Harry couldn't sleep. The mattress' cotton stuffing felt like it had been replaced with rocks. The more he tossed and turned, the more aware he became of the ache in his chest. It was a gnawing hunger. He could only think of the golden doorknob and what lay behind it. Where everything he'd ever wanted waited.
It does not due to dwell on dreams…
Harry rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, thinking of Dumbledore and how very similar they were. They both longed with a painful desperation a thing they could never have. The desire to reunite with his family had finally killed Dumbledore. Harry must not let the same thing happen to him. He put a hand over his heart and tried to rub the ache away, but it continued to build until Harry was gritting his teeth. To help distract himself, he named every Quidditch player he could think of and then every magical beast … every plant … every potion …
.
.
A piercing slant of sunlight woke Harry. Groaning, he stumbled out of bed and to the bathroom. When he finally dressed and shuffled into the kitchen, he thought that his sleep-exhausted brain was conjuring tricks. Riddle sat at the table, a pot of tea set on a cozy beside him. His long legs were crossed, one elbow propped on the table with a hand tucked under his chin as he read a book. The sight was sickeningly domestic. Harry's fingers itched to snatch up the teapot and smash it on top of Riddle's head. Instead, he crossed the kitchen and grabbed a skillet for scrambling eggs.
He tried not to look, but the golden doorknob winked in the corner of his eye. The glint was like food to a starving man and his head turned toward it. The door was boarded up. Riddle had been busy through the night. It was such a secure job that even Uncle Vernon would have been proud.
Grimacing, Harry turned back to his skillet. He should be grateful, but instead disappointment pooled in his gut.
"How is your heart?"
Harry paused in cracking eggs.
"Fine," he said. He cracked another.
The sound of a chair scraping against the floor made Harry stiffen, but he did not turn around.
Ignore him. Ignore him.
He added a third egg to the pan and pushed them around with a spoon. A pale, long fingered hand slipped around his chest. Harry gripped the spoon so hard his knuckles turned white. He kept his eyes on his breakfast.
"No pain?" Riddle asked. Fingers pressed firmly against Harry's chest, right over his heart. "Don't lie to me, Harry."
"I'm fine."
Harry could practically feel Riddle's smirk. "You are at a disadvantage in that I know a great deal more about the after effects of Strangleweed than you do. Take a deep breath."
"Are you my healer now?" Harry snarled.
Riddle's voice was light against his ear. "Today, yes."
Knowing Riddle wouldn't go away until he adhered, Harry filled his lungs. He stuttered as a needle-sharp pain stabbed behind his ribs. He clutched the counter. The room spun. He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.
Hands gripped him by the shoulders and Harry was pushed into a chair.
"Breathe, Potter."
Slowly, Harry recovered himself.
"Is this … normal?" he asked, shaking.
Riddle straightened and removed the skillet from the heat. He scraped the eggs onto a plate and put it in front of Harry before returning to his seat and pouring himself another cup of tea. Harry stared.
"Yes," said Riddle, who did not look as if he'd done anything out of character. "Strangleweed venom is extremely potent. You were lucky I found you so quickly. The longer in the Strangleweed's clutches, the longer it takes to extract the toxins. I expect you'll be back to normal in a day." And with that, Riddle returned to reading his book.
Harry looked down at his plate. He wasn't remotely hungry, but he kept his eyes focused on the congealed eggs so he wouldn't look at the door. The golden doorknob was a glaring eye upon his back. Like an itch he could not scratch, a voice in the back of his mind urged him to get up, to yank the boards free.
Harry's head jerked up as Riddle pushed the pot toward him.
"Tea?" he offered, that infuriating smirk back as his eyes lingered on Harry's neck where the bruises he'd left last night were clearly visible. "You seem to be a bit hoarse. Sore throat?"
Harry's face burned. He stood so quickly, the chair toppled over backward. He was out of the kitchen and through the front door. There would be no co-existing if Harry threw a punch. They'd kill each other and maybe that was what the Carcerem wanted after all, because learning to live with Riddle was inconceivable. Harry was forced to stop, clutching a tree for support as his heart struggled to keep up, each inhale making him wince.
The sound of the front door swinging shut froze the little air in his lungs. He looked over his shoulder and saw Riddle, book tucked under one arm, stroll down the front steps toward him at a sedate, leisurely pace. He really wasn't going to leave him alone.
Harry jerked back into motion. He walked down to the beach as quickly as he could, and all the while, Riddle followed.
Harry couldn't do this. He was barely getting by before. The prospect of Riddle haunting his every step was too much. The sand slid under Harry's feet as he neared the boathouse and he knew without looking that Riddle followed like a damned shadow.
Ignore him. Ignore him. He will get bored with you.
More out of needing something to steady his hands, Harry grabbed a fishing pole and settled on the edge of the dock. He'd never fished the Muggle way before in his life. He had no idea if he was doing it right, but none of that mattered. It would be dull and monotonous, exactly the sort of thing Riddle would hate.
xXx
The boy was … fishing. Voldemort snorted and settled upon a sandy dune, far enough away from Potter to keep from having to speak to him. Close enough to leap into action, should the need arise.
Voldemort opened his book, A Study of Artifacts byLauritz Peck. The Carcerem was mentioned, of course, but Voldemort found Peck's discussion unenlightening. There was nothing that could explain why he was in his thirty year-old body, nothing except conjecture. No one had traveled as far as he into the depths of magical exploration. No one had ever created six Horcruxes. Somehow, the Carcerem had not deemed his body fit. Perhaps Potter was right. Perhaps his body would not have survived the Carcerem's transport and so it had wrapped him in the memory of the Tom Riddle who had foolishly touched its casing all those years ago.
He was … getting used to his younger self. That wretched weakness that had plagued him like a bout of flu was gone. An odd rawness deep inside him, however, remained. At times, it made slumber difficult. Voldemort snorted again. Sleep. He hadn't needed to sleep or eat for over twenty years. The gnawing emptiness in his stomach had alarmed him on the first morning in the Carcerem. At first, he truly did not known what the sensation was and then he was frantic, tearing through the kitchen. He found a jar of jam and a box of biscuits. He'd nearly retched afterward.
It was then, pale and sweaty, trembling on the kitchen floor, that he saw them: runes. Runes written on a tile tucked underneath a breadbox.
Northwest, they had read.
After a quick study of the sun, Voldemort had traveled northwest through the house, coming upon a bedroom on the ground floor. The moment he opened the door, his mouth twisted in revulsion. The one place he swore he would never return, back like mold.
He patrolled the floorboards of his old bedroom, dragging the bed and bedside table from the wall, but it was only after tossing every bit of clothing from the wardrobe that he found it: another rune scratched into the wood. It too was a coordinate. South.
He inspected every room he passed, finally returning to the entrance hall.
As he passed the stairwell, he noticed a door beneath it. He opened it and found a cupboard, packed with common Muggle cleaning supplies, but also — and highly strange — a makeshift bed. For a moment, Voldemort forgot why he'd opened the cupboard door in the first place, too busy taking in what was clearly the sleeping area for a small child.
Potter?
It must have belonged to Potter. Everything in the Carcerem came from the two of them, but Voldemort had a difficult time believing it was true. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the boy who lived, the Golden Child of the Wizarding World, squashed into a cupboard and he still advocated for Muggles?
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Voldemort searched the items, causing spiders to scurrying out of sight. He picked up a worn out trainer and turned it over. On the underside was another rune along with a name written in a child's untidy scrawl: Harry.
Perhaps it was the sight of his own childhood bedroom, but the scribble on this secondhand pair of shoes made Voldemort's heart curl with unwelcome memories. Names written on shoes and the insides of shirt collars was a common practice in the orphanage, especially as they all wore the same uniform. The similarities between he and Potter struck Voldemort with unexpected strength. Both half-bloods, both orphans, both dark-haired and pale, and now that he saw the evidence, both unwanted.
He stuffed the shoe away, suddenly furious. He detested this place. He detested that the Carcerem scooped out their secrets and laid them bare.
Voldemort shut the cupboard door and prowled the house. Each new rune led him to another and another, until he was digging beneath a yew tree. The shovel hit something hard, the sharp ting of metal against metal sounding in the looming twilight. He dropped to his knees, brushed the dirt away, and revealed a hidden door. Voldemort pulled on the iron ring, picked up his lantern and descended a ladder. He knew it was a crypt the moment his feet hit the bottom. The stench of death had him covering his nose. His heart betrayed him, beating loud and furious in his ears, but Voldemort continued past the seemingly endless rows of caskets. The lantern light splashed upon a wall and Voldemort stood before the largest collection of runes he'd yet found. One look and he knew that this was all the information the Carcerem was going to grant him. Fear forgotten, he had set to work.
The salty, ocean wind shifted, ruffling the pages of his book and Voldemort was brought back to the present. His hand curled into a fist, the jagged half-moon tattoo just visible on the inside of his wrist.
The runes in the crypt had been of the same long-forgotten language as all the others. He had only been able to decipher half, but what he learned was enough. The Carcerem was indeed an impatient jailer. There was a time limit to how long it would allow them to work through their differences on their own. And if they failed … if they could not forgive …
Voldemort had seen the two empty caskets waiting for them.
How much time would the Carcerem gift them? They'd already been inside it a week. What would happen when time ran out? Would the island collapse in on itself? Would they be flung into nothingness, spiraling into a black void? Ripped apart? Crushed? Suffocated? Voldemort's nostrils widened as he took a deep, steadying breath. For his life to be in the hands of anyone was unacceptable. For it to be Potter's hands sent his blood thrumming with murder. His fingers flexed, longing to wrap around Potter's throat and finish what they'd started. Potter bruised beautifully.
Long, steady breaths.
This was just another test of his strength and Lord Voldemort was always up for a challenge. He hadn't needed to charm anyone in a very long time and charming Harry Potter would be the greatest challenge of his life.
But Potter was a social creature. Show him kindness, show him companionship and he would mold to fit Voldemort's needs like all the other pathetic people who had done so before him. It would take time and care. Subtlety. Patience.
Hoodwink Potter and he would hoodwink the Carcerem. It was as simple as that.
xXx
Harry's shoulders would not unclench, no matter how hard he tried. A quick glance — yes, Riddle remained, a black blot on a picturesque beach. Coming to terms that this plan was not working, Harry began to reel in his line — he'd rather sit in his bedroom, surely Riddle wouldn't follow him there — when the pole gave a sharp jerk. Startled, and utterly surprised, Harry found himself with a large, flapping blue fish.
Back at the house, Harry stared at it for a full minute before Riddle, with a soft, impatient sigh, took a knife and sliced open its belly.
"Let's not pretend that you are ignorant of my childhood," Riddle said, rinsing the fish in cold water. "I'm sure Dumbledore told you as much as he could about my upbringing before I killed him."
"You didn't kill him," said Harry. "His death had nothing to do with you."
"That's right," said Riddle, feigning surprise. "According to you Dumbledore planned it with Severus."
Harry held Riddle's gaze. "You're the one who's supposed to be good at spotting lies. So tell me, Tom, am I?"
The smirk turned sour. Riddle shook his hands clean and grabbed a towel. "A shilling a fish," he said as if the conversation had never diverted. "I got quite good at gutting."
"You worked in a fish shop?"
"I worked in many places," said Riddle. "Do you intend to cook it or shall I?"
.
.
Harry ate his lunch in silence, refusing point blank to admit that it was the best fried fish he'd ever eaten. He rather regretted scarfing it down as quickly as he did, but he wasn't going to spend any more time with Riddle than he had to. Riddle seemed to know exactly what Harry was up to, but ate his lunch without comment, though his eyes gleamed in amusement.
Finished, Harry washed his plate and left with Riddle still eating, fully intending to head back outside. There was a thick wooded area he had yet to explore. Perhaps he could lose Riddle there.
But Harry stopped on the front steps. It was raining. Glaring, he shut the door. He had no intention of returning to the kitchen, and regardless of what he'd thought earlier, he didn't want to spend the rest of the day cooped up in his gloomy bedroom. Making up his mind, Harry headed down a long stretch of hallway to a side door that opened out into a small courtyard, nestled up against the north side of the house. Lowering his head against the deluge, Harry sprinted across the brickwork and entered the greenhouse.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the sound of pelting rain on the glass roof fill his ears. It was easy to imagine he was back in the Hogwarts greenhouses: the sticky humidity, the smell of fresh dirt. The homesickness hit hard and strong. Harry allowed the feeling to come. He let it have its say, before opening his eyes and moving toward a slightly warped wooden shelf. There he found an extensive collection of seed packets (pumpkins, beans, squash, celery, tomatoes). Did the Carcerem have seasons? Well, it hardly mattered either way. He chose a handful of packs and picked up a trowel.
.
.
The rain did not stop and Harry lost track of time. He was covered in dirt and his back ached from planting the long, raised beds, but he was immensely pleased with himself. Wiping his hands on his jeans, Harry made to head back to the house, intending to wash up before starting dinner, when something made him pause.
The greenhouse already had some items growing in it: the thick, gelatinous stems of a bubotuber wiggling all on their own, fluffy-tufted plants in pots that reminded Harry vividly of mandrakes and …
He inspected a lacy, weed-like plant growing in a corner. They had studied it both in Potions and Herbology.
Hemlock.
The leaves when chopped would look just like parsley. The roots he could steep with tea leaves. Riddle would be dead by morning.
Do it, a voice hissed in Harry's ear. End it.
The bruises on his neck seemed more tender than ever. The memory of Riddle's breath against his ear — do no forget who I am, little boy — was so fresh it made Harry shudder.
One dose — one snip — one cup of tea and this nightmare would all be over. His parents would be avenged.
Harry's fingers grasped a stem.
Do it. End it.
"Harry?"
He spun around, hiding the plant behind his back. Riddle had found him.
"Dinner's nearly ready, if you intend on eating."
"What?" said Harry, blankly.
"Dinner," Riddle repeated, as if he spoke to someone foreign. He turned and left, not bothering to get confirmation.
Behind his back, Harry's wrist gave a sharp twist and he returned to the house, stuffing a leafy stem in his pocket as he went.
.
.
Harry washed up and entered the kitchen. The smell of chicken and spices made his stomach growl. Riddle was nowhere to be seen. He moved quickly to the stove and lifted the pot's lid. What was the best way to make sure Riddle ate the hemlock? The sound of footsteps on the cellar stairs had Harry hastily putting the lid back on and taking a step away from the stove just as Riddle emerged, carrying a bottle of wine.
"Do you drink?" he asked, rummaging through a drawer for a corkscrew.
Harry blinked at Riddle. Riddle rolled his eyes. He poured two glasses and pushed one into Harry's startled hand, set his own on the kitchen table and departed once again, this time toward the common room. He was gone only seconds, returning with Ron's chess board. He put it on the table, settled in the same chair he'd sat in at breakfast and lunch, took a sip of wine and began setting up the board.
He couldn't possibly be doing what Harry thought he was.
Riddle, who had finished putting the pieces in their places, shifted a pawn and said, "Your move."
"You want to play chess?"
"Obviously," said Riddle.
Harry hesitated and then, taking himself by surprise, joined Riddle at the table and moved his own pawn. Harry had barely removed his hand before Riddle swiftly shifted a knight into play.
.
.
Riddle won the first two and lost the third, startling Harry as much as Riddle, which seemed, bizarrely, to only energize the man more. Another bottle of wine was opened. The chicken was a heap of picked over bones. The sound of rain continued to patter against the darkened window. In the corner, the golden doorknob's glow was dull and sullen, ignored and forgotten. Harry had no idea what time it was. He was light-headed on wine, the chess pieces blurring in and out of focus.
As Riddle topped up their glasses once more Harry was confident that this was some sort of plan. But strangely enough — and perhaps it was due to the alcohol coursing through his veins — he was not particularly bothered by Riddle's nefarious motives. Instead, he leaned forward and said, "If I win, I'm turning on the banshees."
"That," Riddle stated, "is not going to happen."
Harry grinned. "Sure about that?"
"Positive," Riddle breathed. He moved his bishop and Harry grimaced.
"Do you find it odd," Harry asked, shifting his knight to block Riddle's bishop, "that the cellar is packed with enough food to feed an army and yet we have to collect eggs? I mean, there's cream down there. And butter. But not eggs?"
"It wouldn't do to have us starve," said Riddle, considering his next move.
"But why not have a constant supply of eggs downstairs?" Harry argued. "How does that make any sense? Not to mention the wine. There's got to be a hundred bottles down there."
"Bless Salazar," Riddle muttered, not taking his eyes from the board. "But it is probably best not to dwell on the Carcerem's logic," he added, moving his queen and putting Harry in check once again.
Harry captured the queen with his knight.
"Is that your way of saying that you don't have a clue?" Harry smirked.
Riddle looked up from the board. His eyes seized Harry so suddenly and swiftly that Harry's breath was stolen. Riddle's gaze was piercing. Unrelenting. Scorching and frigid at the same time.
"I don't have a clue," he answered softly.
A gentle tap of marble against marble had Harry's eyes darting back down to the board.
"Son of a—"
"No banshees then?" said Riddle with a smirk of his own.
.
.
It wasn't until later, much later, that Harry stumbled up to his bedroom. Undressing, his hand found something in his pocket. Frowning, he pulled out a wilted, bruised stem. His vision was a haze of wine, but his brain snapped back into focus. He had forgotten about it. The alcohol and the chess had swept it away.
For a very long time Harry stood still, goosebumps rising on his bare skin from the chilled room, before he opened the mokeskin pouch around his neck and added the hemlock to the contents within.
Riddle thought Harry wouldn't kill him. Not when the alternative was to live in permanent isolation for the rest of his life. He thought Harry would wish for companionship over solitude, even if it was with his worst enemy. And maybe Riddle was right, thought Harry as he punched his pillow into a more comfortable position.
Or maybe he was wrong.
.
.
A/N: Before anyone says: yes, Voldemort made seven Horcruxes, but HE doesn't know that. Not yet, anyway. ;)
Also, Harry's not entirely truthful when he tells Voldemort that he had nothing to do with Dumbledore's death, as the curse on the ring was what led to the Astronomy tower incident, but I just love Harry reminding him that Snape played him for a fool.