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'Cruel he looks, but calm and strong,
Like one who does, not suffers wrong.'
— Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound
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~ v ~
The Waking of the Ghost
Invitations
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Harry took a sip from the warm, churning black coffee in his pristine white cup and winced at the strong, definitely acquired taste. He set the cup back down on the coaster, before turning back to the paper in his hands — he sure as hell needed the dosage of caffeine, considering he had been plagued with nightmares filled with Voldemort being tortured by demons (red with horns and pitchforks and all), and various other unsettling images involving the slightly inhuman eyes of the ghost wide and not right. Hell, he needed the extra help just because he had lived through a conversation with the madman. He gave another deep, long sigh, an act he had begun to make a habit of, before shaking his head. He was determined to let Voldemort wallow in his own ineffectiveness and failure, if only because the ghost deserved nothing less.
Alright, so he was lying to himself.
He didn't want Voldemort to suffer, he knew the man had suffered enough throughout his life (Harry wasn't oblivious to their similar pasts, after all), but the man, ghost, creature was as psychotic as ever. Vain, arrogant to a fault, and it would definitely not be accepting any help from him any time soon. He had been thinking it over for the past two days, and no matter what scenario he managed to come up with, it ended up with either one of them shouting insults at each other. Or Harry on the ground because of some mind trick the ghost was capable of, screaming his lungs out with no one to help him. And he didn't necessarily want that outcome, nor did he want to bring someone along with him to help the madman.
"Oh, ugh," he found himself telling his coffee cup, "Helping Voldemort? Not exactly two words you hear in the same sentence everyday."
And now he was talking to himself. Because of Voldemort. Lovely, he thought with a huff, violently flipping to page eight of the Prophet with more force than needed. He nearly tore the page off. Page eight contained the majority of the tabloids type articles, including the ones about him, and what people speculated he was doing on his month long vacation. Also about why his friends hadn't been invited: especially one Ginevra Weasley.
Ginny. Harry shook his head and tossed the paper to the side, where it vanished before it hit the floor. Annoyed, he downed the rest of his coffee without gagging on the rich flavor, and cleared the table with a wave of his wand. He did love magic, for all of its convenience in not doing the menial chores that had ruined his life under the Dursley's.
Now, he had more pressing matters to attend to, such as placating a murderous ghost so that he might help it. Or at least have a civil conversation that didn't end up in another screaming match with cold hands and phantom attacks. He exhaled deeply and spread his hands across his round oak table. Currently, he was sitted in the kitchen, his bare feet on the black-and-white tiles, wearing nothing but a pair of black pants. Rubbing his temples at trying to figure out what could calm the rage the man would no doubt feel upon seeing him other than his decapitated head. Summoning a pen and a piece of parchment to him, he began to write down his thoughts neatly on paper.
First, Voldemort was still a psycopath (nothing new there), and probably wanted Harry to join him in death.
Another was that the deceased Dark Lord had definitely spent the past two years in utter seclusion from human contact.
Harry was not an expert on human psychology, or on the mind at all, but he knew that seclusion always made matters worse. His own personal experiences lead to that conclusion. So, he had a deranged, and probably mentally ill ghost — if that was even possible — and his own temper to deal with. He found himself sighing again. What, other than contact that would doubtlessly be rejected, and his head would appease the ex-Lord?
Oh.
"Duh, Harry!" Harry exclaimed, smacking his palm against the table, "What did Voldemort appreciate just as much as power? Knowledge! I'll bring him a book!"
However, knowing what to bring lead to an even bigger dilemna; what did one bring a Dark Lord to read?
Groaning, and not under the delusion that he could waltz into the nearest bookstore and ask 'what would be the best thing to bring to a deceased, complete psychopath who is incapable of expressing any emotion other than hate?' without being hauled off to an asylum, no matter what his status in society was. Especially considering that he had been the one to kill said man. He sucked on his tongue as he thought off all that he could bring, and finally got up out of seat to head into his study. There was bound to be something in there, considering Hermione had been the one to stock it, saying that he was incapable of telling the good literature from the bad. It wasn't that he didn't like to read, it was that he didn't favor intellectual texts.
He preferred fantasies. It was a simple state of fact, but he enjoyed gallavanting adventures involving sinister plots, twists and turns, and terms such as fate, destiny, and justice.
But he doubted Voldemort would enjoy those sorts of stories, so he turned to the menacing looking tomes that Hermione had gifted him on numerous occasions.
Eventually, after a full twenty minutes of trying to decipher the mumble-jumble on the backs of the books and within, he merely grabbed one and headed to his bedroom so he could get dressed before visiting the graveyard where Voldemort resided. He shivered while making a face that described his disgust in a rather well-fitting, childish manner, and snickered at his own immaturity. Fully dressed in clothes that would (hopefully) not make the ghost mad over something as banal as the clothes being muggle, he picked up the menacing book and vanished with a soft crack.
He landed on the dew covered dark grass without falling or stumbling, which was generally a miraculous feat, but he shoved it aside for a moment to look for the ghost. When he didn't spot it, he frowned, and headed over to the dead man's grave, only to find the flowers that he had left there torn apart and scattered every which way. Well, that was rude, he thought, offended. He did something kind, and this was how he was repaid? Voldemort was lucky Harry wasn't as vindictive as he tried to be, else he would be dealing with an exorcist at this point.
Still, the fact that the ghost was nowhere to be seen was concerning.
"Er, Voldemort?" Harry whispered, looking around, finding nothing. There was no reaction from anywhere. Good lord, he was going to regret this, "Look. I'm sorry about that — "
"Shut up!" came the growl, and it appeared to be coming from the ground.
Flummoxed, he managed a stuttered, "Wh- wh- what the hell?" Just before he jumped backwards, staring where his scuffed shoes had just been.
Rising from the earth like some sort of vengeful demon (or mutilated angel), with his red eyes burning and lacking the glassy gleam of before, and the ghost snarled, "I told you not to come back, Potter! So what are you doing here? Come to take us to the Unspeakables so they can dissect usss...?"
Merlin, Voldemort was in an accusatory mood.
Instead of retaliating in a venemous tone, he managed to restrain himself enough to present the book, "No. I brought you a book."
"A book?" Voldemort echoed, the closest thing to surprise Harry had ever heard evident in his soft question. And then the long, pale fingers were wrapping around the seemingly nondescript volume. The ghost pulled it to his chest and a happy look fluttered across its face. Happy looked odd on Voldemort, but it also looked right, considering the man was hardly ever happy. Or rather, it was the happiness over something so innocent as a book that looked right on his face. None of that manical glee of torturing someone or watching a muggle be maimed nor turned into a bloody pulp was present in that look of pure elation.
He retreated to his tombstone, and slid down until he was resting against it, book open against his knees as he palmed through it.
Whatever the content of the book might have been, the megalomaniac appeared to enjoy it, and his happiness had turned into abject intensity as his eyes ran over the words printed on the crisp white pages.
Harry stayed silent, refraining from commenting on the humanity of the gestures the ghost was using, and slid to the ground so he could watch the dead man. The more he watched, the more he noticed the miniscule changes in the ghost's expressions as he read. Thin lips would twitch every so often, and on occasion his fingers would begin to tremble as though he could not believe he was holding a book. Marble eyes remained in a constant state of innocent wideness as he absorbed the information presented to him in the pages. It was strange seeing the evil man as a human being, despite the fact that he was not, and the quiet desperation at having some creature comfort was nearly endearing. Except that it was not. There was absolutely no reason that the psychopath could be thought of as endearing.
Clearly, there was something wrong with him. Especially when he was considering something as insane as —
He coughed, which barely drew Voldemort's attention, and huffed heavily afterward.
I'm mad, absolutely mad, he mused, and then his mouth was opening of its own accord. Before the words could slip out, he managed to cover his mouth. The words were muffled enough that the ghost paid no attention to him as he waged his internal war. He was not considering it. He was not, again, he was not. You see, you are not going to say it. You can control it, you know you can, control the impulse, control that 'saving-people' thing —
"I have more books at home."
Are you an idiot?
Harry silenced his subconscious when Voldemort snapped his head up to stare at him as though he had grown a second head. In this situation, he didn't doubt it, either.
"... what?" the ghost uttered, snapping the book in his hands shut. His eyes were still all milky and not right, but there was interest there.
"I imagine that it's rather, uh, horrible being stuck here with nothing to do so..., uhm," Harry said, trying to keep the awkwardness out of his voice, but ultimately failing. He was sure that this was more awkward than that conversation with Ginny that had ultimately lead to his vacation in the first place. "Alright, look, I'm sorry for killing you, because I didn't want to be a murderer and all, but... uhm... what I'm saying is, spending the rest of your, er, existence will probably be better off in contact with someone human and — "
"Get to the point, boy..." Voldemort hissed, towering over Harry, having some point stood during the unintelligent drivel.
Harry blurted out, "You should come live with me."
Voldemort blinked. He blinked once, twice, and still he was unable to reply to Harry's statement. Under any other circumstances, it would have been an accomplishment to make Voldemort speechless, but this was one of those moments where he would have preferred an angry tyrade to silence. It was one of those silences that made him shift and wriggle while he couldn't do anything to interrupt the all encompassing doom.
"I hate you," Voldemort informed him.
He felt the need to defend himself, "You hardly know me."
Red eyes narrowed into slits, and the nostrils set into that smooth face flared, "Indeed." It was a cryptic response neither denying nor accepting.
"It can't hurt," Harry muttered, "Plus, I could use the company, however much of an arse you are."
Voldemort hissed, before he stopped saying whatever insult he was about to spout. He stood, back rigid and head tilted in a thoughtful manner, his eyes darting from side to side in suspicion, "We shall have our freedom? You won't restrict our actions like most would?"
"Short from killing me."
He wasn't sure whether to be unnerved by the creeping smile on Voldemort's face, or happy by what the ghost said next, "Then we suppose Lord Voldemort shall grant you the pleasure of his company."
Barmy. He was barmy. They both were. But at that moment, he wasn't sure who was more of a loon.
A/N: Let it be known that Harry was never known for tact. At least in my opinion. Nor Voldemort, but that's something else entirely. Also, yeah. I'm sure Harry's plan to "help Lord Voldemort" will go over smoothly. If the ending seems awkward, good. That's because it is. The act itself seemed inately wrong but right, considering all the events, so it would have been an awkward and nutty situation regardless of who it was involved. No one generally goes inviting people they killed's ghosts into their homes. Unless you're Harry Potter (apparently) or utterly insane.
... probably.
[author's note written with level snape sarcastic tone]