Chapter Text
Harry Potter woke up with a big yawn.
Every day felt the same living with the Dursleys. Waking up, cooking for them, going to school, coming back home, cooking for them, being locked up, cooking for them, shower, and sleep.
Yeah... It was a little depressing, if you asked him. Yet somehow Harry always saw the good things to life, like how today his scar was throbbing less than yesterday!
Anyways.
He sat up in his cupboard and stretched his limbs as much as one could while sleeping in a tiny, cramped space. Then he proceeded to get out his glasses, slip them on and—
"Harry! Get out here this second!"
His thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Dursley screaming at him. Hurriedly, he put on the first clothes he saw —which, considering he only owned his uniform and another two outfit changes, was not that interesting— and ran out the door into the kitchen.
By the time Harry got to the kitchen his aunt was fuming, pacing back and forth.
"Hello Mrs. Dursley. What can I do for you?" Forcing a smile, he stood up straight so his aunt could see him properly. She always complained about his 'poor upbringing'... whatever the hell that was, since her and her husband had been the ones to raise him.
Pursing her lips, she motioned for him to sit down. "As you see, we don't have any more money to raise your ungrateful self. So-" She coughed behind her closed fist, "Vernon and I decided to sell you."
Harry's eyes widened in horror. They did what?
"I'm sorry, what?"
Petunia frowned and let a huff of air out through her nose. "What I said, you filthy mutt. Now go and get your stuff ready so you can meet your new owner." Pointing a finger at him, she said her final words. "And leave the cupboard that we so kindly lent you clean as it was when you arrived."
Harry sat on his bed, packing the few belongings he had into a ratty old backpack as he sobbed quietly. He really could not believe that his adopted family would sell him to a complete stranger in exchange for a couple hundred bucks.
Pulling his long hair into a messy bun, he left the cupboard with his backpack. He wore an oversized sweater and jeans —both courtesy of his cousin Dudley, who had long ago outgrown the clothes— paired with black tennis shoes.
As he went back to the kitchen, Harry noticed that a new person was in the house.
The man before him was tall and slender, wearing a black button up shirt with the sleeves rolled back paired with a pair of black dress pants. Harry stood still, admiring him. A blush crept up his neck and face, making him turn away for a brief moment. Who was this man?
Mystery man extended his hand. "Pleasure to meet you Harry. My name is Tom Riddle, I'm here to take you from this home."
WHAT?
"I uh- Pleasure to meet you sir. So uh- Mr. Riddle right? Haha yeah nice to meet you too." Mentally facepalming, Harry took his hand and shook it, immediately noticing how big his hand was and the strong grip and— get it together Harry, dangit.
The older man —Mr. Riddle— chuckled, his deep voice rumbling and sending shivers down Harry's spine. The boy gulped, breaking free from his grasp and taking a step back.
"Shall we leave now, Harry?"
He nodded, not trusting his voice. Mr. Riddle took his backpack from him and frowned. "Is this all?" Harry nodded again, noticing how Mr. Riddle's eyes turned dark at this information.
"Goodbye Harry, thank you for spending time with us!" Mrs. Dursley said with glee as the pair of men left the house. When Harry looked back, she waved a wad of cash with an evil grin, mouthing a thank you and licking her teeth evilly before shutting the door.
In the car, Mr. Riddle turned to him.
"So," he started, keeping his eyes on the road "you're not their kid. Right?"
Harry let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Being with a complete stranger was making him nervous, and the question didn't help at all. "No, I'm not."
The older man shook his head. "Why would they sell you then?"
Shrugging, Harry shrinked into himself slightly. "I... don't know. Mrs. Dursley- aunt Petunia, she... she always said I was a reminder of her sister's failures. My mom's failures." He laced his fingers together, looking at the floor of the car. "They were both 'weird freaks', my mom and dad. Aunt said it was good they died in that car crash when they did."
Tom's thoughts were all over the place. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as he pushed down on the accellerator unconsciously, still being careful of the drive they had to do to get to his manor.
Did the Dursleys really think he was stupid? Were they stupid? Handing over a child to his parents' murderer, just like that. Shaking his head, he slowed down after noticing the tension building in the boy, showing in the way his shoulders tightened into his body.
Looking over, he noticed the thinness of the boy, his sunken eyes and tired gaze. The small backpack he was hugging with all of his belongings. His heart? Ached at the sight. He would protect the boy while keeping his public image intact.
I guess some parts of our humanity never leave us, no matter how much we try.