Cursed
Summary: Harry figured he was cursed. Or maybe Death just wanted him that much sooner. Why else would he wake up in some unknown place, with people that didn't speak his language save for Death in the guise of Riddle following him everywhere? LoTR crossover. Legolas/Harry
Warnings: AU. Language. Violence. Adult situations. Creature-fic. Suggestive dialogue. Disturbing adult content and themes. Parental-complexes. Character Deaths. Eventual Slash. (boy x boy) Some OOC-ness. Butchering of Neo-Sindarin for the sake of certain names and pronouns only. Attempts at strange humour?
The UNEDITED VERSION of this story(violence/sexual content that exceeds M)will be posted on AO3. However, considering Tolkien's take on elves, the sex part will likely take a long while to get to. So this applies largely to the liberal amounts of violence that I sprinkle about like sugar. Un'beta'd!
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction and therefore I do not own the characters, settings etc. I own only the plot and writing itself.
Main pairings: (Top/bottom) Eventual, Legolas/Harry
Side/Implied/One-sided pairings: Canon pairings from all books minus the Harry/Ginny one. Death!Tom/Harry (Sort of. We'll see how far this goes.)
Anyone who isn't already familiar with my portrayal of Harry, despite his position in sex does not mean he will act in anyway girly.
I have warned you. If you are uncomfortable with any of this, then turn back now.
-x&x-
1
Of invisible Companions and foreign speaking Saviours
-x&x-
Waking was an arduous affair, wrought with many trials, one in the form of uncooperative, pin-and-needle-tingly limbs and a head that felt like it had been set upon by an army of vengeful goblins wielding blunt instruments. However, By no means did that presumed dullness dampen any of Harry Potter's pain.
His body was weak and while the bed on which he lay was much... spongier than he was used to, it was still delectably soft and certainly wasn't helping in his futile attempts at coaxing his body into removing itself from its current horizontal position.
He squinted into the brightness above, unable to discern a thing despite his eyesight having been corrected since his sixteenth birthday—another, thoroughly painful experience before he'd blessedly fallen into unconsciousness—and blinked, to try clear his apparently, pain-blurred eyes.
It helped little.
Very little.
Madame Pomfrey really must be slipping in her old age, he mused, derisively.
Where was Madame Pomfrey anyway? For that matter, where was everyone else? He could hear nothing save for... bird song and very, very distant voices drifting toward him from who knew where.
His eyebrows drew downwards, scrunched in confusion—at least, he assumed so, since he couldn't properly feel his face beyond the pain in his head—and blinked more bright, golden and silvery light.
Odd.
With a shuffle, he tried to sit up, fell backwards almost immediately—head impossibly heavy, like an overfilled cauldron—and sank straight back down into the—dangerously soft—bed. Merlin, it was like sleeping on an under filled water bed... he assumed, having no real idea but believing it the closest comparison. Or maybe an actual sponge. That seemed more fitting to the cushy substance that his fingers met when he grasped at the bed beneath him.
He had the strong suspicion that he wasn't in Hogwarts anymore. This didn't feel like the magical school. Gone was the familiar wash of magics against his senses, instead replaced by something else. There was still magic there, certainly but it was vastly different, more... tranquil? St. Mungos then? Was he injured that badly?
But that didn't account for the birds... Nor the remarkably earthy scent that suffused the very air he breathed. Although the sweet scent of flowers wasn't unusual... given numerous times in the past he'd woken in the hospital to bouquets galore.
Just where was he?
His last recollection was of being in the Great hall, wasn't it? Or, maybe he hadn't actually been there yet? No, he was sure he had. Voldemort was dead.
Wasn't he?
No. He most certainly was, Harry was sure of it. Harry had died and miraculously revived—or rather, not quite so miraculously—and Narcissa had lied, told everyone he was dead and Neville had killed Nagini and Harry had duelled Voldemort and taken back the Elder wa—
But where the bloody hell was it?
Anxiety rising, his hands rose to do a swift pat down of his body, only his fingers spasmed before he could achieve anything of worth and his arms seized until he dropped the limb once more. Even then it still twitched fitfully.
What was wrong with him? Had a death eater gotten him when his back was turned or something?
The soft murmur of someone nearby had his head jerking around.
Big mistake.
He winced, eyes snapping shut as agony lanced through his skull like the cruciatus and down his spine. Usually he was perfectly fine with a little pain but this was a trial, even for him. The world spun around him dizzyingly, tilted, jerked and he swallowed to keep himself from vomiting.
The voice came again, closer and there was a cool hand pressed to his brow. Even in his pained delirium he had sense enough to realise the person was talking to him. A female by high, sweet, lyrical cadence to her voice and the delicateness of the appendage stroking his forehead.
He just didn't understand a word she were saying.
Why didn't he understand a thing she was saying? It was alarming but no more so than the excruciating stabbing pain in his head. Where was Ron? Hermione? Maybe he really was in St. Mungos? Although, like all hospitals when he'd been there last it had smelled strongly of disinfectant and that subtle, sickly sweet of ill people. However St. Mungos would explain the inability to understand his healers words... to an extent.
Actually, no. That wouldn't. Merlin, he wasn't even making sense in his own head anymore.
"She wishes to know what pains you."
This voice was male and vaguely familiar in the smooth, cultured tones but Harry hurt too much to allocate any of his available thought processes to work out the hows of it. He was simply pleased enough to discover an English speaking person.
"My head," he rasped, except the words that escaped him were ones he'd never heard before and wow, he sounded awful. Like his voice box had been taken to with sandpaper then finished with buckets of gravel. "Nausea. Wh-where am I? Am I in St. Mungos?"
Again, his words became foreign once they left his mouth. How was he to communicate when he couldn't understand his own words?
But it seemed his fear in vain for the hand vanished from his head as the female moved away. Then he was helped into a sitting position and something cool and smooth was pressed to his lips. The suggestion to drink was implicit but apparent kindness or not, he wasn't willing to accept anything from strangers unless he knew what it was or where he was.
Harry forced his eyes open and was met with walls of blurred glowing silver-white. Merlin, his head must be worse off than he's originally assumed. Beside him was the fuzzy, cart wheeling form of a tall, pale man clad entirely in black.
The female spoke again, calmly.
Her manner certainly reminded him of Madame Pomfrey.
"It is to help with the pain," the man supplied as the female pressed the container of what was supposed to be pain reliever to his mouth again. No more insistent than her first attempt.
Harry couldn't help but think the man's tone sardonic and mightily untrustworthy.
However, since he, himself, couldn't talk to the female tending him, he was forced to rely on the man's interpretations for him.
Well, in for a knut, he inwardly snorted, in for a galleon.
Slightly bitter and largely paranoid, Harry accepted the sloshing liquid that was pressed to his lips ready for the inevitable poisoning to occur. What other choice did he have? He could simply sit there and try wait out the dizziness, which may take a while or accept the assistance for what it appeared to be and if he didn't drop dead immediately: super.
The substance was sweet, he decided, and... sticky, like honey but tasted like nothing he'd ever sampled before. It also had no immediate effect. He grew instantly resigned. How long would it take for this poison to work anyway? Would it be slow acting? Painful? Or a gradual weakening of his body as it slowly wound down to the unavoidable?
A dampened cloth was pressed against his forehead once more and the female said something to him before walking... through a gap between in a silvery... tree trunk? He blinked but no, the image remained unchanging. He was definitely seeing a silver tree with a platform of a darker, more golden wood wrapped around it.
Intrigued despite himself, he examined his surroundings with a more critical eye and concluded he was in some kind of tree house. Or rather, outside of an actual tree house, since he was propped up on a bed of soft, green mosses and an inordinate amount of... dark hair?—he stared, baffled—and his...area—what else could he call it, ward?—had no actual walls to speak of... more, gauzy, curtains to offer the illusion of privacy in the stead of solid walls.
But the trunk in which the girl had vanished was actually an elaborately carved—sculpted?—archway of twining branches that acted as some kind of door to the tree house he lay outside of. And really, tree house didn't do the awe inspiring creation before him justice, for while it was a house that was situated in a tree, it was certainly nothing like the pitiful things he'd seen constructed for the amusement of children. What met his widened eyes was an actual adult sized house, of sorts.
Still, it appeared he was in a village built into trees, based on the fact he spotted more of the winding platforms—like the one on which his bed lay—that connected to more little houses that seemed to grow out of the very trees themselves. It was... marvellous and daunting.
Just where the hell was he? He'd never heard of such a tree city before and was certain either Hermione or Luna would have brought it up in conversation at least once.
His brows creased—and he was surprised when he actually felt them move as instructed, the pain in his head having subsided in his distracted state—his eyes examined the hair that looked an awful lot like his own, then settled on the pale, handsome face and glowing, ruby-red eyes of Tom Riddle.
Huh.
Wait, what? Riddle!?
Harry tensed, blood fleeing his face as his heart fluttered frantically against his ribcage. Was he having a heart attack?
His gaze was automatically shifted from the other's jewel-bright gaze, a little lower.
"How precious," Riddle drawled, arms crossed, a finger tapped almost impatiently on the opposite arm's bicep and why Harry even noticed such a thing, he had no idea. "Finally come to your senses, have you? I must say, it took a while. I am most disappointed in you. Most disappointed indeed."
"How is this possible?" Harry demanded, mouth dry, still held firmly in the grasp of shock, his hands trembled. "You were dead! We got all of your Horcruxes."
Riddle's dark eyes lit with sadistic glee and Harry's stomach plummeted into his feet as he caught it.
"Ah, yes," the older male murmured. "Thank you for that, by the way," he gave a tiny, mock bow. "Were it not for you, I fear it would have taken many more years to finally claim Riddle. No one escapes me. No one."
Claim Riddle? No one escapes—
"Death?" the Potter queried, mouth agape.
"At your service, My Lord." Another mocking, albeit fluid, bow followed.
But Harry was confused. This was Death? This was Death. Then he grew suspicious, his eyes narrowed and the heaviness in his stomach lifted. A smidgen. "Explain."
The smirk that was directed at him was cynical at best and downright infuriating at worst and he was seized by the urge to roll his eyes. "Certainly, Master. I shall impart with as much as I am able. What is it you wish to ask?"
Hadn't Harry just—? Ack, sod it.
"Why did you choose to look like—" he gestured roughly toward the other.
"Tom Riddle?" The not-Riddle drawled.
Harry glowered, the other's mannerisms bothered him and coaxed out his own less than desirable traits. "Yes," he ground out.
"I would have thought you knew," replied Death, succinctly.
Harry's mood grew increasingly blacker. Really, couldn't he get a straight answer for once? Voldemort was never this irritating... Then again, his younger self was less than forthright when it came to answering questions that he felt little interest in... "Then why would I be asking?"
"Rhetoric?"
The Potter didn't reply.
"He's familiar to you," Riddle drawled, his own patience short, apparently. "And your subconscious recognises him as the main cause of death; therefore you view him as Death. Comprehend?"
Bastard.
"Alright then how did I come to be your master? Presumably I—" Harry hesitated in mentioning the Hallows, unsure. The last thing he wanted was for a possibly young Tom Riddle running around seeking Death's instruments. "—met certain requirements." He folded his arms, relieved that his limbs didn't tingle anymore. "However, I'm unsure what... exactly they are. Or rather, were, on top of which, I—"
Riddle's head tilted slightly as did the corner of his mouth. "Met me?" He interjected, quietly. "I am aware and yet, They—all three Hallows—" the other regarded him coolly, "still heed your summons."
So Riddle did know about the Hallows, after all. It was beginning to look more likely that this really was Death. The green-eyed boy noted how he made no mention of himself but decided to leave that for the moment preoccupied by this revelation. So the Hallows heeded his call? Well, as far as he was concerned, they hadn't so far. If they had, wouldn't he have had the El—
Abruptly, the Eldar wand appeared in his right hand, the weight and feel foreign. Startled he dropped it only to have the length of wood vanish before it touched his lap.
How terribly convenient.
Alright, so he could 'apparently' summon the Hallows at will. That was a concept he intended to experiment with later.
Preferably away from Riddle's knowing eyes.
"So," the teen began, dubious, voiced his thoughts, "because I managed to obtain all your Hallows, I became you master?"
"And you embraced me," informed Riddle quietly, and something about that one sentence made Harry feel quite uncomfortable. He shifted, unnerved with a grimace.
Maybe it was the 'embraced' part. Yeah. Most likely.
That didn't make them... bosom buddies or anything.
Did it?
Merlin he hoped not.
"Say I believe you..." the green-eyed teen stated, slowly, not wanting to dwell on his disturbing thoughts and still quite unconvinced that he was, somehow Master of Death. The concept wasn't something he could wrap his head around; somehow, he couldn't see Death—certainly not while dressed in Riddle's body—to be a very merciful being. Far from it. "Where am I?" he continued. "How did I get here? Why is it you've decided to... manifest yourself now?"
Those seemed the basics.
"Where are you?" the Riddle-lookalike asked, softly. Even his mannerisms were eerily reminiscent of Riddles. Or at least, what Harry had borne witness to. "Somewhere you are needed. How you came to be here? Well, you were summoned, of course. How else might you have arrived? The reason for my appearance at all is because it is required of me at present."
Which answered next to nothing. Harry grit his teeth. Riddle was insufferable.
Or rather, Death was insufferable.
Really, having this conversation with Death, that looked a great deal like Riddle did when he'd spoken with Hepzibah Smith all those years ago was disconcerting. How old had he been back then? In his early twenties? Actually, Harry was beginning to wonder if he was even awake at all. Even his dreams weren't usually this crazy.
Honestly, he was, somehow, Master of Death? And Death itself walking and talking and acting like Tom Riddle! Surely, he had some form of head injury? It would explain the pain he felt upon his 'awakening.' Like conversation occasionally carried into ones' dreams, pain could, too.
That actually made more sense.
"Alright," Harry ground out, hands fisted in his... robed? lap. Why hadn't he noticed his changed clothing sooner? He rubbed the fine fabric between his index and thumb absently, cast his gaze about the strange not-room in which he awoke. "And where is this place that I was needed? It's name would suffice."
Riddle's smirk flashed perfect white teeth. "Why, Arda, of course."
Harry's face blanked. Arda? Was that in the southern hemisphere? Was he anywhere near England anymore? He'd never heard of it.
"And Arda's location in relation to London?"
"Nowhere near, I am afraid to say."
Merlin, trying to get answers from Riddle-Death-er, Riddle—he'd stick with that name, it was more familiar and less disturbing—was like pulling teeth from a dragon.
Er, perhaps not. At least he wasn't likely to lose limbs.
"Riddle!"
Riddle's expression sobered, though his eyes glinted in humour at Harry's expense. He straightened up, appearing for all intents and purposes like a dark king despite his feigned humility, not a wrinkle in his... bizarrely Muggle suit. "Yes, Master?"
The mocking pitch couldn't possibly be any more obvious.
Harry hesitated, so far Riddle had answered most of his questions even if they'd been unhelpful but perhaps he simply wasn't asking the right questions? While Voldemort was more than willing to go off on tangents and tell all—more or less—this one, which wasn't really Riddle, he had to remind himself, was being intentionally tight-lipped.
The situation reminded him of a genie.
Worrying his lower lip, Harry considered his words. "I want to know the name of the one who summoned me here and how and the exact reasons for this summons, you've told me it was to 'help.'"
Ruby eyes glittered but whether in displeasure, amusement or satisfaction the teen couldn't hope to guess. "The one named Galemir brought you here by magic to save his people."
Brilliant.
"Another war?" Harry gritted out, irritable and bitter if not extremely weary as well. He'd just barely scraped through the last bloody war! And hadn't even had enough time to enjoy that before he was whisked away to another? "If you are, in fact, Death," he muttered, aggravation palpable, "then how do I know this wasn't merely some plot to also claim me sooner? After all, I've evaded you twice now and as you said, 'no one escapes' you."
Riddle smiled charmingly and the sight of it only served to creep the teen out further. The Gryffindor subtly edged backward in his mossy bed. It barely made a noise against the material of his robe.
"Not at all," the older male replied. "It would be far more beneficial to myself should you not have arrived here."
Puzzled, Harry's brow crinkled in thought. "What do you mean?"
The other dusted imaginary lint from his smart looking blazer; the drag of his fingertips across the fabric incongruous in their present setting. "Whatever you think it means," he intoned smoothly. "Now if you are quite—"
But Harry's statement interrupted; "More beneficial to you..." he mused, aloud. "More people would die..." he glanced up, horror shining in his bright green eyes, "if I hadn't arrived?"
"Well now, you do know how to use that head of yours."
Harry glowered at the comment, feeling for a moment, like he was in potions class with Snape all over again. Then felt an immediate stab of pity for the lost man. Snape may never have been a nice man by any means, but he'd been a good man despite his numerous flaws and hadn't deserved to go the way he had. He was a hero.
Anger blazed in the pit of his stomach as his eyes settled upon a de-aged version of the man that killed said hero.
"I can't have been too stupid to have outmanoeuvred y-Voldemort." He inwardly cursed the near slip in his moment of musing. But it was so easy just believing that he was dealing with an incarnation of Voldemort now than some ageless entity. Especially with the way the other was acting.
"Did I claim you were?" Riddle appeared mildly confused. Harry chose not to trust that expression.
The teen's glower deepened. "It was implied," he huffed.
"Was it?" The other's smile grew almost offensively polite. "You cannot help Galemir anymore than your presence here will allow," Riddle informed him with a sharp tilt to his head.
Harry was outraged. "You mean to say, that I was brought here to help this Galemir but I can't?!" he hissed, caught between indignation and ire. What the hell was he brought here for if he couldn't even do anything? It all seemed rather counterproductive. "But—"
Riddle shot him a dismissive look. "You will meet him eventually."
Eventually?!
"But you didn't even—"
"There is no need," the other drawled, expression icy and decidedly impatient as he twitched on the spot like a restless cat. "I informed you, did I not, that I would answer you as best I could? And I have. Your very presence here has helped the boy as much as it ever could. You can do no more for him than to stay."
Right. Okay. That made no sense whatsoever. Wait—
"Stay?" the teen exclaimed. "I can't possibly—"
"And how might you return?" Riddle purred, delight apparent from the glow of his eyes right down to the smile alighting his thin lips. "You are unable to Apparate back to London... there is a reason International Portkeys exist and it would be most... unfortunate, should you lose that pretty little head of yours. But I daresay I shall most certainly enjoy the pleasure of your company back within my domain."
And Harry decided then and there that he wanted to live as long as possible. If only to avoid being alone with Riddle. In his domain.
"Fine. A portkey then—"
"Out of the question," the other informed him with relish, gaze locked upon his features as though savouring his growing despair. "None in Arda can make you a portkey, nor can you send for one."
Frustrated and feeling so completely out of his depth, Harry could only fix Riddle was a determined stare. "There are other means, surely. Muggle means if necessary. This Galemir somehow summoned me here so there must be a way to send me back," he reasoned, eyed the other speculatively. How far away from normal civilisation could he possibly be? Was it some island right near the bottom of the world? Without Floo-travel? Calls? And no owls or other delivery? "Could you?"
Riddle's smile deepened. "Not my area of expertise... my apologies and I believe you will find the Muggles' method of transportation here to be rather... lacking."
A frustrated breath left the Gryffindor's lips in a hiss. "Then my best chance is finding someone who knows the spell that brought me here—"
"Presuming, of course, that anyone else even knows of this so called 'Spell' he used," Riddle pointed out.
The green-eyed teen stared. "Wouldn't they?"
Stupid question if no one could even make a freaking portkey to take him back to London.
The bright, red-eyed stare directed at him was unnerving.
"And here I had thought," Riddle began, surveyed him critically, tilted his head this way and that as he circled Harry slowly in the manner a shark might before lunging to bite. He made no sound save for the whisper of fabric brushing against itself as he moved and came to a stop at Harry's side. "I thought that you would wish to keep more children from being orphaned as you were," he added softly, "that you would wish to prevent more children from being taken by me before their time... Was I wrong in this presumption?" His expression was pensive for a moment, turned inward. Then it cleared and his eyes locked on Harry, dark and deep and unnerving.
Harry felt a horrible tightening in his chest.
He knew he was being played; that the other was aware of his weaknesses—if Riddle knew them, it made sense that Death would—but he couldn't imagine being the cause of more orphans... not when Riddle had informed him in a roundabout way that his very presence—wherever they were—would prevent more people from dying; from more children losing parents. To prevent more parents losing their children well before they should.
His mind flicked back to earlier that day—or was it earlier that night? Yesterday?—to the deaths of those he cared about and knew; Remus and Tonks, hands clasped together even in death; Lavender Brown, eyes as unfocused as those of her favourite professor; Dennis Creevey, never to take another picture again; Mr. and Mrs Weasley crying over the body of their fallen son.
The list went on...
But back to his other priorities, he rubbed at his face in weariness. Had he really only been up less than an hour? It already felt too long.
"Hermione... Ron..." he swallowed his trepidation, "Is everyone—"
"Your loved ones are alive and largely unhurt."
Bright green eyes narrowed, studied Riddle with warily. "Largely?"
"Nothing that will entail a visit from myself," Riddle elaborated, bored, shifted away from the bed with that disquieting silence to his movements.
That was... good, Harry supposed. But hardly very informative. "But are they okay?"
"They will live, yes," Riddle crooned mockingly, shifted in agitation, "without any lasting physical damage from your confrontation with Voldemort."
While not the best explanation... Harry decided he could revisit this conversation later. When the other was in a better mood.
"Explain where... Arda exists, in relation to London."
Riddle's lips twitched. "Arda exists on a completely different plain of existence to that of London," he confessed, politely.
Another plain of existence!?
Harry stared, struck dumb.
"Am I dead?" He didn't think so. Last time he'd died well... it hadn't hurt. And this would be the very last place he'd expect to wind up in the afterlife.
"What good are material possessions to the dead?" questioned Riddle, a dark brow arched and Harry had to wonder at Death's ability to imitate someone so well.
Still, the response was hardly definitive.
"Am I?" Harry demanded, sitting as straight as he could on his squishy moss bed and somehow, yanking his hair in the process.
His head still felt oddly heavy.
Riddle's visage darkened for a moment then he smiled at Harry tightly and his words when he spoke were syrupy with distain. "Of course not, Master. Or had you forgotten that you were summoned here by another for help? The afterlife is in no need of a... hero, such as yourself."
Harry shot Riddle a glare. It went ignored. "Who's to say this isn't some elaborate lie? Or that I'm unconscious? Or—"
"Unconscious?" quipped Riddle, slyly. "No. I dare say even you could not possibly sleep longer than the 54 years in which you have been here."
54 years?! Now he knew Riddle was lying. The Elder wand reappeared in Harry's hand as he surged forward and—
"What—?
Collapsed ungracefully upon the strange warm, wooden platform, his legs having given out beneath him.
He glanced down at his violently shaking limbs, clenched his fingers as tightly as he could, only to discover the grasp was still embarrassingly weak. Had the wand he held been any heavier, he realised he wouldn't have been able to hold it all; just as he was unable to completely support his weight. What was that called again?
For a moment, Riddle simply peered down at him then murmured, patronisingly; "You have been in a deep sleep for many years, Harry. Your muscles are merely unused to moving. Be thankful they did not waste away in your hibernation, rather, your sleep was something of a stasis."
Harry glared up at the other figure. "And you thought not to tell me this sooner?"
"You never asked."
Then Riddle did the unthinkable; he reached down in one fluid motion, picked Harry up so gently the poor teen thought he was having an out of body experience then dumped him, without care, back on the bed. There Harry bounced several times before his weight settled.
The Elder wand vanished once more and the boy stared at the other feeling horribly out of sorts.
It was looking more and more probable that Riddle was speaking the truth. Although, how much of it was true in its entirety was still up in the air. In fact, now that his mind was settling, he realised he'd taken what the other claimed largely at face value and felt remarkable foolish for doing so. Who was to say that this really was the—an—embodiment of Death and not Riddle?
"Don't you have er, things to, you know... do?" he muttered, referring to Death's duties, envisioned a cloaked figure and a sickle.
"You harbour some rather strange preconceived notions in regards to my being," Riddle observed, usually smooth brow creased in an almost amused expression. "You believe me held by the typical constraints of Time; you are incorrect in this presumption as I exist beyond it."
If that was true... "You can be in more than one place at a time?"
"More or less."
Harry studied his still unsteady hands, both as smooth as they'd been the day of the Battle at Hogwarts... How could that have been 54 years ago? How did that relate to him? Did that make Hermione, Ron and the others all 54 years older as well? If Riddle was to be believed, was it possible that the time was different for them, too?
"How does this apply to me?"
"Ah," the older male chuckled. "An intelligent question. As you are connected to me, you too, exist beyond Time's grasp. You will never age beyond the day you came willingly to my side. That, however, does not mean you are impervious to myself. You will still die if dealt a mortal wound. You will die from thirst or hunger; heat or cold..."
Harry barely heard his words beyond un-aging.
He'd assumed, as Riddle claimed, that if 54 years had past, the reason he'd retained his youth was due to whatever 'stasis' he'd been under...
Riddle regarded him with shrewd, scarlet eyes. "While I find your worrying over trivial matters, such as agelessness, amusing, I daresay your teenage angst is quite the reverse. You know, one might even presume you eager to return to my side considering, of course, your uncanny strokes of dumb luck when it comes to escaping dangerous situation."
Heat flooded Harry's cheeks and his mouth dropped open, aghast.
"I'm not! I was... my friends—" he spluttered inelegantly, wondered if he'd be able to thump Riddle over the head with something. Death or not, he'd felt quite corporeal when he'd lifted Harry. Irritation surged through his veins like a peculiar itch.
"How utterly precious," the other drawled, red eyes gleaming in an almost predator light as his head cocked to the side. "Why so flustered, Harry? Did my words hit a little close to home?"
The Gryffindor scoffed, eyes blazing killing-curse green. "Don't flatter yourself, Ri—"
The soft questioning tone of the girl that tended him earlier cut off Harry's words. He turned, annoyance carrying over to see her manoeuvre through the delicate archway of her home—presumably—toward him. She was holding a bright, silvery tray which bore a bowl of clear broth; a loaf of fresh, golden bread; several small dishes of what he presumed to be butter, two different types of fruit preserves and a mug of some fruit-scented drink.
His stomach rumbled, appreciative of the sight. Until that point, he hadn't realised just how hungry he was...
And then he saw the expression on the girl's very pretty face; saw her thinly veiled curiosity, excitement and perplexity. She said something else in that beautiful, lyrical way that made him think she was singing—although he doubted it—and set the tray in his lap, smiling at him.
"She advised you to eat," Riddle translated. Lips thinned he peered at the girl in what seemed to be displeasure.
"Thank you," Harry smiled his thanks at the girl, his own words leaving his mouth in the same foreign language she spoke. She beamed at him and started nattering on about something he didn't understand but again, Riddle translated as he crept closer, stood almost looming over the Gryffindor's shoulder in what would appear to most like a protective stance.
To Harry it was simply an intimidation tactic.
It was ignored in favour of the food before him, the appetising scents of spices and fruit and warm bread inhaled upon every breath. With unsteady hands, he filled the provided soup spoon with the broth and took a tentative sip.
Mmmm.
Green-eyes sliding closed in pleasure, Harry savoured at the warmth and buttery taste that exploded on his palette after what seemed like forever—and based on Riddle's implication, was as close to—relished the sensation of the liquid trickling down his throat. Murmuring his appreciation, he took another, more enthusiastic spoonful all the while the girl kept up a steady stream of chatter.
Apparently it got on Riddle's wick.
"Poor deluded girl," the older male sneered and Harry was surprised that the girl didn't recoil from that glance alone.
The teen cast the elder man a quelling look. "Don't be rude."
Ruby eyes slid toward him, flashed but their owner said nothing more on the matter. He stepped back and away.
The girl ceased her prattle, blinked at his words, foreign to her ear as they were spoken in English, then glanced in the direction of Riddle. Very slowly, she peered back down at him, a small frown creased her brow as she spoke again.
"She said that if you were willing later, she would have you taken down to bathe," Riddle drawled, moved around the platform once more, this time closer to the girl. Close enough to be considered inappropriate by those that weren't well acquainted and perhaps more, beside. "I surmise this is her way of avoiding the elephant in the room."
"...Elephant—" Harry's throat tightened, his urge to shout out a warning grew as pale, spidery fingers stroked the girl's ivory cheek and...
She remained none the wiser.
"Surely you must have noticed, Harry," Riddle murmured, condescending, eyelids lowered half-mast and a tiny, warped smirk gripping the very edge of his pale lips. He swiftly stepped away, as if disgusted by touching the girl, immediately moved closer to Harry, brought his hands to the teen's slim shoulders instead.
He couldn't mean...
"She can't see you..." the teen realised, somehow shocked by this revelation and yet not.
"No," Riddle agreed smoothly, slipped around the back of the bed, hands still clasped around Harry's shoulders, he peered over the boy's messy head.
"No one can see you," Harry breathed and despite not being able to see him, the teen knew Riddle was smirking.
"No one but you."
Oh joy.
I do so adore writing Death!Riddle. Many of you may disagree. As to why Death is impersonating Riddle... Well you shall have to wait a while longer yet. Some of you are likely wonder at the fact several subjects were touched on and then apparently 'abandoned' by Harry as Riddle directed his attention elsewhere... Many of these will be brought up again in the future.
A departure from my usual infinitely more 'mature' scheming and-manipulative!Harrys. Don't worry, he'll get there. Maybe. Continuation of this fic is dependant entirely on the reception it receives as well as my own interest which is, admittedly, quite unpredictable and somewhat restricted at present.
My elves shall stay as close to Tolkien's interpretation as possible.
Love it? Loathe it? Questions?
Constructive criticism is always welcome. Plus, I only very quickly skimmed it for errors, spot any? Please let me know.
