Happy Friday - and here's a chapter that only took a little over half a year!
I haven't abandoned any of my HP stories, promise :p
Riddle falls ill again the very next day. It starts out with a few sneezes, then dramatic sounding coughs and his normally pale face turning a little flushed; by the time the tenacious summer sun finally sets below the horizon, Riddle is feeling miserable enough to cast away his pride and admit to Harry he isn't feeling well. Downright awful, in fact. Harry, ever the bleeding heart, wastes no time in phoning the healer-on-call in St. John's, imploring him to make a visit even though it is after hours.
Nonetheless, his efforts pay off. The look on Riddle's face when the healer declares it's simply a muggle cold and offers him an assortment of orange and blue pills is nothing short of priceless.
In the end, the doctor suggests the best way to deal with a cold is to "let it run its course". Riddle looks like he desires murder - nothing out of the usual - and Harry follows Riddle into his room to hand him a headache potion, feeling like a parent caring for a bratty child.
"Gosh, have you never had a bloody cold before?"
But Riddle ignores him and continues to sulk, probably wallowing in his recent mortality complex, so Harry slowly looks around, taking in the room. He hasn't yet had the chance to inspect the ground floor bedroom in detail. The room is smaller than his bedroom upstairs, but cozy with a generous amount of light; giant sliding doors lead out onto the terrace overlooking a steep cliff. But the very first thing that captures Harry's attention is the impeccable neatness - not an item out of place. By the entrance, there is an open concept closet, with the new muggle clothing they got in town organized into perfect rows and stacks. The small desk between the bed and the sliding doors is spotless, above which hangs a small bookshelf, rows of books precisely arranged.
Harry can't help but laugh; turns out Malfoy's elves aren't the biggest neat freaks - it's Lord Voldemort himself! Well, seems like he and Aunt Petunia have something in common …
The only exception to the almost unnatural tidiness is a book, lying half open on the desk, apparently in the process of being read. He glances at the title:
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea - Harry recognizes the title from the throngs of collector hardcover books Dudley received as presents but never cracked open. How curious. Who knew the Dark Lord had a taste for muggle fiction? Harry bites down a chuckle, stealthily leaving the room as Riddle falls asleep.
At close to noon the next day, out of the goodness of his heart, Harry decides to check on his former enemy, bearing orange juice and oatmeal. Riddle is lounging on the bed, still looking miserable yet tremendously bored. His face is flushed still and his eyes are slightly bloodshot, so Harry surmises his fever hasn't broken. At least, he reaches for the food with rather atypical enthusiasm, obviously famished since the day before. Harry opens the sliding door and revels in the soft breeze as Riddle eats, with a possessiveness that reminds him distinctly of Oliver Twist. Riddle doesn't say "thank you", but Harry didn't expect him to at any rate.
"Better?" Harry queries as he banishes the empty dishes to the kitchen.
Riddle huffs noncommittally, almost pouting, not saying another word. Harry turns around to stare at the midday sea, a soft blue under the overcast sky. Looking at the sea is always something he can do when his only human housemate feels like playing the ignoring game.
Riddle breaks the silence all of a sudden.
"Harr … Potter." The former dark lord catches himself before he can commit such a transgression as using his sworn enemy's given name. Harry finds it funny. In public, they call each other "Harry" and "Tom", like old friends. In private, they use each other's last names as if they were curse words. Better yet, they've been trying their damned best not to talk since the Kreacher episode.
"Yes?" Harry manages to hide his amusement.
"Have you got the book on Napoleon Bonaparte?"
"Yes, and?"
Then Riddle says something unexpected. "Could you … read to me?" He doesn't say "please", but his tone alone is enough.
"And you can't read it yourself because ... ?"
"Headache." Riddle replies evenly. Harry supposes that's fair enough, slightly taken aback by this blatant display of weakness.
In the end, Harry fishes the hardcover muggle book out of his meager luggage and picks up where they left off all the way back at Hogwarts. Riddle peers out at the cloudy sky as he listens. This is nice - simple. Fifteen chapters in, Harry still butchers the French names, but the air between the two former enemies just seems a lot lighter even as Napoleon's empire slowly crumbles.
They read on as Paris fell and Napoleon's senior officers mutinied. They read on as the emperor attempted to take his own life while in exile on a tiny island named Elba. As they finish the section on Napoleon's second ascent to the French throne though, Riddle says abruptly.
"Let's stop here. I know well enough what happened next." The following chapter is titled "Waterloo". Harry imagines even he knows what happens next. He finds that he'd rather stop the story amid cries of "Vive L'empereur!" as well; he too has grown quite fond of the short little Corsican who had the gulls to take on the world.
A week later, the temperature shoots up to 25 degrees. Harry shuffles on the rough sandy beach on the south side of the Lighthouse, eyeing the water longingly. The clear, gentle waves glitter under the high noon sun, crashing merrily upon the beach, inviting. The rational part of him knows the water is still quite cold. The childish part of him can't help it. Behind him, looking just slightly out of place in muggle summer clothing, Riddle scowls. Harry is still amazed that he decided to come along. Perhaps the former dark lord really is bored - he seems to have exhausted the little stash of books in the downstairs bedroom.
Harry, on the other hand, has spent much of the past week flying and playing Quidditch with Desmond and his boisterous friends. Sometimes Erin would join their games, but she often has research work to do and, regardless, she prefers this odd muggle sport involving hockey sticks that seem much too short for the players. But when she did spectate, she had the audacity to drag Riddle with them to the field, once he had recovered from his cold somewhat.
Harry didn't end up infected after all, but jumping into the water right now seems like tempting fate. But since when did he let common sense stand in his way?
"You are not going into the water, are you?" Riddle asks roughly, reminiscent of Harry's question to him on their trans-Atlantic journey.
'Sure I am." Harry replies with bravado, testing the water temperature with his toes and as a result, suddenly very awake despite a late night on the town.
This part of the shoreline was given the name Good Will Bay by the Potter siblings when they were children. A small, shallow natural harbour protected from the great waves of the Atlantic by the cliff that supports the Lighthouse - where the freerun youngsters of Witless Bay might dock their kayaks and play pirate games with wooden swords. Desmond has shared tales of himself doing exactly that. Harry knows he isn't an excellent swimmer, but if he can handle the Black Lake, he can surely take a dip here. Stripping down to swim trunks, the boy saviour plunges into the water with an abandon he never quite had as a kid.
A giant splash, and a pleasant chilliness seeps into his every cell. Exhilarating. Letting out a shriek in delight, Harry makes a quick lap to the rock at the other end of the harbour and back. Straining to open his eyes underwater, he watches the sun dance in the most mesmerizing pattern on the floor of the sea. A few minutes later, he looks back upon the beach, and finds Riddle still standing there, unimpressed.
"It feels awesome! You should try it!" Harry doesn't quite know why, but he's feeling particularly cheery today. If Ron was here, he'd have jumped in five minutes ago. Riddle casually stares at him as if he is retarded.
"Potter! Have you completely lost it?"
"It's a very pleasant temperature." Harry grins. It really isn't, but that's part of the charm.
"No."
"Tom … come on!" Harry nearly whines - fine, he whines - daring to rile him up. Riddle's Christian name comes in much handier when one wishes to butcher it in a petulant tone. Riddle doesn't seem to mind, only appearing slightly disturbed by Harry's merriment.
A sudden thought crosses Harry's mind. "You know how to swim … don't you?"
It's so very immature of him, Harry knows, but the former dark lord is immediately indignant - "Of course I do, Potter!" - so perhaps he isn't the childish one here.
Having gingerly tested the water, Riddle meticulously unbuttons his shirt and starts to wade into the waves, a highly suspicious look on his face this whole time. Harry remembers that common sense has never been the Dark Lord's forte either.
"See? Not that bad."
Instead of swimming, Riddle chooses to stand in chest-deep water, staring at something on the surrounding sea floor. How boring. Just as Harry seriously contemplates whether it is socially acceptable at all to splash his former arch nemesis when his guard is down, Riddle dives, emerging a few seconds later with a stunning red seashell. Harry is reminded of Riddle's long time obsession with shiny things - or just pretty things, apparently. His chestnut hair particularly wavy with dripping seawater, the Heir of Slytherin holds the little seashell up to the sun - and smiles.
Either William Potter was the biggest bookworm in the Potter line, or Desmond secretly has a bookish side, Harry decides, marvelling at the enormous library that takes up an entire wall in the living room. Books on magic - all kinds of magic - almost alive on the shelves, humming with power and knowledge of old. He finds himself having the urge to take one and read it - God forbid! What would Ron think he caught Harry read a book for fun? Oh Hermione would be so proud …
In all seriousness, Harry has been lacking something substantial to do. Maybe this is what summer holiday is supposed to feel like - lazy, carefree, with a modicum of restlessness - when no one is yapping at him to do chores without magic.
Harry does have some chores to do: taking over parts of the Potter estate; cooking. Kreacher absolutely cannot be trusted near a stove, so Harry does it. He realizes that he doesn't mind; that he's actually got a talent for it, however rubbish he was at Potions.
Returning to the book collection again, Harry eventually pulls out a thin tome titled Magical Flow and Control - A Practical Approach and settles down to read. He's got to figure out what his magic has against him one of these days. Breaking bowls and cups has gotten tiresome for the master chef in him.
Two evenings later, he finally reaches the "practical approach" part. Giddy to take a stick to things after so long without doing actual magic, he pulls out the yew wand and gets ready to experiment on a small candle he lit on the kitchen island.
A shifting sound by the fireplace breaks his concentration. Oh Merlin, he's forgotten that Riddle's curled up in his favourite bean bag chair (it was a rather funny picture, the first few times), devouring some muggle book.
Harry eyes Riddle with some apprehension, not sure what to expect. Sure, them freezing their arses off together at Good Will Bay was very nice, but they've not yet managed to go one step forward without taking two steps back. Riddle has by no means come to terms with his loss of magic, and here Harry is practicing magic in front of him with his old wand, rubbing salt into the wound.
The former dark lord sports a somewhat hungry look, and Harry swallows. Yet no biting comment is coming, so he returns to his work.
Focus on the candle flame … imagine you can feel your magic and the fire through your magic … don't think of any specific spell; instead, try to control the flame directly … intention is key …
Deep breath. Focus. Feeling the magic burning in his right arm, itching to be used, Harry wills the fire to burn brighter -
The next thing he knows, the flame shoots up ten feet high, threatening to devour the caster as a whole. A few frantic Aguamenti averts a house fire, but what it leaves is not a pretty sight. The fire scorched the ceiling and nearly took out his eyebrows. Harry sighs dramatically; so much for magical control!
Steadying his breath, he chances a look at this archenemy, who has the decency not to look too amused.
"Salazar, Potter, you are hopeless." Riddle says simply before going back to his reading. Harry hates to admit it but he echoes the sentiment.
The sun shines generously today. With his eyes half closed, Riddle leans back and stretches out his limbs, imagining himself to be a leaf, willing the waves to keep him afloat. Relax, weightless, yes … It doesn't work. For the umpteenth time, he feels himself sinking. Potter has just kicked him out of the house; 'get some sun', he says – the nerves of that boy! Riddle soon has to start treading to keep his head above water. Grudgingly, Riddle admits that the temperature isn't unpleasant today, and it feels good to have the mid-July sun warm his much too pale skin. Potter doesn't need to know that, but he's always liked the sea. Enjoyed swimming even; the few times he got to do it as a boy, he made waves and let his mind travel, imagining he was a great white whale or a sea serpent, ruler of the seas. At any rate, isn't the human body supposed to be lighter than seawater? His muggle school teachers were full of nonsense, but somehow he doesn't think they lied on that point…
A light chuckle sounds somewhere above him. "You'd have to put on a lot more fat if you want to float that way." Erin Potter says with a mischievous grin. Riddle stills, and then quickly makes for the shore. If they are to have a battle of wits, he wants them to be on equal footing. Erin just smiles at him good-naturedly. Suddenly aware of how little clothing he's wearing – 1940s sense of decorum; can't help it – and how pathetic he must look with knobby knees and protruding ribs, Riddle feels an angry flush coming on. He glares at the girl nonetheless.
"And you've been having fun watching me flail around all this time?" He spats as he make a beeline for the towels.
"Nuh huh, I was on my way to bring these cookies to Harry. But you made quite a sight." She was smiling sweetly, so wonderfully oblivious to his fury. Then she turns tail towards the Lighthouse, and Riddle finds himself following.
"Oh, and Tom, I finished my research proposal. Would you like the honour to be the first to proofread it?"
"The one on Victorian social reform and the Second Industrial Revolution?" Riddle has no idea why he lets these freaking Potters get away with treating him like this.
"Yup."
"If only you let me borrow your books." Erin Potter has quite the impressive collection of muggle books. He's giving her his trademark half smile. No one could say no to him when he smiled like this.
"Deal." She probably would have agreed anyway, he laments.
As they start climbing the staircase, he brings up the more fundamental question. "Say, where do you get all your books anyway?"
Reviews? Just to let me know you guys are still out there?