1. the beginning is the end
Harry, Harry.
The world is barren and cold. He is dreaming; sleep comes to him with a cooing voice, softly caressing his mind and offering him comfort he does not feel in his waking hours.
Someone speaks. It is a familiar voice that whispers to him, his name, Harry Potter, and he only sees blackness. There is nothing and he is stumbling. But the name beckons at him.
The dreams begin thus.
Harry.
A soft, melodic voice that lures him to walk forth his wand out and heart thudding. For he knows this voice, knows the mockery that is hidden inside those words…
He opens his eyes and his vision becomes blurred. And in his dreams, for in his dreams is the world a cold, flat wasteland, a pallid shade of greyness surrounds him.
And in his dreams, only in his dreams,
Tom Riddle awaits him.
Tom Marvolo Riddle, with his handsome face and shining dark eyes. Ever the patient boy the future Dark Lord is, for he does not move as Harry approaches him. How still the young Riddle stands, as he refuses to move, save for a brief twitch of his lips, even as Harry comes to him with his echoing footsteps, wand already drawn and pointed. Riddle dismisses his wary gesture with a cruel smirk, his eyes alit and dancing. Tom, who is handsome in his young years, Tom who is still human enough to show human glee. Yet it is a Tom Riddle whose eyes turn a strange tint of hue when he smiles. He looks at Harry hungrily. Waiting.
"Harry Potter," he says, his voice frightfully light, as he looks back and forth at Harry's face and his wand, his mocking gaze polished anew as the silence draws on, "Have you come to kill me?" Around them, the walls are drab and there is nothing around them. Greyness surrounds them. He is trapped in a void—they are within nothingness. Perfect for a duel, perfect for blood to splatter upon these walls.
Harry draws in a sharp breath; I have killed you, many times, he would have liked to say. I have hunted and destroyed your Horocuxes, I have died at your wandpoint and still came back alive; you could not have killed me when I was a child and you cannot kill me now. But the words die at his throat, because the Riddle standing here must know all this, and perhaps more—and yet. He is still here, young and dashing and dangerous, looking at Harry as if he is nothing more than an amusing pet. When Harry does not answer immediately, Riddle merely cocks his head and smirks, inviting him with his pliant gesture, and all Harry can do is stare helplessly. Why are you inside my head, he thinks, almost hysterical.
Riddle is always the one to break this uneasy silence, with a sigh and a wave of his hand; Harry flinches, and Riddle pretends not to notice.
"Well, if you haven't come to finish me off," he speaks, with some bite to his otherwise friendly words, "Perhaps we can have some tea. What do you say."
On cue, a kettle and a cup pop up out of nowhere. Riddle conjures up two armchairs and a small coffee table. Harry makes his way unsteadily towards where Riddle in easing himself in one of the chairs. Harry waits, standing, until Riddle raises an eyebrow mockingly. Well, his look seems to say, sit down, what are you waiting for. Harry wets his lips and tries to say something devastatingly sharp, something wild, to throw Riddle off. Perhaps then Harry will wake up from this strange nightmare.
"Why are you here?" he finally settles out, and he is angry to find how his voice sounds weak. He steers forth. "You're dead. You've been dead for ten years."
Riddle never answers to Harry's questions. Riddle only waits for him to exhaust himself. On better days Harry would shout and brandish his wand, and Riddle would watch this with a frown because Harry never truly does lash out; with this young Riddle, his magic becomes null and he cannot kill like a wizard.
Harry sits down and glares at the older boy sullenly. Riddle sighs.
"I'll be mother then, shall I?" he says, and with another wave, the kettle brews, the tea is steeped, and in no time at all, a steaming cup of tea floats towards him.
Is it poisoned, Harry thinks, is it safe, there should be something in the tea, shouldn't there. Aloud, he speaks with a false sense of calm he does not feel. "I didn't know that Dark Lords had time to play houseguests."
Riddle's eyebrows twitch, but his voice is deceptively pleasant as he replies, "But we're in your head, aren't we? It's the least I can do to make this place a bit more…hospitable." He says the last words with a slight sneer. Harry watches how Riddle holds himself. He sits like an old aristocrat, with his thin fingers delicately resting on the armrest and a leg casually crossing over another. It reminds him of yet another bratty, spoiled child, and he tries to speak the name. Something stops him.
"What is it about powerful wizards hanging inside my head," Harry mutters instead.
Riddle tilts his head and looks at him, traces of his amusement replaced with sudden sincerity.
"Do you think I'm powerful, Harry?" he inquires.
Harry snorts before he can help it. "You are the greatest Dark Lord that's been around my generation, Riddle," he says, carefully placing emphasis on the surname. Voldemort in his time had used deceptively fond mockery to fool him; Harry has not forgotten that. He holds his wand loosely just in case, for old habits die hard, and Riddle studies how stiff he is. There is a trace of irritation etched in those fair brows.
"But you defeated me," Riddle points out.
"And you're still here," Harry replies, terse. He pointedly does not drink his tea before Riddle does, and Riddle sighs as if he knows what Harry is thinking, his sip singular and loud. The sound echoes in the hollow room.
"I'm here because you want me to be, Potter," Riddle says, now with all pleasantries gone. "It's your head and hence, your rules. Really now, you're such a child in some ways after all these years."
"Why would I want you here?" Harry demands. He still has not touched his cup. "I've had enough of you inside my head to last me a lifetime, thanks ever so."
"I wouldn't know," Riddle says, and this conversation seems to bore him now, the way his eyes flit over to the rest of the room. Harry does not know what he finds more infuriating, Riddle with his eyes studying him with hunger, or that dismissive gaze that leaves him cold. "I wouldn't have let us meet in such a dismal room, for one."
"You'd rather we meet in a basilisk's chamber instead?" Harry snaps, but Riddle seems unfazed, even giving him a sharp grin in reply.
"Yes," Riddle says, "Or perhaps a graveyard. Mayhap even a forest." And Riddle laughs, the high, cold sound vibrating around the four walls. Such a familiar sound, Harry thinks. His hands shake and his head hurts. Too often he had banished thoughts of Lord Voldemort and the last days of the battle over the years, letting it fester in an ugly corner inside his head. He does not permit himself to dream of his own death: the flash of the green light sweeping under his feet, the cold dirt pressing on his cheek, the horrified shouts of his friends at his body. Too often he had denied those days, the past long gone and buried, but he had never quite managed to forget the sound of his nemesis's glee. He listens to it now, wondering when he would wake, if he should ever wake up.
"Not very funny to you, it would seem," Riddle observes, when Harry fails to react. The walls continue to shake.
"No," Harry returns flatly, "No, not particularly."
He sets the tea back into the saucer and wills himself. Wake up.
He wakes.
.
.
.
"Your house is always so ghastly, Potter. Does your house elf never clean up after your mess?" Malfoy greets him with a sneer, making sure to thump his wet boots in the doorway. Harry watches on, impassive.
In the daylight, there exists no evil maniac to kill him at every turn; there is no young man to offer him tea and false pleasantries. Awake, there is only his old, tattered house that his dead godfather left behind and Malfoy, if he can ever be called something constant, to barge in his parlor and act as if he owned the entirety of Grimmuald Place. Malfoy makes sure to look around the house with utter disdain, even if Kreacher always makes sure to clean the hallways and the dining area, where Malfoy spends most of his time glaring at the walls while hurling innocuous insults at Harry. They would have fazed Harry once. Now, he only gives a small shrug and returns back to his tepid and safe tea. He does not bother much with Malfoy these days, nor anyone. He sits and broods alone, waiting for the sun to set.
Malfoy huffs and takes a seat across Harry, snapping his finger impatiently for Kreacher to appear with another cup. The kettle and the cups pop a second later, and Malfoy takes great time to prepare his cup, muttering darkly all the while. For someone who is on house arrest, Malfoy has never been subdued in Harry's presence. If anything, Malfoy is a continuous sore in his life, sniping and hurling old insults that take Harry back to the better days of his school years, when all he had to worry about was Malfoy and his dirty tricks. There are days when he would sit by Malfoy's forced presence, letting hurtful words roll off him like a soothing balm, allowing him to pretend everything was childish and golden. Then there are days when…well, there are other days.
"Potter? Have you gone deaf?" Malfoy is such a child whenever Harry sees him, always bitter and raging about the smallest things. His eyes are narrowly focused on Harry, his lips thinned in annoyance.
You would be too, if both your parents are in Azkaban and you're also waiting for a trial that may damn you or set you free out in the cold, hostile world.
An amused voice slithers out, sounding surprisingly like the Riddle in his dreams. Harry responds to it without giving it too much thought.
Funny, you would think think I'd be a roaring madman by now, seeing how my parents are both dead.
You don't count, the Riddle-voice points out patiently. You never knew your parents.
And whose fault is that?
Oh, another madman's, I daresay. Riddle's voice is unrepentant. You seem to have quite a few of them scattered about.
"Potter!"
With a sigh, Harry slides the pot that holds condensed cream towards the blond boy, who snatches it up with a pronounced sneer. He pours a small dollop to drop into the steaming cup and Harry watches on, holding imagined conversations with a ghost he cannot seem to vanquish.
"There's nothing overtly fascinating about my cup of tea, Potty," Malfoy says, his hand busily stirring, "Or do you have something inventive to say to help us pass the time?"
Harry gives a little jerk of his head. "There's the library down the hallways, why don't you get lost there," he says tiredly. His voice, when it speaks in the morning light, comes out in a small rasp. Malfoy follows the way his fingers reach out and curl around the base of his throat, and Harry massages his neck under a pair of intense grey eyes. Their eyes briefly meet.
Well, of course he would like to wrap around his pureblood fingers around your neck. Leave to you gasp and choke for mercy while he looks on. Such a fitting way to die, wouldn't you say?
There are other ways, Harry thinks. He stands up and Malfoy immediately looks away with a small frown.
"Your library is hideous and unorganized," Malfoy spits. "As you know. It's a shame that you can't even begin to appreciate what's in your own house, Potter. It's not as you have any time to sit down and read, is it?"
"Not really, no," Harry agrees. He is already turning away to go back to his bedroom. "Places to be, cameras to smile at. All that rot. Shame you can't do the same."
Harry leaves before Malfoy can reply, or worse, throw a stinging hex at him. Not that he could, but with magic, it's the intention that counts. One never knows.
.
.
.
Sometimes Riddle appears in his dreams as a child: hungry and angry with his too wide eyes and thin limbs, staring at Harry with a haughty posture that is worn awkwardly around his youth. In those dreams, Harry takes the place of Dumbledore, and he sees how shabby Riddle's first home had been, with his hard bed and a chest of drawers holding his worldly possessions.
Who are you? The young Riddle would demand, and at times, Harry hesitates, wondering what the hell his dreams are trying to tell him, placing him with a child who is not yet a murderer, only a boy still, with an eerily coldness about him.
What am I? The young boy snaps at other times, and this question is easier to answer. Harry would reply with restraint. You're a wizard. He sees how the words transform Riddle, how easily the boy accepts his fate with such eagerness and a natural grace Harry could not have showed at that age.
Magic, is it? Riddle breathes, and his look can be seen as innocent. Innocent in its joy, savage in its ambition.
Yes, Harry says. He watches Riddle prattle off: I always knew I was special; I wasn't just like all the others and this proves it. Etcetera. Riddle had always a thing for flair and dramatics, Harry remembers. He does not interrupt, choosing to observe instead how stained Riddle's shirt is despite its starched edges, and how wild those hand movements are. I wonder what it is like to kill a child, Harry thinks. He feels almost wistful.
Well? Riddle demands. Show me some magic, prove to me that such a thing exists!
Harry waves his wand with a flourish. In this worlds, with a young and vulnerable Tom Riddle, his magic sings to him. His magic roars to life and demands to devour. So Harry indulges and waves his hand. His wand sets up a spark and Riddle's eyes, they turn to bewilderment then delight then horror. He sets the room on fire and hears Riddle howl from afar, and he finds himself laughing. It is a high, shrill cry. The smell of burning flesh surrounds him.
He wakes. A voice rings out in the silent bedroom, Harry, surely you did not wish me such a barbaric death? Where is the mercy that Dumbledore had taught you? The voice coos at him, soft in its mockery. Where is the love that your Mudblood mother gave you all those years ago? Has it gone now? Has it ever been there?
Harry cannot answer.
.
.
.
Malfoy takes to holing up in the library most of the time, reading battered books about the Dark Arts and Black family history with grim eyes. He stays there until lunchtime, curled up in a leathered chair positioned towards the fireplace, until Kreacher rings the bell in the dining hall. Mealtimes are the only times when Harry truly interacts with Malfoy, and even then it cannot be called a proper conversation, with Malfoy scoffing at everything, from the state of Harry's clothes to his dubious heritage, and Harry answering in monosyllables. This would often work Malfoy up in a fury, and he would only be placated with Kreacher's dessert trays, which he would take to stuffing with furious zeal.
"Don't they feed you in that Manor of yours?" Harry had once thought to ask, and received a cold glare in reply.
"My Manor, Potter, has been confiscated by the Ministry," Malfoy snapped, "Along with the rest of my possessions. You spoke at my trial; you should know—oh, but wait!" Malfoy's eyes grew comically wide as his lips curled into an ugly sneer. "I'm not the only one you had to save in that rotten war of yours, how silly of me to forget. I'm just another one of your charity cases, awaiting my death sentence at your mercy, aren't I?"
"Oh, shut up, Malfoy," Harry had returned, more than a little irritated. The wording of that accusation had always gotten to him and Malfoy took full advantage of his irk, even though Harry had never called him out on it. It was just as your war as it had been mine, don't blame me for your parents' daft decisions, it was a rotten war just as for me as it had been for you, you prejudiced pureblood git. Harry has never spoken those words out loud; they would have been delivered with a flatness Harry was incapable of chasing away, and his tone would not hold the righteous anger Harry knew he should feel. Yet Malfoy would flash him a cold, knowing smile all the same, delighted for once to get a rare rise out of Harry.
But otherwise, the routine never changes; Malfoy storms into the dining hall and picks at the meal and insults Kreacher while Harry barely touches his own plate; later, Malfoy demands his platter of scones and cakes and stuffs himself silly while Harry stares resolutely at the wall and sips his tea. Kreacher is always worried about the state of Harry's plate, his stooped figure slouched in rejection as he morosely fingers the food left after an untouched meal.
"Master Harry should eat more," the elf croaks, clearly not used to worrying about young masters who failed to take care of themselves in the proper way.
"I'm not hungry," Harry would reply, and Malfoy would only roll his eyes and cut himself another piece of cake.
"And young Master Malfoy as well; sir is looking pale." Kreacher is at ease with Malfoy as he had never been with Ron and Hermione. Not that Malfoy would appreciate the house elf's fawning; Kreacher is soon met with a pronounced sniff and a sharp dismissal of Malfoy's hand.
"Stay away from me, elf," Malfoy mutters, "And bring me some more of these cakes."
Kreacher sighs and disappears to do his bidding, tugging at his ear in dismay.
"You could be a bit nicer," Harry says.
"I could also smother you in your sleep, Potter. Believe me, I am showing incredible restraint just by being here."
You're not here by choice, you daft twat, Harry is about to say, but he bites his tongue before the words come stumbling out. It's not as if Malfoy's unaware, otherwise they would not be stuck in this room suffering each other's lousy company. He's just doing that to get a reaction, so that they can whip out their wands and start desecrating the room. It would be better than all this underlying antagonistic behavior; neither of them had never been particularly good at playing subtle.
.
.
.
Draco Malfoy was not a wiling ward, nor Harry his first choice for a guard. It came down to the desperate request of a war veteran, who was already caught up in more serious problems than dealing with once-adolescent Death Eaters.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was a man who had fought both wars that Voldemort had wrought and lived to tell the tale; when it came down to it, very few could claim to do the same. He sat in Shacklebolt's office that day, uneasy and curious as to what the older man wanted, observing at how austere and bare his surroundings looked. Shacklebolt looked at him, and through his gaze, Harry could feel his silent strength that came with his unflinching eyes and wan smile. Dumbledore had plotted and maneuvered his plans for the greater good all inside his glided, golden cage, whilst Kingsley had fought in the battlefield and bathed himself in gore and blood. His past showed upon his stiff posture, always ready to strike at a moment's notice, even after all these years. Harry felt strangely reassured by this, and waited for Shacklebolt to speak.
The man shifted around in his chair before he coughed, and talked about the matter at hand. The conversation was brief and the appeal nothing short of a plea. He pulled out a name that Harry has not heard in nearly a decade, and Harry took his time to roll the words around in his head.
"Malfoy's been marked," he repeated, dumfounded. He was allowed to be a bit taken aback at this stage. The war was supposed to be gone; bedtime stories now, for children who were too carefree in their ways, legends that older people took care to embellish into acts of heroism and valor.
Shacklebolt nodded, looking tired. "We're trying to find Fenrir Greyback," he said, "He's been lurking around in the Highlands, from what we've last heard. Muggles have seen him, or at least their reports match up with his appearance. He seems to be a bit unhinged. Not particularly surprising, considering…" He rubbed a hand over his hand absentmindedly, and Harry appreciated the gesture for what it was. It was a vague frustration and worry that gnawed at the both of them.
"Do you think he's trying to round up old followers, then?" he asked.
"No, not at this stage. Not yet." Shacklebolt lets out a terse laugh. "There's no new Dark Lord to rally against, and I don't see a new generation of Death Eaters cropping up left and right. Do you?"
Harry shook his head. "Then why would he…?"
"Revenge," Shacklebolt said shortly, his eyes narrowing. "Or perhaps he got bored. Frankly, I don't care to look into the whimsical minds of madman these days." We have all been there once and have buried our dead long ago. "In any case, we're trying to found of why now, out of all times. It's been, well. It's been years now. Voldemort isn't coming back anytime soon. The Malfoys are in Azkaban and the Lestranges dead. What more could that werewolf want?"
Oh, but to mark the youngest Malfoy heir into a sub-human being is such a tantalizing thought. Imagine the horror of that young boy as he transforms into something he once mocked and detested with his very being. Will he perish in shame? A voice crept up inside him, a small hiss, and Harry shoved it at the back of his mind without much thought. Those were the early days, when the voice was nothing but a snide presence, and Harry often took it to mean his own malicious thoughts bubbling inside him.
"So," Shacklebolt said, sighing. He looked at Harry in a way that no one had ever quite looked at him. He does not have the pitying gaze of Molly Weasley nor the affectionate look of Remus Lupin. He looked at Harry as one would do a comrade; an acknowledgement of his skills and sacrifices, and the confidence that Harry would do what was right and necessary.
Harry swallowed. He thought he should feel something then. A warmth that would bask in the compliments Shacklebolt was offering him. The horror at seeing Malfoy again. The agony of trying to figure out what he wanted to do in his life.
Nothing ever came; nothing ever did.
"Okay," he said dully, "I think that'll work. Grimmuald Place is warded with the right protection charms, anyways."
.
.
.
In his dreams, Death comes in the form of grief.
Awake, Harry does not know how to truly grieve. He lies on his bed and count the cracks on the ceiling, trying to let his emotions take control of him as he waits for a feeling to take over him. Let it be anger, Harry thinks dully, let it be sadness. Heck, let it even be giddiness. Hysteria. Who cares; as long as there is something, I can take it.
There never is, and in the end, Harry sleeps, and dreams. He enters a small clearing where a small crowd had gathered already with bowed heads. Nearer, he hears a woman weeping. He looks down and sees that he is wearing formal black robes. He is in mourning. Oh, so it will be one of those dreams. Harry lets out a small sigh and walks resolutely past the rows of chairs until he reaches the coffin.
In the funeral, Harry first feels the ancient presence around him before he sees Death, crouching and swaying in the shadows under the willow trees. Death is cloaked like his worst fear, a cold and hooded grey figure. He does not acknowledge the shiver that passes through his body; he suddenly feels very cold and old, staring up at the hollow sockets of what he presumes are Death's eyes.
A thin mouth twitches and a head is tilted. Death does not turn away from his raging fury, and Harry is left glaring beyond the shadows, his body unmoving in front of Teddy's coffin, his hands clenched into fists, shaking. He revels in these moments more than anything and shows his anger like a proud wound, for only in his dreams can he allow his hands to shake and form tears that leave wet streaks on his cheeks.
"Harry," Hermione whispers, and the steady tone of her voice startles him. He looks back again to the coffin where Teddy's body is put to rest, his godson whom Death took. He wills his hand to steady itself as he reaches over to brush down a strand of hair from the unmoving body. He looks so peaceful with his hands folded and eyes closed. Harry looks away.
Later, when everyone had left, Death awaits him in the shadows, his figure swishing against the night wind gently, and the tree leaves move with him. Harry steps in front of him and those bottomless eyes drown him. He feels a dark amusement creeping upon the creature of the underworld and the funeral around the dissipates into smoke. Some days Death's shadow is preferable to Voldemort's child demon, for Death does not actively try to wish him an early demise; Death is only patiently waiting for the inevitable end. And on other days, perhaps the cruel laughter of Tom Riddle is preferable to Death's quiet hilarity. At least Riddle was unstable and thus unpredictable. Death only reminded him of the things he was already painfully aware of.
What good is the Master of Death, if he cannot save his only godson? Death asks, ready to be conversational and friendly. Such a pitiful title. You suffer, child, from things you cannot control.
Harry reels. Before he can control his tongue, demands are pouring out of his mouth. I want him back, Harry spits, and only in his dreams can he raise the right amount of righteous fury and the old hunger for retribution. I want my godson back, you had no right to take him away from me—
Did I take anything unjustly, Death says, Do you think death is whimsical in its prey?
He is a child! Harry shouts, and somewhere inside, a call cries out: take me instead, take me, but not him. Never him.
You speak like your deceased mother. But death does not work like that. You, of all people, should know this. Death speaks as if he is smiling under his hooded cloak. You have accepted death when you were barely an adult. And yet in some ways, you are no better than a child. You have other things to worry about, do you not? Death flexes his spindly fingers. You have ghosts inside you that you must vanquish. And perhaps after, we shall talk again. When you have sufficiently learned the meaning of your pitiful existence.
Harry stares.
Death asks softly,
Why have you returned to the living, Harry Potter? Answer that first, and perhaps we can have a discussion like equals. Until then, curb your ignorant demands unto me.
Death banishes him; he wakes up, his mouth open and heart racing. The room greets him with its dark shadows. Harry lets out a breath.
.
.
.
Harry would later say to his befuddled friends: Malfoy's changed. He's not out to kill me (yet). He's perfectly civil (unless you count the one time he threw his teacup in a fit of tantrum). The war is over; let bygones be bygones (except he flaunts his Mark, never bothers to hide it under his robes). Ron and Hermione look back at him, worry clear in their eyes, and Harry tries to give them a smile. It doesn't work and he soon gives up.
"But Harry," Ron tries. "It's, it's still the same Malfoy, yeah? The Draco Malfoy we know?" He twitches and waves his hands in the air, as if he could conjure Malfoy's lack of charm into a physical presence. "And you said yes?"
"It wouldn't be Harry if he refused," Hermione says wearily, and gives him a quick smile a moment later, somewhat apologetic. Her fake smile is better than whatever he had managed to show, and he appreciates the effort. "But Harry, Ron's right. It's Malfoy, and you two had never quite an…amicable relationship." She places her words strategically and carefully, but Harry is not fooled. He reads between the lines: You were enemies throughout the years; he mocked you for your very existence; you almost killed him once; he saved you when it mattered; you saved him amidst our own death looming above us. She does not need to say her words, for Harry is too aware of the unspoken history between them. He shrugs helplessly and Ron at least, stops trying to convey his lackluster objections with his hands.
"He's different," he says, his words as careful as Hermione, "And so am I. It's been years since the war ended, and well. The war's changed us, you know. It changed even Malfoy, I'll bet." And as he tries to believe this, Tom's voice laughs, Death chuckles, and his mind rattles with the cacophony of voices. Do not play the fool, Harry. Tom's voice is soft and mesmerizing, and Harry tries his hardest to shake it away. The war had never ended for you. You are still fumbling in the middle of it. Why else would you tuck me in inside your silly little head?
Fuck if I know, Harry thinks spitefully, maybe I'm just waiting for you at your orphanage, so I can go ahead and kill you again.
Riddle, predictably, does not answer to that.
Draft: 2016-11-29
