Author's Note: I return! I apologize for the state of this chapter- a bit more set up and building for future chapters than anything truly meaty. Enjoy!
Chapter Four: A Betrayal, a Rat, and an Offer
"Settling in well, Harry?" Dumbledore asked congenially, entwining his fingers together and laying them flat along his chest, resting them above the satin belt that cinched his robes close.
Harry nodded, shifting in his chair. It felt odd, having his former Headmaster sit beside him instead of before him, behind the large and intricately carved desk. Instead, Madame Maxime held that position, towering over the two of them in a way that should have made Harry feel small, like a nothing being scrutinized. But he didn't feel small, merely odd, a bit lofty and heady from the shift of power that had occurred with nothing but a small change in seating arrangements.
Dumbledore was beside him. An equal. He held no office here, no authority. Harry didn't even have to be here, as Maxime had made very clear. If he would rather be in class, he just need say so and she would send him back.
"I admit I was worried about the transition. Not only for you, but all my former students. Though I've no doubt that Madame Maxime and her staff have been as welcoming as possible," Dumbledore began, smiling kindly in the direction of the Headmistress. "Classes have been well?"
"Fine," Harry snapped, his tone more curt than he had intended. He could hardly help it, Tom's words twisting within him, sinking and rising to the forefront of his mind even as he hastily tried to push them away. Their conversation the day before had tainted this moment now, he knew. Made it seem off, as if Dumbledore was skirting around a topic. That he knew more than he was sharing.
It angered him, that Tom's words had gotten to him so.
"I've met with your teachers, and it seems you aren't performing as well here as you did before. I've spoken with Miss Granger and she also informs me that you've kept your distance from her. She's worried about you, as am I. Friends are one of our most invaluable-"
"I've got friends. I'm not failing," Harry interrupted, his short nails digging into the soft wood that made up the arm of the chair. A small voice, buried within the back of his skull asked why he had lashed out, why he had met the concern with anger and fire. But the irritation that filled him, spurned by Tom's words which still lingered in his mind, seemed to make his nerve endings vibrant.
Dumbledore reeled back, his eyes widening in surprise at the sudden outburst. "Harry, my apologies, I did not-"
The words fell on deaf ears, as another voice boomed within his head. The sibilant purr of none other Tom Riddle, the thought so clear and crisp that it seemed as if they were not the memory of his warning but as if they were instead being spoken to him; within him. 'Sirius Black. He'll warn you about him, but he won't tell you who he really is...'
Tom had said that Dumbledore would lie to him, that he had his own plan and his own agenda that did not require Harry to know the truth.
What was the truth?
"Who's Sirius Black?"
Dumbledore quieted immediately, whatever he had been in the midst of saying forgotten as he glanced at Harry with a quizzical expression. Blue eyes narrowed behind half moon spectacles, a hand pulling from his waist and entwining thoughtfully in his beard. "Sirius Black? Has that been what's bothering you? I know the other night's attack on the Weasleys has no doubt left you-"
"No," Harry cut off through gritted teeth, his brow furrowing. "Who is he? And don't tell me that he worked for Lord Voldemort. I know that already."
For a moment, Harry held his breath, his chest burning with the desire to exhale. He thought, for sure, that Dumbledore would continue to talk around his question, or perhaps not answer it all, instead offering unsatisfying platitudes in its place. To his immense surprise however, the older man sighed, reaching upward and rubbing his temple. All at once, he looked very tired and old.
"Sirius Black was a former student of mine. Came to Hogwarts over twenty years ago. He was an average student, a troublemaker. Popular. But why, Harry, are you so interested in who he was before Voldemort's servant? No good can come from digging into past," he said, and there was something peculiar about the way he spoke. A harshness to them that Harry had not quite heard from the older man. A harshness that suggested it was best to move on from the discussion.
But again, as if he stood right beside him, lips pressed against his ear, he heard Tom's voice. 'There's more to him than that.'
Before he could stop himself, question whether or not he even cared to know, or if he even trusted Tom enough to try to find out, the words left Harry's lips: "And?"
Blue eyes met stubborn green, unwavering and cold and Harry might've shivered but a resolve was hardening him.
"Mister Potter, I'm afraid you are being very rude-" Madame Maxime started, only for Harry to interrupt her just as he had Dumbledore, bile rising in his chest.
"And?"
Tom was wrong. Dumbledore wasn't hiding anything from him, he wouldn't. He was the one person he could trust wholly, the one who understood Harry in a way that no other did. There was simply no way that Tom was correct.
"Sirius Black was a Gryffindor," Dumbledore said suddenly, startling Harry from his thoughts and from the unsettling quake in his stomach that threatened to make him sick.
The statement struck him as odd. A Gryffindor? He had thought all of Voldemort's followers had been Slytherin. A bias on his part perhaps, but no doubt incorrect. After all, Voldemort himself was the Heir of Slytherin, the prodigal son in his own belief. What use would he have Gryffindors?
Why would a Gryffindor kiss the robes of a Slytherin?
Dumbledore's face softened suddenly, returning to the friendly visage he had become familiar with, the one that filled him with hope and relief. "He was best friends with your father, and mother, close enough that he was named your Godfather, only to betray them. It was his betrayal that led to their death that night."
A beat of silence passed between them.
"He was...their friend?" he asked, lips pinching. An image appeared before him, pristine and technicolor as if it were happening right then in that second. His father, a mirror image of himself but with hazel eyes instead of green and a blemish free forehead, careless and young, laughing with a boy whose face was obscured in shadows, with tangled black curls and a menacing aura reverberating from him. His father and mother, locked in an embrace with the same boy, unaware of the maliciousness, the awaiting betrayal. His father and mother, dead, the same boy standing above their prone bodies, lips curling into a crooked grin.
"Harry," Dumbledore implored, a hand reaching out and settling on the young boy's shoulder only for it to be shirked away.
"You knew. This whole time you and probably everyone else knew and no one told me?" he asked, voice hitching in the tremble of his emotions, clamorous and riotous. A knot lodged in his throat, his eyes burned from the tears that tried to break through. He fought against the desire to cry, steering what tenuous control he still had of his emotions into a different territory: anger.
He rose from his seat, the ball of tightly wound nerves and energy fraying, snapping like twine. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Dumbledore stood as well, towering over him, reaching out in what was meant to be an endearing gesture but Harry stepped away from it, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Harry, sometimes the past is best left in the past. There is good and there are lessons to be learned but there is also pain that needs to be buried. It's tragic what happened-"
"Tragic? Tragic?! My parents are dead. Because of him. And now he's gone and escaped and attacked my best friend and no one thinks to tell me why? No one thinks I deserve to know that he's the reason they're dead. That they trusted him and now they're dead?" He was vibrating with the rage, the air crackled and fizzed around him as his magic sparked, static making his hair stand on end.
"Mister Potter, why don't you see Healer Prowse, get a calming draught from him? I'll speak to your teachers for the remainder of the day and tell them to expect your absence while you rest-" Madame Maxime said, her voice soothing, tilted in a French accent. She had risen from her high-backed leather chair, stepped around her desk and rested a large hand on Harry's shoulder. Turning her attention from the student, she said to Dumbledore, "Albus, I think you've worn you're welcome for this visit. We'll have tea another time."
It was protective, a mother bear coming to the defense of her cubs. The shift of power was once more evident, Dumbledore the unwelcome outsider. There was a part of Harry that laughed at it, high-pitched and cruel and Harry shoved it away for later examination, grabbing his rucksack from where it sat on the floor and pulling it onto his shoulder.
He left the office without so much as a wave, the dam cracking and breaking until his cheek was wet and sticky with the tears he fought against. Anger turned to bitter tears, the salt coating his lips so that it was all he could taste.
He was always the last to know, no matter how much or how little it affected him. Perhaps he thought Harry too young to know the truth, a misguided desire to protect him from the cruelties of the world. But the defense did little to make Harry feel better; there was no more innocence to be preserved, after all. He had already survived eminent death, had killed with his own hands. It was clear that Voldemort- as either Tom or the older shadow of the man- wanted Harry desperately, wanted to finish the work he had set out to do twelve years ago.
What sense did it make to keep anything from him? Surely, it was only a hindrance.
But that was the running theme, wasn't it? He was a wizard, capable of things both wonderful and terrible, and he did not learn of it until Hagrid broke through the door on his eleventh birthday. His parents were murdered, not killed in the car crash he wrongfully believed he had survived all those years. He was famous, a household name, for something he had no memory of- strangers around the world knew of his legacy before he even knew he mattered. That anyone might miss him besides the spiders he shared the cupboard with.
Everything was kept from him, why should he have been surprised by this?
His parents were dead because their best friend, someone they trusted enough to make the godfather of their child, betrayed them.
More startling than that revelation was that Tom had been right. That there was so much more to Sirius Black than anyone was letting on, that Harry had to twist Dumbledore's arm to even learn of it.
It stung, knowing that the boy he so vehemently despised had been the only one telling him the truth. The only one who seemed to care. Cared that he did have a remaining sliver of family in the magical world, and that that family wanted him dead.
Not as if this one instance of truth made up for the multitude of lies- Riddle was deceit, just as everyone else.
His head ached and his stomach flipped tumultuously as he made his way to the infirmary, Healer Prowse waiting for him with a calming draught ready. He accepted it gratefully before returning to his dormitories, where he took a fitful rest.
He dreamt of his mother and father, eternally young and bathed in light, singing soft lullabies to a small baby. But the dreams soured when Sirius Black appeared, his darkness less shadows and more of a black hole, consuming all the light and joy away from the scene until it was saturated and heavy grays and inky blacks.
And Lily and James withered, skin sinking inward, turning to ash that fluttered away to reveal white bones, leaving only their baby boy behind him, who fell into the waiting and clawed hands of Sirius Black.
-xXx-
The Weasley domicile was what one might call quaint. Cute. Homey and charming. These were not the words that came to Tom Riddle's minds as he sat upon the one sturdy fence post, a cloak wrapped tightly around him.
Sad.
Pathetic.
Decrepit.
That was what Tom thought of when he looked upon the crooked cottage, piled too high and kept standing through nothing but magic and sheer force of will alone. The final light within the home, visible through one of the windows of the carefully perched upper level, was shut off.
Tom turned his eyes upward to the dark knight sky, the dotted stars creating a mural above the earth. It did not take long for him to seek them out, all the visible constellations.
Leo, the lion, was positioned just above him, and it made him think of his own little lion. Harry's mind was an absolute mess, reaching across the distance and through the unknown bound between him and Tom. He was in distress, filled with a terrible anger that he did not know how to diffuse and which turned into a piercing migraine.
There was, no doubt, only one explanation of course. Dumbledore had indeed made his visit, and Harry, twisted in too many ways to know what was up and what was down, had inquired about Sirius Black. Only to learn the heartbreaking truth.
Or at least, half of it.
It was a victory, and something warm bloomed within Tom's chest, the sensation even stronger given the chill and cold that bit through his warming charms. It was pride, delight at having won a small portion of the battle. Chipped away, if even a little, at Harry's unquestioned trust and hope in the former headmaster.
Though it was still a distraction, the torrent of emotions that were not his own that washed over him in quick succession. He had thought himself an accomplished occlumens, but clearly he had not been prepared for such an...intimate connection.
He would have to work on that, limiting the influence Harry had over him.
Tom pulled his pocket watch out from the inner pocket of his cloak, the gold glinting in what small fragment of light was offered by the moon and stars. Thirty minutes had passed since the last light had been turned off.
It was time.
In all the research he had done of his future self (and there wasn't much, the wizarding world seeming to take the approach of not looking a gift horse in the mouth with his death) the most useful had been that the Dark Lord had created a way to communicate with his followers. A dark mark that linked to his mind and powers and allowed him to summon them at will, to seek them out no matter where they hid.
Lord Voldemort might be barely recognizable from the man he once was, but there were some things one couldn't abolish; and Tom Riddle had the same mind and magical signature that was connected to those hundreds of dark marks. And while the newly enacted wards around the burrow in the wake of Black's attempt might have prevented Riddle from entering, they did not prevent a certain rat from leaving.
He watched as tall grass shifted, a zigzag line running through closer and closer to Riddle until-
"My lord!" a squeaking voice said as the air crackled with the force of his transfiguration. Where was a rat now stood a man, short and squat, appearing even smaller as he remained on his hands and knees, bending low to kiss at the hem of Tom's cloaks.
In any situation, it might have delighted Tom to see someone worship him so, groveling at his feet in a way that he had only dreamed of. But the man- Pettigrew- was filthy and grubby, like he hadn't bathed since he had assumed the role of pet rat.
He took a step back, causing Pettigrew to look upward, his face twisting.
"You're not-"
Tom reached out, too fast for the slow and unsuspecting Pettigrew- and his hand clasp around the thick neck, shoving him with such force he fell to the ground. He writhed and squirmed, tried to wriggle out of the strong grasp, only to have a breath knocked out of him as Tom leaned forward, his knee pressed below the rat's ribs.
"I assure you, I am. How else would I have been able to call to you? Tell you to meet me here?" he reasoned.
Pettigrew seemed to consider this, blue eyes flicking to the side in thought before asking, "But you look...different?" He added an inflection at the end, as if he wasn't certain of whether or not it was an appropriate thing to say. When Tom failed to respond in time, he sputtered, "But no less powerful and intimidating, m-my Lord!"
It was disgusting, how desperate he was to please, so absent of any power of his own that he was forced to grovel for what he could, meager scraps tossed his way. Nevertheless, it still stoked something within Tom, the fire that sat where his heart would sit if he were a more poetic man. The weakness of another only amplified his own strength and power.
"Yes, my most recent attempt to return has found me in the image of my teenage self," Tom said, frowning as Pettigrew's eyes widened into discs. No doubt the man was surprised by just how human- dare he say, handsome?- his lord looked in his youth.
Yet, he was wise enough to not say anything, and Tom added, "I've been keeping my return a secret for the time being. Getting some things in order before the grand reveal. I must say I'm impressed with how well you managed to twist everything onto Black. Even I thought you were dead until paying a visit to Black himself."
Pettigrew blinked, his lower lip trembled several times before steadying- a spark of regret? Twisting his lips into a cruel smile, he said, "Don't worry. He won't be a problem for you anymore. I've taken care of him-" he paused for a moment before adding, "Wormtail."
The man shuddered again, and Tom fought against the desire to chuckle at his discomfort. Such a weak fool to have betrayed his friends and then shudder at mention of his betrayal. He imagined the man would never be able to hear the name Wormtail again without conjuring up images of the fallen friends who trusted him with their lives.
It only made the name more appealing.
"Of course, my exit was a bit hasty that night, and there are a few things I still need, perhaps you have the answers I'm looking for?" Before he could respond, Tom rose the tip of his wand and pressed it between the two beady eyes.
"Legilimens!"
There was no resistance, nothing to even hinder him as he thrust himself into Pettigrew's mind and memories. While Black's own memories had told the story of a rebellious youth, of the black sheep of a family defying their ideals and wishes to forge his own path; a story of forsaking his blood family for a family he created of his own, ties of loyalty that would never waver- Pettigrew's were more humble. Modest.
Quiet and reserved, Peter trailed on the coattails of other more successful, more powerful or more popular witches and wizards. It was by sheer luck that he managed to get into the good graces of James Potter and Sirius Black, the pride of Gryffindor House. Even in his mind, he was a mere observer, a casual background character among a sea of protagonists and antagonists.
There was a spark of pride when he was chosen to be the Secret Keeper for the Potter's. An honor.
The image shifted, turned gray and pallid and dreary. It was as if it was a recollection of a nightmare as opposed to a true to life memory. Peter stood in the center of a room- his flat, Tom assumed, bare with some sparse, worn furnishings- a towering figure standing before him.
The man was only a bit taller than Tom himself, twirling a long wand the color of bone between tapered fingers. He was bald, and the slope of his face was too smooth to be natural, his nose blunt and only half an inch shy of being flat. His lips were thin and colorless, but his eyes...his eyes were narrowed, tilting in an odd manner that was reminiscent of a creature, not man.
They were red. Blood red. Where there should have been white was instead red, the iris a deeper maroon.
This was Lord Voldemort, the first real look he had gotten of his future self, more than the quick, spare glimpse offered to him in Black's mind. Tom's lips curled in disgust, for a moment repulsed by the hideousness but shirking the notion away. What did he need of good looks when he had all the power he could dream of? What role did vanity play once he had already won a following? He did not need to be loved and adored when he was feared.
"Now, don't play coy with me. I know the Potter's made you their keeper," a high-pitched voice hissed, startling Tom and causing a shiver to run down his spine, his lips pinching in irritation that he had been so affected.
Pettigrew swallowed, lips trembling, but his eyes gleamed defiantly. "I-I'll never b-betray them to you!" His words hitched, stammering over each other in his nerves.
Voldemort's head fell back as he let out a high, icy cackle, the noise pulsating throughout the room, breathing into it. He exhaled sharply before fixing his crimson eyes once more on Peter. "You Gryffindors and your illusions of loyalty. Courage. You're so jaded and naive that you don't even know when you've been had. I had hoped that they had merely underestimated you and that you would prove yourself more worthy but alas, you seem to be everything they thought."
Something dissolved within Pettigrew and he frowned, furrowing his brow as he said, "I haven't been had."
Voldemort sighed, looking almost sympathetic. Tugging at his robes, he bent forward so that he was eye level with Pettigrew, the latter cowering away from him. "Peter, they don't care for you or trust you. They've only chosen you to protect them because it was the less obvious choice. They thought that they were being clever, that by making Black a red herring I would never get to you. But they underestimated me, and I suppose you were just a sacrifice they were willing to make?"
Pettigrew whimpered, struggling against the invisible binds that held him place. "No, they wouldn't...they're my friends."
"Friends! I know all about them, Peter, and they hardly even tolerated you. They felt sorry for you, pitied you. That and that alone is the only reason they allowed you to trail behind them," Voldemort implored, his tone surprisingly soft, as if he truly believed he were doing Pettigrew a favor.
The rat faltered, but shook his head, the side to side motion slowed. "You're lying-"
Voldemort swooped forward, his robes billowing dramatically as he was suddenly mere inches from the younger wizard, white fingers curling over shaking shoulders. "Do not claim my truth to be lies simply because you do not favor them! I'm offering you an opportunity that better witches and wizards would- have- killed for! An opportunity to shirk away the chains of those who see you as a mere prop in their war and become something more."
Pettigrew licked his lips. "A-and if I d-don't want it?"
Impossibly thin lips twisted, pulled into a wry, crooked grin. "I don't think we have to worry about that, do we Peter?"
The image shifted, colors blending and fading, creating entirely new colors. Peter cried out as the dark mark appeared on his skin, ink bleeding up as if the tattoo had been cut into his skin and was made of blood and blood alone. Peter offering the Potters as leverage, small eyes gleaming at the prospect of power, authority. No longer would he follow, forgotten, several paces behind the others...
He would lead.
He would not beg for kindness, for he would be the one that others would fall on knee and plead to.
Memories came, went, nebulous and flimsy. Finally the one that Tom had been searching- hoping for- came, and he slowed his perusal. It was the nursery where Lily Potter lay, dead, sprawled on the floor, Voldemort beside her. But unlike Black's memory, this was from a moment earlier in the evening, when the deaths were fresh, Lily's cheeks still pink, her eyes not quite devoid of light. A baby wailed, tirelessly and strained from a crib, chubby cheeks ruddy with tears and green eyes pinched. There was blood, shiny and brilliant, staining his brow, smeared over thick fingers that had unknowingly touched the wound that would one day become his most striking feature. His scar.
Pettigrew was knelt by Voldemort's body, hastily searching through the mess that had become of the room. With a muttered exclamation, he pulled his hand out from underneath a pile of splintered wood. Clasped within his hand was his wand. Voldemort's wand.
Tom's wand.
Shoving the wand into his pocket in a manner that made Tom wince, he stood, brushing dirt and plaster from his pants. He made to step out of the room before pausing, turning his attention to the crying toddler who had now pressed his face against the bars of his crib, red staining white, and reached a hand out, fingers clutching at air. Desperate for someone, anyone. Comfort.
Pettigrew swallowed thickly, glancing from Harry to Lily's prone and lifeless body to Harry again. But his resolve steadied, and with a sigh, a sad glance offered to his once friend and her child, he vanished, taking Tom along with him.
Several memories passed before Tom retreated from his mind, one side of his lips tipping upward in a lopsided grin. His hand was still wrapped around the thick throat, and Tom traced his fingertips lightly over the skin, a perversion of a loving touch. "You are useful, Wormtail. In more ways than you know."
With a shove, Tom stood up, leveling his wand at the wizard once more-
'Obliviate!'
Green light flashed, momentarily blinding him. Pettigrew blinked, blearily, confusedly, before his gaze sharpened on Tom. "W-who-" he stuttered before gasping, looking to his hands- human, one missing a finger. He gasped, the air crackling as he shrunk right at Tom's feet, his nose extending, ears lifting and rounding upward until he was just a plump rat.
And then he was gone, skittering away and back up to the crooked little house on the hill.
Tom did not follow.
After all, the wand he had borrowed from some poor, unfortunate wizard simply wasn't cutting it anymore. Not when he would be reunited with his own wand, separated for decades. He apparated, offering Wormtail a silent thanks as he did so, for hiding his wand so well for his return. It almost made him pity the creature.
Voldemort was not going to be pleased when he learned the rat had lost his most precious belonging.
-xXx-
Peter ran to the house, scuttling along the perimeter of the little cottage until he was in the gardens, cutting through and beyond until he was off the property line, his breaths frantic and cloying and ragged. His lungs felt too big for his chest cavity, perhaps the result of returning to his human form after so long, only to once again compress and morph.
Why had he been in his human form?
And in front of a strange man no less.
There was a pressing sensation beneath his skull, a tingle as if something alive was crawling along his brain, antennae brushing against him. He might have thought it was merely a headache, the lingering throb from a particularly painful head injury. But the blank space in his memory, the gap where things ought to have been but weren't, told him that it was the result of a charm. That the man had searched his mind, only to toss him aside when done.
What had he been searching for?
What had he found?
The thought alone was enough for him to panic, his bones to shiver beneath his skin. Peter Pettigrew had many secrets.
It had been a fear of his since the very beginning. He was never good with secrets, or much at all really. He was hardly a prize and he often wondered what the Dark Lord had seen in him. But he had seen something when others hadn't and now Peter might have gone and ruined it all.
The man had seen him outside of his animagus form, knew full and well that Peter was alive and living with the Weasleys and that must mean that Sirius Black was innocent. And they would search for him. And they would find him. And when they did what other secrets would they find?
He cursed himself. He should have known better than to let the Dark Lord entrust him with his secrets. He should have known he wouldn't get away with it.
He considered running away, away from it all. Abandoning what few tenuous connections to his old life remained. But the thought was quickly dismissed. Even he knew not to try to evade him. His forearm, miniature and bestial as it was, burned as if in warning. You can not run from me. You can not forsake me.
He couldn't run, but he couldn't return to the Weasleys either. It was too risky. Sirius Black knew he was there, had already attempted to right what was wrong. And now that other strange man-
No. He couldn't risk it.
With nowhere else to go, he headed off to the one place that came to mind, hoping that once the Dark Lord returned he would overlook this little indiscretion.
Peter wasn't very good with secrets, but he was certainly adept at hiding and going unnoticed.
-xXx-
Weeks went by, turning into months which came in a flurry of autumnal leaves and crisp air, giving way to naked and dead looking trees, air that chilled and nipped at your skin. The gardens however were impervious to the dying touch of winter, just as green and colorful and brilliant as ever. The ground was soft below it, kept alive by magic.
So it was that Harry and Luna continued to meet each out around noon in the garden, an oasis of spring in the dead of winter. A palette of colors on the gray and drab canvas. Argos would be waiting, curled underneath the brush of some flowering plant that Luna had told Harry the name of several times but he could never commit to memory for some reason.
"They do that," Luna had said, unconcerned with his ignorance even after she informed him of its name for the seventh time. "They don't like to be memorized."
He had not heard back from Tom, which had surprised him. He had thought for certain that the older boy would delight in his victory, would take no time in finding Harry and goading him. He could hardly imagine Tom saying something as petulant as 'I told you so' but no doubt would there be something to the same effect. A bit more eloquent, yet just as biting.
And yet, even the letters ceased, and for a moment he had believed that he was free of the wizard, a curious feeling unfurling in his chest. He certainly wouldn't miss him, not in the way that a person typically misses another at least, not in a longing, adoring way. But he did miss him, in the way that someone might miss a constant in their life, one which was not pleasant but always reliable.
It had taken two weeks before it dawned on him, that he was now fully alone. He had Luna and Argos, companions turning to wonderful friends. But Tom had been the only one who had known him, knew his darkest secrets no matter how hackneyed the idea seemed. Whether Harry wanted to confess it or not, a bond had been forged, the sort of bond that can only come about when two share a hideous crime between them.
And now Tom had gone, leaving him to dwell on the truths he could not share, with the knowledge and hurt of betrayal of all the truths that no one had bothered to share with him. He felt terribly and utterly alone, isolated.
He hated Tom for it, making him miss the cancer of his existence. The parasitic nature of their relationship, Tom feeding off of Harry's discomfort, and Harry finding solace in it.
Still, time moved onward, even if it remained in a stasis in the garden, a bubble where time could not touch. Classes had ended for the winter holidays, and his days had grown calmer, as if even his worries had taken a break in observance.
"Merry Christmas, Harry," a cheerful voice said, and he turned to see Luna approaching him, arms wrapped around a bundle hidden by her cloak.
He grinned at the sight of her, in a green and red stripped cloak, with matching stockings. Her long blonde hair had been braided at the nape of her neck and tossed over her shoulder, mistletoe and holly berries intricately woven in. She chimed as she walked, the gentle ringing coming from too good-sized bells that hung from her ears.
"How festive," he said, adding that he liked it when she blushed, perhaps embarrassed.
"Yes, well, I love Christmas. Everyone always seems so much happier," she said, sitting beside Harry and petting Argos in greeting. "And I've brought presents."
They exchanged presents. She was grateful for her gift, a lovely leather bound sketchbook, an amethyst stone nestled in the center of the cover. The pages were thick and blank, a waiting canvas for artwork. He had also gotten her a set of colored pencils, magical ones which could charm the drawing to come to life, animate upon the page.
Harry opened his gift, saving the wrapping paper as it had been hand painted, sweet and colorful doodles that he wanted to keep. He folded the paper, keeping it neat, before turning to his present. It was a sweater, hand knitted in red and gold yarn. If there was a pattern, he could not discern it, and it was not the most well made, though it was certainly lovingly made.
"I know you were sad when you grew out of the sweater Mrs. Weasley made for you, and I know you don't always hear from Ron, so I just wanted to make sure you got a Christmas sweater this year," she said.
He pulled her into a tight hug, unable to express his gratitude. There simply weren't enough words in the English language, no finite way to tell her just how much he loved the sweater. A bit ugly. A bit imperfect. And he loved it.
So he held her instead, inhaling the scent of balsam and cranberries and pine needles. She smelt like Christmas, all balled into one. Gift wrapped in bells and striped wrapping. When he finally pulled away, it was with a large smile in place. "Thank you, Luna. It's perfect."
He put it on, over the jumper he was already wearing. The neck hole was a bit too large and hung in a limp circle around his neck, the sleeves a tad uneven. She seemed pleased with herself, exhaling a breath of air.
"It was my first time making a jumper. I've done scarves and blankets before, but never a jumper."
Luna had also made a sweater for Argos, for practice, and he seemed grateful for the extra warmth. It was cold the last few weeks, growing colder still. When the rain fell- and it was often- it was wet and sloppy and made slush out of whatever snow remained from the various storms.
"I wish we could have pet dogs in school. It isn't fair that he should be so cold. No one should be alone for Christmas," Luna said, running her hands through the black fur. His coat had grown in thicker in preparation for the holidays, but it hardly seemed enough.
For a moment, Harry's thoughts flashed to Tom, a child in an orphanage with no family or friends. He certainly wouldn't have any family remaining now. How was he spending the holidays? Was he alone? Or had he surrounded himself with more of his precious followers?
It unsettled him, thinking of the wizard in such a context. Or that he thought of him at all. He pushed the thought from his mind, turning to Luna with a curious look in his green eyes. "What if we bring him in anyway?" he asked.
"We might get caught."
"Not if they don't see him."
-xXx-
Harry had known that Argos was certainly a well behaved dog, but he wasn't quite prepared for just how well behaved he was.
Luna and Harry entered the Grand Entrance of the castle, a small space between them. The invisibility cloak had been too big, the hem trailing on the ground around the large dog. He had been worried that Argos- curious by the school and what few students or teachers wandered throughout- would run off from them, taking the cloak with him or losing it in his trot.
But he remained at their sides, steady and quiet, as if he knew the importance of not being discovered. Even when they departed, Harry taking him to his dormitories in the south wing, Argos never made a sound, never ran from his side.
"You've been very good, Argos," Harry praised, scratching underneath the dog's chin. His fellow third year roommates were all, thankfully, visiting family for the holidays and would not be back until the start of term. A week and a half from then.
A week and a half to figure out how to keep the dog hidden.
Argos whined, rubbing his head against Harry's hand, the only part of him visible from the cloak which had been tossed aside. He wondered if perhaps he had picked up a sickness living as a stray- he would at periods get listless and fatigued, sighing heavily and whining in a pained, sorrowful way.
'Could dogs get colds?' Harry wondered. He wasn't certain- he had never done much research on it, after all. Perhaps a trip to the library was in order.
"Stay here, boy. I'll be back soon, with some food," he said, feeling all at once silly for speaking to an animal as if might understand him yet also assured. It was nice to speak to someone who wouldn't judge or criticize you, even if you were only met back with large brown eyes.
With a pat on the head, he left the dog behind, taking the steps down from his dormitory to the common area.
The south wing was decorated in warm colors, dark hues of red and orange, golds and bronzes. The walls were brick, every shade of red possible inlaid in the walls. A massive fireplace stood in the very center of the common area, double sided so that it could be viewed from either side. On one side was a large sectional couch, copper colored and overstuffed with knitted blankets tossed about. A square mahogany coffee table sat between it and the fireplace, stained with rings from where drinks had been sat and forgotten about. Several armchairs and smaller sofa's littered the space, plaid and patterned and mismatching.
One the opposite side of the fireplace was the study area, tables with chairs pushed underneath. The wall was lined with bookshelves, torches in between them. Flames flicked in them, mirroring the fire that constantly roared and crackled in the center, a beacon of the room.
Christmas trees- some small, some large- were sporadically placed throughout, decorated by the students earlier in the month. Garland hung from every available spot, over sized scarlet ribbons decorating them.
It wasn't Gryffindor, but it was still homey.
Harry had grown used to the quiet of the past several days, being one of only a handful of students who remained. So it was with much surprise that he came to a halt, blinking at the sight of Tom sprawled out in the corner of the sectional, a book raised.
He looked up as Harry entered, closing the book and setting it aside. "Hello, Harry. Having a merry Christmas?" he asked before squinting his eyes, frowning. "Nice...sweater."
Harry blinked, suddenly aware he was staring. "What are you doing here? I thought you had decided to leave me alone," he said, though he walked forward until he was standing behind the sofa, hands gripping onto it.
"Why would you think that?"
He shrugged. "Haven't heard from you. No more letters."
Tom rose a brow. "You weren't even reading them. Why should I waste my energy for it to be tossed in a rubbish bin?"
"Why now, then? Why have you chosen to come now after all this time?" Harry asked, once again feeling the familiar sting of anger as it burned within him, any part of him that might have mistakenly missed Tom forgotten.
If Tom did notice the quell of rage within Harry, he did not show it, pulling from the inside of his cloak a wrapped parcel. "It's Christmas," was all he offered in defense.
Harry blanched.
"I don't want a present from you. You can keep it," he spat.
"You haven't even opened it."
"I don't trust it," he said simply. Then, "You open it."
Tom looked affronted, settling the gift in his lap. He waved a hand, flourishing it above the satin ribbon atop it. Each end of the bow pulled outward by unseen hands, undoing the ribbon as the paper wrapping unfurled, revealing a box of gourmet chocolates. With another wave, the box flipped open, and Tom considered them for a moment before selecting a dark chocolate nugget and popping it in his mouth. "See? Fine," he said, chewing slowly, thoughtfully.
Harry sighed, running a hand through his untidy hair. "You've already got what you wanted. Dumbledore told me the truth about Sirius Black weeks ago. You're right, he lied to me. Now if you don't mind, I've got to be somewhere," Harry spat, snarling as he made his way around the sofa and towards the door. He wanted him gone. The isolation was better than this, the torment of having a young Dark Lord lounging before him.
"But I haven't even given you your other gift," Tom said, rising from the sofa to trail behind Harry. "Better than a box of chocolates."
"I already told you I don't want-"
"Spend the summer with me," Tom interrupted, lips twitching into a small smile.
Harry froze, his mouth slung open. "What?"
Whatever he had been expecting, it was not that. He furrowed his brow, examining Tom's face for anything that might betray the cleverly crafted illusion. A harshness to his gaze. A stern line to his lips. Anything that might look unnatural. Anything that might reveal the monster hidden beneath, playing a cruel joke on him.
But there was nothing. His eyes were soft, wide, the yellow flicker of flames reflected in them.
"I'm offering my home to you. I've a spare bedroom, a large yard-"
"What would ever make you think I'd want to live with you?"
Tom frowned, look down at his robes as he picked at something on his lapel. "I've got a bedroom, much roomier than a cupboard. A yard that's private so you can fly your broom and that owl of yours can finally stretch her wings. I don't require you to clean or cook for me, and even if I did I wouldn't employ corporal punishment."
Harry flushed, cheeks flaming as they reddened. He knew his situation with the Dursleys wasn't normal. He certainly hated it, had always dreamed of finding his family- maybe his mother and father hadn't died at all and came back for him- or maybe he had a secret aunt or uncle who didn't know of him until recently but desperately wanted to adopt him. He dreamt of a full yard that he didn't have to tend to, eating with a family for dinner instead of in the kitchen, eating whatever was left behind. Birthdays with a proper cake and candles and celebration.
Kisses instead of kicks, hugs instead of shouting.
He had dreamed of being offered a home, but not once did those dreams ever involve a certain dark wizard.
Surely even the Dursleys, through all their cruelty and faults, were better than him?
"No," Harry said, wanting to sound hard and certain but his voice wavered, softened.
"It's not much," Tom talked over him. "But it's quaint. Cozy."
"Why? Why do you even want me to?" Harry asked, his disbelief lacing the words and making them lofty. This had to have been a dream. A perversion of the one he often had, a taunting one.
Tom sighed, eyes flicking upward as he said in a voice too soft for such a cruel boy, "I know you have difficulty seeing me as anyone other than him. But I'm not. I'm an orphan. I know what it's like to want a home, a real one. I know how much it hurts to feel like you don't have a home, like Hogwarts was the closest you have ever come to having one. And now Hogwarts is gone, and you're here, only to know that in a few short months you'll have to leave here too. You'll have to go back."
Harry blushed once more, averting his gaze. He reminded himself that Tom Riddle could not empathize with anyone. It was a mantra, twirling and twisting within his mind as he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Tom did not understand or empathize with him. Tom only knew that because of what Harry had told him when he was still imprisoned in the diary. Harry had entrusted him with such secrets, and Tom was simply using them against him.
He tried to push away the thought, the promise of a home with a bed all for him. A yard for him to lay in and watch as Hedwig soared above him.
But a home was not a home if he was on alert, if he felt hunted and preyed upon at all times. His cupboard wasn't much, but it was his own. There were no Dark Lords that lurked within it. No Dark Lords sleeping just beyond it.
"No," Harry said again. "I can survive a few months with the Dursleys."
"Are you certain? The Ministry only charmed your Aunt's memories, not the others. They still remember that night," he countered, concern warming his voice-
'No,' Harry harshly corrected. He was not concerned, not really. Because Tom Riddle didn't care about him. It was simply an act. Compelling as it was, it was all an act.
He cleared his throat. "I've got to go somewhere, so if you're done," he said, meeting Tom's gaze.
Tom sighed, pinching his lips together. "Very well. Enjoy the rest of your holiday," he said, a quick smile flitting across his face as he brushed passed. He paused at the door, turning back to Harry with a kind face. "Just because you are denying it now doesn't mean I'm rescinding the offer. The invitation will always be open for you, all you need do is ask."
Before Harry could say another word, he left, the door clicking close behind him.
Harry let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. It suddenly ached, his eyes wincing in pain. He felt torn, as if the two separate sides of himself were pulling, tearing away at him. He knew it was the right choice. It would be dangerous to place himself in such a vulnerable position. Figuratively falling right into Tom's lap.
Dangerous, and an insult. Ginny Weasley was dead. Cold in the frozen ground. The Weasleys would never be whole again, huddling together as if by remaining in close quarters no one would ever harm them again. The foundation of their family was in ruins because of Tom and he expected Harry to just set it aside? Place his own desires for a home above his respect for the Weasleys?
He might have kept his distance from them, but he never stopped loving them. It was because he loved them and Hermione that he kept them at arms length.
No, he would not spit upon Ginny's grave, even if it meant bruises littering his torso, nights where his stomach growled and went unsatisfied. He could survive a few months.
-xXx-
A wind whistled through the trees, snow crunched as creatures ran about scurrying away from the man and his unusual bundle, the warm glow of the lantern he held before him. Peter Pettigrew looked thoughtful, his gaze flicking from the various trees, searching for something that only he could see. Finding it, he smiled, settling the bundle and lantern down before moving towards a towering pine tree.
He fell to his knees, digging through the snow at the base of tree, uncovering the frost covered roots. The bark was silver, smooth in the winter chill. Producing a wand from his sleeve, he gripped his fingers around it, muttering something in Latin.
He had wandered for months, truly living as a rat, unsure of where to go after being discovered by the strange man. He had just about given up hope, been ready to accept such a meager and pathetic life, when it came to him. The whispering in his skull. The words that were not his own.
'Wormtail,' they would soothe, 'Come to me. Find me.'
And he had. Dutiful as always, ready to serve and please knowing that one day he would be the one served. That he would be honored as one of his most faithful, one of his most prized servants and rewarded handsomely as such.
And even when Wormtail came to him, pleading for forgiveness about having been discovered by Black and the strange man, he had not cared. He had forgiven him, had ensured that no one would be a problem for him again.
He had been welcomed with open arms, and once again, he had somewhere to go. Someone to fall to.
The ground gurgled, rumbling as Wormtail finished his incantation, pulling his hand back as a seam ripped up through the base of the tree. It split, the bark cracking and making splintering sounds as a hole formed within the trunk. He reached in, clumsily pawing around, unused to his human form. Limbs too long, his middle too round and everything about him just too big to properly maneuver.
His fingertips brushed over the curved opening, finding nothing within.
He froze.
He swallowed thickly.
Beady eyes bulged as he searched once more.
Nothing.
He pulled his hand back, held his wand up and muttered 'Lumos.' The hole was bathed in light, and it was empty empty empty-
"Wormtail," a cold, high-pitched voice called from behind him, from the bundle of a tightly wound blanket. It made his skin prickle in gooseflesh, his hair raise on end. "Have you found my wand?"
He said nothing, a second passed in perfect silence. The wand was gone.
-xXx-
Author's Note: Happy Holidays! A sort of Christmas themed chapter for this holiday season?
I love Dumbledore (I love all characters, really) but I just imagine this man is up in Heaven wiping sweat from his brow and muttering "I cannot believe that worked." Like really, two out of the three boys he dealt with with troubling home lives turned to the Dark Arts and he just got real lucky with Harry. That is not a good statistic to base the entire wizarding war on. If the horcrux had just been a tad more active things could have gone very differently.
Thank you all so much for you support! Follow me on Tumblr (reneehartblog) for sneak peeks and for any questions you may have (I'm just far more consistent with that I'm afraid). I hope you enjoyed!
NEXT UP: Harry returns home for the summer, Dumbledore enlists the help of the Order to reach Harry before it's too late, and Voldemort plots his return...