Title: Fireflies

Author: HelplessTurtle

Summary: From the beginnings of Voldemort's rise to power to the end of the Final Battle, characters are introduced to the powerful message of the gift of fireflies. The characters change according to the most recent chapter. Ch.4:Harry&TomRiddle

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and all the characters, objects, and wonderfully magical ideas in it do not belong to me in any form or fashion.


Author's Notes: This is the first chapter that I've written recently. This idea of a floating death-world was lurking in the recesses of my mind before JKR used it in DH, and I've decided that it's all the more reason to use this dreamscape. Hopefully the writing style hasn't deviated!


As far as the eye could see, heavy clouds of mist rolled across the landscape. They were not gray and heavy with rain, but a pearly, luminescent white, filled with peace and light. The sun had not yet risen, and it was at that moment that the sky was tinged a rosy pink, the golden rays spreading out their warmth across everything they could touch. The resulting golden lining was brilliant and beautiful.

Like a puff, a playful breeze whisked by, chasing after the scuttling clouds. They puffed like sails, dispersing just enough to make out a young man stretched out on the grass.

His features were serene, closed as if in a deep, dreamless sleep. His skin was tan in the sun's early morning glow, and the features were sharpened by the resulting play of light and shadow. Dark eyelashes, long and curved, brushed over sloping cheekbones, creased the slightest, as if he had frowned too many times over the years. His nose was small but sharp, and from one nostril the slightest trickle of blood glistened ruby red. His lips were parted, allowing the faint breath to enter then escape.

One eye seemed to twitch, and gradually, the eyebrows were drawn into a squint of confusion. He cracked his eyes open, revealing brilliant emerald green eyes that were immediately alert and wary. Quickly, he pushed himself up on his elbow, taking in the unfamiliar but strangely comforting surroundings.

He took a moment to inspect himself. His slacks were barely recognizable, frayed and scraped and worn and stained by the mad scramble that is present in a battle. The jumper, small enough to reveal his bony wrists and his slim midriff when he moved, looked to be unraveling, the curly yarn peeling away from a large, gaping tear. One of his shoes was missing, the remaining shoelace threatening to fall apart from its bow. The one sock that could be seen was a pristine white, except for a single grass stain, and the hole at his toe that revealed the pale skin underneath. He wiggled his foot experimentally in the sunshine.

Gingerly, he lifted one hand to feel his face. He let his fingers roam over the familiar contours, as if to reassure himself that nothing was missing, or that he was in fact wearing his own face, not someone else's. He paused suddenly, peeling away his fingers. The trail of blood had left a dark smear on his palm, and he stared at it for a moment with fascination. The look quickly became one of mortification, and he gingerly swiped his hand on the carpet of grass he was still reclining on, brushing away the drying red liquid. The stains that he had painted were a startling contrast of green and red.

As if embarrassed by his actions, he scrambled up to a sitting position; eyes darting about, looking as if he wanted to make certain that no one had seen him. His sight fluttered restlessly about until it snagged on a form a short distance away. The green eyes widened a bit, then narrowed. In a deft gesture, as if by habit, he moved up to push an imaginary pair of glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. He paused when he realized that the spectacles were not there in the first place, and frowned momentarily. How could he be seeing so clearly without them?

He had no further chance to dwell on his healed eyesight, for the form had approached him and now stood before him. He raised his eyes to inspect the figure. A thick head of glossy black hair, sharp eyes, a boyish face, a lanky form that looked casual even in this dreamscape.

"Tom Riddle," the young man on the grass said bluntly.

Tom's eyes widened in surprise, then uncertainty. He straightened from his relaxed pose, suddenly looking stiff, as if someone was pulling strings that held his limbs upright.

"Do…I know you?"

The other young man blinked. In a decisive movement, he uncurled into a standing position, flourishing his hand out in a handshake gesture. "Hi. My name's Harry. Harry Potter."

Tom showed no recognition, instead lightening visibly in relief. "Nice to meet you, Harry. It's great to finally find someone in this forsaken place. You wouldn't happen to know where we are, would you?"

Harry looked doubtful for a moment, as if it were improbable that Tom Riddle didn't know where they were, or as if telling him what he knew would not be sensible in this situation. He said nothing, lips pursed in a fierce determination to give nothing away. Tom seemed to catch the hostility, then raised up his arms and let out a boisterous, disarming laugh.

"What, mate?"

Harry shook his head, as if to dismiss the notions flitting about in his mind. "Let's move around a bit. See what we can find."

The two of them shuffled side by side, exchanging curious glances. Neither made a move to break the silence that hung heavy over them. They continued for several long, stretched moments, still seeing nothing ahead of them but the rolling grassland and the clouds sweeping past.

"How'd you get here?" Harry blurted out. Realizing that he'd just said that out loud, he listened to his voice echo, bouncing off of the clouds before fading into nothing. His cheeks were tinged with the smallest hint of pink.

"I…don't know." Tom looked uncomfortable with making that confession, and hurried on. "I barely remember what happened before I woke up here. Pain, darkness…" he shrugged.

"I'm in the same boat. Pain and darkness, too, and lots of noise. You don't suppose we're dead, do you?"

They both looked startled at the words, the truth and burden that might lie behind them. They slowed to a halt, fidgeting, staring pointedly at anything but each other. In Harry's eyes, there was a light of hope, flickering with a shadow of guilt. In Tom's, however, there was only fear and shock.

"I've always been scared of dying." The words came out as a whisper, floating around them in a soft, haunting trail. "Drowning in a puddle of stars, the surface disappearing, and all those you've always trusted with your life leering down at you like you're a little puppet that they've flushed away and away…what have I done?"

Harry leaned over, urgency propelling his actions, and shook Tom's shoulders rigorously, as if to make the evil spirit clinging to Tom's clothes let go. "Tom! Tom!"

"Harry…tell me that I'm not a bad person."

The green eyes stared back, blank. His emotions struggled, a boiling, churning pot of memories bubbling over. Anger at the death of his parents, the image of a light the same color as his mum's eyes flashing past and leaving a dark trail behind from the blinding brightness…the pale faces of his friends, blanching and gray as a statue frozen in time…the pale face before him now, eyes rolling in fright, breath coming in short gasps of desperation…

"No, Tom, you're not a bad person," he whispered back fiercely, his voice thick with determination. Voldemort is. The thought came to his mind unbidden, like a knife slicing through the thick fog that had been swirling about and clouding his judgement, and it was then that he realized that this was true. Tom Riddle and Voldemort were not the same—one would forever be lost as a small, lonely boy who left his place in the world, and the other would be an eternal curse as a leering, burning brand in the minds of all for years to come.

Simultaneously, as if in realization, the two of them straightened up to look around them, a choreographed, synchronized movement. The mist was still there, but it was no longer filled a vivacious life. Instead, it weighed pregnant in the air, brushing the tips of the trembling grass. The sky became that of a mournful sunset, with ribbons of red burning past the blues, purples, and grays. The air was warm, and it ruffled the clothes of the two young men, enveloping them, almost hugging them before moving past.

Then, the first raindrops began to fall. They were warm, refreshing, and suddenly, the land around them was no longer the realm of the dead. In this new, strange light, the landscape had become alive, everything moving and talking and singing until the lifeless film that had covered the land had been shaken away, disappearing into the soil.

"Tom, look!"

Harry's shout carried through the downpour, excited and expectant. Tom swiveled on his feet, taking in the new atmosphere, absorbing this new exultant life through his skin as if it was thirsty from years out in a desert of bones. He squinted, following the direction of his new friend's arm.

"Lights?"

"No, fireflies!"

With a whoop, Harry grabbed a fistful of Tom's shirt and tugged him along, dragging the astounded young man into the middle of the dancing, glittering, friendly lights. The little bugs seemed immediately attracted to the two new forms, and they landed gently on their skin, pulsing soothingly until the two boys glowed.

"Wow," Tom breathed. One fluttered from the side of his nose, and his arm snaked out quickly, catching the insect in his fingers. The other fireflies flitted about for a moment before coming to rest again. Gently, he raised his hand to his eye and peered between his thumb and forefinger. The tiny spark was steady and bright. "Why do you think they're here?"

Harry watched one on the bridge of his nose, cross-eyed, as he ruminated on the unexpected question. With a whir of its wings, the light spiraled up into the evening air, until it was lost in the cloud of shimmering, dancing lights.

"I…don't know. This place is strange. But I do have a hunch." He watched his unexpected acquaintance from the corner of his eye.

"Well? Out with it!"

"My mum once told me that fireflies are a symbol of welcome. She said that mums and dads used to leave candles in their windows to guide their kids home if they were away, to welcome them home if mum and dad happened to be sleeping or something and weren't there with a light."

"I wish I knew your mum. Do you think someone sent them to welcome us?" Tom gave an experimental spin, and as his robes blossomed out, the fireflies fluttered up in a dizzying pattern, enchanting and wonderful. His peals of laughter rang across the landscape.

"No, I don't think so." Harry smiled quietly. "I think that the fireflies came here by themselves. I have a feeling they know when they're needed, don't you?"

Tom considered them, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I don't remember learning about these in Care of Magical Creatures. But I think they must have magic. Funny how I never thought of that before." He shook his head, as if to clear his head, then flashed Harry another one of his disarming smiles. "Come on, let's move on before it gets dark. I don't want to get lost in the rain."

"Wait." Harry scrambled across the slick grass, shaking off the last fireflies from his own clothes. "Do you happen to have a glass jar or something?"

Tom looked quizzical, but reached into his robe pocket anyway, pulling an object out. The glittered in the last light of the setting sun, two pieces of shining glass set into two round, burnished metal frames. Innocently, they sat in his hands.

"I have this. I found them next to me when—"

"My glasses!" Reverently, Harry reached forward for them, then peered through the lenses. The view looked distorted and fuzzy through the damaged glass. When he lowered them, he realized that in this world, he could see perfectly without them. "Never mind, I don't need them anyway."

With nimble, dexterous fingers, he pulled back the metal that snaked around the rims, letting the tiny screws fall to his feet. When he had separated the two lenses, he breathed warm air on them and rubbed them, as if to clean them of dirt. They curved smoothly.

"Here, Tom, hold this." Shoving the metal at the bewildered young man, Harry dashed back to the cloud of fireflies. Swiping his hand twice, he felt one of the little bugs tickling his palm. "Gotcha!"

Tom shook his head admiringly. "You should be a Seeker." Harry only grinned.

Taking the two lenses, Harry gently nudged the bug onto one of the pieces of glass. The firefly explored the smooth surface, but did not fly away. Carefully, he placed the second piece on top, like a little dome. The firefly fit perfectly inside, pulsing contentedly. He held out the little object.

"Help me tie this up."

Tom made quick work of the metal, straightening the beaten rims before looping them tightly around the two lenses. The two of them bent over the tiny display case for a moment, and then Tom turned to look at Harry once more, cradling the firefly and its case in his palm.

"What's this for?"

There was a brief moment of silence.

"You said you were scared of death, of people leaving you behind, of being a bad person. You don't need to be frightened, Tom. There will always be those people who forget you, who don't like you, but there will always be the people that remember you and like you, too. I'm glad that I met you, and that I'm your friend. You're a good person, a wonderful person, and there will never be another person like you. People might change, and years from now, if you see me again, I might not even recognize you. But you'll still be you. I have a feeling that your future self will be the kind of person to make history, but if I meet you in the future, the Tom I'm seeing now won't be replaced by the Tom of the future. Even if I never see you again, I'll never forget you."

Harry's brilliant smile lit up the space around them as the sun's last rays flickered into the distance.

"Welcome to my memories, Tom Riddle."


Author's Notes: I rewrote the last few paragraphs so many times trying to get my message across; unfortunately, I have a feeling that what I'm trying to say can't be expressed in English. At the very end, Harry is saying, in essence, that he won't just remember the evil, sadistic Voldemort, but the innocent, human Tom, too. His lasting impression is of Tom Riddle, the boy before the man.

The background to the story should probably be made clear. This is placed just after the Final Battle. Similarly to DH, Harry is transported to a kind of dream world. Tom has been there since Tom Marvolo Riddle became Voldemort, as if his evil side cast away the good side and banished it. Time in the dream world does not pass quite the same as it does in reality, so while Tom has been there for decades, it seems like he has only arrived. This is why Tom does not know Harry, and why Harry reacts the way he does when he first meets Tom, as well as why Harry tells Tom, "I have a feeling that your future self will be the kind of person to make history."

I hope you enjoyed it! The next chapter has a Tom Riddle and Voldemort confrontation—one self versus the other.