Title: The Shadow of Love
Author: Prentice
Rating: M
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Feedback: is appreciated.
Disclaimer: As much as I'd like to say I own these characters, I don't in the least and all credit goes to J.K. Rowling for their wonderful creation. Thanks for giving us so much to play with!
Story Note: This disregards the majority of HBP and DH.
Author's Notes: Thanks to ashe for letting me take this one over. :)
Summary: To win a war can be as disastrous as to lose one.
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The Shadow of Love
by Prentice
"One is left with the horrible feeling now that war settles nothing; that to win a war is as disastrous as to lose one." - Agatha Christie; Autobiography (1977)
Harry Potter wakes Friday morning with the sun shinning through the window and straight into his eyes. He groans and rolls in the bed, burying his face in his pillow and stoutly ignores the sheets tangled around his legs. He should get up, he knows he should, but he still hasn't gotten used to the time change or the way the sun seems to shine differently here; not necessarily brighter but less unobstructed.
It feels different, too. Hotter, somehow. Which is something that he wasn't and isn't prepared for. Even in the light pajama trousers he wore to bed, the room still seems to swelter around him. His pale skin has a thin sheen of perspiration on it and he doesn't want to think about what he or the room must smell like.
Pushing his face harder against the pillow, he moans. Now that he's thought about the heat, he can feel it even more; as though his body has lit itself. He has to get up. Rolling onto his back, Harry stares up at the ceiling. It's a blurry mesh the same color as the walls - white - with a fan circling lazily and an air condition vent that is, strangely, a dark blue. He noticed it last night when he was tucking in for the night. For now, it's just a dark blue smudge.
With a tiny sigh, his arm gropes out, fingers searching as he crawls them across the nightstand next to the bed. It's a short one, white as well, with a rose accent. A very feminine touch for a room that is otherwise bare of any influence save the air vent. The wood against his hand is cool, drying the sweat on his palm, as his fingers connect with the frames of his glasses-thumpto the floor.
"Bugger," Harry mutters, scrunching his eyes in a squinting attempt to see. Pushing him self into the sitting position, he swings his pajama and sheet tangled legs over the side and stares down at the floor. The carpet is a beige mass but the dark blob of his glasses is easy enough to see. Leaning down, he scoops them up, settling them on his face. In an instant, the room comes into sharp, clear focus. The blurry lines, the smudges, all define themselves into the room he'll be staying in for the next few days. Or, at least, until he can find his own place.
Not that he was sure he was going to stay around.
"Anythings possible," he says aloud, scrunching his nose. Morning breath, yech.
Shifting, he leans down, using hands and feet to untangle the sheets enough to tug his legs from them before he stands, lifting his arms above his head, the tips of his fingers reaching for the ceiling as he stretches. The pull of his muscles is a pleasantly painful burn and he exhales in a gusty hum, dropping his arms to his side, one hand reaching up to scratch his stomach.
His morning erection pushes against his cotton pajama trousers, the need to use the loo pressing, but he ignores it; staring at the wall absently before leaning forward, allowing his body to fall towards the floor. His hand connects to the carpeted floor with a muffled bump, stinging slightly, before he's pushing himself up, toes bracing against the floor. A deep breath and he gets his body moving.
Up, down, up, down.
The regiment of a morning workout is familiar and easy. The movement of his body, the strain of his muscles, the way his breath leaves his lungs. It's all very comfortable; much in the same way that brushing his teeth or having a shower first thing in the morning is. Harry smiles, settling into a steady rhythm of pressing up and easing down.
The workouts started some months after the war, when things were starting to seem normal - or as normal as they ever would be - and people were beginning to realize that it truly was over. For good, this time. They were all trying to move on with their lives, such as they were. But Harry...
During the long painful years of war, Harry's body had become accustom to a certain kind of lifestyle. One that relied on adrenaline rushes, sleep deprivation, and the sure unwavering knowledge that if he slowed down, he'd die. Or, at the very least, crash and burn like so much rubble. And so, it hadn't taken long to realize that the need to stay active was there.
He didn't need to be in top form - when had he ever really been, considering the state of his health back then - but he needed to be something.
Voldemort and his followers were all but gone; wiped out of existence beyond being anything but a story; a fact, told in wizarding history classes. Even the few who were left, the Death Eaters who managed somehow to escape the carnage of the final battle, had turned tail and run, hiding themselves so deep underground that Harry doubted they would ever be seen again.
Seen alive again, that is.
After all, no one took kindly to living, breathing reminders of war. It was all plaques, memorials and special holidays now. No one wanted to remember it beyond that.
A quick inhalation and Harry pauses, body poised half-way through a press-up. The rewarding burn of muscles had him licking his lips, the salty taste of his own sweat exploding on his tongue. It tastes like blood, fresh blood.
Swallowing thickly, he eases himself down, the cool carpet making him sigh. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, feel the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and making his glasses slide on his nose. He curses, rolling onto his back, sliding his palms beneath his head and lifting his legs up. He curls them towards his chest, feeling his stomach muscles clench as his arse lifts from the floor before he lowers them back down. Lifts them, lowers them. Lifts them, lowers them.
The taste of saltiness is diminishing now and with it the copper-sweet taste of blood.
Harry stares at the white ceiling, the blue air vent, as he moves.
He'll go for a run after this, he decides, even if the sun will fry him.
He wants to feel his heart pound in his chest.
He wants to feel breath burn in his lungs.
He wants to feel alive again.
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A burly barn owl is waiting for him when he returns from his morning run, sleeveless t-shirt dark with sweat and clinging to his body. Beads of perspiration slide down his spine, making him shiver in the cool of the air conditioner, and for a long, drawn out moment he stares at the owl, its speckled brown plumage fluffed from travel, before giving a quivery sigh.
"Back again, are you?" He murmurs wearily, toeing off his trainers before padding forward, socked feet rasping quietly against the carpeting. Goose flesh rise son his skin as the cool air chilles his sweat soaked clothes, making him shiver. "He's persistent, isn't he?"
A soft hoot is his only replay as the owl sticks out its leg, a small twist of parchment tied securely with a line of buttery leather. The knot unfurls with a small tug, the piece of parchment fluttering down to the ground before he can catch it, dark flashes of ink becoming visible as it unfolds. Harry gives another shuddering sigh before squatting down, fingertips leaving damp imprints on the page as he smoothes the parchment, tired muscles aching.
A single line is scrawled across the middle of the vanilla crème page, bold and familiar:
Forgive me, please.
There is no name, no sign of address, but Harry doesn't need one to know who it's from. He's gotten these before, many times before. Lifting to his feet, he stares at the owl, its dark eyes staring at him myopically, and says, softly, 'no reply.'