AU from second year. Tom Riddle manages to absorb Ginny's energy in the Chamber of Secrets. He is restored as a complete person -- now, how will Harry deal with two Voldemorts on the loose? And how will they deal with each other?
* * * Chapter 2: A Family Heirloom * * *
Tom appeared outside the gates of the Gaunt shack in Little Hangleton with a loud crack. He walked purposefully through the rotten old wooden gate and up the short drive. It was odd to see the Gaunt house today, so much more decrepit and wasted than it had been the last time he'd seen it. During what felt to him like a year, fifty years had actually gone by. It was amazing, considering, that the Muggle repulsion charms were still working.
Tom was the second section of Voldemort's soul that had been sheared off, created in the spring of his sixth year at Hogwarts. He'd been made his first Horcrux the summer after his fifth year, and that was today's quarry.
The house was covered in dust and mold. A mangy old dog had died in one corner of the living room and rat pellets littered every floor. These were scraped aside with Tom's foot as he looked for that old floorboard....
It wasn't hard to find: his foot fell right through it when he stepped on it, such was the rot. After he tugged his foot free from the little hole, he pulled the remnants of the board away and – there!
A little golden box sat in the depression. He pulled it out with a fierce grin and popped it open.
The little silver ring gleamed as if it has been polished yesterday. Tom stuffed it in his pocket and discarded the box casually behind him as he stood up.
Something flashed in the corner of his eye, down in the depression. An oddly shining little scrap of the mangled floorboard lay down there. But – no...!
It was a wand. A shining wand of yew. He snatched it up with no reservations – yes, it was his old wand, the wand he'd so recently parted with. Its touch sent tingles up and down his whole body. He kissed it like a lover he'd thought for dead.
But Tom wasn't the sort of person to waste much time on sappy reunions. He put his wand to work immediately:
"Arripanimam!"
His wand was forced out of his hand as green cords connected his palms to the silver ring, like two mossy umbilical cords. He felt like he was getting electrocuted – he hastened to control the flow, lest he be overwhelmed and knocked unconscious, or worse. Eventually, he got his barrings, and took in the ring's energy and knowledge and spirit slowly and carefully....
Ideas he'd banished from his mind as foolish months ago were suddenly on his mind again. Power rippled through his essence, threatening to overflow his reservoir. A spirit mingled with his, brushing against his soul curiously, probingly. Then, all at once, the soul in the ring combined with his own.
* * *
SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES, the headline read. Thoughts flashed through Tom's head – the Blacks – Phineas Nigellus, the last Slytherin Headmaster – a dark family – one of the oldest lines.
On his gut feeling, he casually summoned the newspaper into his hands as he passed by the bin.
What he read in the paper greatly intrigued him.
* * *
Ron didn't respond to any of Harry's letters. Hermione, on the other hand, sent him several two-foot long essays about how it wasn't Harry's fault that Ginny was dead. She also reported to Harry that Ron's family had won some sort of lottery and had gone to vacation in Egypt. Harry was glad his friend and his family were getting some vacation time. If anyone deserved it, it was them.
He spent most of his days staring at the ceiling of his tiny room, eating only once every day or two, talking to no one except Hedwig, never going outside. He took out a subscription to the Daily Prophet to look for news of Tom – but, in all the huge stack of newspapers in the corner of his room, not one of them had a single mention of the Heir of Slytherin or his doings or his whereabouts. Except one small hint:
SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES
By Emeline Brontwurst
Sirius Black became the first man to ever escape from Azkaban on Sunday...
...Key man of You-Know-Who...
...Killed thirteen people with a single curse...
...There's been no sign of him. The Ministry is at a loss...
...the Minister for Magic today, who called Black "the right-hand man of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."...
Was it the work of Tom? How could it be anything else? Voldemort's right-hand man doing the impossible by escaping Azkaban, a month and a half after Voldemort's Horcrux regains a body – there was no other explanation.
Harry felt like he'd been woken up from a dream. How could he dally like this, with Tom Riddle out there gaining power by the minute? He was wasting his life away, staring at a ceiling, doing nothing.
Someone knocked on his door. Without waiting to be told to come in, Uncle Vernon swing the door open. Harry lazily pointed his wand at his uncle, but didn't otherwise acknowledge the man as he stared down at the newspaper, reading it again and again.
"My sister's coming to visit us for a week. I'm picking her up tomorrow. You're to be on your best behavior. And – take a shower, boy, you stink like all hell," Uncle Vernon said, and slammed the door closed again.
He wasn't disturbed again until midnight, which is when several owls burst through his open window, each carrying a package. He relieved them all, and then sent each one except Hedwig on their way. Then, with nothing better to do, he began opening the presents. The first one was a broom servicing kit from Hermione. He read her letter:
Happy birthday, Harry!
I hope this finds you well. I want to tell you again that what happened to Ginny wasn't your fault, Harry. You tried the best you could. You can't always get the better of You-Know-Who. Please try to forgive yourself.
I got you this because I thought flying a bit might cheer you up. If you like, I'd be more than happy to meet you at the London Quidditch Stadium where you can fly around a bit. There might even be a recruiter there – you never know! Write me back if you want to meet me. I'm in France in the moment, but I can floo back to London any time you like.
Try to have some fun, Harry.
With love,
Hermione
Harry stared at the letter for a moment. Hermione was stumbling all over herself trying to cheer Harry up. Offering to floo back from France at his whim – it was too much. He felt grateful, but also a bit annoyed, because it almost seemed to him like Hermione was trying to make him feel guilty for being depressed. It was paranoid to think like that, and he knew it, but he couldn't help it.
He put the letter and the kit aside and moved on to the next one. Hagrid had sent him a cheery letter and the Monster Book of Monsters, which gave Harry quite a start. He managed to pin it under one of the legs of his bed, and then moved on, putting the attached Hogwarts letter aside.
There was one more envelope, which had been delivered by an owl Harry didn't recognize.
Dear cousin, it began, and Harry's heart started beating more quickly.
I hope you're hard at work learning new curses to destroy me. I'd be very disappointed if you were just moping like an idiot. I will come back and kill you, or join forces with you, eventually, so please don't insult me by not properly preparing.
I tried sending you cursed letters, Portkeys and several other traps, but they didn't get through your wards. I'll have to try killing you in some other way. Or not, eh, cousin?
You know, you're the only person I really know now. It seems like I went forward in time to find all of my friends dead, in Azkaban, or, the worst, turned into politicians. Very sad. But, on the up, Sirius Black escaped from prison. First one ever to do so – I knew I had good taste. Hopefully, he's as loyal as they say; I'm going to attempt to communicate with him.
Remember to prepare for me! Be good sport for me, eh?
Sincerely,
Tom
Harry stared at the letter for a long time, dumbfounded. Voldemort was sending him cheery birthday greetings. What a nightmare. Harry was putting the envelope aside when he felt a small bump in it. He pulled out a silver ring with an ugly, gray center stone that had a triangular design etched into it. Another small scrap of paper was in the envelope as well:
Our family ring! Enjoy it, cousin. I already took what I want out of it, so you can have it. It'll give you access to the Gaunt Family Vault – and all seven knuts still in there. Buy a Cockroach Cluster for yourself.
Harry stared at the ring for a moment and certainly did not put it on. He set it aside instead. Hermione was right, he needed to get out – there was no way that this was actually happening, and if he's been in his room staring at the ceiling for long enough to start hallucinating, something had to change. With that thought in mind, Harry pulled his Nimbus and invisibility cloak out of his trunk and went for a midnight fly.
The cold air was refreshing and invigorating. He felt like he'd slept so much that summer that he'd built up a huge store of energy, bursting to be released, and stayed out until well past dawn doing dives and loops and scaring the ducks and pidgeons.
When he got back, it was midmorning. He flew carefully in through his open window, then discarded his cloak and broom on the floor and headed downstairs. He'd stayed out until he was absolutely starving.
Aunt Marge, Aunt Petunia and Dudley were sitting in the kitchen sipping tea together. Uncle Vernon had his head in the refrigerator, looking for something to eat. Harry greeted them cheerily, "Good morning, family!"
They all jumped. Uncle Vernon knocked his head into a shelf in the fridge and the shelf fell out of place. Milk, juice, yogurt and various kinds of cheeses spilled all over the floor. Uncle Vernon slammed the fridge door shut and turned to Harry, enraged. "BOY -- !" he began, but then paled when he saw the wand Harry was idly twirling in his fingers.
"What's for lunch?" Harry asked, smiling broadly. His wand slipped a bit in his fingers and a few sparks shot out of it as he grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter.
"Dudley," Aunt Marge burst out, "where's that Smelting Stick of yours? This boy needs to learn some manners!"
But Dudley didn't get up. He was staring at Harry's wand in horrified fascination. "I said, what's for lunch," Harry intoned, gesturing around with his wand threateningly. "Maybe frog soup?" he suggested, smirking. "Or roast pig?" he added, glancing meaningfully at Dudley. That was all Dudley could take, as it turned out – he rushed out the back door, squealing and clutching his rump, and Harry watched through the window as he attempted to hop the fence into the neighbors yard. He succeeded in pulling a board right off the fence instead.
"Well, hop to it," he said dismissively, and turned around. Aunt Marge was roaring in outrage, threatening to beat him silly – but she was a huge woman and was having trouble getting out of her seat to come after him.
He slipped out of the kitchen casually, and headed down to the basement.
"Let's see..." he muttered to himself, going through boxes. This one's got Christmas decorations; here's a broken microwave; old telly; some of Vernon's old clothes... "Ah-ha!"
A box of camping gear, complete with a tent in a bag, a couple of sleeping bags, some crummy pots and pans, and a little kerosene burner. This last was what he took after a careful inspection – the little tank of white gas indicated it was about 97% full – no doubt the Dursleys had given up on their first cooking experiment with the burner and had gone out for chips instead.
Harry spent the next half-hour clearing a little space in the middle of the boxes and debris, then he went for lunch.
Everyone was still there. On the counter, there were several plates of sandwiches, sliced apples, bananas, little wax-covered bits of cheese and three kids of juice. Harry casually walked around the counter and sat down between Dudley and Petunia.
"Oh, thank you, Dudley. How thoughtful," he said as he took Dudley's plate away from him. "All my favorites," he added, digging into one of the little sandwiches.
Dudley glared daggers at him for a moment, before he suddenly caught sight of Harry's wand. Then he just got up and served himself a new plate.
Everyone was silent as they ate. Even Marge was acting nervous – no doubt the Dursleys had fed her some lie to explain: he always behaved like this, was in fact quite sociopathic, according to the counselors of his school for criminals, and it was better not to make him angry if you didn't want to wake up to find that he'd done something wicked in the night.
That was perfectly fine for Harry. All he'd ever wanted was some peace and quiet.
Ripper, Marge's nasty little dog, bound into the room barking like a madman. He immediately latched on to Harry's leg and ripped at his pants furiously.
"Call the dog off, Marge," Harry said, calm as you please.
"Sic him, Ripper," Aunt Marge chuckled. Her jowls jiggled nastily; Harry felt suddenly ill watching her – maybe it was time to cut this luncheon short, anyway.
"Call the dog off or you'll wake up without a hair on your head," Harry threatened. His voice was unconcerned. The dog was very small, and wasn't doing any damage beyond ripping up some of Dudley's huge old pants. Aunt Petunia grabbed Aunt Marge's arm and nodded anxiously, but Marge wouldn't relent. She laughed again.
"All bark and no bite, you," she sneered. "Little Ripper will tear you to shreds."
He pushed back his chair, loudly scraping it over the linoleum floor. He politely excused himself, kicked Ripper in the ribs, said, "I'll be needing some new pants, I suppose, Uncle Vernon," and headed back to the basement.
In short order, a sturdy little metal table was moved into the center of the room. Harry cut a hole in the middle of it to nest the burner in, then fastened a bit of a flattened steel bicycle rim above it. His cauldron was placed gently on top.
Another table was covered in several of Aunt Petunia's cutting boards. Another in little jars and bottles and sacks of ingredients: newt eyes floated in a bluish liquid, little rat tails wriggled in their sack as if they still had a rat attached.
Then he threw on a Hogwarts robe and got to work. Within hours, he had several jars sitting in a corner of the basement, with labels reading pimple paste, swelling sltn, baldness balm and dimness drt. The second-year potions would be his primary defensive measure against the Muggles.
Whistling a jaunty tune, he scrubbed out the cauldron in the little plastic sink that the washing machine drained into, then headed upstairs with jars in hand.
Dear Hermione, he wrote with his little wooden dip pen,
I took your advice and went for a bit of a fly last night. I feel a lot better, it was a really good idea, so thank you. And thanks for the broom kit, too, it's excellent. I swear my Nimbus went faster than ever after I polished and groomed it.
My uncle's sister, Marge, is over. She's a real nightmare, but I haven't had to be in the same room with her much, yet. Still, can't wait until she's gone.
I got a really strange letter for my birthday that I wanted to talk to you about. Tell me when you're back in England – but don't rush. I want to meet you somewhere. We can go to Diagon Alley together, if you like.
Don't worry too much, I'm getting better. How's Ron doing? He won't reply to my letters.
Harry
After the ink had dried, he cut his letter off of the parchment roll and folded it up very small. He stuck it in a little tiny leather bag, and tied that to the foot of his snowy owl. Harry watched Hedwig fly off until she was no longer visible.
That night, he went out flying again, practicing his dives by throwing a Galleon and then trying to catch it before it hit the ground. Maybe it was illegal to fly around over Muggle rooftops, but it reminded Harry that he was a wizard – something that was easy to forget over a long summer vacation. Besides, he was invisible!
* * *
Harry fingered the small gold coin in his hand, surveying the neighborhood from above. The moon was nearly full, but Harry's cloak prevented anyone from seeing him. He lifted the front tip of the Nimbus slightly, and drifted slowly upwards.
He passed through the clouds, soaking himself to the skin. It felt nice, though, to get a little bit wet – like going for a summer swim – so instead of bursting up above the clouds, he bent over his broom and urged it forward with a slight movement of the hips – he zoomed right through the thick haze, invisible to all the Muggles below, and let out a laugh of joy as he burst up through the roof of the clouds.
Behind him, he could see a straight line, marking the path he had taken, cut through the cloud. Maybe he wasn't as invisible as he'd thought. He laughed again.
He soared up, up, up, wondering how high his broom could go. As a Seeker, he was used to being hundreds of feet above the ground, but a regulation Quidditch pitch ended two hundred yards up – the Snitch couldn't go above that, and any player who went that high suffered a penalty for his trouble. Now, he was perhaps four hundred yards up, wondering what his limit was. His ears popped over and over; the air was cold and hard to breathe up here, but he didn't care.
He took a big breath and zoomed up faster than ever. The clouds below looked like a vast gray carpet, featureless. Not too far to his left, a small propeller-plane was flying parallel to him, lights flashing like jolly, winking eyes.
He couldn't breathe at all, now, and was starting to get a dizzy headache. How many miles up was he? He couldn't see his house, or even his town, in the glowing urban haze below. His hair and cloak were crunching with ice. His eyes burned and his whole body ached from the cold and the lack of air.
He dropped the Galleon, closed his eyes and counted to ten, and dove.
He couldn't see it – it was far below him and it was just too dark. So he measured the wind, estimated the path the Galleon would likely take, and flew down.
It wasn't like skydiving at all. It was not a free-fall, and he didn't just reach a terminal velocity. He fell, faster and faster, pushing his Nimbus to accelerate more and more –
The Galleon! He spotted it, he was fast approaching it. It had stopped gaining speed, and was just sort of hanging there, spinning around frantically. He adjusted his course slightly, reached out his arm, and had it.
Then he passed down through the clouds in a flash – the water slammed against his face as he pummeled through it, and he pulled up on the Nimbus, urging it to slow – the clouds weren't far above the ground, the hard asphalt, someone's roof – he slowed as much as he could, but he knew he wouldn't be able to stop in time, he was just going too fast – Nimbuses were known for their acceleration, not their braking --
Something caught his eye – he aimed his broom for it, took a deep breath, and --
SPLASH!
His face smashed against the water, breaking the surface tension violently. He felt like he'd smashed into concrete. He was soon deep underwater, trying to stop, the Nimbus still hurtling to the bottom. The sides of his head felt like someone was smashing bricks into them, the pressure change hurting his ears – and then he slammed, hard, into the bottom of the lake.
He couldn't see anything – he choked on a mouthful of silt and water. Do brooms work underwater? He worried, frantic. He turned the Nimbus around and urged it, with all his might, to fly – to swim – up, up, up.
It was slow, and he was choking and spitting – he was drowning. But the pressure on his ears was lessening, so he knew he was going up. Suddenly, he saw the moon through the water, and then, a quarter of a heartbeat later, he was out, sputtering, panting, spitting, and grinning like a madman. He floated idly toward the shore, fingering the Galleon all the while. Somehow his cloak had even stayed on – unlike his shoe, which he seemed to have lost at the bottom of the lake.
"Crappy shoe anyway," he said to himself, grinning, as he landed on the shore. His uncle had been forced (by threat of Permanent Purpling Potion, which he'd demonstrated on the front door) to buy Harry a whole new wardrobe. Today, however, he was decked out entirely in his old rags. A lost shoe meant nothing to him, because he had several pairs of new shoes packed away in his trunk. He'd long whined that all of Dudley's hand-me-downs were far too big and baggy, but he was more understanding with Aunt Petunia now: he'd tried on X-Small shirts and as often as not found them too baggy. His pants size ended up being 28x32. It had taken a very long time for him to find a shop with clothes his size; but he had, and now he looked presentable, at least when he chose to wear those new clothes.
Cloak, robe, shirt were hung in a low branch as Harry sat down in a pile of prickly leaves under an old oak to enjoy the warm summer night. Wrestling with his last soggy trainer and his two soaked socks, Harry looked out at the lake, appreciating how the moon's mirror image danced entrancingly in the recently disturbed water. He eventually lay down, letting the hot breeze play against his still panting chest. He had no idea where he was – there was no lake within miles of Privet Drive – but he didn't let that concern him as he relaxed under the great old oak.
In a few days, he was going back to Hogwarts.
The last month of his summer had been an unintelligible jumble of flying and brewing and studying, interspersed with the occasional trip to Diagon Alley to refill his potions supplies or to check out a book from the London branch of the Central Wizard's Archive, the magical public library.
The thought of finally going back to Hogwarts led to him closing his eyes with a dopey grin. Quidditch, the ability to finally use his wand again, the enchanted staircases and the secret passages and the insulting portraits and the Great Hall, open to the sky above....
The giant snake leaped out of the lake and slithered forth. Harry started and jumped without delay onto his Nimbus and was ten feet into the air in two heartbeats. The snake got on its own Nimbus – the Two Thousand and One model, the only broom in the entire world faster than Harry's Nimbus Two Thousand – and Harry watched in shock as the snake hopped aboard, bent its knees, and – chased!
Harry pushed his broom to go faster, please --! but it was wet from the lake, bristles coated in silt and algae and worms... no, not worms – his bristles crawled with dozens of snakes – his bristles were snakes! He gave a shout and leaped off his broom to get away from the slithering little beasts, and then screamed again as he saw the town below racing towards him.
His fall was broken by the soft asphalt, to his relief – he bounced all down Privet Drive on his bum, the snake on the Two Thousand and One flying not far behind, gaining ground on him. He urged the pavement to bounce him higher, faster!, and it did.
He bounced high, high into the air, through the clouds, and then landed right behind the snake on the Two Thousand and One. He had no choice in the matter, he would fall if he didn't, but Merlin help him for doing it – he wrapped his arms around the snake's waist and held on for his life.
The snake laughed nastily, and turned to look at Harry over its shoulder, and Harry saw its face and its face was Harry's. The Harry-snake said, "Hold on, tightly now, hold on!" and its forked tongue reached out and tickled Harry's nose.
Then they dove for the Galleon, and they reached out and caught it in their hand, both caught it with one hand, a shared hand –
Harry screamed.
Harry woke up.
Harry lay on the lake shore, bare chest and feet, soaking wet pants, filthy with mud. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, and the warm breeze had turned icy cold. Harry was freezing, desperately clutching the large black dog for warmth.
The dog looked at Harry with reassuring eyes, but Harry could not be calmed. He got on his Nimbus – his Two Thousand, there was no Two Thousand and One – and flew home. It took a long time to find his town, and then his neighborhood, and then his house – when he did, he flew right into the bathroom and took a shower. He fell asleep just as the sun rose, and, like his owl, slept all day long.
When he awoke, around five, he retrieved the little silver ring from his trunk and stared at it for a very long time.
That owl joined him in his flight the next night, and they raced and dove and maneuvered with joy. But he definitely didn't dive back into the lake. The snake and the dog he didn't see again – and he was not sure if he had seen them, or which of them he had seen and which was a dream.
* * *
Tom awoke early that morning. His hunt for Black had been bunk; not a single trace of the man was anywhere to be found. That was more or less as expected, he thought, considering that the man had evaded the Aurors and the dementors and, likely, Albus Dumbledore himself.
He cast a few simple illusions over himself and, as a redhead, Apparated to the mountainside just north of Hogsmeade.
Then he headed into the Forbidden Forest.