1 The Start of a Beautiful Friendship

The morning was crisp, still, and bathed in a delicate golden light – just like any self-respecting August morning should be. August was a month that could only be described as sweet - the way the sun kissed the ground lovingly, its glow adorning everything it cast its gaze upon even on the cloudiest of days, was truly the opposite of everything bitter and dark in the world. It was this sweetness that set it apart from the other months.

But August was not only sweet - it was also useful. Seven o'clock was often an unkind hour, still tightly embraced by the chill of night. October through March, seven o'clock could hardly be called morning at all; it was a cold hour shrouded in grey. April and September weren't much better. August, however, changed all this.

August mornings were nothing short of pleasant, and this is indeed what made hiding out in the yard a more than acceptable morning activity. Really, he couldn't help but muse, sitting under the old oak tree at seven o'clock, with the August sun warming his face, wasn't so bad - a decent way to start the day.

It was quiet. He liked that. It was times like this that he could really feel. It was times like this when his mind could work its magic, gathering data and processing stimuli with exquisite attention to detail. Yes, seven o'clock was the perfect time to notice things. Like grass. There was a unique and stimulating quality to the manner in which the damp, feathery tendrils tickled his legs, complemented by the subtle breeze that swept over the yard, tousling his neat raven locks in a way that would have been adorable.

But it was not. There was nothing adorable about him; even the tranquility of an August morning would not allow him to forget that. And anyone who'd seen his eyes would no doubt agree; they were cold and dark, belied by his soft, sweet, August-like features. Yes, everyone thought him a perfect angel until they looked him in the eye. Then they knew. He was no August child - he had been born in December.

"Tom!"

It was an ugly screeching sound, causing him to hiss angrily and grit his teeth. Mrs. Cole had no doubt heard the story – Stubbs had of course gone to her again, whining and moaning like the incompetent child he was. Honestly, Tom couldn't be blamed for his actions; Billy Stubbs, with all his snide comments, flippant gestures, and grating voice, he deserved it, and much, much more.

There was something simply horrible about that boy. The spiders agreed with him - the spiders that had marched dutifully up his trousers not 10 minutes ago, no doubt leaving him with nasty bites all over. Of course, the Stubbs boy didn't have any proof of his involvement, but he didn't need any. Everyone knew about Tom's strangeness – namely, his uncanny ability to train animals without lifting a finger.

A contemptuous sneer washed over his face. Stubbs had gotten off easy this time. The stupid boy would get what was coming to him. That is, when the time was right. Mrs. Cole always said not to play with his food – so, naturally, that's exactly what he planned to do.

"There you are!"

He glanced up sharply, scowling.

"Now, don't give me any of that, you naughty boy! I heard what you did – I heard -"

He drowned out the woman's angry scolding, dark thoughts welling up in his mind. He'd show them. He'd show them all. Tom Riddle was not to be messed with. Except...

He faltered.

That wasn't right. Tom Riddle? That's not right. Why was he so angry? Poor Billy Stubbs, the boy didn't deserve all those spider bites, not really anyway. His mind reeled from shock – he didn't mean it. He didn't mean any of it! He didn't want to hurt anyone. He didn't mean to be a bother. But as soon as he turned around to announce his revelation, he was met with nothing but darkness. A cold, empty black, that thankfully only lasted a second.

"BOY!"

Three sharp knocks had him scrambling out of bed, frantically trying smooth down his notoriously prominent bedhead before sliding on his broken glasses and flipping the latch on his cupboard door.

He was met not with the righteous anger of Mrs. Cole, but rather the equally intimidating scowl of Petunia Dursley.

"It's seven-thirty! Breakfast should already be on the table, you lazy child!"

"Yes Aunt Petunia," he responded blandly, earning himself a light slap over the head.

"I'll have none of your cheek, boy."

He bit back a scathing retort – because that's not who he was. He wasn't angry, he wasn't vindictive; he was weak, an easy target – that's who Harry Potter was.

Sometimes it was hard to remember who he was, in the mornings. There were times, when still immersed in a sleepy haze, that he had to remind himself that he was not Tom Riddle. Nor did he want to be. Tom Riddle was not a good person. Harry knew this, and he really didn't know why he kept dreaming about the ill-manered boy. It was a little strange, a little eerie, how every night his consciousness was ferried away into the life of this other boy, so alike him in some ways, but terribly dissimilar in others.

Still, he didn't mind the dreams, he mused as he cracked a few eggs onto the skillet. That was actually an understatement. In fact, he wouldn't trade them for anything. When he was Tom, he was never afraid, he was never unsure of himself. When he was bullied, he fought back.

When he was wronged, he wronged in turn. When he was called a freak, he wore it like a badge of honour. It was freeing, being without guilt, without the sense of worthlessness and hopelessness that seemed to follow him around everywhere and everywhen. No, Harry Potter was not Tom Riddle, but sometimes he wished he was. Sometimes it was hard to convince himself that he never wanted to become such a cruel person.