PART IV

D is for Dreams and Delusions- A.K.A- The four times Someone dreamt of Harry and the one time Harry dreamt of them all.

Prompts accepted and assigned to:
Guest: "Often will I spin a tale, never will I charge a fee. I'll entertain you an entire eve, but alas, you won't remember me. What am I?" Dream. (Overall theme. P.S I REALLY liked this prompt as the reader gave it to me in a riddle and it took me a while to figure it out!) ✓
Lizzy B: dungeons? Like, being trapped? (Jerome) ✓
Sabby: For words that start with D: Desire, (Gordon) ✓
Ghouly-Girl: Destruction would be good. (Penguin) ✓
Carelessdodger: Something that shows Harry's two sides, so duplicity? (Harry) ✓
Vrenshrrgn: dauntless...(Riddler) ✓

(There was just so many prompts I loved that I had to try and incorperate them all. I may have bitten of more than I can chew this chapter... XD)

Oswald Cobblepot- The Penguin

Destruction- Noun- The action or process of causing so much damage to something that it no longer exists or cannot be repaired.

Every King needs a Queen.

Oswald Cobblepot cautiously made his way down the shadowy hallway, cocked gun clasped tightly in his hand, half raised, steady. Ready. Waiting. He knew this mansion. He knew the marble statues. He knew the old world oil paintings. He knew the ostentatious gold flaked decor. This was Don Falcone's home. Along with all this, somewhere deep down, right in the pit of his stomach, he knew Falcone, Mooney and Maroni were somewhere around, cornered, shrouded, hiding. He needed to find them. He needed to end this. The clock had struck zero and now was the time to act.

From down the hallway, he could hear the muted thrum and bass of music playing, slipping out from underneath a lit door crack, the only light in the dusky hallway. At strange intervals, with each step closer, he could hear the stomp and creak of pacing footsteps on polished floorboards. Someone was home. If he didn't act now, if he didn't move while he still could, something terrible would happen. He knew it. He was surrounded, bleeding in the water and the sharks around him smelt blood. The time for planning was over and done with.

In truth, Oswald couldn't exactly remember why he was in the mansion in the first place, why he was carrying a loaded gun, nor why he knew, just knew, if he crossed paths with either Maroni, Falcone or Fish Mooney, he should and would fire without hesitation. However, the effect was all the same, he was on a hair trigger, itching to pull and unload a bullet. If he didn't shoot them, they would shoot him and everything he had done until this point, every little plan he had formed would all be for nothing. He couldn't fall at the last hurdle. He refused to.

Pushing his back against the wall, right by the doorway, Oswald closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils as he raised his gun higher, readying himself. Now or never. It would end. It had to end. He won. With a slip of his foot and a grin on his face, as dark and tantalizing as the night around him, his shoe-clad toes dipped into the crack and on the mental countdown of three, Oswald kicked the door open, swiveled, took aim and fired.

The bang was the first thing to register, dizzying him for a moment, squealing in his ears in a war cry. Then it was the flash of the gun going off, bleaching out the image of exactly who stood in front of him. Not that it mattered. He had won! However, that soon passed and the next thing he noticed was the color red. It was bleeding out of a small, curvy chest, staining and blooming across an old band shirt... Band shirt? Band shirt!

The gun dropped to the floor with a clang, his smile splintering and disintegrating on his face but Oswald couldn't focus on the noise or his expression, not when all he could do was watch as Harry, face slacked, eyes wide, betrayed, hurt, crumbled to the floor in a heap, hands gingerly snapping to her chest, blood trickling through her fingers in rivets as she pressed against the wound.

"Harry... Harry! Oh. Oh god... I thought... I wasn't... It wasn't meant to be you..."

What had he done?! No... She wasn't supposed to be here! He didn't... He wouldn't... It wasn't his fault! This was Falcone's, Mooney's even. They had set him up! Orchestrated this... It wasn't his fault! Oswald dashed for her body, skidding onto his knees, hands shaking violently as he pulled her up, torso and head onto his lap, hands going to her chest, coming away stained red, never to be clean again. It wasn't meant to be her! It was meant to be Mooney or Falcone! This wasn't what he wanted... Wasn't what he had planned! It was wrong! everything was wrong! What had he done?

"If it wasn't you... It would have been them... Oh, Oz..."

Oswald tore his gaze away from his blood coated hands, nausea twisting his gut like a corkscrew in a bottle of fine wine. No matter what he did, what he tried, the blood kept coming, thick and warm and never ending. Breath. He had to breath. Everything was fine. All wasn't lost. Harry would live. He just had to... He just... They would... Oh, dear god! What had he done? Then her words clicked home, stabbing through the frantic fog clouding his mind. Them? Who? Had someone brought her here? Had he been right? Was this Falcone or Fish's doing? Pay... They had to pay!

"Them?... Who... Who?!"

Harry smiled, dimples flashing, but all Oswald could see was the blood coating her teeth as she coughed, voice stern but weak. No! Not like this! He was supposed to have won! He would be king in Gotham, his mother would ask for nothing, Harry would be at his side and all would be right and just and pleasant. After all, every king needed a queen. It wasn't supposed to end here, Harry bleeding and dying in his arms.

"Mooney... Falcone... Maroni... They'll kill you Oswald... They'll destroy you."

Oswald shook his head violently. No. It was supposed to end with him on top, Mooney dead underneath his shoes. He would climb. His mother would get all she deserved, a proper home, riches she could never count. Harry would be there, in her distasteful clothing, humming along to Queen songs underneath her breath. It was never meant to end this way. They wanted to destroy him, did they? He would show them what true destruction looked like! The next generation wouldn't even know their names, forgotten, discarded like the garbage they were!

"But not you! It was never meant to involve you! Harry... Hold on, please. That's it, stay with me."

Harry laughed, croaky, biting, blood bubbling up and dripping down her chin from the action. She rose a shaky hand, palm clammy and cold, frigid, painting a smear of red across his skin as it grazed his cheek, long, nimble fingers brushing into his hair.

"Don't you see?... De-...Destroying me... Killing me... It will kill you too... They know that... You see... That now... Don't you? They're coming Oz and you need... You need to prepare..."

No. Not possible. Impossible. It couldn't... Wouldn't come to this. He wouldn't let it. He couldn't let it.

"No... No, no, no, no! It wasn't supposed to be like this!"

"Then... Change it... Fix it... You... Know... What... You... Have... To do..."

Her hand flopped from his face, eyes closing, green no longer... She was dead.

Oswald blinked blearily as he wiped the water off his face with an old hand towel, dropping it with a sodden plop in the basin, bracing his hands on the sink, squarely looking himself in the eye in the cracked mirror of his bathroom. Still, an hour later from waking up covered in sweat and eyes misty, he couldn't stop hearing what dream Harry had told him, the words wrapping around his mind, suffocating him.

... They'll destroy you...

He still couldn't get that damned dream out of his head. No matter what he did, what he tried, every time he blinked, there it was. A knock on the door turned his knuckles white as his hands clenched on the porcelain rim of the sink.

"Darling, are you okay? Breakfast is ready!"

"I'll be out in a moment mother."

The truth was, he needed to act and act now. It was getting too close. Too tight. The chess pieces were falling fast and it wasn't just himself in the line of fire if things went wrong. In that little aspect, he was thankful for his dream. It had helped him see just that.

He had been playing it too safe for too long. Maroni was stupid, but he wasn't a complete moron. Soon, he would figure out there was something off with him, investigate and the game would be over. If it wasn't Maroni, it would be Falcone, or worse, Mooney. Yes, his steps needed to be cautious, but he needed to start taking steps at the very least.

Sooner or later, one of them would make a move and he had to be ready for it... Or ready to pay the price for it and that... That he wasn't willing to do, not after the dream he had. He had a taste of it, paying prices too high, he didn't care much for the flavor.

His mother, she would be targeted. Harry, just like in his dream, would be targeted too. He knew what he had to do.

"Destroy them before they destroy me."

Oswald Cobblepot pushed himself away from the sink, cracking his neck as he turned his back on his reflection. Today was the day, Maroni wouldn't see nightfall and no one would see the hurricane of destruction hovering above their heads, ready to drop. He would win. He had to.

Jim Gordon- The Commissioner

Desire-Noun- A strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen.

Something much worse.

The world around him was hazed golden, dusted, glowing and peaceful. Tranquil. Jim Gordon felt light, airy, like a cloud on a summer's day, just drifting through life. Easy. Natural.

Straightening his tie, he hummed as he strolled into the light, open spaced kitchen. The window was wide open, little birds tweeting their merriment from the tall oak tree that stood proudly in their front garden. As he walked passed the doorway, Jim smiled, spotting his wife as she plated up the pancakes, dressed only in an oversized shirt, bedhead and... Delectable. Sidling up behind her, Jim wrapped an arm around her waist, leaning over to give her a lingering kiss on the cheek before pulling back an inch, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"That smells delicious."

He could feel her frame shake from the chuckle more than he could actually hear it with his face half buried in her wild curls. It was times like this he lived for. The peaceful little snapshots, far away from work and mayhem and Gotham in general. He just wanted to coat himself in this memory, carry it with him, bask in it when things got too tough or grim in his line of work... Their line of work.

"Yes, well, they won't smell half as pleasant if I end up burning them because you can't keep your hands to yourself."

Everything was right. The sun was blazing. His wife was in his arms. Little Jim and Lily were at school. Everything was good and Jim didn't want the moment to end, even if it did equate to burnt pancakes. He wished he had a pause button, just to stay here, right here, for a moment longer. The problem was, if he had such a tool, he wasn't sure he would press play again. Ever. However, for as long as it would last, he would revel in it.

"I don't ever remember making that vow at our wedding..."

His wife turned slowly in his arms, forcing him to lift his chin and draw back an inch, but not too far. He was far too comfortable here to be pulled too far away. Here was safe. Here he had everything he had ever hoped for. Here was... Bliss. She dropped the spatula onto the worktop behind her, gracing him with that snarky grin he had come to adore.

"You know what? I don't think I remember that vow either..."

Her hand snuck up, fingers coiling around his tie as she tugged him closer, her plump lips nearly brushing his. Now, these were the types of mornings he lived for, the missing piece to the perfect morning... Until his wife spoke up and dashed those hazy hopes.

"However, you have work in thirty minutes. I'd hurry if I was you."

Then she was turning in his arms again, back to her pancakes and the pot of hot earl gray tea, her favorite. He sighed, his other arm joined its partner, wrapping around her torso, palms splaying across her stomach as his chin dropped back into the curve of her neck. Perfection. They always slotted together flawlessly, as if they were made to fit together.

"Bullock can handle it for an hour or two. If being commissioner means I can't be late every once in a while, I wouldn't have taken the promotion. It also won't be long before this little one joins us and you know how busy we were with Lily, let alone Jim... God knows what this one will be like. Especially if they have your knack for running head first into danger at the first siren."

Once again, he could feel her laugh, the bell-like tinkle sending a pleasant shiver up his spine. He pulled her closer, eyes sliding shut. Peace. Undisturbed calm.

"If he or she is anything like their siblings or us, we're in for quite a ride... Then again, talking about ride... I suppose Bullock can hold Gotham together for an extra hour or two..."

Now it was Jim's turn to chuckle, spinning his wife away from the stove and over to the fridge, pinning her between it and him.

"Now I knew there was a reason I married you."

Her hands trailed up his chest, skirting around his neck, fingers scratching his scalp, teasing, tantalizing. She smiled up at him, he grinned down at her, and she opened her mouth to retort... But it wasn't her voice that came out, the words not fitting the movement of her lips and tongue, like the badly dubbed foreign films she was so fond of.

"Jim... Jim wake up... You're going to be late!"

Jim frowned as the cozy, peaceful world around him crumbled and frayed around the edges, consciousness slowly filling his mind. He blinked, staring up at a smiling... Barbara as she gently shook him awake.

"What... What?"

Jim ran a rough hand down his face, stubble itching, the question more poignant than he had meant. What the hell had that dream been? What the hell was going on? Did he really... Barbara, still dressed in her designer silken nighty, unlike his dream wife who wore scruffy, overly large T-shirts to bed, pulled away from him, still smiling as she plonked back onto the bed in a ruffle of blankets and bouncy springs.

"If I didn't know you weren't gay, I'd be worried."

Jim groaned as he pushed himself up on his elbows, gaze flickering to the alarm clock. Seven thirty AM. Shit. He really was late.

"Why?"

By now, the dream was hazy, nothing but a flimsy plot, muted hues and smeared faces. However, the feelings that had accompanied it felt real, too real. As he pushed out of bed, skimming around Barbara to dash and get ready, he could see her from the corner of his eye, shrug, cross her legs and send him a taunting grin as he slipped and tugged on a pair of slacks, pulling the zipper and button closed. He needed to get to the GCPD, and fast or the commissioner was going to have his head.

"The way you were calling out that name... Harry, could make a full grown woman blush. Nothing to worry about, is there? Not questioning your sexuality?"

Jim stalled, one arm inside his shirt, hair still sleepily ruffled. Ironically enough, Barbara had fallen into the same trap he had when he had heard of Harry, thinking she was of the male populace. He... He remembered now. Shit. What the fuck was his mind playing on him? Harry was his friend. His colleague. Nothing more. No. Then why did his stomach twist so horribly at that ardent thought? Jim shook his head, turning his back on Barbara... His fiance. Oh, he was a terrible person. A right 'wanker' Harry would call him... No. No more thoughts of her. Not after that... Dream.

"Ha ha. No... No."

No, he was doing something much worse.

Jerome Valeska- The Joker

Dungeon- Noun- A strong underground prison cell, especially in a castle.

Play with me?

Jerome Valeska stayed chained to the cobbled floor of the prison cell, caged, trapped, strapped to the damp floor like a rabid pet about to be put down. All around him were bars, silver, shiny and tall, barricading him off from the rest of the outside. Not much good they were doing there, he couldn't see an inch further than the bars, the darkness from outside was too bulky. His only companion was his own laughter, which bounced back from the great darkness to keep him company. How gracious of it.

That was all he knew, all he felt, all he thought until the squeaking of wheels splintered out and tickled his ears a lifetime later. A tune, old, slightly recognizable hummed out, a dim voice accompanying it, singing, growing in strength second by agonizing second. He... He wasn't alone. He had always been alone... But now... Now he wasn't. Jerome pulled on his restraints, trying to wiggle to the bars, to the tune and singing, but the chains only grew tighter, nailing him to the middle of his cell.

"Very superstitious, writings on the wall. Very superstitious, ladder's 'bout to fall."

A light blazed to life, bright, powerful, the kind the ringmaster used when he paraded the lions. Just like that, the blackness was gone, eaten, defeated. Well, one side of his cage was lightened, at any rate. In the light stood a woman, just at the corner of his cage, red hair aflame under the beam of light. She was dressed in a black leotard, top hat sitting wonky on her crisp curls, legs and arms on full display apart from her neck that was covered by the turtleneck of the leotard. She was pushing something around... A cooker. It was old, beaten, pale blue paint flaking off the rusted metal.

He... He knew that cooker! It was his mothers. It was the cooker he had first used to kill his mother's damned snake when he was eight years old. He had hated that snake. Loathed it. His mother had once used it to bite him after he had been a 'naughty boy'. Of course, he had had the last laugh after she had discovered her precious boa constrictor baked and blackened in the oven, nothing but a pile of ashy scales and thin, pointy bones. She had never used her little reptilian friends to try and scare or punish him again after that.

The tune picked up and the woman smiled, dimples and all, as she gave the cooker an almighty shove, heaving herself onto it at the same time, gliding to the front of his... Dungeon as she faced him, legs crossed, one pointed out in a streamline of curves and taut muscle, one arm propping her up as the other reached up and snatched the top hat off her head, holding it high and proudly in the air.

"Very superstitious, wash your face and hands. Rid me of the problem, do all that you can."

He... Knew that song. It had been the song drifting from the magician's caravan the first day he had met Harry... Harry! Of course, he wasn't alone! He had found Harry and here... Harry had found him! The tempo picked up and Harry jumped off from the cooker, flinging the top hat to the side as she spun before sliding into another part of the darkness, another side of his cage, another stage light blaring to life as she entered it.

This side was different. A chair, old like the cooker, just as decrepit too, perched in the middle by his bars, a metal tray and two cylindrical canisters surrounded it. Harry danced over to the chair, hopping up onto it with her long legs, hips swaying to the beat as her hands ran up her body to tangle into her hair. Jerome lurched forward, begging, salivating, but the chains halted all movement.

"Keep me in a daydream, keep me goin' strong. You don't wanna save me, sad is my song."

With a kick of her leg, she flicked up the oxygen mask, catching it mid-air deftly as she pressed it to her face, breathing in deeply as she slid onto the seat, still swaying. He remembered that chair too. His mother didn't earn much, not with her job and how often they moved from city to city. When his appendix had burst, having no medical insurance but an eager lover in a vet she had an... Acquaintance to, she had dragged him there to be 'fixed'. The vet hadn't known the proportion of anesthetic to give a thirteen-year-old boy, too expensive the vet had said. Instead, the bastard had relied on old, dodgy, black marketed laughing gas to ease the pain of being sliced open and operated on awake as he was strapped to that chair by leather cuffs. Jerome had started laughing that day... And had never stopped.

"Very superstitious, nothin' more to say. Very superstitious, the devil's on his way."

Like an oil slick, Harry slipped off the chair, skipping over to the bars, leg kicking out to slam open a door Jerome had not known had been there. Skipping in, hopping to the beat, she ignored him as she danced around, forcing him to try and turn in his chains as she reached up behind him, grasping onto something dangling as she began to swing back and forth like a pendulum, giggling. Another light came on, in his cage, his prison, eyes burning. He wasn't used to the light. As his eyes adjusted, blinking rapidly, he saw what she was swinging from and laughed.

"Thirteen month old baby, broke the lookin' glass. Seven years of bad luck, good things in your past."

A noose. Red, poorly made, extension cable noose. That was his noose, crafted with his own loving hands when he had just turned sixteen, drunk from his mother's stolen booze, bruised from another beating, weak, tittering on the edge of sanity. He had passed out before the fucker broke and he was left to splutter back to life alone. And just like that extension cord, his sanity had snapped that night too.

"When you believe in things that you don't understand, then you suffer. Superstition ain't the way."

The music stopped and all he could hear was his own heartbeat, his breathing, hot and heavy, pulsing in the air. He pulled harder on his chains. He wanted free. He wanted to join her. He wanted to dance and sing and... The soft pad of her bare feet hitting damp concrete shattered his incoherent thoughts. She swaggered towards him, a hand dipping behind her back as she bent down in front of him, eye to eye, smile to manic smile. Then, her hand came back, holding something small and shiny between thin fingers. A key. The key to his chains.

"Are you going to come and play with me?"

Play. That was it. He wanted to play. Oh, the games he and she could get up to. He spoke and her smile was answer enough as she went to unchain him. Matched. Equals. Two crazy kids in a crazy world...

"Yes... Oh, yes! Hahahahaaaaa."

The ringing of his cellphone broke him out of the dream. He answered more viciously than he intended to.

"What do you want?"

Detective Gordon's voice echoed from the other end, more apprehensive than normal. Right. Shit. The case on the 'murder' of his mother... The challenged Harry had given him

But can you keep up with me?

Thankfully, Gordon couldn't see the smile decorate his face from over the phone. Keep up? By the end of this little game, Harry would see they could tango step for step and not miss a beat.

"Can you come into the station Jerome? I just have a few more questions to ask and it will be easier to have all questioning done while the rest of the circus is in here."

Jerome smoothed his voice, meek, cracking, placating. The detective lapped it up.

"Of course detective. Anything to help. I-I'll be there in an hour. I... Erm, have to catch the bus and I need to- to lock up. I'm sorry... I'm just so... It's... Hard."

Go on, bite. Bite. Bite. Bite!

"I know this can't be easy for you kid. Don't worry about the bus, I'll have someone drive over and pick you up."

Jerome forced down his laughter. Thankfully, through the poor reception, it sounded more like a muted sob. Hook. Line. And sinker.

"If... If you could and it's not too much trouble... I mean you're doing enough as it is and I hate to impose... But if you could try and get Detective Potter to come, I would be so thankful. She was extremely kind to me the other night... A real comfort and I want to offer my gratitude. Of course, that is if she's not already busy."

He heard Detective Gordon heartily scoffed from the other end, the first part of his sentence Jerome was sure he wasn't meant to of heard.

"Harry? Comforting? That'll be the day... Don't worry kid, she's on her way."

The line went dead and Jerome finally let his laughter out. Soon, it wouldn't be alone as it sang through the air.

Edward Nygma- The Riddler

Dauntless- Adjective- Showing fearlessness and determination.

His Dominion.

Edward Nygma scuttled around the white-washed, boxed room, green marker pen alternating between scribbling on the wall to tapping across his lower lip. The riddles... They were everywhere, screaming for answers, begging for his mind. He had to answer them.

And so, meticulously, around and around like a merry-go-round, he darted from one wall to the other, answering the riddles scribbled and scrawled on the walls. Hunched over in a corner, writing away on the skirting board, Edward nearly missed the way the bare-bulb above his head, which had previously been bathing the room in a soft lucky-green, flickered to crimson red. Alas, he did not, and as the lighting flickered back to the comfortable green he was used to, he quizzically looked around the room.

Something didn't feel... Right. Something was somewhere it shouldn't be. Something had changed. Like those little puzzles in the back of children magazines, a cartoonish spot the difference sort, it took Edward a while to figure out what had changed. Nonetheless, when he did, the reaction was instantaneous.

"Oh, no, no, no, no!"

Darting over to the opposite wall, Edward reached up to the green riddle that he had previously answered, correctly might he add, brushing his fingers across the new answer that had boldly been slashed through his neat and organized, precise writing. The paint, a brilliant red that boarded on maroon, too thick to be ink, was still wet, dripping in places, threatening to taint the writing underneath it with the drips and trails. Perhaps it was even too thick to be paint...

what dries the more it gets wet...

Across his answer, towel, in heavy, curvy writing was one word. Harry. However, where his answer had ended in the right punctuation, this one ended in a large, almost sharp, question mark, as if it was a question against a question and not the answer it should be. Edward backed away from the wall, hand slithering up into his hair, fingers hard and scraping against his sensitive scalp. Agitated.

"That isn't right! It isn't what I wrote!"

Before his annoyance could really surface, rippling against his skin like a disturbed pond, the light above his head fluctuated again to that sickening red, stagnating in the air longer than before. When the delicate green was back, Edward felt like pulling his hair out by their very follicles. Dotted around his walls, his sanctuary, his precious riddles and answers was the same damned marking.

Harry?

"No! Stop! No!"

It had taken him what felt like a lifetime to answer these riddles, to put the pieces together, and now... Just as he was so very close to finishing, it was being written over, tainted, ruined! What did it mean? Why was this word so important? Why was it devouring everything else? His other hand joined its partner in his hair, fingers coiling around his locks as he stumbled into the middle of the room, tugging and yanking.

The lighting changed once more, faster, deeper, almost succulent in color, nearly plunging the room into absolute darkness. This time, when the room came back to what it should be, what felt comfortable, his writing, his riddles... They were gone. Vanished. Destroyed. In their place was that one word, that damned question, written over and over and over again in various sizes across the white walls, so much so it was hard to tell if the walls were really white to begin with.

Harry? Harry? Harry? Harry? Harry?

"No!"

Edward yelled as he spun around, wall by wall, all red, all one question. He spun, twirled, whirled, trapped, the walls closing in on him as he turned faster and faster, the dripping paint morphing, dancing, bleeding into one sweep of red, the light above him flickering between red and green until he felt nauseous. What did it mean? What was the answer?... He didn't know... He didn't know... How could he not know? He always knew! He had to know! However, how could he know the answer when he didn't even fully understand the question?

He felt lightheaded, ill, sick, frail like spun glass. Just as his legs were about to give out, collapse underneath him and leave him in a heap on the floor, two hands, delicate, soft, comforting like the green light snatched his shoulders into a contradictorily strong grip.

He stopped spinning, forced to face the wall and the person grabbing him... Only there was no person, only arms piercing through the wall, seeping out of the paint, red and dripping like the scrawled question, tainting him, painting him too. He couldn't breathe.

As if the wall was made of opaque cellophane, Edward could see a face, a neck, an upper body begin to press through the wall, bending it, growing from its 2d depths, drawing closer and closer to him. His tongue felt too heavy, his throat too dry, his lungs too tight as the featureless face inched closer, nearly pressing to his. Then, it began to gain features, one by one, all still dripping red until he could see who it was. How could he forget her?

Harry.

She smiled at him, eyes, skin, hair, teeth, everything was red and Edward's heart stuttered like a deer stuck in headlights... Or in the jaw of a predator.

"What am I, Ned? What is Harry? Harry? Harry? Harry?"

Her teeth gleamed... And then she lunged for his neck.

Edward jerked awake in his bed, hand flying to his throat, sure he could still feel the impression of teeth tearing through his skin, eyes blurry and weak in the soft lighting of his bedroom. Head flopping back onto his pillow, Edward sucked in a deep breath before he let it out in a huff of hot air. Warily, still slightly sleep addled, he reached for his bedside table, patting his hand, smiling as his fingers brushed the metal frames of his glasses.

Plucking them up, he slipped them on as he slowly sat up, glancing at his alarm clock. 3:03 am. What the hell had that dream been? Of course, he had that dream before, or at least, the beginning part. It was nothing new to him. It had always been the same. He would be in a white room filled with riddles written on the walls, he would scurry around the room, fill them in, and then wake up. End of. Done.

Never before had... That... Harry, or anyone else for that matter, ever infected his subconscious mind. Really, he had never questioned anyone, cared enough about anyone, to have them be a part of his sleeping world. What did it mean? What was his subconscious trying to tell him?

Hunching over on his propped up elbow, cradling his forehead, Edward weakly shook his head. No. He was lying, or more aptly, not being a hundred percent truthful to himself. He knew. Deep down he had known since she had first walked into the M.E lab. Harry Potter was an enigma. A contradiction on two legs. A puzzle box with no directions. She just... Didn't make sense. Edward Nygma prided himself on his uncanny ability to make sense of things. And yet... Yet Harry tested those abilities to the extremes.

She appeared and disappeared at random times. From the reports he had snook out of filing, on her and Bullock's and Gordon's cases, she seemingly did the impossible on the daily. She stood for truth, justice and all things good... Yet hadn't batted an eyelid at helping him cover up a murder... And then straight after, went down to Derry's diner to grab lunch with him under the pretense of him being in 'shock' after witnessing such a gruesome act.

She smiled like sunbeams, yet hell fire lurked in the very depths of her eyes. She berated the psychos and killers in lock up, but she could never fully hide her smile, not from him. She fought to save lives on all accounts... Yet repeatedly laughed in deaths face when it came to her own possible demise. She was a riddle trapped in human flesh and blood. He knew what it meant... Harry was the puzzle, the riddle he so urgently needed to figure out. And figure out he would.

After all... Riddles were his dominion.

Harriet Lillian Potter- Master of Death

Duplicity- Archaic Noun- The state of being double.

Don't let me fall.

Harry stood tottering on the brink of a small rocky tower, so far up she could not see the floor below. The platform was small, barely enough to fit her two feet on without causing her to topple over the edge. All around her was smog, blackened, thick, heady. Faintly, like a long lost memory, she thought she could hear whispering coming from the swarming smoke that threatened to suffocate her. One pillar of light broke the shroud around her, illuminating her and the little post she so precariously balanced on.

Three chains were wrapped around her, heavy and chunky, glinting. One was wrapped around her hands, tying them behind her back, the loose end going down and burrowing into the slither of land she stood on. She could just see the tail end of it, a pretty bright green metal.

The second was secured around her waist and legs, pinning, locking, coiling around her like an anaconda. She thought... She swore she could feel it writhing against her. This one was checkered, like a chessboard, alternating in deep black and decadent purple.

The last, and the most worrying, was draped around her neck, like a dog collar, tight, indenting into her soft skin, nearly cutting off her airways. Like the other two, the end was attached to the crumbling surface she was forced to stand upon. However, unlike the others, this one was more... Flamboyant. The links reminded her of a candy cane, twisted red and white, with Christmass bows dotted chaotically around like she was a gift wrapped present.

Harry struggled, pulling, tugging, jerking, but nothing worked. In fact, she could feel the chains grow tighter through her efforts, searing into her skin, branding her. From the breath of the decaying smoke, she could hear footsteps approaching her from behind. How? It was impossible. This slither of land was all she could see, all the smoke allowed her to, but deep down, somehow, someway, she knew it was the only foothold for miles around. Perhaps in the whole world.

Then, she felt a pair of hands on her wrist, fingers curling around the chain that bound them together. Before she could jump, react, try and wiggle free, a voice ghosted along her ear.

"In the False land, all the inhabitants always lie. In the True land, all the inhabitants always tell the truth. A stranger is trapped in a room that has two doors. One door leads to freedom, the other does not. The doors are guarded by a jailer from the False land and by another from the True land. To find the door to freedom, the stranger can only ask one question to one of the jailers, but he does not know which is from the True land. What question did he ask to save himself?"

Harry sagged in relief.

"Oh, thank Merlin it's you, Ned! Help me get out of these-"

The hand around her wrists and the chain tightened, twisting the metal deeper into her skin. Harry hissed. What the fuck was going on? Where was she? Why was she here? Why was Ned asking her bloody riddles when it was obvious she was trapped?

"What. Question. Did. He. Ask."

He stepped out from behind her, keeping one hand on the metal chain, just a step, but it was enough that she could see him. It was Ned, but not the Ned she knew. This one was... Sleeker. More refined, gone was his charming nervousness. His hair was combed back, glasses gone, a bowler hat hooded his eyes. He wore a pressed suit, newly tailored to his tall, imposing frame, green like the chain and swinging from his free hand was a pair of bolt cutters, green too. She could almost hear the Avada Kadavra.

Harry scrambled back on her feet, pushing herself as far back as she could, as she dared to, heels balancing on the edge of the perch she had found herself on, as the rock began to disintegrate right beneath her feet.

"Ned... Edward, I don't have time for this! Use the bloody bolt cutters and let's get out of here before I fall!"

Edward sighed, indulgent, smiling as if she was nothing but a child who hadn't grasped the math equation he had set her. Why wasn't he cutting her free? Of course, they hadn't known each other long, but she thought they were friends at least. By Merlin, she had helped him cover a murder just a few weeks ago! Harry winced, shaking her head at the memory.

"I am setting you free... We're all setting you free...You just don't see it yet. Now. What did the stranger ask?"

She shouldn't have helped him. She should have reported it to the appropriate muggle service and dusted her hands of the whole ordeal. However, when push came to shove, she just... Couldn't. Edward reminded Harry of her own insecurities. The time when she was ostracized, pushed aside, shunned because of who she was and how she acted. Ned was her, after the Tri-wizard tournament, all alone, people whispering behind her back, angry and scared and half believing they were right, she had gone insane and there had been no Voldemort to kill Cedric. Just her and her need to win a game.

Back then, she would have wished for anyone, anything to believe in her, to have her back no matter what fucked up things she had done or would need to do. Faced with that possibility with Ned, seeing the young her reflected right back at her, she had done what she wished someone had done for her. She had stood tall in his corner. Edwards sigh of impatience had Harry scrambling for an answer.

"Erm... Wait.. Hold on... is it 'If I asked you which door... the other jailer would tell me is the right one, which one will he point at?'... No matter which of the two jailers he asks, they both will point at the wrong one. So, he should choose the opposite one... Right?... Right?! Now help me get out of here! Ned, please!"

Edward let go of her wrists and chain, propping the bolt cutters in the crease of his elbow as he clapped.

"Correct! However... Sorry, Harry. The only direction to go from here is down. We'll meet you there."

"Wait! Don't! Ned!"

Then he was cutting through her chain with a grind and snap and before Harry could bring her hands around, he was kicking her forward, the smoke rushing in to swallow him whole. Harry sailed off the edge, screaming as she swung back, her back hitting the biting stone, the chains around her legs and neck the only thing stopping her from falling all the way down into the nothingness. Harry scrabbled for a grip on the rock, now that her hands were free, hoping she could pull herself back up, but she could find no purchase. From the top, where she had just been standing, she could hear an odd pair of footsteps, a slide and then a stomp... She knew that sound!

"Oz! Oz, down here, help me up!"

Craning her neck back so she could see the top, she realized she hadn't fallen far, but the distance seemed to grow and shrink, undulating, waves and tides of hopelessness clashing against determination. She only knew she couldn't fall... No matter what, no matter the price to herself, she couldn't let the smoke swallow her. From the ledge, she could see Oswald crouch down, shiny soles of his designer shoes peeping over the very edge.

"What are you doing there Harry?"

He grinned down at her, folding a closed umbrella over his lap. Harry was too frantic, her breath ragged, mind swirling, heartbeat thrumming in her ears, to question much or realize it wasn't her Oswald she was facing either. She just wanted back up on the ledge. Back where the light was. She didn't want to fall.

"Oz, please... Ned's gone bloody crazy. Help me back up?"

Oswald's mouth curled, his nose scrunching a little as he peered around him, as if pondering her request dramatically. Her heart hit her stomach like a cannonball into the sea.

"Nope. Can't do that Harry. You're needed down below... With us. You know it. Just give in."

Oswald reminded her of her own ambition, her own stubborn determination, that unbreakable will that only survivors could really hold. Oswald was her, a child, crammed into that cupboard, starving, malnourished, alone, dreaming of bigger, better things, wanting... Needing it. This Oswald seemed to have got what her Oswald and herself hadn't. Decked out in a ball suit, shiny Italian leather shoes proudly on display and an all too knowing smirk gracing his face.

"I don't want to go down there! I won't! Please! I... I... I can't fall! I can't become like him... I can't!"

Tears began to mist her eyes, fogging her vision, cloying and clamping in her throat as she held them back.

"No one wants you to be Tom, silly. We want you, to be you! Don't you see Harry?... You are already falling."

The was a slice through the air, a blade being unsheathed, and from Oswald's umbrella, a sword sprang free.

"No, no, no, no, no, don't! Please!"

But it was too late, he had plucked up the checkered chain and cut through it, freeing her legs, vanishing as soon as the link broke. Once again she was falling, sinking, plummeting down. Before the smoke could devour her completely, the chain around her neck yanked her to a stop. Her hands flew to the chain, grasping, yanking, trying to breathe but it was too tight. Her legs kicked out, pushing and kicking against the rock behind her, but yet again, it did nothing.

"Hahahaa, ho, ho, hahaaaa."

No, no, no! Not him! As if the smog around them was solid ground, Jerome strolled out of the mist, crossing his arms and legs as he sidled up to her, leaning a shoulder against the wall, watching her with that damned, wide, pointy smile of his. Unfolding one of his arms, he pulled out a dagger, twirling it around his fingers playfully.

"Now what do we have here? Still clinging on, even after all that you've done? How many death eaters and rogue witches and wizards have you killed now? Oh, wait, that's right... You've lost count. Their faces are all the same now. The only thing that matters to you is the hunt... The challenge... The game. That's the only thing you can remember. You're the master of death after all! Death isn't morals and good intent... It just is. It devours. It eats without distinction, the good, the bad, the gray, it takes all in the end. It doesn't need rhyme or reason. Just like you. How long before Deatheaters and the odd naughtly little wizard stop slating your thirst? How long before you can't push back that hunger anymore? Face it, death is inevitable, just like your fall... Eat and be merry!"

Master of death... Harry would laugh if she wasn't being choked. That, just like all the other Deathly Hallows had been a ploy, a double-edged sword in the end. She loathed that moniker. Immortality! Life, forever unending! Beating death at his own game! What a joke. Death never lost. Being denied death, having it stripped from you, robbed... It left you hungry, parched, starving for it. And so, you basked in other peoples, the only sauce of nutrition against that sort of starvation. And it was starvation. Harry knew it. Felt it. Lived it day in day out. That gnawing in the pit of her stomach. It was why she did what she did. Hunt down the remaining death eaters. Kill them as the Ministry of Magic had ordered her to. It stopped the ache, if only for a few blissful moments. However, she could only wonder what would happen if... When she ran out of criminals to hunt down. What would she do then?

Harry couldn't speak, the chain was too tight, but she frantically shook her head. She knew what he was going to do but still she hoped, prayed, he wouldn't. Only death was below her, watching, waiting for her to slip and become what he wanted her to be.

"What? Cat got your tongue? Hahaaa. C'mon Harry. Lighten up! It's not all bad. Down there, you can do what you want. Say what you want. Be who you want... Isn't that what you've always wanted?... To be free?"

Jerome reminded Harry to how very, very, very fucking close she had come to snapping herself. Tom, whispering in her ear, the thrill of blood pumping through veins, chugging life-force, in the thick of the fight and the urge to kill, to end it all and them, rearing its ugly head. Jerome was her, standing tall in the battle of Hogwarts, bloodstained and undefeated, the bitter taste of Voldemorts ashes on her lips. In the light of recent events, Harry couldn't help but wonder if she had, in fact, snapped that day and was only denying it all along.

"I have to say Harry, you have an odd choice in friends! Or... Is it even friendship, mmmm?"

He slid in closer, lips nearly brushing her cheek. Harry stopped in her rushed and hectic movements, glaring at Jerome.

"I mean, you don't cover a murder for an unhinged forensic detective who might be battling split personality, let a well known underground criminal stay in your home free of charge and play games with a psychopathic mummy killer and say, 'Oh, it's just what friends do for one another!', do you? You can lie to yourself all you want... But you can't lie to us, not here."

His lips skimmed her cheek, tracing a searing line to her ear.

"Why fight? Isn't it time to give in? To let go? You like us not because we remind you of yourself, but because we've done something you haven't been brave enough to do. We've let go. We're free. You want that... You need it... You crave it... So why deny yourself any longer?"

The dagger ripped through the chain. This time, unlike the others, Harry fell with a calm, peaceful sort of tranquility. Acceptance. Down and down and down and down... All until a hand grabbed hers. Harry hadn't known her eyes were shut until they sprang open, zapping above to the man that was trying to pull her up. She was back at the top of the thin tower again, as if she had never fallen to begin with, just slipped, Jim Gordon half hanging off the edge, heaving her up.

"Come on Harry, you have to help me! Pull yourself up! Don't give in! Ignore them!"

Harry blinked rapidly, hand and body still slack. She was dazed, confused, mind as foggy as the darkness around her. Frightfully, she realized she had liked the sensation of falling once she had stopped fighting it. From below her dangling feet, she could hear their disembodied voices calling out for her.

"What falls but doesn't break, and what breaks but doesn't fall? Night and day! Let go Harry, join the night! It's pretty with the stars out!"

"Really Harry? You're going to let someone else tell you what to do again? How well did that work out with Dumbledore? Let go!"

"Come on down Harry Potter! Let's put on a show!"

Jim tugged at her once more, his tone growing more frantic.

"Harry... You don't have to do this. Fight. Pull yourself back up. You can do it. I know you can."

One finger broke free, then another, and another.

"But... I don't want..."

And then she-...

Harry snapped up in bed, covered in sweat despite the open window blowing in a chilly wind next to her bed, heart racing, eyes searching, chest heaving. A dream... She had been dreaming... Harry broke down into heady sobs. She couldn't remember and it scared her, thrilled her, excited and terrified her...She couldn't remember if she had let go in the end or not.

NEXT CHAPTER IS THE LETTER E!- If you have any prompts, one word and beginning with e, that you want to read, make sure to send them to me! As I said before, there were so many I really liked last chapter, that I've added most of them this chapter. I thought it worked rather well, so I might do it again next time. However, because I wanted one solid theme, I sort of assigned certian prompts to each character and kept one that bled through all of them. This was done sort of randomly, but if you have a prompt that you want to be paired off with a certain character, just say so and I'll give it a shot. Your imput and suggestions are always welcome and are really what is driving this story forward. :)

THANK YOU! Really! To everyone who reviewed, followed and favourited, I really do hope I'm at least meeting your expectations and you are enjoying whatever this is as much as I am writing it up! XD As always, PLEASE REVIEW, not only do I really like hearing your thoughts, they help push the story forward and give me much needed inspiration.

Until next time, stay beautifull! ~AlwaysEatTheRude21