(A/N So, Hi. Erm. My internet got disconnected and I'm not sure when this will reach you because my service provider is a big dickhead and cant seem to tell the difference between paying a bill and not paying a bill which I have paid the bill I mean for heavens sake. *takes huge breath* I love you like a nerd loves world of warcraft, and neither of my stories are abandoned.)
Harry was getting dressed for another day, one which he was sure was to be filled with more weirdness, when a glint of gold caught his eye.
On his dresser sat a great fat pendent on a chain, with a serpentine S on the face. It was gold, and looked rather heavy. Harry approached it cautiously, and noticed on closer inspection that the necklace sat on a piece of parchment.
The teen reached for the note, gripping it with his thumb and forefinger, careful not to touch the decidedly suspicious locket. He scanned the note for a signature first, and was annoyed to find that there wasn't one. Why was someone giving him gaudy jewelery?
Since you've obviously lost your mind, I suppose this is no longer
mine to care for.
Harry scanned the note three times before looking back at the locket. He then looked back at the parchment.
He realized with a start that he recognized the writing. It was Tom Riddle's. He remembered it from his second year. Or, the second year he remembered anyway.
So what was he doing giving him a necklace? An ugly one at that.
Harry decided straight away that the locket was not to be touched. It was likely cursed. He highly doubted that the future Dark Lord didn't have some sort of ulterior motive.
He took out his wand and opened the top drawer of his dresser, and with one swift movement flicked the necklace into the waiting drawer.
If he were honest, he half expected it to explode. It just sat there, looking suspicious.
He had the feeling this was a dark object, an object that he should not have. With that thought in mind, he gingerly picked up a sock and threw it over the locket, holding his breath and still waiting for some sort of reaction.
Again, nothing happened.
He thought back to the note, and wondered why Tom had made it seem like the locket belonged to Harry.
He didn't remember it, but then again, this was nothing new.
Then the next question was, why was Tom Riddle looking after something that was supposedly his? It had to be some sort of trick.
He needed to figure out what the necklace was, and why Tom had it, and why he gave it back, without alerting anyone of it's existence. Because it was highly likely that someone might find it suspicious that he would have such an obviously dark object.
And if he did blame it on Tom, it was pretty likely that people wold take the future Dark Lord's side. If Tom Riddle was anything, he was charismatic.
Harry sighed and resisted the urge to remove the sock and get a better look at the locket. Instead, he shoved the drawer closed with more force than necessary, and threw his robe on.
He almost wished for his old life back. Though it was awful, it was normal. At least to him.
He had his parents back, everyone who had died was now magically returned to him. But it was confusing. No one was the same.
Not only that, he was not the same. People seemed to be walking on eggshells around him, and flinching when he spoke to loudly in the great hall.
With good reason, as far as Harry could tell.
He rubbed his hands over his face vigorously, while thinking, dark magic? Me? Doing dark magic? No way.
A little voice in his head, not unlike his conscience, whispered; Yes way.
This got Harry wondering about what kind of world he had to be raised in for him to turn to the dark arts. He felt sick and worried all at once.
There must be be something wrong with this place. Why else would Other Me think its a good idea to run about casting dark spells?
With this rather heavy and day destroying thought in mind, he descended the stairs, hoping to see a friendly face on the other side.
He had been avoiding Hermione like the plague since her outburst, and it seemed she was avoiding him as well.
Which was totally fine with Harry.
In the past, when Harry had attempted to avoid the bushy haired girl, she simply didn't allow it. She seldom, if ever, avoided the Boy Who Lived.
It was then that Harry realized he was no longer the Boy Who Lived. Or the Chosen One, or any other type of Boy Who Anything.
Or maybe he was.
And this was a magically induced dream to make him think that none of the awful things that had happened had ever come to pass.
But what if they really didn't? What if he was really just a borderline psycho and made it all up in his head, and none of his other life ever happened, and he had really been living here and mixing people up and making villains where there were none? What if Tom Riddle was just another teenager, destined for no more than teaching defense or catching dragons? What if Voldemort was just something he imagined?
Now that he really thought about it, it seemed so unreal. That he would be the sole person on the planet that would be capable of defeating the darkest wizard in existence, when he was barely capable of transfiguring a mouse into a matchbox.
But, what if, what if.
What if he was crazy? What if this was real? What is this wasn't real, what if he wasn't crazy?
Harry felt pretty close to banging his head on the closest stone wall, when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
He spun quickly, almost drawing his wand in the process, than thinking better of it. Why would Tom Riddle be in his common room? What if Tom Riddle was totally normal and Harry was the future Dark Lord?
That was a thought that made all the color drain form his cheeks.
"Harry? Are you okay? You're breathing really fast." The pale and apparently hyperventilating teen looked down, and instantly recognized his younger sister. Whose name had completely slipped his mind. Along with the complicated nickname that he apparently called her.
"fine, fine, just fine." He said quickly, hoping to end the conversation before she realized he had forgotten her name.
"So, lovely day, isn't it, Harry?" She asked, rocking on her feet innocently.
"Yeah, I guess."
"Do you want to go down to the green house for that thing, or are you still missing a piece?"
"A piece of what?" He asked, momentarily blindsided by her strange question.
She tapped her temple and grinned a grin that Harry thought was a nasty one, but surely not. She seemed so sweet in the hospital wing, the smile looked out of place on her mouth.
This was when Harry noticed that she was holding herself differently, speaking differently. Even her expressions were changed, as if she were far older than she truly let on.
"A piece of your mind," She clarified.
"Harry," She continued, the nasty smile that Harry now realized was a smirk still in place,
"What's my name?"
Harry stared at her for a long moment, hoping she would just forget about it. She didn't. The small red headed girl merely tapped her foot in impatience.
"nrghgh," Harry wobbled on his feet, looking for all the world like a petulant child who was on the verge of a tantrum.
The small red headed girl simply raised an eyebrow, and Harry was torn between walking away and literally throwing himself to the floor and beating his fists.
"I'm having a tough day," He said instead, and her eyebrow rose further.
"Are you really?" There was a bite to her words, a sort of challenge, an unspoken; you think your life is bad? Try mine.
"Could you just tell me and put me out of my misery? You're putting way to much pressure on. I'm never gonna remember with you standing there tapping your foot like a grumpy teacher, am I?" The older teen was trying to lighten the mood, but all he got for his efforts was a small frown and unreadable eyes.
It was his turn to frown. It was obvious she wasn't quite as upset about her brother's memory loss than she originally let on. And Harry was starting to get the shits with her obvious disinterest.
"Emma, Harry. It's a pretty simple name, don't you think? Not really hard to remember."
He crossed his arms, mirroring her position.
"What about the nickname?" He practically spat. He was trying to be civil. Trying to make this work. And he was so sick of everyone being so different, of everyone being so hard to read.
This little girl, his sister, apparently, was different again. As if it wasn't hard the first time to read her.
"What nickname?" She smirked again, and Harry had to resist the urge to strike her.
Calm down. She's just a snotty little brat. He thought to himself.
"The nickname that I call you," He pressed, talking slower than necessary.
"Oh, that nickname!" She clicked her fingers as if just remembering.
"Yeah, that nickname." He said, exasperated.
"I'm not telling." She grinned like a Cheshire cat and turned on her heel, walking away from him almost to quickly for him to process what she had just said.
"Why not?" He called after her, just as she reached the portrait hole.
"Because that's the name my brother calls me." She watched the dark haired teen for a second, as if waiting for her words to sink in.
"I am your brother," He said finally, more hurt in his words than he had expected.
"No, no you aren't. You're nothing like him. He was Great. More than Great. He was powerful, and no one, no one ever pulled one over on him. Especially not me. But here I am. Dangling you about like a puppet on a string, and all you've done about it is stand there and look hurt. You are not him. Not in the slightest. I have no idea who you are, truly. But I'm going to find out, and I'm going to get my brother back." She climbed through the portrait hole, not waiting for an answer.
Harry stood, dumbfounded, in the same position for what felt like hours.
"Fine," He said to no one.
"Get your brother back. I hate this place."
OoOoO
When Harry slept that night, he dreamed of Hermione and Ron. Not the weird and unpredictable ones. His Hermione and Ron.
Hermione was worried.
Everything she said in the dream was in a worried tone of voice.
"Watch out for that moisturizer, Harry, it's very hot." She warned, and Harry knew that he should stay well away from it. After all, when was Hermione ever wrong?
"Ron," She snapped suddenly, and the red head in question snapped his head up, with a look on his face that said, what have I done this time?
"Tell Harry what we were talking about. Hurry, we don't have much time,"
Without any warning, the dream had gone from normal weirdness, to uncharacteristic seriousness. Ron opened his mouth and the words fell out in a rush.
"There's a horcrux Harry, you need to be careful with-"
Harry snapped awake, feeling as if someone had just thrown a bucket of ice water in his face.
There was Ron, with his wand pointed at the raven haired teen, a look of disdain on his face.
"You never used to sleep in this late. You used to be up before the rest of us. Get up, would you, you're going to be late for charms."
"Ron, what's a horcrux?"
The ginger's eyes went comically wide and he looked around the room frantically.
"Are you bloody joking or what? Merlin Harry you bring up stupid things at stupid times."
Harry shrugged, not understanding Ron's panic.
"So what is it?" He pressed, and Ron looked disapproving.
"You've asked me this before, you know."
Harry shrugged from his bed, still feeling as if he had been dunked in the arctic, but curiously not wet at all.
"Tell me again."
The red head shook his hands frantically and made a groaning noise.
"Are you serious? Again? It was bad enough the first time."
"Yes, I'm serious." Harry said, trying to make his voice sound stronger and more menacing. If that was how his Other Self got things done around here, then so be it. He needed to know what a Horcrux was. If it had been mentioned in a dream, then Harry would have thought that it wasn't real, just something that his mind made up, or just something unimportant that he had read about before.
But it wasn't. It was something important, judging by the way Ron was acting. And his Other Self had asked about this. That was well and truly enough for Harry to figure out what it was.
"It's an object, it could be anything, like a shoe or a bottle cap. It holds a piece of a persons soul, making them pretty much immortal."
Harry sucked in a breath. That was it then, what Riddle was planning to do. He was going to make himself immortal. And Harry needed to stop it.
"How are they made?" Harry asked, trying to keep his face placid. He had no idea what kind of relationship his Other Self had with Ron, or what kind of relationship Ron had with Riddle. He didn't need the red head going and telling the evil bastard what Harry had been asking about.
"I'm not sure of the details, but it does involve killing someone." Ron shrugged, and Harry had to keep his mouth from falling open.
Killing someone? Had Riddle already done it? If so, who?
"And how, um, how are they destroyed?"
the red head didn't seem at all worried about Harry asking this question, and simply shrugged.
"Don't know. You never asked me to look up that part."
"Wait, I asked you to look it up? Why?"
Again, the Weasley shrugged.
"Not sure. You had a very, erm, Don't ask don't tell attitude about you. So I didn't ask."
"What book did you use? To find out this stuff?"
"Hmm, I forget the title, but I know what I looks like, I could find it for you?"
Harry nodded and finally got up, satisfied that he was going to get answers.
"We're way late for charms. We might as well got straight to the library and say that we have an assignment or something."
OoOoO
After Ron had talked their way out of trouble three times with charm Harry hadn't thought possible of Ron unless he had seen it with his own eyes, the pair of them entered the restricted section of the library.
"I don't know why you were interested in this the first time, Harry, but I think it would be easy to warrant a guess. But this time, I have no idea." Ron said. It was the first thing he had said to the green eyed teen since they had left their Dorm, and Harry stiffened at the almost question.
"Why was I interested last time?" He asked instead of answering the more dangerous question.
"It's only a guess, but a very educated one. You wanted to help someone make one. That's my first assumption. There are others. But they're less likely."
Harry nodded slowly, though Ron wasn't looking.
"Do you have any idea who I was planning on helping?"
"I'd bet my life it was Tom. That is, if you were planning on helping someone. What happened with you two anyway? You used to be close. I haven't seen you two together for a while."
Harry stayed quiet.
"I was just wondering. You don't have to talk about it." Ron said, taking Harry's silence as offense.
"And you're not, I don't know. Um, disgusted by the idea of someone killing someone else to live forever?"
"Harry, like I said, they were assumptions. I have no idea whether or not you were really planning on doing it, or you were just curious. There's no way to know that unless you just outright told me. As for the question, well, as long as its not me who ends up dead, I don't care what you or anyone else does."
Harry had had a feeling that Ron might have felt this way, but he was still disgusted by it. He didn't let it show though, and continued to follow the red head through the shelves, being consistently warned not to touch anything.
"There isn't much in here about making them, if that's why you're interested. But there's plenty on how to destroy one." Ron said, turning to look at Harry as he did so.
He gave the raven haired teen a calculating look, and Harry was sick to death of these looks. He got them from everyone in this place.
"Okay," Harry replied, feigning disinterest.
"Alright then. Enjoy," Ron said, plonking a rather large book into Harry's arms and retreating.
"You aren't staying?" The green eyed teen called over his shoulder.
"Nope, already read that one."
Of course you have, Harry thought to himself.
Why would I assume any different?