Author's Note:
It's happening! It's finally happening! Thank you all so much for your patience. I hope you like what I've got in store, but before we dive in I want to STOP YOU RIGHT THERE. If you have not read Of Your Making, please hit the back button and read it before starting this story. When the Phoenix Cries is a sequel. You will be far more satisfied and far less confused if you've got Of Your Making under your belt. These two stories are very much interlinked.
Second note: This story will become explicit. Because of rules on this site, I've decided to post up to the first explicit chapter. From there on I will be posting exclusively on Archive of Our Own. You do not need an account in order to read the story. I will give you a heads up when we reach that point.
Now, onward!
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July 30, 1999
Tom didn't need to check his watch nor the garishly tacky cuckoo clock mounted behind the sofa, which roared like a lion every time the hands struck twelve (a late Christmas present from one of Harry's school friends, Luna Lovegood), to know that they were very nearly late. He marched to the foot of the stairs.
"Harry, we need to go."
"If you'd tell me where we're going, I'd know what to pack," Harry shouted back.
"Nice try," Tom replied, amused in spite of himself. "But I'm still not telling you. Just grab something and get down here."
A string of grumbles that sounded like curses drifted down the stairs. Tom smirked. He was enjoying this far too much. Tomorrow Harry would turn nineteen and Tom had been planning an extravagant celebration for months.
"He's never been out of the country," said Granger during a lunch in June. They had been gathered in the backyard of the cottage he and Harry shared. While Harry played with a toddling Teddy Lupin in the distance, he, Granger and Weasley sat around the tea service under a leafy cherry tree. "I think he'd like that."
Against his wishes, Tom eventually chose to confide in Weasley and Granger about his desire to shepherd Harry away. It was impossible to expect everyone in Harry's life to not ask pestering questions when Tom stated that he and Harry would be away for the occasion, so he'd enlisted help. Harry's oldest friends jumped to Tom's aid energetically, spreading in whispers that it was to be a surprise until the very last minute.
Since moving in with Harry shortly after Christmas, Tom quickly discovered that living with Harry also meant living with a horde of red-heads, a snot-dripping one year-old, and a constant stream of impromptu guests, though Harry would say he was over exaggerating.
"How much time are you taking off?" Granger asked.
"Three weeks," said Tom, pouring himself another cup of tea. Robards had been surprisingly relaxed about his two highest ranked Aurors taking such a long leave of absence.
"We won't be on call," Tom had told him firmly.
"Of course not," said Robards. "You'd think I'd drag you two back here over a few murder cases? I do have other Aurors, Riddle. Enjoy yourselves."
There had been a gleam in Robards' eyes that felt far too knowing for Tom's liking, as if the Head Auror suspected that the surprise birthday get-away was merely the setting for a much larger surprise.
Weasley sat back in his chair. "You know, I don't even think Harry's been on a vacation. He's never mentioned one." He snickered. "Watch the hotel get burned down by a chimera. That's just his luck."
Granger kicked him under the table.
"I'm not taking him to Greece," Tom replied as Weasley rubbed his shin ruefully.
Granger looked around at him, excited. "You've picked a place?"
Tom nodded.
Granger and Weasley both stared at him expectantly and Tom found himself admitting, "Peru."
"Oh!" Granger cried delighted as Weasley said, with a grin, "So it'll be a Vipertooth."
"Ron, they are not going to be attacked by anything," said Granger, annoyed.
Weasley snorted. "Do you know the same Harry I do?"
Granger ignored him. She turned back to Tom. "It sounds wonderful. He's going to love it."
"Love what?"
All three of their heads whipped around. Harry stood before them with Teddy against one hip. The child's usual sandy-blond hair was now exactly the same as Harry's, even sticking up in the back. His metamorphmagus skills had been expanding rapidly in the last few weeks with him constantly copying those around him. It made taking him shopping in the Muggle village of Ottery St. Catchpole a trying task. Tom noticed, startled, that the boy had chosen to mimic his eyes today. He looked exactly as one would expect their offspring to look like, if he and Harry ever chose to do something like that, which he hoped to Salazar would never be the case. If anyone else caught the unsettling resemblance, they let it pass without comment.
"Love what?" Harry repeated, looking at them expectantly.
"That book you've been reading," said Weasley after a beat. He turned to Granger, snapping his fingers. "Toadstools of the … what was it?"
"Southern Hemisphere," Granger quickly supplied.
Harry's right eyebrow rose. "Sounds riveting."
"Oh, it is," said Granger, emphatic. "Neville couldn't stop talking about it. I had to give it a try."
"Kay," said Harry, eying them all suspiciously. "I'm going to wash Teddy up before Andromeda comes."
And hopefully get the boy looking more like himself, Tom thought, unnerved.
Like everyone, save for Granger, Weasley, Robards and Shacklebolt, no one knew who Tom really was. Or, if he was going to be precise, who he used to be. To the rest of the world he was Thomas Thorne, a skilled and efficient Auror who happened to be dating his co-worker. To quote the Daily Prophet: Thomas Thorne, Harry Potter's Chosen One.
Andromeda visited the cottage at least every other week, bringing Teddy for play dates. She had lost a great deal during the war — her husband, her daughter, her son-in-law, but she had Teddy and she had Harry. Tom was rather impressed with how well she was coping. Though he had never spoken to the third Black sister, as she estranged herself shortly before Bella joined his ranks all those years ago, he found the woman's company surprisingly pleasant. It amused him how often he caught himself being surprised. After all, realizing he loved Harry Potter should have been the surprise to end all surprises. Funny how it was turning out to be just the starting point to an endless stream.
As Harry and Teddy disappeared into the house, Weasley turned to Tom and gave him a thumbs up.
"Doesn't suspect a thing."
Beside him, Granger rolled her eyes, both humored and exasperated.
"Toadstools? Really?"
Weasley shrugged. "What was I supposed to say?"
"You're hopeless," said Granger, but she was charmed.
And again, to Tom's surprise, with each visit of Harry's two closest friends, he too found himself charmed. Granger's brain was a scholar's dream and Weasley — for all his laid-back humor — was the bloke who'd wade into flesh-eating waters if it would save one of his companions.
Tom had never had something like that. He'd never had friends or confidants. He'd never understood the appeal. Not until Harry. And though he did not think of Granger or Weasley in such a light, he also did not mind them as he'd once thought he would.
Unlike, for instance, this lion clock. Waiting for Harry to appear, Tom stood before it, counting its golden, ticking seconds. Harry's insistence on hanging it up had been met by Tom's retaliation of turning their bedroom as Slytherin as wizarding possible. The sudden sounds of Harry's feet on the stairs had him turning.
"Okay." Harry set his suitcase down. "I'm ready. Unless I need goulashes."
Tom eyed the trunk. "You've packed everything, haven't you?"
"Yep. Unless, you know, I need goulashes. Do I need goulashes?" Harry asked, still trying to wriggle the truth of their vacation spot out of Tom even though he was seconds from finding out himself.
Biting back a laugh, Tom flicked his wand and the trunk shrunk down to the size of walnut. Another twitch and it zoomed into his pocket, safely tucked away next to his own luggage. Harry took his offered hand, wearing the same excited grin he'd had when Tom first told him of the holiday. From his other pocket, he extracted the Portkey the hotel had sent by owl the week prior.
"We're not Apparating?" said Harry, surprised.
"It's too far. I don't expect you'd enjoy spending the first day recuperating from splinching."
Neither would he, matter of fact. He checked his watch and Harry placed his forefinger against the rather plain looking medallion. The only thing remotely interesting on its face was a small etched figure of a —
"Is that a dragon?" Harry asked, scrutinizing the coin. He grew even more excited. "Are we going to —"
He was cut off as the Portkey glowed bright blue. With a sharp jerk behind the navel, he and Harry zoomed across the Atlantic. A second later, Tom's feet hit solid ground and Harry stumbled against him, his elbow banging into Tom's ribcage. They had left their sitting room in Ottery St. Catchpole and now stood in the floo foyer of a spotless hotel.
At once, Harry turned on the spot, taking in his surroundings. A floor to ceiling window took up an entire wall, opposite a set of floos that whooshed periodically into life. Harry's mouth dropped open. He stepped closer to the glass.
"Where…"
"Peru," said Tom, stepping up beside him and taking in the stunning view. Like a bird's nest, the hotel resided in the upper crook of a mountain. "In the Andes. Ten ridges over is Machu Picchu, but this is a wizarding hotel so we are overlooking Ligero de Valle, an even more ancient civilization." As he spoke, a buggy drawn by flying llama took off from the wizarding city that gleamed before them, speeding its passengers to the neighboring mountaintop where more of the city sprawled, built precariously along the ridges. He cut his eyes to Harry. "Do you like it?"
When Tom had been choosing which scenic place to take Harry, there had been only one requirement. That it be as stunning as he was. As Harry turned to him, radiant with happiness, he knew he'd come close.
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xXx
Harry felt eleven again, wishing he had a dozen eyes. He followed Tom out of the arrival chamber into a large, open room. Intricate murals of gold, orange and green covered the walls, curling upward onto the high-vaulted ceiling. Harry craned his neck back, trying to take it all in. The murals moved. The colored stones shifted, forming the rolling mountain range that surrounded the hotel. Stones flickered copper red, sending a fleet of Peruvian Vipertooths soaring across the walls.
Like at the Quidditch World Cup, Harry stared at the foreign witches and wizards moving about the reception hall. Their robes were far more colorful and extravagant than Harry's and Tom's: brilliant reds and sky blues, stripes and diamond patterns. A wizard with a gigantic handle-bar mustache was speaking rapid German to who looked to be his wife and daughter. They each clutched colorful pamphlets.
Harry, tripping slightly on the thick, intricate rugs, hurried after Tom, who stood at the welcoming desk, speaking to a wizard in maroon-striped robes, a fancy badge of a Vipertooth pinned to his chest.
"Reservations for Thomas Thorne," Tom was saying, leaning casually against the desk and sliding the Portkey toward the clerk.
The wizard, who sported a pencil thin mustache that would have put Ron in tears, sent the Portkey zooming into a box behind the desk and consulted a thick bound book.
"Thomas Thorne, the Medallion Suite, checkout August 21st."
"Correct," said Tom.
Nodding smartly, the clerk looked up from his register and his eyes landed upon Harry, who'd been sifting through a stack of tourist pamphlets set on the counter. Like clockwork, the wizard's eyes flicked up to Harry's forehead and then widened, realization dawning.
Tom cleared his throat.
"Your key," said the clerk, suddenly breathless, holding out a glittering golden key inlaid with a copper stone. "Dezi will show you to your rooms."
With a sharp crack, Dezi appeared beside them, a house elf dressed in the same elaborate strips but in light green.
"Enjoy your stay," beamed the clerk.
Barely hiding his grin, Harry shot Tom a glance as they followed Dezi out of the reception hall and into a glass elevator. Upward it shot, gifting them a view of the hotel's gleaming interior as well as the mountains surrounding it. Harry had never seen anything so dazzling. He wondered how much this place cost. He knew Tom had funds squirreled away — anyone who'd spent five months in the stately Cornithia had money — but even he wasn't so confident that the pension of an Auror would be able to handle three weeks at this place.
Suddenly, some of the bright-eyed giddiness bubbling inside Harry wavered. He and Tom never talked about money. Even after living together for seven months, it somehow never came up. He didn't even know if Tom had gotten a Gringotts key. And this had all been a surprise. A birthday celebration, Tom had told him. A little getaway, just the two of them.
Little? How in the world was this little? If this was what Tom considered small, Harry wondered what he considered grand. Harry had pictured a cabin near a lake. Maybe do some fishing. Go on a few hikes. He had not imagined anything close to this. And at the thought, something suddenly hit Harry: how in the world was he supposed to top a Peruvian hotel in the cloud-shrouded Andes? When Harry had asked him in December what he'd wanted to do on his birthday, Tom had looked at him blankly.
"Nothing," he'd said.
"Oh, come on. We have to do something. It's not every day you get to turn thirty-one again."
Clearly flummoxed by the whole notion, Tom had not argued against it and 'something' became a home-cooked dinner, two bottles of Tom's favorite vintages, a great deal of sex and (as a joke) an autographed record of Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits. At midnight, they'd bundled up and sat on the cottage's back porch, watching the New Year fireworks from the village down below. Harry had been rather pleased with himself, but now, watching the sunbathed mountains stretch on into the distance as the elevator climbed ever upward, he began to wish he'd done something else — something with a little more flare, a little more drama, something that could have stood up against a hotel perched on the tip top of a mountain.
The elevator's glass doors opened onto a golden-tiled floor. Dezi tapped a polished door on the landing with his finger.
"The Medallion Suite," he announced with a bow. The door swung open and Harry's jaw dropped yet again.
"Will my lords be needing anything?" Dezi asked.
"No, thank you," said Tom, casually glancing over the expansive sitting room before him. "Though — when is the restaurant serving?"
"The Sirenia has closed now from serving lunch, my lord, but shall reopen again at seven forty-five. The bar, however, remains open. Room service is always available."
Harry thought Tom murmured something else. He didn't catch it, too busy taking in the Medallion Suite. It wasn't a room. It was five. Five rooms. An enormous bedroom with a stupidly enormous bed, a gargantuan bathroom of gleaming azure blue tile, a sitting room with a wide balcony, and two others that Harry honestly didn't have the first inkling for what they were for. He slid open the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony. Wind whipped back his hair and his stomach swooped. The hotel was carved into the mountain's side, giving its guests a bird-eye view of the Andes and the city before it. The sun had been low when they'd left home. Now it was high overhead. By evening, his internal clock would be completely out of sorts. Harry heard Tom step onto the balcony behind him.
"Would you like to wander around the city before dinner or stay in the hotel?" Tom stepped closer when he did not answer. "Harry?"
"This is insane," Harry whispered. "Have you been here before?"
"Not here, no," said Tom. "But it is one of the top wizarding destinations. I thought it would be fitting."
"For turning nineteen?" said Harry weakly.
Tom smiled. The golden rays of the sun glinted off his hair.
"Why not?"
Harry laughed. "Wait until Ron and Hermione find out about this!"
"Well," said Tom, "they actually already know."
"They do?" said Harry startled.
"Everyone fights over your birthdays," Tom stated. "It was my turn. Weasley bets we'll be attacked by Vipertooths." He turned suddenly serious. "Which are prevalent and highly aggressive. They circle before diving, so keep an eye for shadows. Their wings cause a distinctive vibration and their call is — "
With a step, Harry closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Tom's neck.
"Dezi said the bar was open?"
"I do believe he did."
"Maybe we could order up a few drinks while we decide what to do," Harry suggested, smiling slow and sly, the sort of smile he knew made Tom's heart beat a fraction faster. "I grabbed a lot of pamphlets. It might take some time to decide what to see first."
"Oh," Tom breathed, "it'll take ages."
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xXx
The rain fell so fast and strong that Severus grew damp, regardless of the repelling charm he'd placed upon his robes. Beside him, Avery shifted, his dragon-hide boots squelching in the mud. In the distance stood a cottage. Pale lavender smoke curled up from the chimney, just visible through the sheets of rain. The unease that had formed when the Dark Lord assigned him and Avery to this location intensified, crawling like ants on his skin.
"Are they ever going to show?" Avery snarled, the long wait in the rain making him short-tempered.
Severus shot Avery a warning glare, but in the heavy downpour he was sure the man missed it. It wasn't wise to speak ill of the Dark Lord's son, not because the man was omnipresent, but because if he found out — and he usually did — you were better off dead.
A sharp crack, followed by a heavy presence — like the pressure against eardrums when you swam too deep — had Severus and Avery turning. At once, they bowed.
"General," they murmured.
The Dark Lord's son, tall and dark haired, approached them, a smaller figure following in his footsteps. Riddle had brought Potter. Severus' unease tripled. They passed Severus and Avery, and as they did, Severus tried to catch Potter's eye, but the boy's face was hidden under the hood of his cloak.
Without comment, Severus and Avery stepped into line, trailing after them. Half a yard away from the front door, Riddle stopped.
"Gather the prisoners," he ordered.
With another crack, Potter vanished. A second later, petrified screams sounded within the house. Red light flashed across the windows as Potter attacked. Avery quickly followed, and with grim resolve, so too did Severus. However, as their feet hit the warped flooring of the old house, there was very little left for them to do. Potter was an efficient spell caster. Crouched on the floor, bound by invisible ropes, the Delacours trembled.
Again, it was the heady weight of magic in the air that alerted them of Riddle's presence. Like his father, he could Apparate and Disapparate silently, a feat Severus had only known from one other wizard.
"Monsieur Delacour," Riddle greeted. "You have been very foolish."
"Please," said Delacour, shaking from head to foot, his round face glistening with sweat. "Lord General, we 'ave done nothing—"
"Nothing?" said Riddle lightly. "Smuggling illegal Portkeys into England is nothing?"
"We are not doing such a thing!"
"You tell me these are not your work?" Riddle asked, tossing a small bag from his pocket onto the floor. It fell with a clatter, a host of tin cans and tarnished lockets spilling from its opening. "Are you quite sure? Be very, very careful, monsieur."
"There has been a mistake, my lord!" Delacour cried, but the man was no liar.
"Did you honestly believe the Dark Lord would not sniff you out?" Riddle asked. "There are no secrets from him, Delacour. He knows. He always knows."
Next to Delacour, his wife squeezed her eyes shut and their daughter paled even further. The girl began to whisper something in rapid French. Severus wondered if it was a prayer.
Riddle lifted his wand.
"Please!" Delacour cried. "Please, my family did not know! Spare them! Punish me! Please!"
"The Dark Lord does not spare," Riddle spat. "You should have known better, Delacour."
"Wait."
Riddle paused and glanced at Potter. The boy's hood had fallen back in the attack and his eyes — Lily's eyes — scanned the opposite wall. The Delacours stopped breathing as Potter walked toward a tall chifforobe. He yanked it open and a young girl with the same silvery blond hair and pretty face as her older sister was revealed.
"No!" the eldest cried as Potter pulled the girl out from her hiding place. "No, please! She is just a child!"
Potter ignored her. He dragged the sobbing girl to her family, encasing her in the same invisible ropes as the others.
"Harry, why don't you do the honors," Riddle said pleasantly.
"No!" The eldest was beside herself, her face wet with tears. "Have mercy! Have mercy!"
But there was no mercy in Potter. It had been carved out years ago. He raised his wand.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Severus shut his eyes but the blinding green still burned through the closed lids. Heavy thumps, like sacks of flour dropping from a great height, sounded through the room. The Delacours were dead.
"Collect any Portkeys," Riddle ordered to Severus and Avery. "And then burn it down."
Avery jumped to work, stepping over the Delacours as if they were driftwood. Riddle Disapparated in a silent blink and Potter's face shifted. His eyes finally met Severus. Severus returned it coldly, which was easy when it came to Potter. The boy was a disgrace. A coward. He did not deserve Lily's eyes. The boy looked at him and it happened so quickly, Severus wondered if he'd imagined it, but something flickered in the brilliant green. Something almost … almost …
But Potter turned away, following Riddle with a sharp crack that shot about the bricked house like a starting pistol.
Severus shook himself back to reality and joined Avery in searching the house. He had wasted too much time and energy hoping Harry Potter had not been lost when it was clear as day that Lily's son was gone.
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xXx
Space condensed and then expanded as Tom appeared in the entrance hall of Riddle House. At once, Borfin, the house elf, snapped to attention.
"Master Tom," Borfin murmured, bowing so low his tapered snout touched the floor. "Our Lord waits for your presence in the drawing room. Shall Borfin send up tea?"
"No," said Tom, frowning slightly at the news. "That will not be necessary."
"Very good, Master Tom," said Borfin. Without rising up from his bow, he vanished with a snap.
Tom strolled through the house and entered the wood paneled room with barely a glance at his older self. He headed straight to the wine cabinet.
"The Delacours?" Voldemort asked, voice soft.
Tom made his decision and poured a large measure. He faced Voldemort and sat at the table, crossing his legs. "Handled."
"Excellent. I expect there are others providing black market Portkeys, but we shall sniff them out. How did Harry do?"
"He is unflappable."
Almost in afterthought, Tom's eyes scanned the tabletop where he'd had Harry that morning. The boy's fingers had left smudges on the polished wood. Those marks were gone now, Tom noticed. Borfin had made his cleaning rounds.
The room was brightly lit and Voldemort's pale skin and brilliant eyes burned all the brighter.
"Do you believe he's ready to try again?"
"Close, perhaps," Tom replied, "but not yet."
Voldemort quirked a hairless eyebrow. "He has been 'close' for some time now. Have you grown attached to your pet? Are you worried at what will be required if he is ready?"
Tom released a soft laugh. He set his glass down on the table. "You tasked me to get him ready. He is not."
"Not ready in what regard?" Voldemort replied. Tom knew that as Voldemort's voice grew more delicate, so too did danger rise. He knew this, as they were one in the same. "Not ready to try to claim the Silence or not ready to pleasure you in every conceivable manner your mind conjures?"
"Do you disapprove of my handling of the boy?" Tom asked, just as delicate.
"I am merely here to remind you that hearts are treacherous organs," Voldemort hissed. "Lose grip of them and tragedy can befall. I am surprised you have forgotten that, seeing where you spent so many years."
The lightness of Tom's countenance vanished. His voice hardened. "Are you threatening me?"
He was not going back into the locket. He'd been freed for too long to go back. If a duel with himself was what was necessary to make sure of that, then he most certainly would.
"There are others," Voldemort reminded him coolly.
Tom's mouth ran dry. He could fight Voldemort — he might even win — but he did not know where the locket was hidden. Only Voldemort knew that. With a snap of his fingers, he could entrap Tom like a genie in a bottle and he would never be released again. His phantom fingers would not touch. He would not taste. He would not hear. He would only remember and even memories, with enough time, faded.
Incredible. Tom had always been aware of self-hatred, but he'd never experienced it before.
"The boy will be ready whenever you wish him to return to the temple," said Tom, expressionless. "Shall I call for him?"
Humor gleamed in Voldemort's red eyes. "Thank you, but not today. After all, it was not Harry I wished to speak to on this trip. You know I detest coming here, Tom. Do not make me do it again."
Without another word, he Disapparated, taking the little warmth in the room along with him.
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xXx
Harry entered his bedchamber and immediately undid the fasteners of his robes. They slid from his shoulders and heaped around his feet. He kicked off his boots, unhooked his belt, unbuttoned his trousers, nearly ripped his shirt in his frenzy to yank it off. It was sticky with sweat. Though his chamber was always charmed to stay at a perfectly comfortable temperature, his skin turned to gooseflesh.
He needed another.
His legs jerked as he lurched to the wardrobe, the faint tremors in his hands building as his search grew frantic. Glorious relief washed over him as he extracted a small vial from the depths of his socks. He popped the cork and drank the contents in one go. His heart calmed, cool detachment spreading over him as the potion worked through his veins, numbing him. Stilling him.
Breathing steady now, he entered the bathroom, climbed into the claw-footed tub and turned on the tap. His head fell back as the tub began to fill, water creeping up his shins and slipping over his stomach. He stared up at the ceiling, the room softly lit with the floating candles Borfin had ignited. Harry wondered how the elf always knew the instant of Harry's arrival, popping into his room and lighting the candles and fireplace with a snap of fingers, departing possibly seconds before Harry himself opened the door.
He wondered if Tom was in his own chambers or if he'd gone to the Ministry or even to the Dark Lord's palace to report the Delacours were no more. He wondered if Tom would call for him tonight, and if he didn't, whether he would mind if Harry joined him without invitation. The emptiness was getting harder to ignore. Even with Euphoria, Harry found the potions wearing off too quickly, that gaping chasm in the back of his mind staring at him with increasing intensity.
Harry had felt the girl's magic like the frantic beats of a trapped bird. If he had to make a guess, he'd say she'd been younger than he by five years. He could have ignored the quick pulsations. He could have left her there, hiding amongst the dishes.
But Snape or Avery would have discovered her in their search for the Portkeys. She was already dead, like the rest of her family. Better to die together than to die alone. Better not to have to listen and know you were next. That was better. That was —
A flash of red made him look down. His heart turned over. The bath water was red — no, the water was blood. Thick, warm, sticky, glutinous blood. It stained his skin, sticking to him like tar. It rose, splashing viscously over the edges of the tub, spreading across the tiled floor.
Harry lurched forward, his hand slipping on the knob as he turned off the tap. He shut his eyes and held his breath, listening as the blood splashed onto the floor. Was it slipping under the door jam? Was it seeping into the fine rugs? Borfin would be furious.
When he gathered enough courage to look, the blood had gone, returned to water, clear and sparkling.