There's so much interesting in these books! He can't believe what's managed to slip past him the first fourteen years of his life! No wonder Hermione finds reading so fun; it's actually interesting. Especially when he's reading about something he likes or wants to know!
Harry is, at the current moment, fawning over a book on Semi-Dark Spells. He's reading in the Malfoy Library, sitting in one of the comfiest couches Malfoy Manor has to offer. Riddle is next to him, lounging on the armrest, of all places. Harry would think it's a bit strange, but as Harry is currently busy reading a book, he doesn't think much.
After almost half an hour in silence, Riddle speaks up. "Look at this," he says, dropping his book into Harry's lap. There's a sting of irritation at this, but Harry waves it away and opts for looking up at Riddle in confusion. At seeing this, Riddle sighs and points to a seemingly random paragraph in the book. "This. Look at this."
Honestly, he should've gotten used to Harry not always understanding by now. Shaking his head, Harry turns to the book. It's old, the papers moldy and stiff between his fingers, the bindings yellowed and leather - but as with all of the books here, it radiates power. Dark power.
Harry begins to read.
Although the use of this spell has greatly dwindled throughout the years, there are still those who seek it out and attempt to use it. It is especially common among pureblooded families to have their children perform the spell on their 17th birthday, so that they can see if they have lived before or not – and if they have, who they were, and what they did.
As Harry reads his eyes grow wider and wider in disbelief. "-you – are you saying what I think you're saying?" Harry asks, quickly looking up at Riddle with the same wide eyes.
"What do you think I'm saying, Harry?" Riddle says quietly, shifting his weight to lean towards him. The hand that's been resting on the back of the couch now tangles into Harry's hair. Harry would've reacted to this treatment, but as Riddle has been playing with his hair more often than not the last few days, he only tilts his head into the touch and frowns.
"Er… that… that we might have lived before?" he says, fighting the pleased contentment the bond has overwhelming him. Hey, it's not his fault! Riddle has a nice – no, that sounds wrong – very – he has very deft fingers – no, God, that sounds wrong even within his own head.
"Not necessarily, no," Riddle says. "The book explains that most powerful Wizards are new to the world, and that their souls have yet to tire themselves out. The chances for us having lived before are slim – though it's still worth a try."
"I'm not that powerful," Harry frowns.
"Oh, come now, Harry," Riddle exclaims, pulling his hand away from Harry's head to gracefully pluck the book out of his lap. "I've seen you duel. You're far more powerful than the average wizard."
Harry blushes at the compliment and pouts at the lack of contact. He very deftly ignores both. "So you want me to perform the spell." It's not a question.
"I want us to perform the spell," Riddle corrects. "Go back to reading. I will tell you when I know what to do."
Nodding, Harry returns to his book.
After five minutes or so Riddle summons a quill and some parchment and begins to take notes. Harry doesn't bother him, but still keeps a look at him out of the corner of his eye. It's fun to see how fast the quill dances over the parchment, and while the scratch of quill-against-paper would be irritating, it only serves for Harry to have some background noise. If he was still reading, of course. Which he's not. He's staring at Riddle.
He's staring.
At Riddle.
Harry turns back to his book with a frustrated look.
After ten more minutes, Riddle slams his book shut. Harry jumps. "Good," Riddle mutters to himself as he stands up from the couch, parchment scrolls in hand. "Come, Harry. Duelling room."
Harry, not even bothering to complain about being near-ordered around anymore, shoots up from the couch and hurries after Riddle. The man is fast, damn it. Harry's gotten lost quite a few times when he was too slow to keep up with him.
Thankfully, Harry manages to keep his pace this time, and they arrive at the Duelling room after an uneventful walk. There are a few Death Eaters practicing there, but after a sharp look from Riddle they hurry out the door, fleeing like a pack of rats.
Riddle stalks to the centre of the room and turns around sharply, robes whipping in the air around his ankles. "I will first cast the spell on myself," Riddle explains, in the emotion-less tone Harry has come to recognize as his teacher voice. "After, I will cast it on you," Riddle continues. "I will most likely be unconscious for a few minutes, but I should regain consciousness after less than half-an-hour."
"What do I do if you don't?" Harry asks. A sudden throb of worry has him hesitating for a moment. Why is he worried? Is he worried for Riddle's health? For his mental state? For his own health? Maybe it's the bond?
"Find Lucius," Riddle says, interrupting Harry's train of thought. "Stay close in case the bond reacts, but otherwise, don't do anything stupid."
"You're sure this won't kill you?" Harry asks, worrying the sleeves of his robes between shaking hands.
"Quite," Riddle mutters, shrugging off his outer robes and flinging them in Harry's direction. He catches them, barely, and proceeds to dump them un-ceremonially at the floor.
With a (jokingly?) disgusted look at Harry, Riddle rolls his shoulders, schools his expression, and aims his wand to the roof.
He begins chanting in another language Harry doesn't recognize, brows furrowed in concentration, wand held still even as the tip begins to glow.
Oh, Harry thinks, as magic swirls around them. This is the first time he sees Riddle perform an actual powerful and draining spell – he's in for quite the show.
The air begins to whip around Riddle, the temperature in the room sinking a grade or two. Harry stares, wide-eyed, as the magic resonates around him, radiating from Riddle in thick, dark tendrils and caressing his body aimlessly. The power, the magic, feels – it feels almost tight, like there's too much of it in one place, like it's waiting to be released, and Harry shudders.
It feels wonderful. Is – is Riddle really this powerful? He must be, right? God – Harry can't really believe it. Even when Dumbledore used his magic the air around him didn't react like this, and Riddle hasn't even been giving off quite this glow before, either –
The magic tightens even further, pulling back into Riddle for a short moment as the man hesitates – but then he speaks one last time, the word oddly enthralling coming from his mouth, and the glow of his wand increases for one moment – the world seems to hesitate, time halting to a stop – and –
the magic explodes, the forceful blast that follows causing Harry to lose his balance and crash to the floor.
The next few seconds are chaotic, Harry's vision swimming and his chest running a thousand mils per hour in his chest, a thunderous noise echoing in his ears.
When the magic calms, after something that seems like forever, Harry has to lie still on the floor for a moment. He stares up at the roof, chest heaving with each breath he takes – and a slow grin spreads across his face. That was awesome – the power, the tendrils, the magic –
he sits up slowly, arms shaking and ears ringing. The room is silent.
Too silent.
Riddle!
Harry twists too fast, and his back pops painfully at the abuse, but he doesn't care. The room is mostly empty, so Harry spots his teacher relatively easily. Riddle is out cold on the floor, sprawled in a position that will definitely give him pains later on. Worry seeps into Harry's veins like cold iron, and he stumbles to his knees and begins to run before he's even fully up. "Riddle!" he cries, as he very nearly falls. "Tom!"
He falls to the floor next to Riddle, hands hovering uncertainly above his shoulders as he bites his lip. Riddle's always the one to initiate contact, he doesn't like being touches without his consent – but – but Harry has to do something, anything –
the bond twists, deep behind his heart, and he doesn't hesitate. Wrapping his arms around Riddle's shoulders, Harry pulls him up into a sitting position before cradling him protectively to his chest.
He's warm.
Harry grits his teeth, throat clenching around every breath he tries to take, and pulls Riddle closer.
"It's okay," he whispers. He doesn't know if Riddle can hear him, wherever he is, but just in case he can… "I'm here. It's fine. You're safe." He rocks a bit back and forth, but when he casts a look down on Riddle his breath hitches and he has to stop.
He can't explain it, the tug at his soul. There's just something about seeing the most feared Wizard of his time in his arms, completely vulnerable and at his mercy.
This is it, he realizes. He could – he could kill him, now, kill him – strangle him with his bare hands and rid the world of his evil –
Harry reaches towards Riddle's face with a shaky hand –
and brushes his bangs away with a soft smile. Letting his hand trail further down, Harry's fingers linger at Riddle's cheek before pulling away.
He can't. The bond won't let him.
He won't let himself.
His heart beats in his chest, throwing itself against his ribs as if it's begging to be set free, and he only smiles serenely as he pulls Riddle closer.
Some time later – minutes or hours, Harry doesn't know – and Riddle sluggishly blinks his eyes open. Harry isn't looking at him, instead opting to stare pointedly at the wall to his right as he tries his best to ignore the blush in his cheeks. He waits for a reaction – for Riddle to push him away, to ask who he is, to react to any possible memories of a possible last life – but the man only sits up. The move is somewhat clumsy, somewhat hesitant, but he doesn't say anything before he shifts away from Harry.
The comforting warmth suddenly missing is like a punch to Harry's gut, but he swallows it down and gathers his fists in his lap. "Well?" he asks. "You learned anything?"
Riddle blinks at him for a moment, eyes shadowed and dazed, but then he blinks the layers of clouds away and shakes his head numbly. "No," he says. "I haven't lived before."
Harry shrugs. "At least you tried, yeah?"
Riddle blinks again. "Indeed," he says – slowly, but not quite a drawl. He frowns and looks around, inspecting the walls for… whatever reason. Harry isn't sure if he wants to know. Whatever Riddle saw just now… it can't have been good.
Harry stands up, Riddle trying to follow suit but ending up stumbling in his own feet and nearly falling. Harry catches him by the elbow and frowns worriedly. "Are you okay?" he hurries to ask, the worry bleeding into his voice.
Riddle shakes his head, but Harry can tell it's a gesture meant to clear his thoughts, rather than telling Harry no. "I'm fine," Riddle says. He doesn't step away from Harry's touch. "Right. Your turn."
Harry winces. If this is Riddle's reaction to the spell, he's not sure if he wants to undergo the same treatment… but now's too late to go back, he supposed. "Alright," he says, and nods. "Go for it."
Riddle is still the one to cast the spell, thank God. Harry doesn't have the brain capacity to remember such a long string of foreign words, and would probably mess it all up if he tried. Better to let Riddle have at it. The power, the pure magic of the spell still feels the same, but it moves differently this time – instead of pulsing out of Riddle in waves upon waves of delight, the tendrils reach out and wrap around Harry, tying him to Riddle in an odd, physical manifestation of their bond.
Harry holds his breath as Riddle speaks the final word, the wand-tip lights up, the magic peaks, and –
everything goes dark and then it all comes rushing back to him, water lit up by the sun and the quiet infirmary of home, a gentle voice and a gentle hand and a voice that's his own speaking in hushes tones, flicks of a wand he recognizes, gentle streams of water, crying in the middle of the night, staring up at a starless sky and still seeing them in the shattering of his own heart, and oh, oh, he remembers.
The memories come rushing, all of them, his death at sixty-three, his mother's gentle voice, the Mediwitch that'd trained him, every single one of his patients, and when Harrison – Harry – opens his eyes, Tom is more like a faint memory than someone he spoke to moments ago, and oh god this is confusing but even as he lives in the moment of 1014 he –
he remembers Tom, and Dumbledore, and his friends, and – and – and –
The first thing Harry sees when he opens his eyes is Riddle – Tom – looking down at him, something off about his eyes that sets Harrison on edge. The first thing Harry notices is that Tom – Riddle – is carding his fingers through his hair – again, his mind supplies, he's done it before. And there, beneath layers of memories about charms, lies a faded memory of Tom reading a book while petting Harry's hair.
Harrison groans. "I have been a fool," he says, because he remembers his reaction to being bonded to Tom, and he remembers all this man has done for him, and how can he not be grateful?
"Oh?" Tom says, raising an eyebrow. "How so?"
Harry covers his face with his hands, struggling to remember why he did this. Why, oh, why is it easier to remember that specific detail from his past life – and it must have been his past since he remembers dying then but not here, right? – but not what he was reading about an hour prior? What is happening to him?
His head is spinning, a painful ache already settling into his bones, heart constricting and breath coming raggedly, tearing painfully through his throat even as his ears start ringing. "I – " he tries to say, but his vision goes blurry and he grunts, screwing his eyes shut. Damn it! "I will faint," he manages to choke out, "get me somewhere where I cannot hurt myself when I wake up."
Harry – Harrison – manages to catch Riddle's – Tom's - expression go alarmed before everything goes black again.
He shouldn't have told Harry about the spell. He shouldn't have read the book. He shouldn't have performed the spell on Harry when he realized what it does to the body. He shouldn't have performed the spell at all, damn it!
Tom tugs at his hair as he paces, from the window farthest away from the entrance and back to the door. Now he's gone and managed to get his bonded unconscious – he's splayed out in a hospital bed, expression mostly peaceful. Every now and then his fingers twitch and he mutters something under his breath, but he hasn't woken up ever since Tom performed that blasted spell on him.
He hadn't been able to look at him for too long, not really, but – but there was something off about him when he woke up, something haunted in his gaze, and Tom doesn't understand it, he doesn't like it – doesn't – doesn't want it, and Merlin, he wishes he could go back and – and change it – he doesn't even know if Harry will ever wake up, and what will happen to the bond then?
Incidentally, Harry does wake up. Harrison wakes up. Argh – he wakes up. He manages to focus on the moment here and now, enough to tell Riddle – Tom – Voldemort – about his other life, and the man is in near-awe when Harr – isson tells him about Hogwarts during the founders' era, explaining his job as a Mediwizard in the infirmary.
The immediate moment he doesn't have much to focus on, however, the memories resurface, and – and they're so tangled, he doesn't understand, doesn't get it, and it hurts, he doesn't know how to fix it and that hurts as well –
it's not like it's that hard! It's not like Harry and Harrison are two different people! It's just – they have different memories, and – and knowledge –
There are moments where Harry is confused at what he's done before, moments where Harrison is disgusted at some of the choices he's made in this life – and while they aren't two different people, they also… sort of are? Just – just not two people in the same body, but two people inhabiting the same body at intervals, and – and it's all really confusing, really, he barely understands it himself –
and there are moments where everything tangles, where he doesn't fully understand who he is or where he's at, because he doesn't remember why he remembers, and – and –
he spends the next week walking around, terribly confused, sometimes shrieking when a snake – Nagini? – talks to him (talks it talks it talks), sometimes seeking Tom out but then being disgusted at himself for thinking of him as Tom instead of Voldemort, and –
Tom – Voldemort – Tom tries to help him as well as he can, offering comfort where he can and advice when Harrison asks for it, but Harry isn't very receiving, even if Harrison is. One time, when he's walking around in an utter, complete daze while being on the brink of tears because of something that happened a millennial ago, Tom – Riddle steps out of a room, worried frown on his brow, but when he tries to speak –
Harry is one and a man murders his mother cold-bloodedly, Harry is eleven and the same mad-man attempts to persuade him to a path of evil, Harry is twelve and a sneering teen is ordering a basilisk to murder his friend's sister, Harry is thirteen and he loses his godfather to the man, Harry is in Dumbledore's office and listening to a lecture about abiding the rules while the old man still approves of his choices, Harry is fourteen and sees Cedric die by Voldemort's hand –
"Stay away from me!" Harry screams, backing away from Voldemort – Tom – Voldemort as fast as he can, and even when his back hits the wall he wants to disappear into it. "You killed my family!"
There's a moment where everything is quiet, Harry's heart is quiet, Voldemort is staring at him in shock, even the blasted snake has shut up –
and then tears well up in Voldemort's eyes.
"I'm sorry!" he yells, said tears welling over to stream down his cheeks and the words cutting deeply into Harry's heart and Harrison's soul. "I'm sorry, damn it! I wish I could go back and change it, change who I was, change what I did!" Here he cuts himself off and sobs, hands balling into fists at his side.
Harrison – Harry – blinks, and suddenly he isn't looking at a mad-man any longer, he's looking at the man who very apologetically told him that he'd been insane, he's looking at the broken shell of a kid who's just trying, just doing his best, he's looking at Riddle, he's looking at Tom, and –
Tom falls to his knees, shoulders shaking with his wails as he covers his face with his hands and lets out years of faded pain. "I'm sorry!" he repeats. "I regret it so much – I – I'm so, so sorry – "
Harrison rushes over to him, heart screaming out in pain, because he's a Healer, damn it, he's not supposed to cause pain! He sits down before Tom and doesn't hesitate before hugging him, and Tom tenses for a moment before lurching forward and wrapping his arms around Harry, pulling him even closer than they already are.
"It's okay," Harry whispers, tucking Tom's head into the crook of his neck and burying his hand in his hair. "It's okay, Tom – I – I know you didn't – "
Tom sobs into his chest, and within Harry – within Harrison – something cracks. He recognizes this kind of sobbing, the tears brought on after a dam falls apart and pent up emotions are let out.
Tom's been hoarding this pain, this regret, this horror… for weeks.
He's Tom, he's Tom, he isn't Voldemort, he isn't Riddle, he's a broken and hurting child just wanting the best for the world –
And Harry's memories click into place.