Chapter o3

Later, Tom has been lying in the bed without an ounce of sleep in his eyes, listening to the soft and even breathing of his soon to be companion sleeping peacefully near him.

It had occurred, that there was no second bed in Harry's room, only big four-poster similar to Hogwarts' ones, and Harry had just plainly refused to change rooms, with a reasoning of them being in the awful state of untidy mess, together with some nasty curses and cobwebs covering half the house, and just blatantly prohibited Tom from doing anything magical—like conjuring the second bed (not that there was free space in the room for it), or transforming the four-poster into two single beds. Of course, for that Harry also had his clear reasoning—supposedly, there was some new law in action for detection of underage magic, or other such nonsense.

As it was still five in the morning, Tom reluctantly agreed to share a bed—for this time only—so that both of them will be properly rested for the cleaning of the other vacant bedroom later in the day. But he absolutely refused to share the blanket, instead generously allowing Harry to take it, as Tom himself had been used to cold nights never really understanding the greed of others over such small matters as warm blanket or extra space on the shared bed from his times at the orphanage. Not that Tom was going to share that particular knowledge of himself. He simply hadn't start fighting with Harry over blanket, silently moving some more from the center of the bed, leaving almost half of "his" share of the space to Harry.

"What're you doin'?" Harry mumbled, already half asleep. "—'m not kickin' sleepin', move over here—" He opened the cocoon which he'd made from the blanket, patting the mattress suggestively.

"I am not sharing a blanket with you," Tom drawled through greeted teeth, furiously. "Just sleep already, four-eyes," he spat.

Harry sighed with obvious relief, wrapping himself up with blanket again, and the next second he was already sleeping.

Tom stared at the ceiling, thinking over the events, which had transpired in the last couple of hours. It was clear that Dumbledore had acquired some knowledge into Tom's deeds in the years passed, which made the Professor even more suspicious towards him, to the degree of him casting the advanced and obviously not too Light spell, which should clearly control Tom, not just allow for protection extension or some such rubbish. And what it was with the "ten feet" rule?! What should happen if Tom disregarded this rule? Will Dumbledore be alarmed to his disobedience?

Tom mused over the idea of "testing his boundaries" (almost literally), before deciding against it. It was too early after the completion of the spell, especially as there was clear problem with its magic, judging by Dumbledore's reaction. Later on, in couple of days, or even in a week (if Tom will still be here at that time), he will try to move outside ten-feet boundary. As for now—

Tom flinched at sudden loud sound, breaking the sleepy silence of the room. Harry, who just moments ago was sleeping peacefully in his "cocoon", now was tossing, turning and thrashing, his blanket spilling to the floor on the other side of the bed from Tom. Harry whimpered lowly in his sleep, restlessly turning his head on the pillow from one side to the other.

Tom warily eyed him, contemplating if he should wake the boy or just leave him with his demons.

Harry moaned louder, turning away from Tom, and curling into small ball on his side, trying to save some warmth left after loosing his blanket, shaking lightly in his sleep.

Tom pursed his lips annoyed, but stayed in bed. As he was not going to sleep anyway, Harry's nightmares didn't bother him in the slightest. Well, to be honest, they did bother him, as Tom himself had experience with such, but considering that Tom wasn't going to sleep this night, the noise and commotion emitting from his roommate did not disturbed his thoughts much.

Tom was going through his memories of what the spell Dumbledore had performed had looked like, trying to analyze it and understand what it should have been doing and what really happened. It hasn't looked like anything he had encountered before, considering that Tom was at least vaguely familiar with most of the spells from the books of Hogwarts library (even those from the Restricted Section) and those from outside it (them being from the books he acquired from his Slytherin classmates, even not so legal ones, as Slytherins were not known for sticking to the rules in this area of expertise).

Another matter, weighing on his mind, was his jump through time. He didn't understand how that was even possible, but that was not so relevant at the moment. What he could gain from it, what advantages it gave him—that was more important. How he could use it—to even more of the advantage—that thought was occupying his mind right now. If he could gain some useful knowledge—of advanced spells invented during the time he jumped over, for instance, or of events, which had transpired during this time, and which were of significance to him and his goals in the long run—it would be worth his time spent here and even worth his suffering of the irritating company of this annoying boy with his distasteful glasses and clearly hand-me-down clothes and hate-filled worn-out look in his unbelievably bright and big Avada green eyes—

Tom flinched again, wincing and scowling—his roommate was once again loudly crying and thrashing beside him. Sighing, Tom had got up from the bed and stepped to the window, looking out of it at the already brightening sky, with pinkinsh tint coloring it, from the sun raising somewhere behind the buildings, obstructing his view.

As far as signs would go, it seemed, according to Dumbledore's view and his and Harry's clear recognition of Tom, the amount of time he jumped over could not be more than couple of decades, maybe, half a century, at most. Of course, if no one had invented some spell or potion for prolonging human's life or even for immortality. That was certainly something Tom would be interested in, if that was the case. He hummed in appreciation of the thought, pacing between the bed and the window in his musing.

Harry, who just moments ago was once again restlessly squirming in his sleep, whimpering and sniffing, abruptly calmed down hearing the sound of Tom's humming.

Tom arched an eyebrow at him. Had his humming calmed the boy? Tom stepped closer and hummed some stray melody from the top of his head a little louder. Harry, who had been again beginning to stir, calmed once more.

That was interesting, Tom thought. From his own experience with nightmares he had known that no simple humming or even violent shaking by the shoulders would scare the dreams away most of the time, at least for him. May be, this Harry was a lighter sleeper, or something, if such easy cure was really helping him endure the night. That piece of information, even if insignificant now, could come in handy at a later time, Tom decided.

Shrugging, Tom moved back to the window, looking out and squinting at buildings nearby—had they looked different somehow, from his own times? Maybe, walls were of brighter coloring, and lawns at their front were differently mowed, or the air itself was clearer and more transparent. Tom couldn't put his finger to the minute details of changes, but they surely were there. Or was it wishful thinking on his part?

Harry had chosen that very moment to make loud noise while falling in ungraceful heap on the floor with a crash.

Tom almost jumped at that.

Harry mumbling incoherent curses crawled back on the bed.

"Bad dream?" Tom smirked.

"Shuddup—" Harry grumbled. "What'ya doin' over there?"

"Just looking, nothing more. Worried?"

"Nope. Just curious. Come to bed."

Tom arched an eyebrow. "You do know how this sounds, do you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing of importance. You can take the bed now, I'm not sleeping anyway." Tom dismissively waved his hand.

"Oh, okay. Thanks." Harry retrieved the blanket from the floor, puffed his pillow and closed his eyes with a sigh.

After a moment, though, he opened them again, looking at Tom with suspicion: "What 'bout you? Aren't tired?"

"Not at all. You can take all bed and blanket, too. I will just stay here and wait when you're awake."

"What?!" Harry spluttered. " So you can curse—I mean, watch me in my sleep?! No bloody way!!"

Tom smiled sweetly at that: "Afraid?"

"No. Bloody. Way." Harry repeated. "If you're not sleeping, I'm, too."

"Such eloquence," Tom drawled amused. "Is it normal for you, or is it reserved only for mornings after sleepless nights?"

Harry just gaped at him, like a fish on a shore, so Tom had made a conclusion, that it was normal occurrence for Harry. He smirked, silently appraising the boy in front of him. Scrawny, short, with messy hair and sporting huge dark bags under eyes. Definitely, malnourished, possibly abused regularly, judging by constant nervous flinching, almost skittishness even. And at the same time—very tired and old look in the eyes, squinted suspiciously, stubbornly clenched jaws, so tight, that pursed lips constantly remain bloodless, giving Harry almost vampire look, especially in combination with paleness of his skin and hollow cheeks with bright red spots on the cheekbones. In comparison to Tom's own regal-like fair features and lithe physique, Harry looked ill and poor, reminding Tom of the old story of "The Prince and the Pauper" from his times in the orphanage, long and thoroughly forgotten, in the same way as he dismissed many other good stories with morality and ethic they tried to plant into the minds of eager little children there.

"Not funny," Harry responded blinking at Tom sleepily. "Why are you not tired?"

Tom shrugged. Frankly, he was tired, but he was not going to admit it in front of potential opponent (if not enemy), and, moreover, he had too much on his mind and many things to do during the limited time he supposed he had before he would be returned to his own timeframe.

"Thinking too much, I suppose. You try to jump through time." Tom suggested. "As you don't want to sleep, tell me something, Harry."

Harry scowled. "Not going to. If it's something Dumble's not approving—"

Tom laughed. "Dumbles?"

Harry smirked. "It's a habit of sorts. Making nicknames for people, you know? What d'ya think of Dumbles?"

Tom scowled in disdain. He could despise the Professor, but he had enough respect not to invent stupid names for the man. "Don't they teach elementary things, like respect, nowadays?"

Harry giggled. "Aren't you a tight-arse? Respect, he says! He wears bloody rabbits on his robes! How do rabbits comply with respect, eh?"

Tom shook his head. "I thought so! Rabbits!" He snorted derisively. "Right. You won't even tell me your name?" Tom abruptly changed the subject back.

"Name? What d'ya mean? Did you knock your head on something? I've already told you, it's Harry."

"I am pretty sure, you know mine. It's Riddle," Tom said with scorn, as a way of explanation. "What about yours?"

Harry sighed. "Harry Potter. Not, that it will change anything, so yeah, it's Potter."

"Are you, by chance, related to Fleamont Potter, the potion maker?" Tom asked with evident curiosity.

Harry squirmed uneasily. "Possibly. Not sure, though. My parents died when I was a baby, and my mother relatives aren't very talkative, I'm afraid. The potion maker, you say?" Harry gaped at that. "Blimey! I thought all my ancestors were crap at Potions, like myself." Harry laughed bitterly. "I guess, I'm just that lucky. Granddad is famous potion maker and grandson is utterly useless in them." Harry shook his head disbelievingly.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Did I touch on a sore subject?" He smirked.

Harry shrugged the question off. "Kinda. Forget it. So, what did you want to ask?"

Tom smiled sweetly. "I take it, now you are going to answer?"

"You dream," Harry snorted. "I am just open for anything. Ask away, at least I am ready to listen if not ready to answer right now."