Disclaimer: Rowling is making millions out of Harry Potter. I have to miss a meal in order to feed my dogs. Any questions?
A/N: Sorry for the fact that I missed an update, but that last chapter was very hard to write and I was very drained afterwards. I am also very happy to have gotten such approving feedback on my description of the incident, believe me it was very hard to do! Now we will have the immense pleasure of finally witnessing some healing.
To Memys: I did think long and hard about whether to put this in the horror section or not. But in the end, the horror will still be a small part in the overall story compared to the psychological drama. So although I do agree that my latest chapters have been very horror-oriented, I still wouldn't say so about the whole fic. I'd say the general mood of the fic is that of the song Charis by Elend. If you know what I mean. Which I am not even sure I do.
To Barranca: Good question. I am actually doing something in between. I have already a couple of plot devices I have decided to incorporate, but I do mainly improvise along the way. It's like saying that I know my sentence needs to have "candy" and "cat" in it, but I'll find out how to make these two work as I go along.
To the future Mrs Riddle: Yes, I did screw that up. I am ashamed. But at least I know why I screwed it up, and it's because I was one of those kids that had their birthday halfway through the academic year so at the end of each year I was already a year older. But you are absolutely right, when Harry killed the Basilisk it was the 29th of May, and he only turned 13 in July. I should have known that
To Pouf: I do love your canon version of Riddle's steadily diclining psychology, and agree with most of that analysis, including the fact that in Rowling's books he is probably suffering from congenital psychopathy, magnified by his rather eerie backround. I thank you for appreciating my plausible stray-from-canon, I am sure you understand that without an even mildly redeemamble Riddle I could not actually go forth and write this story, and thus had to give him a trauma strong enough to have triggered such a psychological devastation. Also, your co-authored HP story is brilliant.
Chapter 11
Harry's PoV
He cries at me, his voice broken and his eyes wild as he stares at the deep scar marring his velvet skin, and shouts in terror. And suddenly, I know that it is time for me, after I've pushed him so hard, digged so brutally into his mind, to offer something back to him and show him just how wrong he is. I kneel next to him and calmly tell him of my parents' death, of Quirrel, of Dementors, of Ginny and Cedric, of Sirius and the War, of my own scars, my own unhealed wounds and my own burdens.
He listens to me, and slowly the crazed features of his face soften, as he finally begins to understand at least part of my hithero unknown motives. I can tell he believes me, because a heretofore unseen emotion appears in his eyes, and even though I get but a short glimpse of it, I think it is relief. Then, Riddle faints.
I take him into my arms, partially unable to still now despise him for crimes he has not yet commited, now that I have seen, I have experienced the terrible moments that robbed him of much his empathy and his trust in mankind. My thoughts are mingled. And as I look down at his consciousless, serene form, I no longer see a younger Voldemort, but a damaged, abandoned boy hating the cruel and unfair world he was born into. His beauty is unearthly and he looks lost, like he clearly does not belong.
This is Voldemort, then?
Not a born monster, not an innate evil, but a terrified, hurt, unstable kid?
Or, most probably, a bit of both, I remark, shaking off my tendency too be much too noble-minded and gullible, even after all my years in the battlefield.
Until he regains his senses, I stay immobile, and the memories I have just witnessed inside his mind flash once again through mine. I feel angry towards fate for having inflicted this upon him, for having not given him the chance to evolve into a healthy human being, or at least as healthy as he could have possibly been, for having forced him to stain his hands in blood when his heart was still so tender.
This blasted hero-complex kicks in again, and I get the urge to protect Riddle from the cruelty of life, and try to offer him the things he never had the chance to enjoy as a child. Perhaps, his prematurely lost innocence and joyless childhood remind me of mine, and I decide that it is my responsibility, seeing as I was the one who forced him to acknowledge the depth of his psychological wounds and thus devastated him completely, to take him under my wing. I was always the sort of guy that takes in strays.
It is at that moment though that I realise I do not only wish for Riddle to avoid becoming Voldemort, something motived simply by self-interest. I also want him to generally thrive, and find himself a fulfilling path and become, if not happy, it least content. It doesn't exactly make sense that I should wish for that, but I think that my hours-long stay inside his mind does explain why I would be identifying with him so much.
I almost forget that his tainted, twisted soul is already able to commit murder, capable of everything he has done to me in the future, already filled with visions of dominance through bloodshed. I almost forget that no one is innocent here but the newborn babes, and that is a dangerous thing to forget.
And that perhaps there is much more to his evil than simply the reaction of a viciously smart child to cruel, life-wrecking trauma; perhaps he is by nature, down to his very core, irreversibly devoid of any capacity for empathy and compassion. How could I know?
Finally he opens his eyes, looks up to me, a little horrified to have fallen into my arms, and he snarls in evident disdain.
"I think I should become your guardian," I gently tell him as soon as his eyes flick open, these broken, hollow puddles of blue. The winds are hurling and the Hogwarts lake is cold and black as sun begins to set. I feel a little guilty to suggest this now, in a moment when his resistances are the lowest they could be. He looks at me disbelievingly, even fearufully. He slowly retreats from me, and sits a few feet away, his hands still trembling and his body still shivering, less than before, however.
"Why?" he asks, with a voice strangely flat, incredulous. He still does not trust me, I notice, and I understand, because it will certainly take a while for him to trust anything or anyone again. After all, he did say he would rather die a miserable, disfigured wizard with a splintered soul than have to carry this newly unlocked memory, and in that sense, I have hurt him deeply. There's still some hate drawn on his handsome face, and there is still disgust.
"Because I do not think there is anyone that knows you more than me, right now," I reply, defiantly, daring him to disagree and prove me otherwise.
Only I know he can't, because he is so utterly alone in this world. He squints his eyes just a bit, and appears to be fairly vexed at my assumption, in spite of the fact he chooses not to contradict me. He is tired and drained, I realise, he cannot fight back as savagely as he would have liked to, and so it is my chance to pull him closer than he would have ever let me. Oh Merlin, how cynical I have come to sound.
"Only someone you don't look down on could possibly help you. And in that sense I believe myself to be appropriate. After all, I cannot be a worse choice than your current foster father, since you appear to hate him more than all of Gryffindor put together," I add, and I try to keep my voice factual, flat. If I succeed in this that I am trying to do, I will have made a significant step forward. But the dark smirk that is forming on his face, distorting once again his features into a mask of enmity and resentment.
"Yes, you can be. And you are. All the harm he can possibly inflict upon me is only ever superficial, is only ever artificial. There is nothing he can do to me, he or anyone of his repugnant kind, nothing I am already not completely immune to. But you, you belong to an entirely different kind, and you have the ability to give me tangible pain, and all the right reasons to desire revenge. You might have been intelligent enough to tap into my unfortunate vulnerabilities, but I am still not destroyed enough to put myself in the wolf's mouth willingly," he spits back at me, and the frail, breathetakingly beautiful boy lying in my arms just a moment ago is once again a shell of contempt and anathema.
Damn swift recovery there, Riddle.
I did not honestly believe it would have been that easy, so I show no disappointment.
"As you wish." I reply coolly to his enraged rejection, and I get up. The savage wind is blowing my hair away, and the sky is darkening for the upcoming night. A grey sky tinged with purpe, a perfect twilight of Gods. I extend my hand towards Riddle, who is still sitting on the humid grass, and strangely he takes it without a word. I pull him up. Standing right in front of me, just a a foot away, he glares right into my eyes and I cannot identify what is going through his magnificent but horrible mind.
All I know is he took my hand, and despite his virulent verbal rejection, the miniscule acceptance hidden in this gesture means more than anything that could come out of his mouth. Silently, we walk back to Hogwarts. Before our roads diverge, he casts a powerful glamour over his scarred hand and whispers lowly: "This one is for your eyes only."
He then walks away, and leaves me completely bewildered, completely unable to understand why he would possibly say what he just said. Even as damaged as he is, as tired and worn, he is still exquisitely unpredictable.
Albus' PoV
Harry walks into my office looking flustered and dazed, but also pensive and serious. All at once. I decide that it is perhaps wise to offer him a lemon drop, which he gladly if distractedly accepts. I offer him a seat as well, and we start talking while Fawkes is cheerfully gutting a big grey rat. The young man tells me of Tom's unpleasant experiences, and even I, despite my very own collection of bad memories, shudder at Potter's colourful descriptions.
No wonder my teaching assistant would look as shaken as he does after witnessing the incident he has been describing, I reason, and rapidly swallow a few more sweets. The green-eyed man then moves into explaining Riddle's strange consequent behaviour, his violent refusal to be taken under Potter's custody and the seemingly contradictory gestures that followed. I listen to all of it with great interest, scartching my beard as I usually do when I want to look serious and throughtful, and even Fawkes puts a halt to his dinner in order to have a piece of the story.
"You know Harry, my boy, when someone doesn't know how to say yes, perhaps the best he can do is.. say no and mean yes," I note at some point, and the young man archs an eyebrow a little disbelievingly, but looks pleased at my words, if not hopeful. I deduce than he has come to care for that problem-ridden boy, and I am sure it's for the best. Then the young man changes the courses of the conversation completely by asking me a very difficult question.
"I've been wondering, Albus, how come I still exist unchanged since my actions must have already greatly affected the future? Having altered the course of history quite a bit already, one would expect my own existance to be substantially affected," he inquires, and I find the question exsquisitely tasteful, especially since I have a little theory of my own on the subject, and I love analysing my theories with every given opportunity.
Pushing my glasses back, I smile at Harry and pass the goblet of lemon drops to him. He picks one, absent-mindedly, and waits for my reply.
"I have an idea of my own on why this might not be occuring. You see, what I believe is that... Well, it is a little complicated, but I will put it that way. When one travels by time-turner, their consciousness is simply thrown back in time, and is still tied to the event of their birth is with a cause and effect relationship. Therefore, if one cancels the event of their birth, complex situations arise. It will be as if one changes a timeline as to no longer leave an entry point for themselves. But my theory is that you have travelled back in a different way. I believe that during your strange dream, your consciousness actually left this timeline completely. In a sense, I believe you died, or at least became non-existent in relation to this timeline. Then, your consciousness was re-inserted at an entirely different entry point," I explain, and Harry nods, understanding what I have said so far it seems, but still quite confused about what I am trying to lead up to.
"Now, this is how I believe it works. A time-turner user still has only one valid entry point into a timeline: his birth. All other travelling occurs back and forth within that timeline. Thus, his existence in the timeline is still causally related to his birth. But you, dear Harry, have two valid points of entry into life, having travelled in an entirely different way. Therefore, having had your consciousness leave this timeline and enter it once again, you are no longer causally tied to the event of your birth. Which means that if the alterations you bring to this timeline cancels that event, your existence will still not be threatened. Instead, it will have been as if you were, in a sense, born for the first time in 1940, as a 25 year old man. Which sounds bizarre, but is not as uncommon as you might think. After all, a man developing a multiple personality disorder does bring a new consciousness into a lifetime without any event of biological birth having occurred," I conclude, and Potter seems to be very perplexed, and he scratches the back of his head pensively.
He is obviously thinking over my words before something dawns to him, and he smiles broadly at me.
"Alright. I think I get it," he says cheerily, and I am very proud of him, because to be honest, even I don't really get it. If I ever wanted a son, it would probably be someone like Harry, I think fondly, and Fawkes swallows a rat liver. Then I start thinking about Gellert, evidently. Maybe we should adopt a child, one day.
Well, maybe not.
Riddle's PoV.
It is Sunday night, and the loud and arrogant Slytherin boys are playing some sort of drinking game with a few bottles of smuggled firewhiskey. As I slide into the common room, they encourage me to join in, but I just hiss something about unflattering plebeian activites and braincell necrosis induced by alcohol and walk right past them.
Alone in my room collapse to the bed, trying to shield my mind from the persistent invasion of my gruesome memories, these new, alien, repulsive images of my own loss of humanity. The little voice inside my head whispers and murmurs and grunts and screams and hisses and moans and screeches, so I bring my hands up to my head in silent pain, desperetaly trying to chase it away.
Suddenly, I feel the urgent need to take my clothes off, which I do, a sick feeling building up in me as I remove my right sock. I stare at the two little stubs coldly, distantly, detachedly, trying to shut my emotions off completely, and I accept the pain as it comes, calmly and bravely. My legs are toned and well-built, but their surface is unnaturally smooth, hairless, a definite sign that quite a few layers of skin were destroyed here once upon a time, and I caress them in equal horror and amazement. I then cast a few skillful glamours, and fully erase the signs of suffering from the canvas of my body, my chest feeling tight and my thoughts conflicted. The image of the green man, extending his strong hand towards me, somehow haunts the back of my troubled mind, and I try to push it away in vain.
With his cursed green eyes, he sees me for the monster I am; but he also sees further than that, further than even I ever did, into the roots of me, into the very depths of me, and before his hard but gentle stare I feel naked, vulnerable, revealed. I both appreciate him and loathe him for that, because my life will never again be dull now that he has so forcefully invaded it, but also never again be easy, and because now I realise that there is a price to pay for meeting someone of my caliber.
My thoughts stray back to the well incident, and to the older boys, laughing, mocking, full of jealousy and resentment, and a gigantic wave of hatred rips my heart apart, because if it weren't for them, maybe I could have had something closer to a normal childhood. Maybe I could have been one of the hoi polloi, a common young man, with my healthy dreams and trivial ambitions, with my petty little friends and pathetic crushes, oblivious to the smallness of my life, content. Suddenly, all those I have since always hated, I also envy.
Why can't a game of exploding snap make me smile? Why can't I find pleasure in chocolate, in laughter, in a kiss? Why this hatred, this hollowness, always, at every turn?
For a brief moment, I ponder upon self-obliviation, but very soon I decide against it, for knowledge, even painful knowledge, is always a form of power, and in this case a weapon to unlocking myself, my needs, my distorted psyche. I thus keep this hideous memory tucked deep inside me, loathed for what it represents, but treasured for the understanding that it brings. I bring my long, elegant fingers to my left hand, tracing the scar underneath the glamour, a reminder of my own monstrosity, of the grotesque birth of Voldemort, but also a strange bond to Potter, a shared secret.
Eerily enough, I feel like a piece of my soul is with him, within him even, because in spite of our no-love-lost relationship, the only sort of relationship I could ever have, we are in this together, and in that sense, he truly is the closest to me anyone has ever been.
The thought enrages me.
