Summery: AU. A young Harry Potter wishes for a friend ... then along comes Tom, and he's not quite as imaginary as many presume.
Disclaimer: I don't own shite.
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No Such Thing
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Fate and Destiny are little comfort to a little boy, lost and alone in the darkness of his cupboard.
He is not a normal child.
Harry is special … or so he likes to think. He knows of life's flippant temper and bitter injustice. He knows pain, neglect and the hateful spell of words unkind. Harry knows what it is to have nothing and to be treated as such.
Nothing to loose. Nothing to gain.
Nothing to live or die for …
There is no such thing as a happy ending, little Harry knows, and he knows it well. Evil cannot always inevitably be conquered. Life is cruel. Everyone eventually learns this at some point or another … some too soon. Some too late.
And all the good things must come to an end.
But when there's no good to begin with, where do you go?
Where do you hide?
And, perhaps most importantly - how can you escape?
This is the question little Harry asks, as he dreams of a happier time he can't remember with the foreboding light of each new day. Harry likes the night and he likes the dark. He doesn't really like much else in his life, for there's nothing else in this life that could really be deemed even nearly close to likable.
Curled up with the other nasty creatures in this dull prickly black, he makes a silent wish to a world of the deaf, the blind and the indifferent. He doesn't think or dare to hope anyone will listen … but - quite unexpectedly - someone, somewhere, does.
Little Harry Potter wished for a friend.
One to love him unquestionably, undoubtedly. Someone to help him in times of need and be with him always.
And then for reasons unfathomable, for reasons beyond the harsh and jaded realms of logic and reality - this precious wish is heard, judged and granted. As if by magic …
When Harry wakes up the next morning, Tom is already there beside him. Waiting, silently. Watching his small heart pound in restless sleep, watching his green orbs widen as he lays eyes upon his new, hideous company.
Tom is an ugly, ghastly sight; his skin is loose and misshapen, hanging limply from his gaunt form like a very obese person that's lost all their weight and been left with excess. Clearly visible beneath the folds of stretched, wrinkled skin, Harry can see black colored blood, pulsing shallowly inside of his veins. Bones are sticking out from everywhere, all odd and edgy on his abnormally long limbs, and they're dangerously sharp. He's naked. He has no hair, no nose. His age in indefinable; he's ancient and youthful in unison stride. And his eyes … his dark, haunting eyes are the most peculiar shade of red.
Harry is not frightened, though. He refuses to be.
And he does not question Tom's implausible presence - he grips and clings to the gift like a vice. They'll be brother's, he swears unto heaven. He'll never let Tom go. They'll be the greatest of friends, forever and always.
Betrayal is deepest in blood.
Harry's not lonely anymore. Not now he has Tom.
Tom entertains Harry with many interesting, fascinating things. He must know everything, Harry thinks. They play games together to pass through the monotonous boredom of life with the Dursleys', and Harry has never had so much fun. He learns fast and Tom enjoys teaching him. No one else can see Tom, so they soon find. He's visible only to Harry, and Harry likes it best that way. Tom is all his.
Life is only what you make of it, Tom whispers in the dead of the night. He strokes Harry's forehead, running his index finger gently along the boy's scar. Tom doesn't approve of the way the Dursley's treat Harry. He says it isn't right, that they should pay for their viciousness, their malice … and Harry agrees.
Harry Potter is not a normal child. Not by any measure.
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"What are you drawing, Harry?"
The other children leave him alone, even more so now then they ever had before.
There's something strange – or stranger? - about the poor boy, thinks Mrs Wentworth, looking down at the mess of hair stubbornly ignoring her. Something crying out for attention, something quietly screaming for help. And yet she hesitates, still – and she's not sure exactly why.
It's been a subtle change, she realizes. Slow, sly, sneaky.
"Harry?" she says again, kneeling beside his little plastic chair. He's muttering under his breath, Mrs Wentworth can see … chatting away amiably with his imaginary friend. "What are you doing, Harry?"
He has a pencil poised in his hand, proudly examining his great work of art. His eyes meet hers and a chilling shiver runs down the teacher's spine.
The paper in Harry's hand is black – a plain, simple scribbled black of hard, scratched overlaps.
"What is it?" she asks.
Harry gives her a cold look, distant and aloof. Much too old for his age. A moment later a thin smile cracks over his small lips … Mrs Wentworth is terrified.
Harry spends that afternoon in the counselor's office. And the next day, too. And the next.
And the next …
"Who is Tom, Harry?" they keep asking him.
Don't tell him, child. Don't tell him or they'll break us …
Harry covers his ears with his hands, shutting his eyes tight. He doesn't speak a word.
Then the holidays arrive, and the school is only glad to be rid of all things Potter.
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Old Mrs Figg knows that something isn't right, and calls it upon herself to check up on the boy she's paid rather generously to look out for. She hasn't noticed anyone come or go from number four in days. Opening the gate and creeping up the garden's dirty, overgrown path, she realizes already her trouble has not been wasted - the house reeks of ill and all that is unpleasant.
Reaching the front door, the old woman slowly knocks. She half wishes there wont be anyone in, although she already senses a presence watching her, the hairs on the back of her neck rising up uncomfortably.
Her breath catches in her throat, her heart paused - and then, just a moment later, she can hear a rustle emitted from inside.
A bolt is dragged from its lock, a key turns and the door sadly creaks open -
Mrs Figg screams.
The boy looks like a small, skeletal demon; his teeth rotten, his hair wild and feral. His eyes are hollow and circled in darkness. His skin is so white it appears almost transparent. He's so frightfully, painfully thin. And there's blood … there's blood everywhere, all over him - and other things, too. Other heinous, terrible things. He's wearing just a pair of ragged, bloodstained shorts.
It's cold inside of the house, she can tell now, although it's warm outside. There's frost on the windows.
She's scared, suddenly – more scared than she's ever been before in all her long life.
"Where are your relatives, Harry?" Mrs Figg hurries to ask, her voice quivering.
The boy shrugs his tiny, bony shoulders.
"Are you here alone?"
He shakes his head.
"Who else is here, Harry?"
He smiles, bemused.
"Harry?"
"I'm not alone," Harry finally dawdles an answer, jerking his head back inside the house. "Tom's here too."
Mrs Figg tries to peer around him into the living room.
There's no one else there.
Invite her in, Harry. Don't forget your manners.
"Would you like to come in?" Harry asks her politely, showing two pointed rows of his horrible, grimy teeth.
Let us see her rip ...
"Well," Mrs Figg stumbles.
Let us see her bleed, my darling ...
"I suppose I'd better."
Harry stands aside and old Mrs Figg moves into the house around him. The door slams shut and Harry stands up on his toes to lock it closed again behind her.
Ask the old bag if she'd like something to eat, Tom tells Harry.
"Are you hungry, Mrs Figg?" Harry asks.
"No, no," the old lady mumbles, glancing quickly around the living room, inspecting the new paint work of filth recently smeared over the once pretty wallpaper.
Fetch it anyway, Tom says, giggling. Bring her the lot from the pitcher …
"Do you know where your Auntie is, Harry? Have your relatives gone away for the holidays and left you behind?"
Harry shakes his head. "They haven't gone anywhere," he says glumly, eyes flicking unconsciously to the small cupboard under the stairs. "They can't ever leave me ... not now. Not anymore."
The pitcher, child! Hurry and get the bat a drink!
Mrs Figg has gone dangerously pale.
"You look sick, Mrs Figg," Harry said. "Let me get you something to drink."
Harry turns and runs towards the kitchen - Mrs Figg follows, drawing her shawl tightly across her shoulders. All her instincts are telling her to run. But he's just a child, she reasons. What could he possibly do?
Let's tear her, my friend, my darling, says Tom. Let's pinch her and tease her.
He's lurking always in the shadows … gurgling and spitting and laughing.
Harry eyes his Aunt Petunia's new blender, and another smile lights up his little face … this one far more sinister.
It's their favorite game.
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To all lack of senses and sensibilities, Mrs Figg had simply vanished. It was this and only this that found Albus Dumbledore in Privet Drive, gazing in a state of honest perplexion at the large sign outside of number four, stating firmly for all the world to see - 'For Sale'.
Albus was at a loss for words, and one thought pressed down firmly on his mind -
Where in all of hell was young Harry Potter?
Turning swiftly on his heel, Albus strode purposely up the path to the house next door, where as only could be expected his queries were met with anything but help.
Mrs Number Six looked quite terrified at the mere slant towards the name of Dursley and everything associated.
"I don't know!" she hissed, making to close her door. "I don't know anything!"
"And what of their nephew?" Albus asks quickly. "Harry Potter?"
The woman pauses, looking down shrewdly upon Albus as if he'd spoken blasphemy. "The boy, you mean?" she whispers, her hands clawing onto the doorknob. "The other one?"
"Yes, yes," Albus says. "Their nephew, Harry."
Her eyebrows wrinkled. "He went with child services, I believe. After … after the accident."
There's something else there, something she's not letting on, Albus knows. And gently, ever so very gently, he prods her to continue -
"The accident?"
"Yes," says Mrs Number Six, more compliably than before. "Harry Potter. Word says he's the one that did it, you know."
"Did it?" Albus repeats again. "But did what?"
"How any mere child could have it in them, though - well, he was always a bit peculiar, I suppose. And doomed," she added knowingly, bobbing her head. "He had that sort of sickly doomed look always about him."
"The Dursleys," Albus stresses. "Do you know what happened here?"
"They're dead," she snaps, her voice cold - and just like that Albus' delicate edging has collapsed around him, beaten.
Mrs Number Six, realizing all she has let on and not understanding why, slams the door shut in his face.
Albus takes a step back onto the winding garden path, his heart pounding hard and fast.
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Foster homes don't agree with Harry Potter.
He does not like the smells or the colors or the people. And besides all that, he simply has no interest in making himself another family outside of Tom. What would be the point? Tom's all he needs and all he wants, Harry thinks. Tom's his miracle, his gift. His blessing. Together they go through families with a feverish alarm – after a month of constant cries and complaints, all parties involved had long had enough. He was weird, they'd say. Freakish. He'd scare them …
The investigations into the deaths of his relatives cease, and no one is more pleased than Harry to see that lay at rest.
But then something happens … Tom's urging is a little too much, and Harry gets carried away in his excitement.
The girl annoyed him, he explained. She'd provoked his actions. He felt no remorse.
Harry knows he's in trouble, in far too deep over his head, when a court order is passed and his room abruptly has bars across the window. The inhabitance of Privet Drive would have said Harry Potter had been destined for the juvenile detention centre from the moment he made his very sudden appearance a burden on their orderly street. But destiny is fickle, and Harry enjoys most the sight of such things bent to constrict between his little dirty fingers –
The Centre is awful; crowded and loud and mad. The other boys know to stick well clear of Harry … they know what he did to get himself there. The whispers are irritating, grating terribly on his nerves. There are eyes watching him, always. Harry and Tom agree swiftly that they do not belong in such low company and have to leave. They escape after three nights, wandering slowly back into London.
Harry and Tom live on the street for a short time after that, scavenging food from dustbins and sleeping in the gutters. Harry is quick to pick up on a number of very useful skills; to lie, to manipulate, to control. For the first time in Harry's life his betters are finally serving his purpose, his will and command. Before a month passes they're dining in restaurants and resting on silk sheets. Harry thinks he might be in heaven and he knows it will not last, far too good to be true.
It's still too soon that they're caught again by Welfare – Harry's appearance is simply too bizarre to be lightly passed, and curious gazes follow them everywhere. He's too young, too thin, and simply all together much too strange.
But this time Harry gives the authorities a different name, creating a new identity for himself.
"Marvolo," he says, the name rolling easily off his tongue. His large green eyes are wide with stolen innocence not of his own.
No one has any reason but to believe him, and Potter is just as effectively forgotten.
Then Harry is examined by a doctor, who further concludes his sanity not quite in proper check. And they're moved again, one last time. The asylum is quite nice, too. Not many children reside with them, which both Harry and Tom prefer. There's a spacious garden to hide in, when they're permitted outdoors … which isn't often. A common room containing the largest television Harry's ever seen, when they're permitted to watch it … which again is not often. And there was the playroom, with a handful of items clearly donated by elderly people with no idea what children really liked to play with. This was the room Harry and Tom spent most of their time in, left to their own devices for hours and hours on end. Tom's lessons and lectures to Harry never stopped.
"Who is Tom?" they were all asking him again.
They always asked him questions. He hated it. Harry's lips remained firmly tight and shut.
Slowly Harry and Tom settle into their new routines … but soon, inevitably so, Tom grows bored.
And so the game begins again.
Contrary to Tom's beliefs and extraordinary wisdom, the doctors did notice when their patients disappeared, and it did not take them long at all to pin the blame for the mysterious, odd occurrences happening down the ward. Harry found himself locked alone in a little white room, with walls made of glass, plugs on his head and needles in his arms. He was strapped down and could not move, and Tom grew distant …
That was when he got his very first visitor.
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It wasn't hard to find him, or even to track his movements from the first time he'd been taken from the safety of his relative's home. It was time that had cost Albus, and it cost him deep and dearly. For when at last he knew he had the boy under his wing again, knew of his location and temporary condition, it did not seem as though Harry Potter might ever be as he had aspired.
It was a cage; four glass walls inches thick. No furnishings or any décor but the bed. And there was Harry, sitting up anxiously on the thin, hard mattress, tiny arms wrapped around his tiny legs, rocking back and forth. Albus finds he is unable to breathe; Harry Potter? This is what has befallen their darling Harry Potter …
"Some would say," the Doctor beside him began slowly, tentatively, "that the boy is ... possessed."
Albus raised an eyebrow. There's a drip in Harry's arm, Albus can see, and he hears himself enquiring after its purpose only because he simply cannot think of anything else to say.
"He won't eat," the Doctor answers him shortly. "The little shit hasn't had a single bite since he was moved into isolation. A stupid, stubborn bugger, this one is."
"Is he speaking?" Albus asks, for he can clearly see that Harry's lips are moving … muttering under his shallow breath. "What does he say?"
The Doctor shuffles his clipboard, giving Albus another shrewd glance. "Funny that you should notice that, actually," he comments, his voice dry and devoid of any humor. "For he's rather forgotten his grasp of the English language at present."
"Pardon?" Albus' voice shakes.
"Snake," the Doctor tells him quite seriously, his lips twitching. "He's hissing like a snake."
"Right," says Albus, closing his eyes. "How curious indeed."
The Doctor favors him with a thin, lopsided grin.
"I'd like to ask Harry a few questions, if that's all right," Albus says.
The Doctor looked about to protest - Albus tightened his grip on his wand, ready.
"Yes, of course, certainly."
He's lead from the hallway, around the winding corridor to a big, ominous blue door. The Doctor takes a ring of keys from his coat pocket, opening it methodically with practiced ease. Albus pauses in the doorway, and the Doctor gives him a buzzer – he'll be locked inside, the Doctor explains. When he's ready to come out, he's only to press the button.
This isn't much constellation to ease the old Headmaster's nerves, as the big door clicks locked behind him.
Albus constructs his kindest, least threatening, grandfatherly façade. Butter would not melt on his tongue, and Saint's paled in comparison. Harry took one look at him, aghast, sickened, and he shrieked.
"Harry?" Albus said to the boy, keeping his voice carefully calm and placid.
Harry bared his teeth, growling and hissing back.
He wants to kill you, my child. You must fight him. You must shred him ...
"Do you understand me, Harry?"
Break his bones. Rip his eyes. Pull his hair out, dear child. And quick!!
Harry paused where he stood, trembling – but there was something about this man … something almost familiar, he thought.
"I want to help you, Harry," Albus told him most passionately. "I wont hurt you, I promise."
He's lying! He's lying!! He's a dirty, filthy liar!
"Do you like it here, Harry? In the hospital?"
Harry shook his head, ignoring Tom for the moment … he hated everything about the damn place; the needles, the cleanliness, all the damn questions.
Snap. Grind. Crack.
"Would you like to come with me, Harry?" Albus asked. "Somewhere else, where we can take proper care of you. Somewhere … dare I say it, more fitting to your likes?"
No! Tom screamed, hoarse and furious. He'll get us. He'll break us.
Harry hesitated, unsure. All the voices were giving him a headache. He shrugged his shoulders, confused.
Albus frowned, cavernous lines creasing his worn forehead. "What's wrong, Harry?"
He's evil. He'll get you now, my darling. You're a goner.
You're as good as dead without me …
And then Harry made up his mind. "Get away!" Harry snarled at Albus, spitting on his shiny shoes. "Get out, get away!"
Albus shrunk back from his grating cries. Harry Potter was nothing like anything he'd ever imagined, like anything he'd ever known or even glimpsed. Albus wasn't entirely sure the boy was human … but that couldn't be right, could it? And the name he had given – Marvolo. It was not a coincidence, he knew, and it desperately needed a proper explanation.
"Harry," Albus said, more sternly than before. "There's no need to take that sort of tone with me – "
And that was about when Harry launched his first attack.
Albus was cold – painfully so. There was ice breaking over the glass walls, and mist hanging from the ceiling.
"Stop it, Harry."
Albus felt as though he were intoxicated; the air was thick, clogged with Harry's unrestrained magic, and again he found himself quite unable to breathe – he was choking, suffocating on the boy's anger and resentment.
"Harry," Albus warned him, drawing his wand out from his trouser pocket.
The wand, my darling!! GET ME THE WAND.
Albus never had time to shield himself – Harry ran straight at him, leapt up into the air and pushed Albus hard against the wall, his little hands clinging all the while to Albus' throat, throttling him.
Squeeze him, child. Squeeze him till he pops …
Albus didn't think, didn't need to. He swung his wand behind the boy's frail body and shot a sedation charm into his back. Harry dropped, eyes wide, landing awkwardly on the floor at Albus' feet, where he promptly passed out.
Albus rubbed his pounding throat, staring down at the child in utter horror.
He certainly had an awful lot to ponder … and re-plan, re-map, re-coordinate.
No. It would not work, it could not. Harry Potter was used goods, dried up and left with no further purpose to serve them. He was not fit, so completely and totally out of his right mind. The boy was a danger, to himself and all around him.
He could not possibly be the One, the Chosen; their worshiped, idolized, beloved little hero.
He would not let it.
But …
There was another. Neville …
Yes.
Albus knelt down, running an old wrinkled hand over the boy's hair, exposing the thin scar that graced his own small forehead. He stroked Harry's cheek, regret and no small amount of anguish burning deep within his chest.
He might have been … he might still be fixable. There was no mess Albus could not clean, no situation he could not rise above from. Maybe. Perhaps. But what should be done with Harry for the time being?
Wake, child. Wake!
Harry's eyes snapped open, and his small lips parted – and before Albus' reflexes caught on, his ring finger was ensnared within Harry's teeth – and Harry bit down, hard and fast and primal.
Albus cried out in agony, heaving himself up from the floor and away from the boy.
Blood poured out from the wound, trickling down his wrist, along his arm and soaking into his sleeve, dribbling into a pool beneath him. The end of his finger, severed clear off from it's middle joint, was still inside Harry's mouth.
Harry looked at him, loathing clear in every part and pore of his wicked little face. And then he grinned viciously, and slowly he began to chew …
Crunch it harder, Tom jeered. Twist it. Suck it.
"I'll be back shortly, Marvolo," Albus said as he pressed his little buzzer, and a dozen men ran into the glass cell. Turning away from Harry, shutting his eyes and his ears from the terrible noise of the struggles left behind him, the Headmaster departed, heels clicking sharply down the hall on his way.
Riddle was laughing, and he could feel it pumping venomous torment right into his heart.
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"I don't want to play anymore, Tom."
But we can't stop now, my friend. You can't stop us now!
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A/N: Yah. Right. Many thanks for reading :) xxoo.