The diary is small, thin, old-bound black leather, the initials bold and gold-flaked, spiraling in the distinctive, refined flourish of his handwriting. Voldemort drags the pads of his fingers across the smooth front cover, tendrils of magic seeping in the white vortex of its pages, reaching for something similar, familiar…hungry. A fragment of a mirror that can never reflect what is. Slowly, curiously, it stirs and splits into its own tendrils, its own awareness, reaching back with all that was, latching onto the source of magic. A feeding frenzy, insatiate, devouring what is freely given, seeking more, seeking deeper for the dark-pure taste of soul.
Voldemort severs the connection before the fragment can touch his core, placing the diary on his desk with less care than he should. Seeking to devour him, is it? Ambitious, clever boy, still intact, still broken. What begins as insurance, being more cautious with the scattered pieces of his soul, more assured of their safety, now opens new possibilities. If the diary can siphon his magic, his life, his soul…if it can become corporeal…if if if…
Secrets of the Darkest Art is as vague about the subtleties of the Horcrux as it is about its creation. There is a footnote about remorse and reclaiming the soul-shard but nothing more in that vein. In truth, it has been more of a trial and error kind of process so far. The follies of sweet sixteen… Voldemort sighs, rubbing the dips in his temples. Remorse? For what? The action itself, the particulars of the action, the consequences? He regrets not having the prudence to research in greater lengths before he split his fucking soul now. Maybe he can even regret Lily Potter's death if it will help, but he remembers…he cast the Killing Curse, yes, and she fell...but not to his wand. Will it matter if he regrets?
Myrtle's death, on the other hand, is too…insignificant, diluted with feelings of pain-pleasure and rip-rip-ripping. Regardless if he can or cannot…does he need to regret? If the diary is capable of absorbing him—or at least attempting to—can't he reabsorb it in much the same manner? And why shouldn't he? Seven may be the perfect magical number but three is not far behind. The ring and the locket should be enough to sustain his immortality. Harry Potter…that boy…polite, cunning, brilliant, charming…another Tom Riddle, another soul-shard inside him. Living. Fragile. Out of his control, out of his hands. An unintentional mistake—he will unmake that mistake, will take back what is his. One way, or the other.
Voldemort stares at the black soul anchor carelessly thrown on his desk. It has grown quiet, fallaciously unassuming…plotting. At war with his own soul. Perhaps, yes…that fucking prophecy. Power to vanquish him. If it is his soul, if it is himself… Possible, but not yet. He has time. Voldemort has years to plan before that boy becomes the threat of his potential. No need to rush into things, to be reckless, impulsive…that thrice-cursed Samhain night. Never again. Quirrell's body won't survive experimentation with soul magic, and he has eyes on the boy even when this body fails, when he is forced to leave. Severus is watching him, will keep watching closely. What is there to be wary of?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He laughs, opens his lungs and pulls out satisfaction, thick and dark like blood on hands, and the leather shivers.
Amused, Voldemort strokes its slim spine with one fingertip. "You are safe for now. You and Harry Potter both."
The Philosopher's Stone takes precedence now that his course is set.
The first Sunday of October is a nimbus of autumn colors and smells, a fragrance of petrichor in the morning moisture and the crisp, clean air. Flames swirl in the hearth, licks of heat and light, soft, crackling sounds. Sitting near the window, Harry basks in the warmth and that perfect view on the grounds, breathing in the aromas wafting up from the steaming cup of tea in his hands. Professor McGonagall sips at her own cup in between enumerating the amusing tales of his father's attempts to gain entry into the Gryffindor girls' dorm.
Attempt number thirteen promises to be hilarious, involving an overcomplicated levitation charm, the unconventional use of ski poles, and the theft of one of the kitchen pans to be strapped on as protective gear over his lower regions. Doomed in the end…by the wrath of a house-elf.
"—never seen a house-elf so angry before. After Binky was done tearing a strip off his hide, the whole House was wide awake and laughing themselves to tears, even the majority of the girls. It didn't save him from the mandatory detention, of course. The nerve of that boy…three in the morning and trying to sneak into girls' bedrooms. At least he never stole from the kitchens again after Binky's rather detailed description of sheep testicles' stew."
Harry coughs out a laugh at the thought of a tiny house-elf glowering at his father and threatening to scoop out his testicles with a spoon for the evening stew. What an inglorious end to the Potter line. Shaking his head, he refills his cup, then leans back against the cushions, debating how to phrase the question roiling in his mind ever since his first Transfiguration class. Professor McGonagall gazes at him with clear eyes, cataloguing every twitch of his body, every microscopic change in his expression, waiting, knowing. Just as well. Not like he's tried to hide it anyway.
"What year will we be instructed in the Animagus transformation, Professor?"
Her gaze is a rueful, soft green that ricochets off the surface of his stare, slipping back through hers softer, palliated, a shade of fondness. Harry has seen this enough times to infer what triggers it—when he exhibits some kind of similarity to his father.
"Third year will be the initiating stage. The Animagus transformation is the pinnacle of Transfiguration. Complex, intrinsic magic. It requires not only skill in the subject but the willingness to face yourself as you are. Not many have the mental fortitude to acknowledge all their flaws and imperfections, much less accept them for what they are."
A current of raw electricity courses through his nervous system. Can that mean what he thinks it does? Hyperaware, Harry lurches forward in his seat, heart rate picking up speed, pounding beneath his ribcage. How her smile sharpens, all teeth and teasing and secret meaning—it does. She knows…she knows and she's dangling soul magic in front of his face like…like a cat with a fresh kill between her jaws. Ah. A game, the same game he plays with Professor Flitwick. Only…it isn't just a game. It…he's so used to being alone that he doesn't know what to call it. How many people know? How many care?
Harry laughs, tips his head at her. You win this round, Professor. It is easy to guess the prize she wants, and frankly, he's been on the cusp of giving in for two weeks now. One of those incongruous things, simple, complicated. Trust. It is easier with her…she's already given him her heart.
"You are not going to tell me how it is done, only tease me with the knowledge of its intricacies. Your form suits you, Professor."
"And you are not the first to say that, Harry." She smirks, and it is saucy, red-tilted on her lips, cutting her age in half. It lasts no longer than a fragment of a second, uncurling, chasing the game as it turns into something open and generously given. "You're an excellent student with great affinity for Transfiguration, and if you had asked me about any other piece of magic, I would tell you."
Truth, and trust, and green clashing, splintering, fusing. Harry listens to the rasp of her voice and the hitch in her breath and the soulful matter in the space and silence between.
"The Animagus transformation…it is not just skin and bones, not just the animal hide on your back. It goes deep, the deepest you can go… Sometimes, people may never come back…they don't want to, and forcing them back always leaves something behind."
Things left behind, purified in the fire, bled out, bled in…he knows. "It isn't…just Transfiguration, is it?"
A dilation of pupils, a pulse of wild magic. She stares into his eyes, and he knows there are no words for this…instinct, blood-beat, a pure edge of being. "It is so much more than that…you can't…be until it swallows you up and spits you out, like a babe cut from the womb, until it flays the skin off your bones and rips the senses off your nerves and you…you can see without eyes."
He knows better than anyone. A transcendence slipping over flesh. Soul and body burning, melting, meshing hotly. And he wants this, this…give-take-become. Harry licks his lips, pursuing the shift of her eyes, the rhombus of those cat-pupils, want writhing on his tongue, in his veins, under his skin. "When should I ask?"
Just when, just trust. Because she will teach him, wants to teach him.
Her fingers tighten around her cup as time slows. The professor weighs him up and down with her gaze, up, down, up—
"If you are still interested…the end of the school year."
The end—? Summer? Harry hasn't made any plans for the summer, other than half-thinking of searching the Alley for knowledge on soul magic—knowledge she offers without strings attached. Incentive, true…but the intention behind it is guileless, born from that fondness, an urge to feed the fledgling bond. A real, tangible connection. Equal. He's never had one of those, doesn't know what it means, but…he follows the thrum of blood from the base of her throat to her heart—he can hear it there, palpitating, an anxious, frantic stutter. He knows what he'll find if he slides his palm against her chest and digs his fingers in, digs out truth and red, warm organs. Isn't that how it starts?
"Thank you, Professor." Harry grins, a wide slice of mischief and eagerness. "We'll be seeing each other this summer."
Her fingers slacken, arteries relaxing, smooth lines in her wrists. She is still tight, but in that natural way of hers, and she's smiling, more challenge than smile. "Bear in mind that it can take up to three years to master your form once you begin training."
His grin eats it all up, widening. "I can be very patient for the things I want, and I have nothing but time, though I doubt it will take me that long. Shall we bet?"
"No bet will be made. I'm not enabling bad habits." She huffs, disapproval in the pursing of her lips, but Harry can tell she's amused. "At least you're sensible enough to ask for my help. Your father didn't even tell me he wanted to achieve the transformation until years after he had done it. He even had the gall to call it my graduation gift."
"Oh?" Interesting. An unregistered Animagus, hm? No such record exists in the Animagus registry. Hogwarts' library holds a copy that spans centuries, though the list begins to gradually thin around the mid-eighteen hundreds. It fills up after the ministry issues a fine against unregistered Animagi during Grindelwald's rise, but not to the prior degree.
Something…doesn't add up. An Azkaban sentence for the 'crime' of not registering? Why such heavy-handed regulation? An animal form is a versatile ability, especially during civil war, but what does an additional sentence matter to those convicted of treason? They're going to Azkaban either way, and on a more permanent basis. Why not a simple monetary fine for those innocent of war crimes? Unless…unless it has more to do with the nature of the magic than the risk of unregistered Animagi. Politics again? One more page to the ever-growing dossier of political manure he's compiled so far.
Cocking his head, Harry hums. "What animal was he?"
"A stag." Pride warms her voice, merges with the bright orange light spilling from the fireplace, then she clicks her tongue as the fire crackles. "I wanted to mount his great ruddy head on my wall when he showed me."
"He must have been…quite the specimen."
"Indeed. Prime hunting material."
Harry leaves Professor McGonagall's office twenty minutes before the appointment with Professor Flitwick for his monthly evaluation. What is coincidence and what is premeditated? They want me to trust them…he thinks back on the professors' words, how they twist now into then and fill the gaping holes, pour deathless love in his bones and whisper what it is to be made from blood and sacrifice. How much of him do they see? How much is shadow and specters and echoes of feeling?
Professor McGonagall wants to know him and wants him to know James Potter. Lily Evans lives in the magic Professor Flitwick wants to show him…she lives inside them. Harry stops outside the Ravenclaw Head's office and asks himself where does he want to go. Will he go back or will he go on? He's not ready to go…too soon, too sudden, but…there is no past or future in limbo, and he can't keep only one foot in the present. This world he walks…politics, oil on skin, silk on eyes, lies on teeth. Where is the magic that was promised, the wildness, the arcane origins, the primordial fire? He's only seen them behind locked doors. What lies behind this door?
Something is pressing on his optical nerves, makes his eyes sting and blur out of focus, his brain heavy and scraping against the bones of his cranium. Harry puts one hand against the wall to steady himself—
Fuck them…there is no…light and dark…magic… Smoky, viscid substance, a soft caress, a shape in the place of darkness between earth and death. Harry splays his fingers and leans his weight on his arm, rubs his eyes with the back of his other hand, sweat slicking the gap between his brows, above his lip, breathing hard and that voice—breaks him open, glides through the cracks, makes a home in the pith of his nerves. What...what does it want from him? Listen…live…my heart…my soul… Feels like love, like nuclear fusion, like power on an atom, like a million little black suns beneath his eyelids.
He can't breathe. He can't think. He can't. Pressure, tight constriction around his mind and under his ribs, being laid down and dissolved in white heat, tightening, burning. A circle of fire. Blood-red. And he doesn't understand, doesn't care to understand, still reaches out with too-small fingers, aching and desperate and out of his mind as he is held between fire and blood. Suspended in hot air that quickly thickens with the stirrings of blazing memory—because they are right there and why can't he reach them why can he never whywhywhy—
One lungful of cold air, breath icing his chest, rushing to his brain, and it is vanished. Harry pushes himself off the wall, stretches his neck far back, fingers running through the damp mess matted against his scalp, too heavy, too much soul in his body. Somewhere deep inside, he knows…the fire of his mother's love, the copper red eyes, burnished as that voice, branding as the name to which this world submits. What is sinking in his skin, soaking through muscle and tissue, liquefying itself, melding with blood and cells.
Professor Flitwick must know, too. I told you because you asked. Isn't that what he said? Is that all it is? Trust, is it? Harry sighs, then points his wand at his face, brushes the tip over his clothes, executing the spell chain of grooming charms Padma taught him. Once his appearance is fixed up, he raps his knuckles against the door twice, and when it opens, he greets the professor's smile with his own.
"Right on time, Mr. Potter. Have a seat." Professor Flitwick flits around, a blur of kinetic energy, exuberant, light as a feather, bringing out tea and biscuits…and books. Musty, valuable tomes, well-read and magically preserved through the passage of time. At the top of the pile rests one plain brown journal, engraved with softly cursive bronze lettering. Lily Evans—his mother's grimoire.
"Thank you, Professor." His smile grows, becomes more genuine, less tired. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."
Professor Flitwick pauses in the middle of serving the tea, tilting his head up to stare at Harry. "You are not referring to your monthly evaluation, I assume." Humming, he passes over one full cup. "Because nothing is exciting there. You're progressing splendidly, and you don't need me to tell you that." Laughter in his humming. "Not that I won't, of course. Brilliant mind, Mr. Potter, and excellent questions during class." He takes one small sip, smiles above his cup. "So, tell me, what would you like to talk about outside of class?"
What wouldn't I? The thought comes unbidden, more true for the spontaneity of it. Harry chuckles. "Politics and magic." Better to start with the impersonal matters. "I would like your insight on their connection, Professor. If you don't mind?"
"Oh, I see." The professor laughs even as he eyes him shrewdly. "Quirinus' first lesson was…enlightening, no?" Another word silhouettes the meaning of enlightening. Perhaps…disturbing. "I'm impressed you gleaned as much from it. Well done, Mr. Potter." Sharp eyes, a curve of praise on his mouth, a coiling vine of pleasure at such perception. "What is your opinion then? What is magic when entwined with politics?"
That voice churns across his tongue, in the hollows of his throat, abrades the soft parts of his cheeks, against the back of his teeth. When he parts his lips, it leaps out of his mouth, takes his flesh and blood with it. "There is no light and dark magic."
"That is correct, Mr. Potter." Sharper eyes, black as the vicious thrill in his smile. Professor Flitwick grasps the hint Harry lets slip, a narrow glimpse, a ripple close to the surface. "How did you come by this truth?"
Harry's lips peel back, more a baring of teeth than a smile, layered with intent. It isn't polite, and it isn't civilized, a beast to another beast. "Can I be honest with you, Professor?" Can I trust you? The words are smooth like scales of ivory yet rough with promise, spawn an insult from nothing, the sound of clenching jaws in them.
The slash of ferocity on his mouth speaks for itself, molds the words that come forth. "Always, Mr. Potter." A goblin's smile, all blood on teeth, primal nature gorging itself on man.
Trust sealed by that bond. A breath, then, "I already knew." Just like you do.
Professor Flitwick stitches the unspoken thread seamlessly. "Just like you knew how to perform the charms in my class on the first attempt, yes."
Neither nods. It is redundant, they both know.
"You shared your suspicions about what happened that night."
"And you want to know what I think is happening now." He sighs, and the intimation falls heavy on Harry's shoulders, slithers along the line of his spine, winding and snaking around each notch, from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. "I didn't think the time for this discussion would come so soon. If you were any other person, I would demand blood for silence." Again, he sighs, maybe in defeat, maybe in affection, or even a mixture of both. "I will trust you, Mr. Potter, as you have trusted me."
And as the past unfolds and magic sears its mark on soul, Harry knows his what. Lily Potter and Tom Riddle are as bound to him as Harry is to them and they want him to feel the love, the fire, the blood, the sacrifice. They want him to live for himself. Even if it is a cruel kind of life fed on souls burning out.
Thirty minutes later, there are two cups of cold tea on the table, two blank faces, and silence waiting to be broken.
"You're not concerned." Low, curiously accented, Harry's voice dominates the room, and the professor laughs.
"Why should I be?" Professor Flitwick stares at him, lips half-slanted in a cross between a smirk and a grin. "You're who you want to be, and nobody can tell you otherwise."
A thin brow arches loftily. "Will someone be telling me otherwise?"
"Bah. Albus is a nosy old coot, but he won't approach you this year, I think." He exhales one acid-licked sigh, the corners of his mouth lifting slowly. "If he ever will."
Harry observes that almost-smile. The professor is amused…but it's a cynical, embittered expression of amusement, and underneath that, old-living contempt suppurates in his veins. "Professor McGonagall mentioned he was the one to place me with my relatives. Why is the Headmaster so determined to meddle in things that don't concern him?"
A shrug, careless as it is weary. "You should ask him that yourself, if he ever approaches you. I can only speak for myself."
True, Harry supposes, if unfulfilling. "I think I will do that." His gaze searches the professor's for any sign of misgivings, and when he finds none, Harry smiles. "Thank you for your honesty, Professor Flitwick."
"Think nothing of it. You only need to ask, and I will always answer."
What he says, he means. He tears truth from his tongue, gives it bladed shape, stabs him with it, brutally. Harry tastes veracity on his tongue, rolls it up, rolls it down, swallows it whole until there is only acceptance and the aftertaste of respect.
Professor Flitwick vanishes the contents of their cups, refills them with hot Earl Grey, then sips leisurely, watching him out of the corner of his eye. "You are still concerned."
Gingerly, Harry picks up his cup, gazing down at his reflection. Says nothing. Denies nothing…because what can he—
He knows his what now…but at what price? Who dares spin the loom of Clotho and weave what is to be? Who dares brandish the rod of Lachesis and measure what is? Who dares wield the shears of Atropos and cut what was? On whose lips hangs the authority to destroy souls? What…where will those souls go once broken? Where will he—
"Come this summer," the professor's voice draws him like the firefly to the wet summer meadows, "I will be visiting my grandsire in Egypt, as I do every July. He's seen far more cases of soul magic than I have. Would you like to come with me and talk to him, Mr. Potter?"
Harry tries to speak, but his tongue is dried, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He sweeps it across his lip, tries again. "Wouldn't I be imposing on your family visit?"
"Your mother was my apprentice." How it whorls around his vocal cords, that word…something infinite, immortal…even if she dies a thousand deaths, she can never die a true death. "When she finished her apprenticeship, I was planning on adopting her into the clan. Sadly, this never came to be, but I would adopt you if you wished." He is dead serious. "Take your time and think about this until then. It is not an offer I make lightly, nor one you should accept without knowing what it entails."
Harry doesn't take his eyes off of him for the millionth of a second. This offer…is it for the echo? For remorse? For him? "I'm not my mother. Why would you offer me that?"
A shadow rises as the sun goes down, a grief so bitter, so sweet it smells of sulfur. Professor Flitwick smiles at him. "No, you're not, but you are all I have left of her."
We both are... His stare moves from the professor's face to his mother's grimoire and back again. Harry inhales deeply, firms his jaw and nods once. "Won't your clan object, though? I admit I didn't leave the best impression last time I visited Gringotts."
Professor Flitwick's demeanor changes lightning-fast. He cracks a toothy grin, laughing so hard he bends in half, one palm smacking his knee. "Oh, I know! The whole goblin nation knows by now. Threatened to take your gold and let it slip to the press that the Boy-Who-Lived was dissatisfied with Gringotts' fees on vault retention unless they waived them, did you? My grandsire was impressed. Not many wizards have the guts to do that."
One more thing to be famous about, if not infamous. At least he's earned it this time. Harry snorts, laughs with him. "So the goblins are not upset?"
"Merlin, no." Still laughing, petering out with one last coughing grunt. He shakes his head, wiping off tears of mirth. "You gave us all a good laugh, though."
Harry's laughter, too, diminishes. He favors the offer with the gravity it deserves. Dead serious, as the master spoke of his apprentice. "I will think about it then."
"Good." Pleased, Professor Flitwick dips his chin. "Shall we return to our original discussion now?"
A/N: As we've reached the tenth chapter, here comes the inevitable author's note. Expect one every ten chapters or so. Don't worry, I only have few things to say. Thank you so much for reading. Special thanks to those of you taking the time to share your thoughts. I read each and every review even if I almost never reply. I'm sorry about that, but if I don't already know you, I won't bother you with half-crazed messages in the middle of the night. So thank you again. I really do appreciate it. Until next time. :))
P.S. For anyone interested, there's a Minnie-Tom oneshot side-fic posted. 'Tis titled "Echo".