2.
Tom couldn't breathe- something heavy sat upon his chest, digging and compressing into his neck. He awoke with a startled, desperate gasp, hands raising to his neck. Fingertips brushed over the cold, metal chain of Slytherin's locket that dug into the skin. It was twisted so as to create a knot that kept it tight and short enough that it wound into his flesh, leaving an imprint from the thick and rather gaudy interlocking chain. His hands stilled when he saw what was atop him, causing his eyes to widen as pupils dilated.
A naked young woman was sitting on his chest, knees digging into the tender flesh below his rib cage. One hand was propping her up, her palm flat and fingers grazing the dip of his collarbone. The other was holding onto the pendant, gripping it tightly. Her elbow bent out behind her as she pulled the necklace further away from him, causing the noose to dig deeper into him and he choked out an incoherent sound.
Her skin was sallow, an unhealthy pallor that was present even before her death, gaunt and haggard despite her young age. Purple shadows fell beneath her sunken eyes, thin lips pinched in concentration as she continued to strangle him. Crimson freckles of dried blood dotted her face, smeared and coated her chin from where she coughed so heavily in illness.
"Stop-" he managed to wheeze, trying frantically to get a hold of the locket and loosen it as he tossed beneath her, twisting his torso to throw her off. But she was heavier than she appeared, smothering him despite looking just a bit too thin, her bones a bit too prominent.
She said nothing, only continued to gaze at him with unseeing gray eyes, looking through him.
His vision blurred, pinpricks of light filtering through as his blood thrummed in his head, like a wave of an ocean crashing onto him. He kicked out from under her, the heels of his feet digging so fiercely into the mattress that it pulled the sheet loose from the corners, entangling them in his thrashing limbs. Releasing the chain, he placed his hands on her slim shoulders and sat up as he gave her a great shove.
She was thrown from him, tossed into the side of the wardrobe at the foot of the bed. It shook, trembled as she catapulted into it, sliding into the small space between it and the metal frame, bent so that her knees met her chest and her feet twitched in the air.
The chain had loosened, snapping from its clasp to remained in her clenched hands, and he shuffled upright on the mattress until he was standing on the pillow, rubbing his sore and aching neck. Each breath was like fire filling his lungs, acrid smoke billowing around him and scorching the inside of his nostrils. His chest rose rapidly, unevenly as he greedily gulped in oxygen, wonderful and delightful oxygen that made the clouds filling his head dissipate, allowed his eyesight to focus.
He remained staring even as he took deep, decadent breaths, watching as her feet slowly disappeared from where they flailed as she slipped them onto the floor. Her eyes met his, though not really- they seemed to look beyond him, blankly staring at the wall behind his head. They were dead and glassy; coated in a film that made them look milky, the white of her eyes and gray irises blending together in the dullness.
"Who are you?" he asked, something familiar about the sharp contours in her face, her large but chapped and bloodied lips. Her hair was tucked behind somewhat large ears, long and a deep ebony color that made the deathly sheen of her skin all the more ghastly.
She considered him for a moment, dragging her teeth- a small gap between the front two- over her lips and peeling at the dead skin. As if in answer to his question, she rose her hand up, the metal chain of the locket wound in her thin fingers, the large pendant swaying with her movement.
He swallowed thickly, lips pursing as he pressed himself flat against the wall. He stayed there, propped against it as he sunk further into the mattress, unable to take his eyes away from the dead girl before him.
The locket continued to swing in her grasp, long after she had stilled.
-xXx-
The girl did not move from where she was wedged, her arm hung above her head so that the locket swayed in a nonexistent breeze. Though she did twist her head around, following Tom as he moved around the room with her vacant eyes. He regarded her warily, pinching his lips. "Get out," he had ordered. When she remained, legs stretched before her and under his bed, he growled, his voice booming as he barked, "GET OUT!" She was unfazed by the malice in his words, the murder in his eyes.
She was not like Potter had been.
She was not a visitor.
Not a passerby, wandering through.
She was a memory of a ghost.
And she was haunting him.
-xXx-
Tom pulled his arm back, bringing it down like a hammer as he swung the metal rod- ripped from his headboard- down onto the hinges of the door. The room was filled with a metallic clang, and the vibrations went through his hand, tingling up his arm from the collision. He frowned at the protruding hinge, not even tarnished in the slightest and then looked to the pole, a large dent caving it in. With a sigh, he sat back, his feet tucked below him and pinched the bridge of his nose.
There had to be a way out.
No door was impenetrable.
He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to collect his thoughts as he ran through a mental list of all the items in the small room (prison cell, more appropriately). One of them might be useful, if he could repurpose it, find a way to break free.
His thoughts were disrupted by the sound of papers shuffling, a book being flipped open. Feet scuffled along the floor, a sniffle, and finally a quill scratching on parchment, the sharpened tip dragging ink in loops and spikes. He swiveled around on his feet, raising the pole above his head as a makeshift weapon.
Sitting at the desk- her back to him- was a girl. A different, younger girl than the one between his bed and wardrobe, dark brown hair pulled into pigtails that hung at uneven heights, the part of her hair zigzagging down to reveal a gray scalp beneath. She was hunched over the table, her right shoulder quivering as the plume of a feather twirled in front of her.
He said nothing, fingers tightening around the rod as his eyes flitted over to the other one- the other ghost. She still hadn't moved, her chin resting on her shoulder as she strained to look at him from the awkward angle, the locket throwing shadows over her face as it swung before her.
Looking back to the new girl- ghost?- he propelled himself up from the floor and jumped forward, dragging the rod through the air with such speed it made a hissing sound. It was aimed at the center of her head- the divide of her hair acting as a target- and it came down heavily.
It was as if he had swung at a brick wall; electricity ran from the pole and into his hand, shooting up until his shoulder was trembling from the reverberation. He staggered, stumbling from the pain as his grip slackened and the pole fell to the floor. His wrist throbbed in agony, having snapped back with the sound of splintering bone when the rod bounced off the very terribly solid figment.
The quill was lifted from the pages of his diary as she twisted around to look at him through wide, wire-rimmed spectacles, sniffling in derision at him. Myrtle Warren tutted softly, tongue clucking behind teeth, before she turned back around and continued writing.
Writing what exactly, he did not know. He grasped his wrist, breathing through gritted teeth and snarled lips. "Please leave," he asked, and he tried to sound polite, he really did. But he was shaking with rage, with confusion and rage at his confusion. It was a punishment of some sort, but it did not make sense and if there was a lesson to be deigned, it was swathed so tightly within the enigma it was indiscernible. He was impossibly tired, unable to sleep with the cataract eyes watching him unblinking, and the inside of his mouth and throat was parched and constricted in thirst. He did not need to eat, yet he desired to do so and his stomach coiled around itself in clenching pain at being denied.
She ignored him, and he let out a roar of fury. Using his uninjured hand, he gripped the back of her head and slammed it down, dropping the full weight of his body against her own. Her neck snapped as she whipped down, and her head made a satisfying thwack as it clashed with the desk. He held her in place, hair catching under his nails, and ground her face further in, slowly, with great care, pages crinkling beneath her.
Her hand was limp, the quill slipping from between her thumb and forefinger, and after a moment, he released his hold, stepping back. Just as he had exhaled in relief, peace washing over him for the first time since he had arrived in this Hell, she picked herself back up, throwing him a scowl over her shoulder. Ink was smeared on her face and her glasses were crooked, but there wasn't even so much as pink splotch from where she had hit the desk.
He tried to conceal his surprise, his mild terror, as he took an involuntary step back.
She turned away from him, and the sound of quill on parchment filled the room once more.
-xXx-
He threw himself against the door, yelling audibly in pain even as he did it again, bouncing back as it refused to cave in. His back was bruised, a hideous yellow color tinging the edges of deep blue and purple welts that followed the curve of his shoulder blade, fist sized circles dotted down his spine. Everything groaned in protest, in anguish, but he didn't care, he had to get out.
He rested along the door for a second, closing his eyes against the pain so tightly that fireworks erupted before him. When he opened them, it was to the same terrible sight before him.
Gray eyes, swaying locket.
Feather quill swishing over the open diary, feet shuffling anxiously under the desk.
And the newest shadow to perch within his Hell-
An elderly man sitting below the window, dressed in dirty rags as fingers lovingly traced over the intricate details of the diadem.
Tom pulled back, throwing himself against the door once more.
It would only be a matter of time before Tom Riddle Senior arrived, and he didn't intend to stick around for the family reunion.
-xXx-
Tom clasped hands over his ears, grimacing as Myrtle continued to shriek and scream loudly. It was so loud, so high-pitched that it made his skull tremble, and he could hardly even hear it over the sound of static that it created. As if his mind was stuck on the nonexistent plane between two radio stations, like he sat under a powerful waterfall that crashed into him. "SHUT UP!" he yelled back, but he couldn't even hear himself, the world muffled to the cacophony within his head.
If he had known that this was what would have happened when he tossed her from the chair- like throwing a boulder to the side, so great and sturdy was her presence- and slammed it down on the ground, breaking off the legs, he would have left it. He would have found something else to use, the desk itself, kicked in the wardrobe until he had a suitable enough piece of wood. But it was too late, and nothing he did would settle her down and even his teeth quivered in his mouth from the sheer force of her screams, the walls pulsing with the undulation.
She was still sitting on the ground, a rumpled mess of wrinkled Hogwarts robes and a loosened Ravenclaw tie. Her mouth was opened so wide he thought the jaw might have become unhinged, and her pink tongue moved back and forth in the cavern of her mouth. Fingernails dug into the soft leather flesh of the diary as she twisted it in her lap with ink smeared hands.
This was too much. He couldn't stand this- not for eternity.
He needed to get out.
-xXx-
He sat on top her, knees pinning down her shoulders, his hands wrapped around her thin neck, pressing down with all of his might, all of his weight. Her pale skin was turning a tinge of blue, lips a deep burgundy, like they were stained in wine, and a trickle of blood slid from her nostril and and down the curve of her cheek. And yet, she still screamed. She did not fight against him, did not buck or pry at his fingers. She was immune to pain, immune to his wrath and his rage and the room shook and wavered with every peel from her throat, every round of screeches that made him wish- pray- for deafness.
Her skin was ice cold, like digging his hands deep into a hallowed grave where worms fed and engorged themselves on disease, famine, violence. On death. He had never known a cold such as this, a cold that permeated his flesh and turned his blood into ice, his bones into brittle glass sculptures.
But his blood was not frozen, and he knew this because something warm and thick and viscus coated the shell of his ears, a trail slipping down his neck and into the dip of his collarbone. He was sure that if she ever did stop her wails, he would continue to hear them anyway. They were engraved in his brain, coming from within him and infecting every neuron and cell and all the parts of his cell.
She wasn't a ghost, or a shadow or even a figment.
She was a demon.
-xXx-
He shook, unsteady. The screaming was making him dizzy, but he focused as much as he could in the clamor, raising the thickest piece of wood he had from the chair above his head- he should have never destroyed the bloody chair, never threw the bloody and wretched thing to the floor. He pierced the wall with it, moving forward as if throwing a spear.
It gave in easily enough- a plume of dust filled the air, and he coughed and choked on it, bits of plaster falling to his feet and coating the blanket in a thin layer of gray flakes. He wiggled the bit of chair around, widening the hole so that it was roughly nine inches in diameter and he could see the rotting wood within the walls, coated in mold and parasites.
Everything was rotten, everything was dead and decomposing.
He pulled back, readied to launch forward again when he stilled, nose crinkling in disgust as he began to sputter. A terribly pungent aroma seemed to waft from the hole, more powerful than the mildew and the blood that he had gotten used to. He clasped a hand over his mouth and nose, but it wasn't enough, the acrid smell of death and decaying flesh slipped between his fingers, sliding down his throat like a fist that cut off all oxygen. His stomach quelled, clenched violently and he dry heaved, for a moment thankful he had been denied food.
He jumped from the bed, making his way to the wardrobe and pulling out the discarded oxford from long ago. The blood that had dried into it made it stiff and starched, and it crunched beneath his grasp as he bunched it in his hand. Finding a patch that was somewhat clean, he held it to his face before approaching the hole once more, using his free hand to pull away more of the plaster until it was large enough for him to peer in.
Within the dark crevices, nestled within a notch of black and wilted wood, was the coiled body of a large snake. The emerald scales were dull, tinged with the hue of death and rot. Flies flitted around the carcass, greedily consuming what remained like the scavengers raiding a tomb.
"Nagini," he hissed from behind his mask, a knot of twine winding in his chest, tightening within his rib cage uncomfortably. It was perhaps the closest to heartbreak he was capable of, and even then a poor facsimile of it. A mockery, parody of love and affection.
He stared at the spear-like shape of her head, at the forked tongue that lopped out from her mouth between her long fangs. If she weren't so repulsive, he might have reached in, tenderly caressed it even as some sign of mourning.
After what seemed like an appropriate amount of time, he turned away and reached into the pocket of his slacks, pulling out the hideous ring. He ran his fingers over it, the metal cold- like everything in this Hell, where warmth was all but a distant memory, the heat from his own veins the only taunting comfort- before bringing his hand up to the opening and dropping it within the wall. If it made a sound, he couldn't hear it over Myrtle's continued screams, and he peered inside once more to ensure it hadn't disappeared- hoping behind any sort of logical hope that hiding it away would prevent the demon caricature of Tom Riddle Senior from visiting him as the others had.
But instead of seeing nothing except moldy, damp wooden joists and planks, his dark eyes met hazel, greens and blues and browns broken into fragments around a black hole of a pupil. He pulled back, dropping the bunched up oxford in his surprise and breathing in decay until it filled his lungs. He swallowed, clenching his jaw as he looked back, dread filling the pit of stomach.
Bertha Jorkins was wedged between the plaster and wood, with no room to move about. Wispy, blonde hair hung in front of her face, like golden straw, and her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in red. Just as vacant as the others, unseeing and glossy and dazed. Her face was covered in fevered splotches, lips bitten until they were a bright, swollen red. They parted, and she inhaled sharply, the sound of air whistling through in a tight, winded wheeze. Her hands, settled on the wall on either side of her face, began drumming along the inside of the partition, nails scraping along the plaster.
Long, grating scratches- not quite desperate, not quite frantic.
He pushed himself away from the wall, settling down on the bed and wrapping his arms around his head, a poor attempt to muffle the wails and the clawing and wheezing.
-xXx-
Tom knelt in front of the door, trying to reign in his anger, the pure and electrifying rage at having no control, of having been stripped away of everything he had ever once been proud of. His magic, his power, his ability to command everyone around him to do as he said, to quiver with just a look. He ruled over an army, inspired such fear in the world that his name would fall silent on their lips, hallowed and unspoken at the very thought of his wand. His very name- his very identity- was a gospel, a scripture to some, and he the god to be worshiped. And to others, it was torment. It was anguish and cries and curses.
It had been a wonderful life, filled with power and knowledge and the consumption of it, tearing into the meat and bones of forgotten texts and ancient teachings like it was all he needed to live. It had been filled with gaining and conquering, and even Death himself could not stand in his way.
Until he did.
And then, how the mighty had fallen.
And now he was crouched, like one of his pathetic followers vying for his favor, and he was struggling to retain his calm, closing his eyes as he breathed through his nose. He had almost forgotten how to be Tom Riddle, how to be polite and charming and oh so sweet, oh so innocent and wonderful and full of promise. He had not needed the facade for so long; he did not need to charm others, convince them that he could be trusted. All Lord Voldemort had needed was fear, and he had instilled it in many. His reputation preceded him, and what he wanted, he often got. Whether through sheer force, or with whispered lies and empty promises that seduced others to give in.
But after a moment, he found it within himself, doing his best to sound innocent and contrite and desperate, eyes wide. "Please," he began, hoping that someone was listening. Death, demon or angel- he didn't care. "Please, I'm sorry. Please...just let me out."
He waited, one ear pressed flat against the door, straining to hear over the screaming that had almost become dissonant white noise, the wheezing through shaking rib bones, nails digging into plaster. Over the sound of a fist pounding on the wall as Tom Riddle Senior punched against it, to where the ring had been dropped into the depths.
No one came, no one heard him. Or at least they did not take pity on him.
Letting out a ferocious roar, he punched the door. It shook somewhat in its frame, and his knuckles split against it, but it did not give in. It never would. He was trapped. Trapped in eternal damnation with vengeful ghosts and demons who would not cease until he had lost his sanity as well, until he could not hear his own thoughts over the unending discord. Until he found himself recalling the void and it's uncertainty and insignificance with fondness.
He turned around, pressing his back against the door and sliding down, clamping her hands over his ears as he gazed into the crowded room. At Myrtle thrashing beside the desk, mouth wide and gaping and lips purple as she hardly even stopped to breathe. The peasant squeezed between the desk and the bed, just below the window, as he caressed the sapphire that sat at the center of the diadem. His father standing on the mattress which dipped with his weight as he pounded at the wall with the side of his clenched hands, a rhythm that left blood smeared on the wall that would not give in despite how rotten and decayed it was. Nails raking from within, the acrid smell of death seeping in through the hole which he had shoved his blankets and sheets into, in the hope of smothering it some.
His eyes finally settled on the ones which never left him, the ones that followed him around the room as if he were a beacon, gray and foggy. The locket still swung before her, like the pendulum of a Grandfather clock, keeping time into eternity. Counting down to the second of his torment.
He should have never made them. For the first time in his life- or afterlife, rather- he regretted ever making the horcruxes, having severed his soul until it could not be severed any further. If he had known that this would be the result, that they would fail anyway and he would spend forever with the ghosts attached to them, he would have never made them. He would have done something, anything else!
It was madness, and he just wanted it to stop.
-xXx-
"He's beautiful," Harry said, even though he knew no one would hear him. He was invisible to the room and all its occupants, unseen even as he hovered only inches away from Hermione, propping himself up on the head of her bed at St. Mungo's. Her hair was held back, but only just so, with frizzy and wild curls breaking free from the hair band, clinging to her sweat slick skin. She was flushed, with tired eyes, but she had never looked happier, the small baby pressed against her breast.
Ron sat beside her on the bed, his arm wrapped around her as he looked at his son with pride, a wide, lopsided grin in place. He cooed, running a large hand over the soft head of brown curls.
Molly Weasley fluttered around the room, a ball of anxious energy, refolding blankets and impossibly small clothes, changing the water of vases with fresh bouquets in them. She was chattering, doling out motherly advice. "Hermione, dear, you should get some rest! I know the nurses are going to want to give you all the potions in the world, but I swear, nothing will help you pepper up better than some orange juice. I drank nothing but that for the first few days after every one of you kids!" she said, turning to look at them and smiling widely at her grandson once more. "And don't worry about not having a name just. Why, it took me three day before finally settling Charlie."
Arthur, from where he sat at the seat beside the bed, grinned at a memory. "Oh yes, for a while there I was worried he might really have just been named 'The Baby'."
"Actually," Hermione started, sounding winded and exhausted as she finally looked up from the wriggling infant. "We've got a name. We've known since we found out we were expecting, but wanted to keep it a surprise."
The smile fell from Molly's face, looking somewhat hurt at having not heard sooner. "Oh?" she asked. "And what is that?"
"Mum, Dad," Ron started, pausing a bit as he looked at his wife and child, his wide grin becoming a small, somewhat sad smile. "I'd like to introduce you to Harry."
Something like a whimper left Molly's throat, but any hurt that had lingered from being kept in the dark was gone in an instant, and her lips rose upward. "Harry. How wonderful," she said, bringing a hand up to her eye and rubbing it along the puffy skin, sniffling.
Harry felt warmth blossom in his chest, wanting desperately more than he had ever had since his death to be able to speak. To be heard. Just this one moment, just one more embrace. Seven long years had dragged forward since his death, and no matter how often Lily assured him it would become easier, it never did. He missed them all so terribly, and to be so close to them without being truly there was pure torture.
"I guess Harry's a nice name, but Fred has a certain ring to it," a familiar voice said beside him, and he looked up to see Fred Weasley mirroring his position, looking down at his nephew.
"You know George already named his son Fred. Let me have this one, you prat," he joked, laughing as he tried to push away the lonely ache in his chest. As if something rather prominent was missing.
Fred said something, huffing indignantly, but Harry had not heard him, a familiar but forgotten voice stirring abruptly from within. 'Please.'
He startled, standing straighter as he looked around the room. But no one new had entered, Hermione had relinquished little Harry from her hold so Molly could finally hold her grandson, and Fred looked at him with amused eyes. He pursed his lips, straining his ears. He was certain he had heard someone speak. Hadn't he?
Just as he was about to settle back, his mouth opening to say something to Fred, the voice returned. 'Please, I'm sorry. Please...just let me out.'
He was certain now of who the voice belonged to- the deep, silky purr of Tom Riddle.
He had put the wizard at rest in his thoughts, tucking him away. It had taken some time, but eventually he had gotten quite good at ignoring the icy sound of an infant's cries. There were some moments were the sound became overwhelming, and he clamped hands over his ears to no avail, for it came from within. But for the most part, it had receded to the background, and he thought of the Slytherin no more.
Yet, Tom had never spoken to him before. He furrowed his brow in confusion. Had he been speaking to him, or had his voice simply carried over, finding its way to Harry despite either of their better want? And more importantly, why?
"Harry?" Fred asked, head cocked curiously to the side. But Harry ignored him, skewing his lips in thought. He had every intention of abandoning Tom Riddle for all eternity to the room of his muggle childhood, but their was something niggling at the back of his head, picking at his skull. Surely, there had to have been a reason for it.
Before he could consider it further, a train whistled from the corridor outside of the hospital room, and he peered out the door to see the Hogwarts Express, sitting undeterred by the mediwizards and mediwitches that milled about. He felt a laugh bubble in his throat, lips quirking into a grin as he imagined a nurse looking up and scowling. 'Excuse me, but trains aren't allowed inside the hospital,' he thought the nurse might say.
He looked over his shoulder, glancing longingly at his namesake and the family he had left behind. But there was a reason for the train materializing before him- even if he didn't quite understand it himself. The afterlife worked cryptically, presenting you with what you want or needed even when you yourself didn't quite know at the time.
"I'll see you later, Fred," he said, waving a hand in goodbye as he turned from the room. If Fred had asked him where he was headed to, he did not hear it, as he boarded the train, doors clanging shut behind him.
-xXx-
Author's Note: A shorter chapter, otherwise it would have been entirely too long with no place to cut it that wouldn't be awkward. I hope you all enjoyed, and please review!
