Summary: What do you do when you can't find a reason to live for? Harry realizes that peace does not come in the absence of a certain Dark Lord. He gets cursed by a strange wizard, and acquires the ability to transport his consciousness to another plane of existence during his sleep. There, he hunts the pieces of Voldemort's soul and puts them back together. What happens when the savior of the wizarding world finds that his interactions with his previous mortal enemy in his dreams are better than reality?
Warnings: EWE, alternate universe - canon divergence, time warp, parallel universes, het and slash relationships, some F/M and M/M non-graphic sexual scenes (though some of them may get a bit intense when we reach the HPLV/TMR parts), violence, gore, dubious consent, implied/referenced non-con, Not Quite Infidelity, mental instability, ooc, "amorality", Black and Gray Morality, Morality Kitchen Sink, Crapsack World, significant character deaths*, general dark themes that one can expect in this kind of fiction, trigger material.
Pairing: HPTMR/HPLV
*Everything happens for the development of the plot, of course. Over the course of the story, you will see why this particular warning gets a special mention.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. This author does not claim ownership over the series, the cover image or any other recognizable elements in this story. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended, and no profit is being made from this work. If there is anything in this piece of fiction that might offend the sensibilities of any reader, kindly send me a message and I will gladly put up an appropriate warning if warranted.
A/N: Any future unedited chapters that may contain fully graphic intimate scenes will be cross-posted at AO3. Nevertheless, I hope you all read and enjoy!
Kindred in Apathy
a harry potter ficlet
Chapter One
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Click.
A pen is maneuvered smoothly by long, calloused fingers. The twirling stops, and the flat of the thumb is placed on the button.
Click.
The routine starts again. The slender pen spins from the little finger, to the ring finger, to the middle finger, along the index finger, and finally, around the thumb. The hand stills, the large palm firmly clutching the cylinder, before the thumb presses on the button again, retracting the point of the pen; making a sharp, clean,
Click.
Repeat.
A heavy sigh rustles a few leafs of paper on the desk, disturbing the perfect stillness of the room. The hand relaxes its hold, releasing the pen and letting it tumble and roll away. It clatters with the rich wood of the desk, but the noise doesn't awaken the owner of the hand from his daze.
The young man closes his eyes. His hand comes up to run down his face wearily, before he blinks bright forest green eyes open. He stares off into distant space, the quiet ticks of his wall clock heard in the silence.
His mind is an overworked machine; one that never seems to want to stop, however tired he is. The cogs and gears continuously turn, almost worn out by the absence of oil that is sleep. He has not been able to catch a good night's rest for several weeks, now. Even with his girlfriend's comforting presence beside him in bed, it was still difficult to shut down his mind and just rest. It was only when he exhausts himself so much that he falls asleep, unrepentant against the soreness and heaviness of his limbs. Too many thoughts churn in his mind; too many memories, too many scenarios.
After five years, one would think that the Boy Who Lived had accepted, if not overcome, the terror and hardships that defined most of his past. Five years is enough time to grieve and mourn the loss of loved ones, the naive would say; to make amends with enemies; to heal and build on the hope of a future free from war. While he didn't have children of his own, yet, he had Ginny—a wonderful, loyal, beautiful young woman who has helped him greatly in his struggle to forgive the past and face the future; a work in progress, still, but Ginny often comments that he is improving.
Harry wonders if he is truly improving, or just improving on deceiving.
Instead of feeling the long expected peace that should come with Voldemort's defeat, the peace that has apparently come to most of his comrades and to the rest of the wizarding world, what Harry feels is pure, irritating, inexplicable... restlessness.
There is tension permeating his body, settling deep into the marrow of his bones, and Harry simply cannot shake it off.
After the war, he finished his seventh year in Hogwarts with the rest of his batch mates. There were a lot of both funerals and celebrations to attend, however much he didn't want to, but they kept his mind off and unaware of the eventual agitation that will take hold of his consciousness. Upon graduating, he threw himself into the Auror Program, without time for rest or vacation. Hermione and Ginny had tried relentlessly to convince him to pause and take respite, but their efforts only pushed him to isolate himself further and bury himself in work. He maintained his contact with them, of course, visiting Ron and Hermione and what remained of the Weasley family when he had the time, and arranging dates with Ginny, but most of his days were spent training to join the rehabilitated force of the Ministry Aurors.
His mind was a jumbled mess then, confused with the lack of the danger that has chased his heels ever since he was but an infant. He did not like to sit still for any extended period of time, lest his consciousness retreat to the depths of his mind and his inner demons consume him. He needed the work like he needed oxygen, if only to distract himself from what really needs his attention the most.
Harry wonders if there is something horribly wrong with him, that he has difficulty in finding peace after the death of the sole individual that has ruined a large period of his life, when it should have been the opposite.
Even in this, Harry thinks bitterly, he is different.
Three years after entering the Auror Program, he graduates for a second time. It was thrilling, at first. There were still plenty of Dark wizards that fled from the scene of the war but had supported Voldemort nonetheless, and Harry and his team efficiently apprehended them. The Wizengamot's hands were full of trials for the individuals, determined to build the wizarding community better with less hazards in society.
With what they believed was the last of Voldemort's forces tried and imprisoned, however, came the quiet. The unsettling quiet that creeps over Harry's entire being almost all the time now, demanding and pulling his attention to that indescribable itch underneath his skin. Harry desperately tries to search for something, anything, to relieve him of that itch; a solution that can finally give him the peace of mind that he has craved all his life.
Harry can't even understand why he has this—this tension. There is no other way to describe it. Everything in his life has been going so well, paradoxically too well in contrast to his past experiences. He has his friends, Ginny, the second highest position at his dream job, and the permanent absence of a particular Dark Lord in his life.
He couldn't fathom why his life now feels so, inexplicably... empty.
Harry doesn't even want to acknowledge the possibility that he might miss him, and the thrill that comes with everything concerned with him. He isn't that deprived.
Oh, really? a sinister voice in his mind interjects. The corners of his lips twist down into a scowl.
Yes, really.
Harry shakes his head and turns his thoughts to Ginny. Ginny is the perfect girlfriend. They share similarities that might seem grim to others, but they are similarities that had brought them closer to one another. They both share a traumatizing connection to Tom Riddle; to Voldemort. They both lost loved ones to the cruel regime of the monster of a man. They both fought tooth and nail to reclaim the stability that the wizarding world had desperately needed. And along with those, Harry believes that Ginny possesses the light that can successfully help him up from the darkness that has surrounded him ever since he could remember. Ginny has both the understanding and strength to keep him stable and happy. It's with her that he sees himself building the ideal future that he has always yearned for.
Yet, Harry finds himself frightened at the prospect of dragging Ginny into a future with a man who is so troubled with his past. His restlessness stays his hand, his wish to bind himself to her in marriage and consequently, pull her into a relationship that both of them may later regret.
On the other hand, physical intimacy between them has never been a problem. Before his hunt for Voldemort's Horcruxes had started, the stress of the war and the constant, thick hostility in a place that he has called home ever since he was an eleven-year-old dragged Harry into a hole of despair and hopelessness that he couldn't seem to get out of. His only respite was the comfort Ginny provided with her touch. Sex is also one of the outlets for releasing the constant tension in his body; but lately, even that isn't enough.
Harry releases a sigh once again. A knock against his office door startles him from his musings. He clears his throat and answers, "Come in."
"Mate, our shift's on." Ron pops his head in, grinning unassumingly at the black-haired man. "You ready?"
"Yeah," he mutters, grinning weakly back. He cranks his neck from side to side, hearing the expected crack and grinning more genuinely when Ron cringes and makes a face at him. Harry laughs, stands up, and smooths down his uniform robes. "Need to work out some. Everything's been so boring lately," he comments.
"You always say that," Ron accuses harmlessly; nonetheless Harry inwardly flinches. When even Ron can so easily call him on his restlessness, then he wasn't doing as much of a good job in hiding his unease as he thought he was. He definitely needs to figure out his problem before it worries the people around him seriously.
They go out of the small office. Harry locks the door with a flick of his wand, feeling the wards bend then slot into place, before tucking the wand in his holster and following swiftly at Ron's heels. They walk through the aisles separating the open cubicles that comprise the Auror Office. He checks the time when they pass a wall clock and almost stops in surprise when he realizes that he's been lost in his thoughts for almost two hours. There is nothing for it; clearly, it's necessary for him to find another outlet, instead of wasting precious time whiling away and doing nothing but wallowing in ennui.
Hopefully, this patrol throughout a wizarding community near the outskirts of Britain will prove interesting.
They arrive at the Apparition ports, nodding to the other members of their unit. There is Adrian Pucey, who is their senior by two years. Harry remembers him as the Slytherin Chaser who didn't play as foully as the rest of his team. He also wasn't involved in the war, as far as Harry could recall. Pucey is a decent Auror. He has good reflexes and a rather extensive repertoire of spells, and he wasn't squeamish about apprehending previous Housemates when they were on their past missions.
There is Fay Dunbar, the only witch in their unit. She was one of the few females in Hogwarts who were outspoken in their wish to become an Auror. Harry remembers sharing his N.E.W.T.-level classes with the steadfast girl. Dunbar has gone a long way from the excitable, brash, tomboyish Gryffindor girl and has transformed into a committed and dependable woman who is firm in her job as an upholder of the law.
The last person to complete their five-membered unit is, surprisingly enough, Marcus Belby. The unassuming and rather unremarkable Ravenclaw that Harry remembers seeing in Professor Slughorn's parties has turned into a robust, strong young man. It was difficult at first to reconcile the well-formed man with the memory of a fairly healthy boy who hid behind mountains of pies. Nevertheless, Belby is almost the perfect antithesis to the brains-or-brawn stereotype, and this attribute has served their team well during stealth, recon and undercover missions.
They all enter the ports separately, their red robes flaring as they turned on their spots and Disapparated with a crack.
The Aurors arrive at their destination with little trouble. Harry straightens fluidly, sharp eyes surveying the village beyond the forest edge they were currently hidden behind. It is as the mission report showed: a quaint little community with square houses and a small shopping center half a kilometer away. He couldn't see anything that could call for the presence of Aurors. They were only there for their afternoon rounds to ensure the safety of the civilians.
For a moment, Harry lets disappointment course through his veins before he squashes it. The safety and security that peace lends to these people are definitely worth more than a skirmish that he can let his frustrations out on. He shouldn't be disappointed. He shouldn't be disappointed at all.
And yet, you are, the sinister voice in his head accuses gleefully. You would rather have Death Eaters running around and wreaking havoc in this peaceful little village, killing innocent people, just to have something to vent your agitation on. Isn't that what you really want, Harry?
It's times like this that Harry doubts his sanity, and considers the possibility of Voldemort's Horcrux still residing within his mind.
You aren't as golden as you make them believe.
Harry reinforces his Occlumency shields, blocking out the voice that has haunted his mind since after the war. It wouldn't do to get distracted on a mission, even one as simple as this. He'll deal with his personal demons after in the privacy of his home.
He signals his team forward, walking ahead with wide, unhurried strides. A calm washes over him, as it always does when he's on assignment. His job is one of the reasons that he's kept his head on his shoulders these days. Without it, well...
Harry doesn't want to think about the possibilities.
"You know the drill," Harry says crisply. "Pair off, patrol around and report at the first sighting of anything suspicious or unusual. I'll follow shortly." He watches as they all nod in affirmative and walk away, Ron with Dunbar and Belby with Pucey.
He locates the distinct station of the resident Auror in town. Having local Auror offices in isolated communities is a new addition to the Ministry system. It's always better to have a handful of trained wizards near to protect the civilians from any imminent danger. Harry himself was assigned on rota to some villages he'd never been to before in his second year in the force. He was only crossed off the rota when Head Auror Gawain Robards promoted him to Assistant Head earlier this year.
He enters the simple, almost unfurnished brown building. He steps onto the wooden planks and turns, spotting the red-robed wizard immediately. "Auror Williamson," Harry greets amiably.
Williamson stands up from his desk, his long ponytail swishing from the sudden movement. "Potter! To what do I owe the pleasure?" He swipes his sweaty hand down his robes before offering it to the dark-haired man. Harry clasps the man's hand firmly before letting go, wandlessly and nonverbally drying off his moist hand afterwards.
"Just the usual, Williamson. Anything significant to report?" Harry asks.
"Nah, nothing of the sort. Everything's been a bit peaceful lately. Too peaceful, to be honest. It doesn't help my old bones from crumbling to dust with disuse," Williamson replies, grinning crookedly at the younger wizard.
Harry chuckles in agreement. He studies the older wizard in front of him. Wrinkles had deeply set in the older Auror's face, likely due to his line of work and the stress of the past war. The gray hairs in his long mane are generously sprinkled, leaving only a few auburn strands to brightly shine through and offset the monochrome tone his head had adapted. An ugly scar runs from his jaw to the collar of his robes, probably running even farther than what's exposed. He was aging fast, appearing far older than what his age really is.
Will I even get to that age? Harry muses, if a bit detachedly. With everything that's been happening to me lately... Or rather, what's not happening...
He'd go insane.
He blinks off his daze, before nodding to the other Auror. "I'll be around. Alert me if anything is amiss."
"Aye, Potter."
He exits the office quickly, wanting to get away from the presence of the old Auror and what thoughts he invokes in him.
He proceeds to the shopping center. It is a quaint, modest place that takes more after a miniature Hogsmeade than a Diagon Alley. Most of the shops are still open, selling products ranging from fresh wet goods to tailored cloaks and robes. People are milling about, creating a mild hustle and bustle that belies the normalcy and monotony of a common afternoon.
He walks around, weaving through alleyways and checking any hidden nook where a criminal would normally take cover. There isn't anything out of the ordinary, and the tediousness of the patrol makes even the usual calm Harry feels thin and waver.
He leans against the wall of a homely café, one leg propping him up and hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers where his outer robe falls open. He keeps silent, brilliant green eyes watching the wizards and witches around him idly.
Suddenly, a little boy comes up to him. He looks to be around six or seven-years-old, very short compared to Harry's very tall stature, with a pale complexion, wavy, tousled dark hair and bright slate eyes.
Harry straightens himself up quickly, his left hand falling to his side while his right hand grips his wand tightly. His green eyes are sharp and a little disbelieving, as he stares intently at the child who looks so much like a little version of him.
Memories of an orphanage and a little boy with a sinister glint to his intense slate eyes flash by in Harry's mind's eye.
Harry's heart rate picks up.
"Um," Harry clears his throat, "hullo there. What can I help you with?"
The little boy tilts his head to the side, staring curiously up at the tall wizard. A beatific smile graces his lips and he answers, "Hello, Harry."
Harry's heart stops cold, eyes widening in shock.
It couldn't be.
Time slows as his vision narrows down into just the young boy in front of him. Harry swallows hard, his heart coming alive and beating faster than ever, his grip on his wand tightening almost painfully.
The little boy's smile falters slightly, before it fully morphs into a concerned frown. "Are you alright, Mr. Potter? You are Harry Potter, right sir?" the boy asks hesitantly, hopefully, biting his bottom lip, slate eyes wide and confused.
The reply returns time into normal working order, and Harry's vision clears. He just recognizes me, that's all. Of course, because I'm bloody Harry Potter. Harry swipes his tongue over his suddenly dry lips, shaking himself out of the stupor he went under. He smiles shakily at the little boy. "I'm fine, thank you. Yes, I'm Harry Potter."
The beatific smile returns to the boy's lips. He beams up at Harry and exclaims, "Thank you for saving us during the war, sir! We were safe from... from—You-Know-W-Who... because of you." The boy shivers as if in fright at the thought of Voldemort. The smile returns to his face again when he says, "My mama said that when I see you, I must give you a really big, tight hug!"
The boy's enthusiasm shakes off the last of Harry's doubts. Don't be a bloody pillock, Harry scolds himself, trying to calm down. He's dead. Him being alive... is just me being nuts and too paranoid for my own good.
He chuckles a little and crouches down when the little boy offers his arms upwards. The boy wriggles in his hold for a moment, his too short arms trying to get around Harry's frame before giving up and just slumping forward into Harry's chest. Harry watches the boy in amusement, staying in the embrace for a while before pulling away.
"What's your name?" Harry asks.
"My name is To—"
Harry's heart seems to like stopping, this afternoon.
This boy is definitely not good for his health.
"—rian Miller, Mr. Potter," the boy finishes.
Harry breathes a sigh of relief. "That's a very handsome name, Torian." He pats the soft waves on the boy's head. "Now, be a good boy and go back to your mum. She'd certainly be worried about your disappearance."
As if on cue, a worried voice cries out to them, "Oh, Torian! I thought I lost you!" A beautiful woman runs towards the boy. Torian turns ashamedly to his mother, muttering an apologetic, "Sorry, mama," before beaming and tugging the woman to Harry's place. "I met Harry Potter!"
The woman turns grateful eyes to him and says, "Thank you, Mr. Potter. I hope he didn't trouble you too much. My boy tends to be quite adventurous when we go out. It's a relief that you're the one that has piqued his curiosity this time. If it were anybody else..." the woman trails off worriedly.
Harry shakes his head and offers a mild smile. "It's fine, ma'am." He crouches down once again to be level with the little boy. "Torian, don't approach wizards that you don't know, okay? There are some dangerous strangers out there, and your mum and the Aurors cannot always be around to save you in time," Harry says firmly. "Promise me?"
"I promise, Mr. Potter!" the boy responds solemnly, before coming forward again and giving Harry a quick, tight hug. "Thanks again, sir!"
Harry waves as the mother and son walk away. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, before eyeing the setting sun and deciding to do one more round of the shopping center.
°.
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In his way back to the village, Harry replays the events that happened that afternoon. More importantly, he examines the rush of emotions that went through him when he met the peculiar little boy.
Torian reminded Harry of a little Tom Riddle. The resemblance between the two is uncanny. But at a closer examination, Torian's face was a little rounder, his mouth a little thinner, his hair color a little lighter, and his eye color a few shades off. There was also the absence of the intelligent, yet cruel spark in his eyes that Tom Riddle has always harbored, even when he was just a child.
What he felt when he was confronted by the little boy, with the almost casual tone Torian had uttered his first name with, combined with his familiar features... it wasn't panic, nor was it fear.
It was excitement.
And Harry doesn't quite know what to make of that.
°.
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ϟ
. . .
End A/N: Not much dialogue in this chapter, but I wanted to set the stage and orient you guys as to where we are in canon timeline. I wanted to stay true to the details in canon, but I've adjusted a few to suit this fic's plot (not too significant, anyways). There's also the matter of Harry possessing a muggle pen. I find it ridiculous that the wizarding world uses quills instead of practical ballpoint pens, however cool quills are. (I'm also perfectly aware of the existence of special quills that are charmed to do who-knows-what.) For the sake of the chapter's beginning (and a small way to introduce Harry's restlessness—which we'll definitely see more of in the next chapters), Harry in this universe possesses a few muggle pens.
I want to hear what you guys think of this new project. :D I know I should be working on my other fics, but this won't just leave my mind. Believe me, I'm trying to finish the new chapters to MG and wlgld. Hopefully, I'll be able to upload them soon. Life since 2011 has been a crazy roller coaster ride, and I'm really sorry for leaving the fics on hiatus for such a long time. I don't want to be one of those authors who leaves their fics unfinished, and I'll definitely finish anything that I'll put out here. Hopefully, during my break I can write out a good length to build up my buffer before I dive into med school.
Thanks for reading!