One
for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a
boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret
Never
to be told.
Seven for a Secret
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a boy. His name was Tom. Thomas, in fact. Everyone would call him Thomas, or Tom, or by his last name, Riddle. He hated it, because it reminded him that he was no one, nothing more than a name, an insignificant name in a long list of children that lived nowhere and were no one. Tom did not want to be just a name, a Tom among other Toms, a child, helpless and abandoned, like all the others.
So he set about being not just Tom, but a special Tom, a special child, a person more real and wise and satisfied than everyone else: someone who was not no one. It was difficult, however. He would sit among the other young boys at the table during breakfast, and try to be different, try to stand out, to make everyone notice him, because at first he thought this was the correct method to gaining meaning in being alive, in being himself. But no one noticed Tom. Barely anyone ever spared more than one glance for the thin, dark-haired, morbid little child, who spoke to no one and would more often stare up at the sky when sitting at the table than eat.
Tom found that he did not like the other children, did not like the way they, at mealtime, grabbed at and fought ravenously for biscuits, a side dish to the usual sad gruel. He did not like the way they played games, pulled pranks, or reverently kneeled before their beds at night to pray, because the adults told them to. How could such acts be significant? Give anyone pleasure? Somehow seem to make their lonely lives any less miserable?
He abandoned the idea of trying to understand them, of being like them, of telling them what he thought of them. It was easier to glare and walk away, causing the younger ones to cry piteously in fear. Not that Tom liked the easy way, no. Sometimes the moments of struggle were defining moments, moments in time where he felt important, felt like someone, felt powerful.
One of these such moments was when Tom saw his first serpent. He had just gotten into a fight with another boy, which had been a rare but welcome event for Tom. If it took fists to show someone how insignificant they were, how worthless, then he would use his fists. A rage unlike any Tom had ever felt had thrummed through his veins as he had beaten that boy. The boy had said nothing, but had simply given Tom a look that was not of fear, but of defiance. Tom's blood had curdled at the thought that a mere boy, someone younger and weaker than him, could be so daring as to think himself better than Tom, to think himself strong enough to stand up against Tom. The boy had been rolling on the ground, Tom's fists and teeth ripping into him. After the brutal beating, still straddling the boy, his chest heaving, Tom had simply smiled, looking down at his blood drenched fingers and feeling a sweet satisfaction.
However, his moment of glory, of having many eyes upon him in awe, of having power seeping through the veins of his blood-soaked hands, had quickly been spoiled. A spectator had called for help, and a nurse had quickly grabbed up Tom's bleeding, bruised opponent, while Tom quickly slunk into the shadows. He had wondered before why it was that the adults always spoke his name a certain way, as if they said it with caution but did not want him to know they did so. Was he dangerous? Had his mother been a raging madwoman, or an important, worldly person who had been strong but hadn't time for a child?
Tom wondered what it was about him that made the fear glint in their eyes if he looked straight at them. He wondered about it, and yet did not protest against it; it was a lovely feeling, to have some power, some dominance, over the people he loathed. The fact that a mere boy, this insolent child, had defied his power, the thing that defined him and made fear emanate from those who looked at him, this infuriated Tom even in the remembrance of it.
It was after Tom's fight with the other boy, and he was laying on the ground by a tree, the other boys chattering and gallivanting around loudly in the playground again, when suddenly a hiss met his ears. It was not fear that made the hairs at the back of Tom's neck stand upon hearing that sound. It was not anger at his thoughts disturbance that made a shiver run up his spine. Rather, it was a pleasure, a feeling of adequacy, of power, that he felt upon hearing the hiss.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, a half smile twisting his lips upward as he looked past long lashes into a pair of haunting, lidless eyes. Then was a moment in which time seemed to still, when a boy looked upon this slithering, hissing creature, the first he had ever deemed worthy of being his companion. Then Tom leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes. Bending a finger in beckoning, a low hissing met Tom's ears, yet he knew what word he had spoken, he understood the hiss that slipped, silky and beautiful, from his own mouth. As he smiled that cruel smile, the air and earth around him shuddered at the ominous hissing sound of his spoken word.
"Come."
The snake came, its head nodding and twisting to a silent tune only Tom and it could hear, slithering forth to lay its head upon his shoulder lovingly. His fingers softly, ever so softly stroking the creature, Tom laughed, the high sound carried in the wind and causing all who heard it to still. Then, the serpent's tongue flicked out, as if to give Tom a kiss, and within the next moment, it sunk its fangs deep in the young boy's neck.
A thrilling feeling unlike any other he'd ever felt shot through Tom, his body spasming for one moment before falling to lie, motionless, upon the ground. Even as tingles, like electrical shocks, crept down his limbs, Tom's eyes rolled up into his head. Thunder boomed, and then lightning shot forth with a wicked cry to burn the peaceful sky with hot fury. Rain began to patter, and Tom was left alone outside, the snake now gone.
Thunder boomed once more, and Tom rose, his dark eyes filled with a lust for power and with a wrath unmatched by none but the gods. Even as heaven cried mournful tears, thunder and lightning praised the figure that stood, rigid, with chin lifted high in pride. Two words unuttered by any joyous or muggle-born soul were shouted into the air, echoing, more malicious and powerful than ever. The very sky seemed to die, nearby creatures dropped lifeless from the words' utterance, and silence reigned. Tom Riddle took his first step forward into the swarming, icy darkness that would be the focus of his lifetime.
It was said forever after, especially amongst Hogwarts students who met him in his adolescent years, or those who knew Riddle to be the name Voldemort abandoned, that beyond his dark lashes was something so dark, so dangerous, that it was the envy of all other, lesser lords of darkness. It was the poison that pulsed eternally in Tom's fearsome eyes.
-----*-----
Harry licked his dry lips, swallowing in an attempt to put some wetness, some saliva, in his mouth. It was a sweltering hot day, and here he was walking along a dusty road, away from the comfort and coolness of Hogwarts castle. He regretted ever having allowed Hermione to convince he and Ron to sign up for the Muggle Studies class during this year—his fifth. It had been only about half an hour that he and the rest of the class had been walking on this hidden road that led away from Hogwarts, but it felt like he'd been walking along this road for years. His limbs felt like lead from the heat, and he could barely speak; all he wanted to do was drop down and rest immediately, he was so tired. But he knew that if he dropped, Gryffindor would get points off, Hufflepuff would frown, and he would only meet hot dust and hard pebbles.
Professor Mickel had given Harry, Hermione, and even Ron quite good grades since the class had started, regardless of Ron's rudeness and Harry's obnoxiously obvious disinterest. The class was easy enough in the classroom. But when Professor Mickel had insisted yesterday that they prepare for a three-day field trip (Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday) to some muggle-inhabited town, Harry had known it would be horrible. To make matters even worse, they had to go by Hogwarts train to London, then, spending the nights at hotels and such, go to the outskirts of London, and just this morning they had been dropped off by this dirt road to walk to their final destination. Harry had known about all of this early on, from Hermione, who had spoken with the teacher yesterday about it.
However, he had not known today would be so hot, especially it being early January, and neither had Harry thought the trip would be this long, or dull. Everyone was too tired, frustrated, or in Hermione's case, focusing on the professor's lecture, to talk or do anything interesting except walk as fast as they could to try and get the field trip over with.
Every day, usually at the beginning of the class, there was a Show and Tell of sorts. Everyone had to either tell one fact about something muggle-related, or show and comment on a muggle-used object not influenced by magic. Harry was trying to think of what object to show or talk about—it was easier choosing an object to talk about then muggle life in general, because each muggle lived their lives differently—as he walked.
He was making a mental list in his head as he trudged onward. Backpack was done by Lavender on Tuesday. Ron had displayed to everyone his smelly shoes yesterday. Hermione had already done a quill, a trunk, and a box. Dean Thomas had come up with the idea of displaying an article of clothing for each day of the week last week—until he had already done shirt, trousers, hat, and socks, and Professor Mickel had made him stop, knowing on Friday it would be his underwear. Neville had produced a pair of binoculars, and Hannah had shown off her hair ribbons. Harry had no idea what to choose for Show and Tell, which Professor Mickel had told them they would do once they got into the village that was their destination—some place called Little Hangleton.
Harry looked up as Ron, a few feet ahead of him, shouted something back at him. For a moment he saw the tall blur of blue jeans, brown sweater, and red hair that was Ron, and in the next moment he found himself falling…falling. Oh, how good it was to finally fall, to relieve his poor feet from their aching pain, to allow himself to…bash his face into a log?
Groaning, Harry lay still for a few seconds, before slowly sitting up, feeling as if his very bones creaked from the effort, his skin scraped and hot as he stood up. Wobbling slightly, Harry looked around. Everything was very, very blurry. Was that a tree to his right? And, wait, was that Ron ahead, or something else red? Was that brown Hermione's hair or mud on the road? Where was everyone?
Harry then realized he didn't have his glasses on. Crouching, grunting with the effort and the shudder of pain that shot up his spine, he carefully brushed his hand against the ground, looking for his glasses. Ah-ha! There they were. Broken, damnit. Split in two, the bridge broken, just like it had so often been when Dudley used to punch him in the nose.
Standing up, Harry hooked the glasses back on his ears, holding them up by placing his finger beneath to support the broken bridge. Not caring how silly and grimy he looked, Harry jogged down the hill to the town below. Finally, finally the horrid trip was over!
Well, almost, Harry thought. The trip back still has to happen, but at least we stop here and I can get a drink and some rest.
-----*-----
Tom had enjoyed being at Hogwarts. It was with a calmness and eagerness that he boarded the train every year, glad to be rid of the sight, smell, and atmosphere of the orphanage for a while. It had been such a comfort to lie down on the plush seats of a compartment, wondering what the year would bring.
It had been amazing when, at age eleven, a man calling himself Professor Dumbledore had come to the door, and the day after Tom had snuck into the office and stolen his letter— the orphanage had not allowed him to see it when he had received it the day before. Later, he had come to dislike Professor Dumbledore, for the man seemed to want to meddle in all of Tom's plans, and was always keeping an eye on him. But Dumbledore was only one person in the world of magic. Tom soon found that other wizards and witches could be easily manipulated, easily defeated, sometimes even by his glance. How easy it was to charm the people he needed!
The sight of Hogwarts castle had been awing, the four-poster beds and other Hogwarts rights a luxury that Tom would not admit to being unfamiliar with. Of course, the library was the best thing. Classes were interesting, and he loved to imagine the lives of the students around him, to spot out the ones that, regardless of being wizards, were just as petty as some he knew at the orphanage. But the books! Just the smell of the yellowed, ancient papers of the books had intrigued Tom. To think that they held within them knowledge that he could gain, explore, twist and use as much as he wanted was an idea he was very eager to test. By reading, he could gain the knowledge to create, and to destroy. There was so much Tom wanted to destroy.
He tested the spells he learned in all ways possible, in many shapes and form. He twisted the invisibility spells to banish something from sight, used the transfiguration spells to morph things into objects they had no likeness to whatsoever—a beetle into a quill, or a bag into a toad. Once, when immersed in a book during class and forced by the professor to shut it and instead listen to a lecture, Tom had even done the unthinkable—he had transformed a wand into a serpent. Transforming wands into something else was, as most knew, near impossible, because although Transfiguration wasn't particularly hard, a wand was the tool for magic, not something to be transformed. Although this had earned him many impressed looks, and a deep feeling of satisfaction when the professor stared at him—he knew what powerful magic it took—it had also gotten Tom in trouble. For as the snake came towards him, Tom had spoken to it, commanding it to leave the classroom.
Thus, rumors had flown, and Tom had found out that he had a gift called Parseltongue. This, regardless of his dangers and unpopularity it earned him, had delighted Tom. He had a power that no one else had. After researching Salazar Slytherin, Tom realized that this man was a person he would like to be like. The thought that he could perhaps gain the fear, the power, the respect, and the glory that this man had earned himself, and then go even further, become even greater, was euphoric for Tom.
A boiling hatred had raged in him for Muggleborns. They were unworthy of the gifts and talents, the power that was magic. Magic was not, in Tom's opinion, fit for everyone. Just look at how, even the wizarding world, less flawed than the muggle one, had Squibs. If only wizarding people would look beyond freedom, beyond justice, beyond learning, and see the power, and the mistakes brought about by Muggleborns and muggles, ungrateful wretches they were.
Tom thought muggles were pitiful creatures, fearing the unknown, having difficulty surviving with their petty inventions, reproducing to make even more of themselves, when they couldn't even properly care for and control the muggles that already existed. They had no purpose in life, knew not of power, and settled for the easy way, the simple life, when Tom, who thought himself a good example for others, had led a life of struggle, of difficulty, and therefore reached the high position of power he had so far gained.
Equipped with intelligence, a purpose, and a willpower that were so strong that they went beyond the quality of ambitiousness, Tom set out to become the most powerful sorcerer in the world.
-----*-----
Harry plunked down appreciatively onto a rickety chair. Ah, how good it was to finally sit down. Professor Mickel had rented a hotel room to place their belongings in until the trip home, but just now they were gathered in the lobby room of an old inn. The Show and Tell session for the day was just about to start. Cool drinks had been provided, and now he sat at a table with Ron, Hermione, and Neville to drink and, because it was actually class time now, listen to what the teacher said about the things presented today.
A girl with long pigtails and reddened cheeks stepped up when the professor called her name—Abbot, Hannah. Hannah, smiling cheerily, proceeded to tell the class about the teapot she had brought, pointing out the parts, and even performing the "I'm a Little Tea Pot" nursery rhyme.
Slumped in his chair, chin resting on an arm, Harry wondered what he should show today. Taking off his newly fixed glasses, he wiped them off with the hem of his shirt, and then stopped. Wait a second…glasses! My glasses! I can show them for show and tell. After all, muggles have to wear them, whereas wizards and witches can just get their eyes cured magically. Yes, that's it, I'll do my glasses.
When it came to his turn, Harry stood up in front of everyone, and, his gaze flitting nervously from person, to person, he took off his glasses, and began. Looking at Hermione and Ron, who smiled at him encouragingly, he cleared his throat, saying, "Well, er…these things are called glasses. I think most of you know what they are, or have some idea. I wear them because…er…I have bad eyesight. If I don't wear them, my vision is blurry, and…I wouldn't be able to read the chalkboard in Potions class. Muggles wear these to help them with their vision. Er. Wizards and witches don't wear them because, uh…we…"
Harry gave his head a little shake. What was that sound? It was barely hearable…a low, buzzing noise in his ear. He looked around. No one else seemed bothered by it. But it was annoying. Like the ringing in your ears after a particularly loud noise, or when all is silent and you can swear the silence rings in your ears. It was that kind of noise.
Trying to resume, he said, "Er, the rest of you, I mean, non-muggles, don't wear glasses because we—" The noise was getting louder. He stopped, and then tried again. He was beginning to get a headache. "We don't need glasses."
Sighing, he looked around, and seeing the professor nod, started walking back to his seat. Suddenly he stopped in mid-step. The buzzing had stopped. But…wait…
"Harry…"
Harry whirled around. Was someone calling his name? Usually people had no questions, but maybe this time someone did? There it was again! A low noise, hushed, like a whisper, but he could hear it as clearly as if a person stood saying his name right beside him.
"Harry…"
Quickly rushing back to his seat, Harry slumped in his chair, head in his hands. His headache was getting worse, and he had a niggling feeling that something was wrong. If someone in the class was calling his name, they would wave their hand, or he would recognize their voice. It definitely wasn't the professor. Harry eyed the other people in the room, wondering what stranger would dare call him by his first name.
It wasn't the lobby man. He was talking on the phone, and from the loud woman's voice that shrieked from it, it was obvious he wasn't talking to anyone named Harry. Perhaps someone had commented on his hair? After all, he had been letting it get a bit long, lately. It was getting kind of shaggy, and he desperately needed a haircut. Perhaps Hermione had been pointing that out to him? He looked sideways at her and Ron. No, although Ron did look bored enough with the presentation to start a conversation with him, both of them were looking at Professor Mickel, who was saying something about the next presenter.
"Harry…"
A prickling sensation rushed up Harry's spine, and he felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. The sound of that voice seemed to make his heartbeat slow, and his very breath grew shallow in time with the murmur of a stranger beckoning him. He knew that he had never heard that voice say his name, or at least not in that way, and yet he felt a pull towards the voice so strong, that he was almost sure it came from himself. It was as if the voice had reached in and scooped up his soul, and now, familiar and yet unknown lips were speaking his name, taunting him to come and chase what they had stolen from him.
Whirling around again, Harry eyed the rose bush outside the window. Was this someone's version of a fun prank? Quietly excusing himself for a pretense trip to the loo, Harry circled around towards the loo, and then dove out the back door. After quickly looking into the bushes—and having a rose thorn rudely stab at his leg—Harry decided to follow the trail down the hill in search for the mysterious prankster. At least this was more interesting than listening to the presentations.
Harry listened carefully as he walked down the path. The path led through the side yard of the hotel, and down a grassy hill. Birds chirped in the trees, and the slight breeze sliced through the unusually hot, muggy spring air. Reaching the bottom of the hill, Harry looked around. It seemed he was in some sort of garden.
Rose bushes of all kinds sprouted from the ground, framing stone statues of magical creatures. Flowers of all kind bloomed from the soft, fragrant grass, and a weeping willow tree stood at the middle of the circular garden, and a clock face, marking the time now as 6:15, was visible on the outside wall of the hotel. The garden was surrounded by a grove of birch trees. Feeling peaceful and calm once more outside, Harry stopped to sit at a bench, and closing his eyes, leaned back, more relaxed than he had been the entire year so far. Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.
When Harry awoke, his eyes still closed, it was to utter silence. No birds chirped, the wind did not whistle through the trees. The atmosphere became suddenly eerie, as, lying all alone, Harry once again got the niggling feeling that something was wrong. The headache that had attacked him earlier now returned in full force. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing, and…Someone else's?
Opening his eyes, Harry's body jolted in surprise, and for a moment, he froze in shock. The face above his was in shadow, more wicked and dreadful in its sudden appearance, and obvious reality, than ever before. Those malicious eyes were aged black pearls, impure and dark from years spent beneath the deep blue sea, which was the memory kept hidden in a diary, a memory Harry thought he had destroyed forever. Tom Riddle was reborn!
Sucking in a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as Riddle stood up straight, leant away now, Harry quickly sat up on the bench. Eyes wide, he dared not stare a moment longer. Surely, this was an apparition! Surely, he was dreaming! Eyes narrowing in fury, Harry felt anger unlike any he'd ever felt boiling in him. To think his enemy, who had already so infuriatingly reincarnated himself as an adult, would come back as an adolescent! Again! Harry felt the return of Tom Riddle like a personal scratch on his heart. As much as he tried to hide it, to ignore it, the memory of his foe as a youth had gnawed at him for years, the words of the dark boy, that silky voice, that obvious power and lack of cowardice striking a profound note in Harry. Tom Riddle had shown a determination, an intelligence, a willingness to look Harry straight in the eye, and a power, that Voldemort had not shown in his making his lackeys go after Harry, and using underhanded tactics, bait, and trickery to lure Harry.
So, Harry admitted, it was with fear that he faced Tom Riddle again. But it was with fury that he let his rage incense him, as well as his doubt, his disbelief, his tension, and before he could think better of it Harry had lunged forward, slamming one fist into the other boy's gut, and using the other hand to tear at that face, and then attempt to get a grip around that neck. A hand shot out to grip his wrist and tear his hand from Riddle's throat, and then Riddle was grabbing his fist, and twisting, and Harry felt himself falling down…down…down…
It seemed forever that Harry fell, the image of Riddle, his composure kept, his mouth twisting in a smile, and then that cruel, mocking laughter ringing in Harry's ears accompanying him as he fell. All went dark as Harry closed his eyes and the world seemed to fade away. Harry was locked with Riddle, locked in all senses of the word, the smell of leather and sweat and boot polish and this totally sour, almost sickly but dangerously desirable smell that was utterly Riddle filling his nose. Blackness filled his vision; his mind seemed mute to everything but Riddle, but feeling Riddle was somehow enough. It was enough to inhale and feel a twinge of pain, the distant throb of a headache, and the utterly terrifying, elating power and sickening reality, profound mark on the world, that was Riddle. Harry remembered the sound of that rich laughter ringing in his ears, the triumph and glee in the sound of it audible.
A thumping sound, its pattern comforting, the way it never stopped and seemed somehow more important, more alive, more meaningful than anything else, was filling Harry's ears, filling him, becoming him, and somehow he realized out of nowhere that the sound was a heartbeat. The heartbeat surrounded him, choked him, caressed him, a heartbeat that was his and yet was also Riddle's, a heartbeat he shared and yet a heartbeat that was one and belonged to one entity, an entity Harry wasn't sure was Riddle, himself, or simply a heart, a heart that became and enwrapped and was held by Harry, and by Riddle. Every contour of Riddle's hand, every curve, every line, groove, crevice, the smooth texture of his skin, Harry could feel it all, become it, become the time, the air, the heartbeat of Riddle as he fell, his mind and senses filled wholly with Riddle, Riddle, Riddle.
Then the grass was beneath him, a rose bush existed once more and hung now above him, the prickle of thorns sinking deeply into his arm, his neck, his shoulder. He was alive again, he was Harry, he was in the world, at a place, somewhere and…and he was with death. Riddle was death, but Harry did not know if this was because he, Harry, would die, or Riddle would die, or simply the air speaking of death but nothing being dead except the feeling he had shared of momentarily being able to feel Riddle's heartbeat.
Harry tried to sit up, but Riddle's hand pressed down against his chest, and a wand, a wand Harry realized was his own, was suddenly pointing straight at his throat. Gasping, unsure whether to be angry, to throw up, to be afraid, or to devise a plan, Harry simply stared up at those dark, malevolent eyes, and that thin, barely existent smile.
Then, before Riddle could speak, because Harry wasn't sure if he could stand that voice again, Harry said, "Do you plan, like last time we met, to kill me?"
Harry realized he should not have asked a question. Now he would be forced to hear that voice, the voice that had haunted him in its calling of his name, the voice that had haunted him in dreams, in memories, and had spoken of how similar they were. Smiling wider, Riddle did not answer, but instead, he leaned in closer to Harry, his breath hot on Harry's face. Harry paled. This was really happening. Riddle was real. He was human. He was no more a memory. But…how?
As if he had heard Harry's questioning thought, Riddle smiled, the wand he held sliding, ever so slowly, threateningly, down from his neck. His voice burned at Harry, burned him like fire against his skin, and yet it froze his brain like ice. "I plan to do whatever you desire me to."
"What? What does that mean?"
"You summoned me, Harry. Don't you realize how it works? The diary was not the thing keeping me existent. It just kept me in that form, in that way, that state of mind, with certain memories. It kept me the way I was when I first saved the memory of myself. But it didn't keep me existent, no. Your power was what made me able to speak, to become strong enough to devise a plan to become more than a memory. It was not the diary that had power, nor the page upon which appeared the words of my memory of myself. It was you."
"I-I…I don't understand…"Riddle smiled, as if this was entirely understandable. Leaning to the side, he picked up the quill that had fallen from Harry's pocket, waving it in front of Harry. Then, Riddle leaned in closer, so close that Harry not only felt that hot breath, but he found himself unable to look away from that gaze. Riddle's gaze burned with a beautiful fire, its need, its want, its confidence reaching out to Harry, grasping him, making him smile because as long as that gaze was on him, he had a role to play in Riddle's existence. This seemed suddenly important. Harry needed to have something to do with Riddle, to be needed by Riddle, because then he could once again feel that heartbeat, the heartbeat that was his, and simultaneously Riddle's heartbeat.
Taking the quill between his slim, pale fingers, Riddle reached into Harry's pocket and pulled out Harry's tiny jar of ink. Harry froze, as, opening his mouth, Riddle hissed words. Parseltongue. Harry never thought he would live to hear the eerie snake language again. It made him shiver to hear Riddle speak it, to say in that slow, clear, confident way of his, "Come, oh serpentine devils of the night, oh you whose soft voices speak so strong so powerful in the darkness. Come, my Nagini…"
For a few moments, all was silent. Then, there was a loud hiss. Harry looked to the side in panic, gulping as Nagini, the snake that, Harry suddenly knew, was the parent of snake by the same name that Voldemort owned, slithered past him toward Riddle. He watched in shocked, horrified fascination, as the snake slithered up Riddle's arm, and then, even as Riddle petted her, sank its fangs into Riddle's shoulder.
Those dark lashes closed, hiding the burning fire of Riddle's eyes. Then, Riddle opened his eyes, that low laugh seeming to echo in the air as it rang out, and tears slid down those porcelain cheeks to fall into Harry's inkwell. Harry gaped, gaped to think that this creature, this serpent, and Riddle, had such a connection, that the snake was so important to Riddle, did so much for Riddle, had to sink its poisonous fangs into the boy to make him, although real, emotionally human enough to cry. No more smiling, Riddle dipped the quill into the mix of ink and tears, and then, leaning forward once more, he whispered, "Let me explain to you in actions how deeply we are linked and how, without your power, I would be nothing."
Harry screamed, screamed for the love of life and loss of all decency and rectitude, as the tip of the quill dug into his skin to trace the lightning bolt of his scar. Pain like never before shot through Harry's skull, pounding at him, clutching, and he felt as if all he breathed and all he could be was this immense, unforgiving, merciless pain. The now familiar heartbeat thrummed in his ears, its pace now speedy, but it was with grief that Harry felt it; it was with grief and realization of an unbreakable bond he unwillingly shared. He was bonded to Tom Riddle, to Voldemort, and it was because of his writing of Tom Riddle's name, and his thinking of him recently, harassed by nightmares, because of his subconscious calling for, needing Riddle, that Riddle had come to life.
Then the pain was over, and Harry closed his eyes, his hands reaching to clutch at anything, anyone. At first, his breath came in gasps, and then gradually deepened to the slow, relaxed breathing that could belong to a sleeping child. Head cradled in Riddle's lap, the image of those dark and shadowed eyes imprinted in his mind, Harry was not sure whether he was awake or asleep. But he was alive. His power was strong enough to make Riddle reborn, and strong enough to survive Riddle's power coming at almost full force against his. He was alive. That was all that mattered, for a while.
Then, Harry felt himself fading away. His hands became clammy, his heartbeat slowed once more, and his breathing quickened, as Tom called out his name again, and again, and again. Harry almost wanted to sink into darkness, to feel its softness envelop him, but suddenly he inhaled that scent again, the scent of Tom Riddle, the sour yet irresistible tang, and he wanted to live. He wanted to shy away from the softness and move towards the more vibrant, sharp sensations of life. He wanted to live!
Harry whimpered, opening his eyes as he sat up, feeling the heat of the weather and the lack of breeze through the garden suddenly hit him in a wave. Groggily, he sat up, and turned around. Standing in front him, Harry's wand in one hand, was Riddle. Harry did not know what to do about the boy anymore. It was obvious he could not destroy Riddle, since it was his own power that had brought Riddle back to life, and if Riddle was destroyed, Harry felt a part of him would be destroyed, too. Besides, he thought, remembering what had just happened when Riddle's power had gone against his…There was no way he wanted to feel that much pain again. Therefore, he was not going to fight Riddle, either. But what to do, then? Harry was at a loss.
Riddle was not smiling, but Harry felt no threat from the other boy. The Slytherin simply stood there in his impeccably neat clothes, his black cloak around his shoulders, a mischievous glint in his eyes, his chin held high in pride, looking at Harry. When he took a few steps forward, Harry found himself forced to look down at the boy's boots, because it was much too humiliating, after his enemy had seen him in such a state of weakness, to dare and look for more than a moment at Riddle himself.
Harry did look up, however, as the hand not holding his wand reached forward, grabbing his tie, and began to slowly undo it. Watching those long, pale fingers as they slowly, neatly undid his tie, Harry said, "Riddle, what…" The name Riddle seemed wrong on his tongue, a betrayal to himself, to Tom. Was Tom Voldemort? His nemesis? Or was he just Riddle? Who was Riddle, anyway? Just a boy? A Slytherin? Or should Harry look at him in the same light as he did Voldemort, as a foe?
Somehow, Harry found Tom fascinating. How could a boy such as this, so gentle, so intelligent, become such a monster as Voldemort? How could anyone who Harry understood so much, understood the pain of no parents, of mistreatment, of hatred and of loss of love, be his enemy? He looked into those eyes, and saw not death nor life, but a pulsing, bright and strong will. A will to do what had to be done. To do the duty that he felt he needed to do, was necessary to make things right. Harry smiled. He knew how that felt, to want to do what was right. This time, though, he wanted to do what was right for Riddle, not himself, or others. Just Tom Riddle.
The voice came suddenly, rich, soft, gentle. "Call me Tom."
Harry breathed the name cautiously, slowly, as if it might be a sin to break the silence, to dare and acknowledge the understanding they shared, the power that linked them, as real, and out in the oxygen for others to breathe in.
"…Tom…"
Within the next moment, Harry was lying down on the ground again, and Tom's hand had reached out to grab a hold of his left wrist, and the touch of his hand on Harry's skin was like a cooling cream on a burn, so soothing, so right, so much Harry wanted it. The boots went off, his glasses even faster, and then a pair of dark eyes, so deep, so needing, was before him. A hand slid up his neck and past his ear to grip at his hair, to pull so hard it hurt, but it was right that it hurt, it was supposed to hurt; that was how it was meant to be. A pair of soft lips brushed against his once, and then twice, and then the third time Harry pressed his mouth so hard that those lips were forced to stay on his.
Harry was drowned in the kiss, hurled into another world, the world that was Tom, the air around him, his lips, his tongue, that heartbeat once again. The shivers ran up in delightful parties up his arms, his legs, his spine, that tongue, that mouth against his so delicious, so hot, so fucking hot…
Then they broke apart, and Harry was leaning his head back, cradling it with the palm of Tom's hand, those fingers still massaging, still sending electric sparks through him with every touch. Mouth wide, Harry lay there, panting, eyes closed, unsure of whether it was real or not, if it all was truly happening. A kiss to his throat came, a reassurance that, yes, Tom was there, was Harry's, owned Harry, was so entirely delicious, so hot, so breathtakingly, profoundly, utterly, delightfully fuckable, oh, yes, yes indeed.
Harry shivered at every touch of those fingers as, slowly, teasingly, Tom unbuttoned Harry's shirt, the unbuttoning of every button like a match to an ever-growing flame, a flame of lust. Then the shirt was off, and Harry breathed slowly, waiting, apprehensive and eager as to what more Tom could do. That hand slid, slowly, softly down his torso, and Harry breathed a low sigh, the sigh transforming into a groan of pleasure as Tom's mouth sucked at his neck.
Then, slowly, slowly, the mouth began to move southward, leaving a trail of kisses in its wake, barely brushing lips against a collarbone, pressing softly at Harry's chest, just above his heart. Both Tom's hands reached up to grasp Harry's wrists, fingers rubbing against the skin, thighs burning fire, chafed as Tom rocked his body against Harry's.
A low moan spilled from Harry's mouth as a pair of soft lips brushed, barely, tantalizingly, against a stiff nipple, and then another moan when that tongue flicked out, its heat and wetness caressing, causing Harry's every nerve to tingle. Another, more brusque moan as the heat became almost too much for Harry, the suck of that mouth, the rocking of hips above hips, divine hands keeping him stable, sound, overwhelming him.
Then, for a moment, the sensations were gone, and Harry collapsed, stopping his rocking back against Tom. However, he gasped as a new sensation came, a sensation that not only brought more tingles up his limbs, but a now quick, agonizing hardening of his cock. It was the feather of his quill being brushed, excruciatingly slow and soft, against his skin. It crept down his chest, whispered its presence above his belly, and then tickled enough against his navel to make him laugh.
A slow, rich laugh erupted from that pleasant, soft mouth, as, upon the stinging slide of red and gold striped Gryffindor tie against the tender skin of his neck, Harry gasped. Then, abandoning the sleek tie, Tom moved to lie on the ground beside Harry, one leg crossed over the other, his arms cradling his head, a small smile dancing in his eyes and shamelessly twisting those lips.
Harry sat up breathless, panting, his eyes boring into Tom's, trying to bore into every pore of the other boy's skin, to feel the heartbeat, to smell and be and understand every curve and crevice of the lithe body before him. The click of the heels of Tom's boots was a distant sound, the smell of sweat, grass, the slick material of tight trousers and collared, black button up overcoat over white shirt, as well as a faint cologne and sour tang all filling Harry's nose. He stared at his enemy, his rival, and wondered why.
Why had Tom Riddle decided to become the most powerful sorcerer in the world? Why had such an intelligent boy with potential have such a terrible destiny? Why had he let himself transform into the almost inhuman monster he was today? Why, although inadvertently summoned by Harry's power to the present time, as more than a memory, was he suddenly seeming to find Harry appealing, trying to seduce the Boy Who Lived? Did Tom even know the answers to such questions? Did he know who he was, or long to be the man he knew he, in Harry's time, grew to be? And why, most agonizingly of all, why, why did Harry find everything about Tom Riddle suddenly desirable, appealing, and why was he not disgusted or hateful towards the other boy?
Harry was exhausted by his own questions, exhausted by the world and exhausted by the need to know, to understand, exhausted by his seeming inability to comprehend anything in his life except the despair that more than occasionally accompanied his existence. Tom helped him forget these things, strangely enough. Being with the former memory was like entering a temporary, foggy cloud of relief, like a drizzly rain after a hot afternoon.
Reaching out, Harry tentatively placed his hand over the other boy's collar bone, the feel of the soft cloth and a couple buttons beneath his palm and fingers seeming more profound and important than the simple act really was. To know that Tom was real, to feel the solidity, to imagine with an overpowering lust the body beneath the clothes, was enough to make Harry doubt in his ability to pull away from Tom even if he wanted to. And to think that Tom was so irresistible that he could weave this spell of enchantment on Harry, to think such a thought was frightening and simultaneously exhilarating, for Harry knew that meant that Tom would get what he wanted, and thus, what Harry wanted, because Harry had a niggling feeling that currently Tom perhaps was of like mind to Harry, especially in the current undeniably hormonal, testosterone-controlled situation.
Tom reached out to grab Harry's wrist, and pulled the reluctant Gryffindor to a standing position in front of him. Holding up Harry's wand, smirking, his right boot tapping against Harry's ankle, Tom stood a few inches taller than Harry, his eyes oceans Harry felt he could drown in if he stared into them long enough. Harry gulped, inhaling a sharp breath, and holding it, as that wand moved to his jaw, tracing the curve, and then slowly ghosted across his lips, before diving down to tickle at the hollow of Harry's throat. For a moment, muscles tense, Harry froze, his eyes wide, as, unable to look away from Tom, he stared into those dark orbs, the poke of the wand at his throat all too real, pausing a moment too long for comfort.
The smile had dropped from Tom's face, yet Harry was reassured, exhaling loudly as the wand moved downward, gliding over his collarbone, down his chest, and finally stopping at the waistband of Harry's trousers. Taking a step forward, Tom moved to press himself against Harry, close enough that Harry noticed the brush of shoulder to shoulder, but so that the wand was still held, poised at Harry's hips. Then, smirk now sly, mischievous, Tom moved the wand south and, in a movement so sudden it caused Harry to let his guard down and almost lose his balance entirely, Tom slid the length of the wand horizontal between Harry's legs. Groaning, his left hand clutching at his belt, the other on Tom's shoulder, Harry trembled as a shiver of arousal shot through him. Against his will he allowed the activity to continue, thighs hot and trembling as he moved slowly back and forth in time with the wand's jerky movement between his legs, the sensation of it smooth and quick, a moment of pleasure repeated against his groin.
Then, the movement quickened, and soon Harry found himself burning up, burning, on the edge of explosion as the wand moved faster and harder. The heat spiraled up his body, created at its hottest at his groin, and it hurt, clutched at him and pained and bothered like an itch he could not scratch, and yet the friction was invited. The sensation burning him up, faster, harder, so deliciously good…It was almost too much to take, and yet Harry found himself wanting more, more, god, yes, more. "Tom…Tom, please," Harry moaned, "h-harder Tom…faster!"
Tom smirked, even as he decreased the tempo of the wand's movement. Ignoring Harry's whimpering in protest, Tom flung the wand away without a care and lay back on the ground. One hand held out to Harry in beckoning, a 'come hither' look glowing irresistibly in his eyes, Tom murmured, "No, Harry. I will only give you more if you give me some thing precious enough that I will want to hear you scream." Just the sound of that voice, simply staring at that powerful, smooth hand that he wanted so much to feel the touch of, made Harry painfully aware of arousal.
Panting, too ashamed to even touch his wand after the way Tom had used it, Harry slumped to fall on his knees on the ground beside Tom. Clutching his stomach, gasping for breath, Harry said, "Haven't…Isn't seeing the way you affect me," pant, "enough?"
Tom, in a movement so swift, so unexpected, so fluid that Harry could barely perceive it, moved forward to grab Harry by his collar and then, to Harry's delight, landed a hot, searing kiss at the corner of Harry's mouth. Mouth hot and gentle and feather-light against Harry's skin, Tom replied, "Mmm, Harry, no, no. I can never be pleased, you see. At least not now. Not until I've gotten everything that I want. It's not enough to make you squirm. I must know if you have the ability to make me squirm, you see." The slight arching upward of the hips as he talked left doubt in Harry's mind as to exactly what kind of squirming Tom was implying.
Breath shaky, hands trembling with nervousness, Harry reached out. In his anxiety, he accidentally tore off the top button of Tom's overcoat. Slowly, fearing what he might see there as result to his mistake, his obvious inexperience and vulnerability, Harry slid his gaze up to meet Tom's. The older boy was smiling. Pulling Harry's hand down to the next button, Tom said, "Continue…"
So gradually, button by button, bit by bit, Harry succeeded in taking off Tom's coat, only three buttons lost. Tom's movement of shrugging the coat from the shoulders revealed to Harry a patch of the creamy white skin of Tom's belly. Licking his lips, throat dry with need, Harry took no care to remove Tom's white collared shirt properly, and instead, in a series of violent movements, ripped the shirt off to reveal the other boy's chest.
Tom, eyes never moving from their lock with Harry's, watched in obvious delight as the Gryffindor lowered his head to suck at the junction of neck and shoulder. Harry found that pale skin to be more soft and smooth than he had imagined it; Tom's skin tasted like peaches and lime, soft and also slightly sour. He eagerly slid his tongue in circles against Tom's neck, before moving with no amount of patience to suck eagerly at a nipple. Tom was for the most part silent, unresponsive, and Harry found this disappointing. He wanted to defeat Tom, to show Tom that he could get a response of arousal in him, as Tom had managed to do quite successfully and easily with Harry.
So it was with great pleasure that Harry heard and reveled in Tom's throaty, almost held back moan when Harry slid his hand upward on Tom's thigh, so slowly, so daringly, that he stopped just inches from the other boy's crotch. Trousers tight against him in arousal, Harry paused for a moment, biting his lip, trying to veer his mind away from his unbearable hardness and focus on Tom's pleasure instead.
Tentative, breathless, Harry moved to press his hand against Tom's crotch, pressing more and more, delighting in feeling the shivers that ran through Tom, in seeing the other boy with his head thrown back, his brow sweaty, mouth open in a silent plea for more. Harry knew somehow that if he pleased Tom, then Tom would please Harry. Slowly, teasingly, he slid the zipper of Tom's trousers down.
Then, in a flurry of movement he was too shy to admit as eagerness, yet too excited to deny, Harry slid the trousers from Tom, reveling in the sight of the other boy's naked skin. Those slender hips…curling, dark tendrils of hair…soft, desperately fisted hands…Smiling, Harry leant to breathe hotly on that hot, smooth skin, laughing as Tom moaned loudly, hips bucking.
Then, licking his lips, Harry pleasured Tom, pleasured him until the Slytherin's voice was hoarse from yells and moans, until his own throat was dry from swallowing, his tongue scraped from repeated movement against heated hardness. Yet he knew Tom was still not fulfilled. Tom wanted more, he wanted Harry, he wanted to own Harry, to take from Harry the only thing, Harry felt, that made him innocent still at all.
Moving up to place his hands on Tom's chest, Harry slid his tongue against Tom's chin even as the other boy squirmed against him. Smiling, Harry whispered, "Beg me, Tom…Beg me, and I'll give you everything…"
But Tom would not beg, and instead lay still once more and simply closed his eyes. He refused to be defeated, to let Harry have any more power over him. So Harry decided to switch tactics, and rather than inviting Tom, he decided torture would be the best method. He was about to move and grind against the other boy, when, smirking, Tom shook his head, saying "No, Harry. I am the one with power here. You will beg, will clutch at me and scream in pleasure before you obtain full power over me."
Contrary to his words, though, Tom took a few steps back from Harry, and head thrown back, looked up to the sky. Voice no more than a whisper, his tone unreadable, Tom, his voice having a musing quality to it, as if he spoke more to himself than to Harry, said, "The one thing that always escapes my comprehension is time. How can it move so quickly at one moment, and then seem to slow, or even stop abruptly, at the next? How can the wheel remain always spinning, for everyone, everywhere? And why a wheel? How does a wheel, this thing that, if blocked by an obstacle, can stop spinning, represent such a powerful, godlike thing as time? Why an inanimate, material object to represent time? Time is special, its power a weaving of unbreakable threads, threads that weave in darkness and in light the life of souls that are controlled by time. Each time is destined for a purpose, a person, an action, an object, or perhaps some thing more abstract, such unexplainable feelings as love, or hatred, or sorrow."
Tom now beckoned Harry forward, and then held the other boy to him, arms wrapped around Harry tightly, possessively. "Take midnight, for instance. Midnight is a time for anger, I believe. It is a time when acts of felony are mostly done, when people consider the dark creatures of night and the possibility of life crises. Day, however, is another thing entirely. When time goes to p.m. and the sun shines, spirits fly more likely than they fall. I have my theory, that, beginning with one, every hour represents something, because although there are more things felt and known and alive than what that time represents, each hour cannot represent everything, because there are too many things to represent, too many people, feelings, situations. So one must simply choose what they want each hour to represent. I believe one o' clock is sorrow. Two, joy. Three…three is a very mysterious but lovely number. Powerful, representing endings, but also harmonious, beautiful, curving things. Three for a girl, four for a boy. Five. What do you think? I think five is silver. Yes, silver. Five o' clock was always an auspicious time in the Slytherin common room. Silver is appropriate for five. Six would be gold, yes. Gryffindors were fond of six o' clock, because it was only a half an hour until dinner time, then…"
A pair of soft lips ghosted over the skin of Harry's neck. It was undeniable pain, and yet a pleasure unlike any other, to know that he meant everything to Tom, that Tom was a part of him and needed him, but that Tom did not actually love Harry. It was a barb of truth that stung, and stung immensely, yet Harry could still not let go of Tom, in any way at all. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, Harry thought then that it was defeat, that Tom would kill him then, in his moment of weakness, or leave, or continue this game of lust until Harry was his own doom, consumed by desire.
Harry could not stand the thought of this, that Tom would abandon him, that he was so much enchanted by his enemy that he would welcome Tom with open arms. The thought that he had no defense, that he could not resist Tom, could not have even if he wanted to, which he didn't, was like a nail in his heart, bleeding it, sucking out his life, his breath, his will to live and need. He hated the lust he felt and yet, with Tom, it was all he had, for he had been stripped of all other feelings except a raw, gnawing need.
Tom let go of Harry, then, smiling, moved to turn around. The pulsing of that heart of Tom's was at equal pace with Harry's own. He could, even now, hear it in his ears, as Tom bent down. Harry watched, mouth open, knowing that under no circumstances could he let Tom pick up his wand. That hand moved closer, closer…those fingers touched the wood, and then…
Harry lunged out and grabbed Tom around the waist, plowing into the other boy and driving them both forward with so much force that they slid a few feet, the wand now unattainable. Pushing against Tom the hardest he could, panting, knowing that it wasn't worth losing everything just to have Tom, Harry did what he had to do to defeat Tom.
It was unlike any other time Harry had defeated Voldemort. Harry knew that, this time, he would defeat Tom once and for all. Yet tears rimmed his eyes, tears for the innocent and beloved of his whom he had almost given up out of selfishness, tears for the immense attraction, the lovely spell Tom had weaved around him, that felt so good and yet tore at Harry from the inside. Harry cried for life, for want to save the lives of those he loved, and yet he also cried for his enemy's defeat.
Placing his hand on Tom's chest, his breathing slow, Harry could barely comprehend that what he had just experienced had just happened, and had happened with Tom Riddle. Closing his eyes, chin rested on his palm, Harry asked, "What about seven, Tom? What does seven represent?"
Harry, his eyes locked on his hand upon Tom's chest, did not dare to look into the other boy's eyes, for fear of what he might or might not see there. A slight sense of relief, regardless of what he was about to do, came from him, however, as the other boy's hand moved to lie over his. Harry stared at the pattern of fingers, stared to see past the surface, to glimpse the complex, maze-like weaving of complications that was Tom. He realized that, as much power as Tom had over Harry, Harry had an equal amount of power over Tom, and that this power, what with the beating of two and yet one heart remaining distant in their ears, was undeniable. Tom had wanted to own Harry, but could not, because Harry was Tom's essence, his reason for being at all, for existing a second time. Harry had only been so effected by Tom because Tom was part of Harry, had come back to life again, as Voldemort, and as Tom, because of Harry's power and accidental summoning of Tom. Harry had total power over Tom.
This epiphany struck Harry and seemed to freeze the entire world, and yet to simultaneously turn his world upside down. The clock stilled, the breeze stopped, not a single soul seemed to breathe. Then, leaning into Harry, his lips against Harry's ear, Tom whispered, "Seven for a secret, Harry," after which Harry, eyes squeezed shut, plunged the quill into Tom's back. Blood flowed, and Harry sank to the ground, tears falling; in the killing of Tom, he had killed himself. These tears were rimmed red with his own blood as well as Tom's, the bleeding of a heart that was one, a heart of a spirit merged with a heart that was more real than any other wizard's, a heart that shared one soul, and could not be destroyed by any other soul but itself. The hands or temptations of lust, greed, or selfishness for personal pleasures gripped Harry no more. His last vestige of strength was used to see beyond the surface of life, to see his destiny and how he had to sacrifice to save others. Taking his last breath, Harry glanced at his watch.
It was seven o' clock.
THE END.