Oh look, my first HP fanfic! Hooray! Well, "first" is a subjective idea. Let's put it this way – it's the first one to be A) complete B) well-written and C) in character…or at least as IC as this fic could get. We'll see.
Also, this is a one-shot. It's finished, guys. I don't go into detail about what happens next at all, I know. If I become interested, I may write about what happens later. If you really want me to, please review and tell me. I'll be happier to oblige if I know there's interest. (hint hint) And I do love constructive criticism. :)
Disclaimer: As obligated – I do not own Harry Potter. Copyright to J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros. and various publishers (Scholastic and Bloomsbury, I believe. Are there others?). I do not intend copyright infringement. Also, the author allows fanfiction, so we don't have to worry about being sued, actually. Same for Stephanie Meyer. And now I would like to direct you to a Google search. Type in "TV tropes I do not own" and click on the first link if you are interested in knowing just how pointless disclaimers are.
~The Cupboards Under the Stairs~
There is no explanation that quite fits, and there is no one to explain it to him – that is, to them. There is no one who knows otherwise.
He falls asleep in one place, and later they wake up.
It had been entirely an accident that he had fallen asleep. He'd always been a bit frightened by the darker corners in his wardrobe at night (not that he'd ever admit it), and the sudden pitch-blackness of the boot cupboard is unexpected and shocking. He can still hear the older boys laughing as they congratulate each other on catching the notoriously elusive freak as the dash off so as not to be caught.
His breath catches for a moment, hair mussed and falling in his eyes, palms stinging from where he'd caught himself when he'd been pushed back into the cupboard. He calms a moment later; he is a wizard, after all, not a helpless Muggle.
He presses his hands to the door, ignoring the pain, and concentrates, trying to will the lock open as he had done so many years previously. The magic is much more difficult than it ought to be, and he blames this on ten months of relying on his wand. His wand, hidden beneath his bed in his room, is completely useless to him now, which seems like poetic irony in a strange way.
He vows never to leave it behind ever again and redoubles his efforts. What feels like an eternity of shadows later, the lock clicks open. He presses on the door, relieved, but it doesn't move. He tried again, and then one more time before letting his head fall forward onto the door in defeat. Something must be blocking it, he reasons.
He ought to call out for help. Childish fears of not wanting to make any noise while it was dark should have no bearing on his current situation, and yet the press of the gloom stifled his voice. He huddled back against the door, wondering if anyone would notice he was missing, and fell asleep…
…And then they wake up.
It is lighter in this cupboard, oozing in around the edges of the door. Sharp footsteps sound from the stairs above, and a heavy, thudding pair follow them. The feet circle around the base of the stairs and begin to head towards them. They sit up quickly with the realization and automatically reach for Harry's glasses.
"Boy!" a voice bellows.
"Are you up?" an acidic voice snaps.
"Yes," they say, and are unsure how else to address Harry's aunt and uncle.
The door to the cupboard under the stairs swings open abruptly and Harry's Uncle Vernon grabs their arm and yanks them out.
"You can't do any magic boy, or they'll lock you up for good!" Mr. Dursley's face twists up with glee at the thought, and they note that the expression is not a very good look on the man, as he purples oddly and appears chronically constipated. "They'll expel you from that school of yours if you do anything to us, so don't even think about it, understand, boy?"
And then they are dragged up the stairs, tripping over each step and probably acquiring bruises in enough colors to cover a canvas the size of Hogwarts. The fat man continues his rant about no-good freaks taking up space in his house, eating his food and stealing his hard earned money, et cetera, and they tuned it out. It was nothing that either hadn't heard before, or at least some variation thereof. Harry in particular had heard the whole spiel the night before, when he had received a warning from the Improper Use of Magic Office and had promptly been locked into his cupboard until his relatives could decide what to do with him.
Then they are locked up in a room full broken junk – Harry's room, he realizes – and left to brood on an empty stomach.
They had been two people before the previous night. They both understand this. They each have their own memories, up to the point that they had awoken. They had been two. Had they been separate still, the thought of merging personalities would have horrified them. Now, however, they are one, and they are exactly what each has always needed.
Fear, they whisper, breathing the memories and scars of years of neglect, turning their experiences over and marveling over every similarity and every difference. Make them pay, he whispers. Why bother? It'll be over soon, Harry returns, and they move on.
Magic and Muggles, Harry's fading self adds.
Slytherin, he returns.
Happy, Harry says. Friends. Family. Home.
Home, he echoes. Home. Not alone. Lonely.
Not alone anymore, Harry points out. We. Us. Safe.
They are hardly distinguishable, they both understand. Alike enough that their differences balance out. They are they. They are not Harry-Potter-Boy-Who-Lived-In-The-Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs-And-Talked-To-Boa-Constrictors-And-Went-To-A-School-Of-Magic-And-The-One-The-Dark-Lord-Kept-Trying-To-Kill. They are not Tom-Riddle-Mudblood-Of-Slytherin-Room-27-Whispered-To-Snakes-And-Went-To-A-School-Of-Magic-Brightest-Student-Since-Dumbledore-Had-Been-At-School.
They were they, HarryAndTom, and they were Gryffindor and Slytherin, Light and Dark, Brave and Cunning, Loyal and Intelligent. As Dumbledore himself might put it, they were Love and Hate. Their rougher edges meshed uncomfortably and their knowledge joined. They were themselves: damaged by their childhoods and happier far from home, exhilarated by magic and by knowing that they not alone in their strangeness. They were one.