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"You can't be my father." Harry scrunches up his nose. It is still red and running, but at least his sobs are finally starting to subside. Tom finds himself relieved at that. He cannot stand crying children, and Harry's hysterics are particularly unpleasant.
"Why not?" he asks.
Harry rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Tom," he says, "you're seven."
It is Tom's turn to scowl. He hates being seven. His whole life, people have insisted on treating age as the measure of competence, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
"So? I am capable."
Tom is very responsible and always keeps his room and his things clean. Even Mrs Cole, who has hated him since the day Tom appeared in the orphanage, always puts him in charge of the younger children. Really, Tom is probably overqualified for the job.
"You're ridiculous is what you are," Harry scoffs and jumps off the bed, but at least he is not sniffling anymore. Tom decides to let it slide, just this once.
He can hear the water splashing as Harry goes to wash off the remnants of snot and tears from his face. Harry is always quick to jump between emotions, from anger to sadness to contentment again, but Tom notices how strained his smile grows at any mention of family.
Tom, of course, is different. He has gone seven years without a family and still turned out superior to every child in his year at school. Teachers think he is cleverer even than some of the boys two or three years above.
Possibly, Tom does not have a father at all. Jesus did not, not in any conventional sense, and nobody held it against him. Tom finds the comparison instructive. Exceptional people, he concludes, do not require fathers.
Harry, though. Harry, Tom has to admit, is ordinary. Well, not entirely—Tom would never associate with someone who was not exceptional in some way—but he is susceptible to all the same afflictions of their peers. He cries over sick puppies and kittens and finds enjoyment in kicking a ball with the other children, even though it always ends up with them covered in sweat and grime. And, it would seem, he shares their irrational desire for family.
Inconvenient, but Tom can work with that.
Jimmy Johnson had been adopted last spring, and just a month later Tom saw him in the street, happily calling a complete stranger "father". This conclusively proved that "father" was a position rather than a person. The position was either assigned or appointed, on the basis of circumstance and a set of poorly defined responsibilities. Tom resolves to do more research.
The library's selection of books on parenting proves disappointing. They seem to agree that infants should be fed by the clock and never cuddled between meals, which strikes Tom as sensible but irrelevant—Harry is six and feeds himself, if badly. There is almost nothing on fathers, as though their role is entirely ornamental. Still, Tom copies the salvageable parts into the back pages of his exercise book.
The summary turns out rather concise: Protect. Provide. Instruct and discipline (fairly). The responsibilities are not at all dissimilar to what he already does for Harry. Harry is so silly to ever doubt him.
Tom Riddle will prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that he is perfectly capable of fatherhood, no matter his age.
***
The first opportunity comes in just a few days, when Harry trades the last of his Sunday pudding to Billy Stubbs for a chipped marble. This is, by any measure, a catastrophic bargain, which Tom is quick to inform Harry about. It is something he would do anyway, but with the emphasis that all infant care books put on instruction and discipline, Tom treats the situation with newfound gravitas.
"I am not angry," he concludes placatingly. A softer approach might work better for Harry's tender disposition. "I am just disappointed."
Harry blinks.
"All right," he says slowly. He pockets the marble and stays still for a few moments, studying Tom's face. He appears to be waiting for something else, but Tom thinks his lecture was quite exhaustive. Finally, Harry nods and goes off to play football, pausing just for a second in the doorframe to shoot Tom one last puzzled look. Once the door is closed, Tom takes out his exercise book and records the incident as: Instruction: delivered. Whether or not the lecture achieved the desired effect remains unclear, but Tom supposes he can adjust his approach later.
***
December proves to be a challenging time for an aspiring father. Dangers linger around every corner, and chief among them, influenza. The infant care book Tom studied has an entire chapter dedicated to the subject. Much of it is hardly new information, since the orphanage suffers an outbreak nearly every winter.
Harry rolls his eyes but dutifully waits at the door every morning as Tom tightens up his scarf and tucks it into his collar. Today, however, they are running late, halfway to school when Harry suddenly stops.
"You've forgotten yours," he pants, pointing at his scarf.
Tom's neck, in contrast, is bare. The morning air is harsh and chilly, biting at his uncovered skin. "It is fine." He dismisses Harry's concern. "I do not feel the cold."
On Wednesday, Tom wakes up with a terrible fever that makes Mrs Cole hiss and spit at how irresponsible children are. Tom is not a child and he is not irresponsible, but his throat is too sore to argue, and he is almost relieved when darkness takes over to save him from the old hag's lamentations. During the short flashes of consciousness, Tom is dimly aware of Harry sitting at the edge of his bed, wiping the sweat off his brow or bringing a glass of water to his mouth. Tom hopes this does not mean Harry is missing school. Education is very important for the younger generation.
***
The first time Tom is let out of bed is the following Monday. He still feels weak and sluggish from the fever. Worse, he has neglected his responsibilities. He goes over the entries again, adding: Outstanding objective: provide.
At lunch, when the matron passes him his one biscuit, he ignores the unhelpful twist of his stomach and slides it to Harry.
Harry does not move.
"What is that?" he asks, as if the situation allows for even the slightest hint of ambiguity.
"Biscuit," Tom says. "You can have it. I am not hungry."
Harry looks surprised—far more surprised than the situation calls for, in Tom's opinion—and then his expression suddenly morphs into something else: anger, and this time Tom is honestly not sure where this is coming from.
"This is the biggest lie I've ever heard. And I'm friends with you!" Harry whisper-shouts, mindful not to draw attention to them. "Tom, have you seen yourself today? You look like you crawled out of the grave!"
Tom blinks at Harry's proclamation. "I do not see what your insulting my appearance has to do with anything." He pushes the biscuit towards Harry. "Eat, Harry. Growing children require—"
"You've been doing this for weeks! Being all—I don't know, strange! You've been looking over all of my schoolwork—don't think I didn't notice. Then you started telling me what to eat, when to sleep, who to talk to. You just nearly died of flu, and now you won't eat too, and I just—I don't know what you're doing. Is that," he lowers his voice, "is it like that time with Amy and—"
"Not here!" Tom shushes. Other children are beginning to glance over in their direction. "Harry, really, this is not the place to discuss this—"
"As if you'd tell me anywhere else!" Harry rolls his eyes and jumps off the chair, quickly heading towards the exit from the dining hall. The biscuit sits on the table, untouched. Tom looks around, giving the gawkers his nastiest glare, then pockets it and quickly follows.
He finds Harry in their room some twenty minutes later. Harry is sitting on Tom's bed, his exercise book open across his lap, back cover first, Tom's list on full display. His mouth suddenly feels a little dry. It is not like he was trying to keep it a secret, was he?
"I didn't realize you were still on about that," Harry says.
"You may recall that you doubted my qualifications. I deemed it necessary to supplement them, and you will be happy to hear that—"
"Tom," Harry interrupts, and Tom's ears feel oddly warm. The fever must have taken more out of him than he thought. He feels unsure and unsteady on his feet.
Harry is looking at the page. It is the entry from last week, one Tom barely remembers making. Written in his own hand, if a little more unsteadily than usual, the entry reads: Subject appears agitated. Cause: undetermined. Further observation required. Harry traces the letters with the tips of his fingers, then snaps the book shut and looks up at Tom.
Tom braces himself. He only hopes Harry does not cry.
But instead of crying, Harry hops off the bed, crosses the room and hugs Tom around the middle. Tom stills. Unhelpfully, he remembers the infant care book advising parents against cuddling their babies, but he does not remember any instructions regarding being hugged.
"You're very strange, Tom Riddle," Harry snorts into Tom's shoulder, "but I appreciate it." He pulls away just a little to catch Tom's eye, then, with an impish grin, says, "Thanks, Daddy," and pecks Tom on the cheek.
Tom's skin immediately heats up under the contact.
"You are ridiculous," he scoffs, shaking Harry's arms off his waist.
Later, when Harry has finally gone to pester someone elsewhere, Tom retrieves the exercise book, opens the last page, and after some deliberation adds a final note: Position: confirmed.