he was helplessly sucked into a memory of the older Tom. He didn't want to taint what he considered a most special and pivotal moment between him and Tom with thoughts of the older version of him—one that will never exist—but was incapable of stopping his mind from recalling that occasion with a painful, raw vividness that stole his breath away.

Harry had been minding his own business, scribbling away the details for the new rune sequence he'd been working on just to pass the time. Or, more honestly, to distract himself from imagining the enticing way Riddle's dark hair fell into his smouldering, silver eyes.

He was in his spot—a spot that should have been unknown to anyone—yet a most uninvited voice still startled him out of his thoughts.

"You're interested in Spell Creation?" came the question from behind him, filled with an offending amount of surprise and scepticism. "That's an interesting sequence, but I think if you used the Egy—"

"I honestly don't care what you think, Riddle," Harry snappily interrupted him before he could start lecturing him on things he knew nothing about.

Couldn't he get some uninterrupted peace for more than five consecutive minutes at a time? Must the loathsome wizard continue to find ways to disturb him? Had he not made it plain to him that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with him?

Must he tempt him so?

"Must you behave in such an uncivilised manner, Stevenson?" the irritating boy asked him with his lips jutted out in a small pout. "I was merely offering you my assistance. I'll have you know that I'm at the top of our Rune class and many of our peers would simply die for my opinion on their projects."

It would have been amusing, maybe even cute, if it weren't so utterly aggravating—the fact that Riddle couldn't help but brag.

Harry made an effort not to tense and kept his body facing away from the tall wizard he could feel standing behind him, even if every instinct in him was telling him to turn and make a grab for his wand before the predator stalking him could sink his teeth into his neck.

"Was there something you needed, Riddle?" he asked him with a neutral tone he knew would annoy Riddle to no end. Internally he swore at the organ hammering erratically against his chest for betraying him with its rapid beating.

"Besides your riveting company? Nothing whatsoever," was the glib reply he got for his troubles, leaving him to wonder why he'd even bothered acknowledging Riddle's presence.

Merlin. What a fucking arse.

Sometimes Harry really thought that Voldemort's presence was more tolerable than that of the hormone-driven, eighteen-year-old Tom Riddle. At least with Voldemort he never had to go through this excruciating masquerade of acting like he didn't hate the very fact that he still drew breath.

Harry clenched his jaw and took in a deep, calming breath through his nose.

"I thought that our last meeting would have driven it home that your company is the absolute last thing I desire, Riddle. Now do me a favour and go be a bother to someone else. You're not lacking in mindless sycophants to keep you company."