All it took was a small push and light seeped out of the gap.
He recoiled behind the partially open door, momentarily blinded. His free hand immediately snapped up to shield his eyes as the sharp pain in his head returned with a vengeance. He squinted, black spots swimming in his sight. Backing up a bit, he recuperated in the shadows as he set the now useless lamp down on the marble floor.
The childlike tumble of notes was still in the air, sounding even stranger when not muffled by the thick doors. From what he could tell, it was just an unending track of the white keys pressed one by one from end to end, but oddly enough, the sound seemed to help ease his headache. He blinked a few more times before pushing the door forward a bit more. Fortunately, the hinges were well-oiled, and made almost no sound.
As soon as he had sidled in, his eyes were drawn to the enormous window on the wall opposite him. Sunlight streamed through it, and spotlighted the only thing occupying the floor - a black Grand Piano. Sitting in front of the keys, face obscured by the sheet music and the piano lid, was the person repeatedly playing the solfa.
It was almost laughable how theatrical the entire set-up felt. It was like everything was staged, and he was an unknowing actor in the play.
"It would be more sensible for you to stay in bed."
The voice was soft, barely above a whisper and completely indistinguishable.
"Maybe, maybe not," he replied from his place by the door, his own voice raspy from disuse.
At his answer, the note in play was held. It dragged on before gradually vanishing into the silence. Then, the boy stood up to level him with a look.
The boy, probably still underage judging by his short stature, was very pale - paler even than him – and with his lack of color only made more pronounced by his jet-black hair and by the white shirt he was wearing. Round spectacles sat on the bridge of his nose, its glasses a blinding white due to the reflected sunlight. With the piano at his side, he looked like a portrait painted in bold black and white strokes, no shades in between.
That was until the boy tilted his head down, and eyes the same shade of the Killing Curse peered past the top of his glasses.
His head throbbed. "Who are you?" he asked with his best authoritative tone, trying to ignore the building pain in his skull.
"Illyrius Peverell," answered the boy without pause, looking unaffected by his sharp tone. "I brought you here. How are you faring?"
He didn't answer. He wasn't even sure if he had heard the question right. He was too caught up in the name that was echoing across the recesses of his mind.
'"Peverell..."'
Memories of ink and parchment and books ran past his eyes.
A flash of gold, a ring, a stone, a coat of arms, a triangle-
'"See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?"'
The pain reached a new high and a sudden bolt flared past the front of his skull. He winced.
Illyrius Peverell immediately moved forward in assistance. He glared at him, but the boy continued advancing.
"Sir," Illyrius intoned sharply, "you must return to bed-"
"Where are we?" he hissed. Something in his tone must have scared Illyrius, for the boy immediately stopped in his tracks.
The pause that followed was a beat longer than normal, and his suspicions heightened.
"Godric's Hollow."
He grimaced. There was no doubt that Dumbledore had been informed of the events at the Potter household by now. The headmaster and his henchmen would be searching for him, and he was in no state to face the old wizard. He needed to-
"Go. I must go-"
"Rest," Illyrius cut off. "Yes, you do. But if you insist on talking," he added before the other could say anything in reply, "then I suggest a change of location at the very least. We have much to speak of, and we better do so while sitting down."
He watched Illyrius briskly walk away and pick up the lamp he had left by the door.
"Follow me."
Then Illyrius was off, and he was left with no choice but to actually follow. He walked behind Illyrius along the silent corridor, the whole time trying to remember when the last time he followed someone's orders was but failing.
'How do I get him back?'
'It's impossible. It has never been done before-'
'I'll be the first, then.'
'I advise you not to - dabbling with Time - the consequences would be dire! You won't come out sane.'
'Who the hell said I was sane in the first place?'
"You seem… at ease. Are you not worried that I'd try to poison you?"
He took another bite of bread. He looked past the heaps of food on the table and into the eyes of his host. Illyrius Peverell, though fiddling around with the tableware and making the appearance of eating, was actually yet to consume a single bite.
He swallowed.
"You would have killed me already if you wanted me dead," he reasoned, "meaning you want me alive. For information, most probably." To prove his point, he reached for his goblet, then took a swig of water. He swirled the ice-cold liquid in his mouth, inspecting the taste as he lowered the goblet back on the table. He spent a moment with his brows knitted in concentration, searching for that nearly indistinguishable quality. A second passed, and another, but it simply wasn't there. He was frowning when he gulped. "No veritaserum," he announced, honestly taken aback.
Illyrius stopped playing with the tableware and set them down. He leaned forward on his elbows.
"You seem to have a very poor opinion of your saviour," the boy said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
He dabbed at his mouth with a table napkin while unblinkingly meeting Illyrius' gaze. He set the cloth aside, then mimicked Illyrius' pose; elbows leaning on the edge of the table, fingers steepled under the chin.
"Are you?" he asked.
Illyrius merely tilted his head, as if in confusion.
"My 'saviour,'" he clarified, putting extra emphasis on the word. "Are you?"
"In a sense."
He hummed. "In what sense?"
Illyrius clapped his hands. "I think it's my turn to ask a question," he cheerfully remarked. The next moment, his smile took a different glint. "Who are you?"
It was a fair question, he thought, one that had been niggling at the base of his own skull since he woke up but chose to brush aside.
Who was he?
The young orphan 'Tom' had been dead for a long time, and 'Lord Voldemort'… the respected Dark Lord was lost to him for now. That left him with-
"Marvolo."
"Marvolo," Illyrius mouthed carefully, like he was weighing it on his tongue. "And your Family Name…?"
Marvolo tutted.
"One question at a time, Mr Peverell," he admonished. "It's my turn."
Illyrius looked ready to argue, but he went on.
"What is today's date?"
The boy was quick to chuckle, but Marvolo didn't miss his unmistakable moment of hesitation. "There's no need to exaggerate, Marvolo. You were only asleep for three days."
"You didn't answer the question, Illyrius," Marvolo replied with a curl of his lips, matching Illyrius charm for facile charm.
And suddenly, the smile on Illyrius' face lost all its warmth.
"It's the third of November," he said stiffly.
Marvolo leaned forward. "The complete date," he demanded.
Somehow, he could already guess what the answer was going to be. Illyrius closed his eyes and sighed.
Bells rung in the distance-
"1709."
And time continued ticking.
