(11/26/2012) Over seven and a half years since I last posted to this fic, and I'm finishing it at last. If anyone remains who's still interested in it and actually reads this far – I have no words to express my appreciation for your patience.
I hope it turns out to be worth the wait.
# # # Chapter 21 # # #
Bill Weasley had seen Lucius Malfoy before. From a distance. It was one of those things that came of being Claudius' friend … even though they were usually far from each other by the time it came for parents to be picking their children up from the Express' platform, he and Claudi had long since developed a sort of sixth sense towards each other – no matter how large the crowd, they always seemed to be able to find each other.
… One could, of course, ascribe that to the fact that neither Bill's red head nor Claudius' silvery-blond one was precisely the sort of coloring that tended to cause one to fade into the background. But personally, Bill liked his theory better. Whatever the reason, when looking around the train station for his friend he also often caught a glimpse of said friend's father. This, however, was his first time seeing the man up close.
He was … intimidating, if that was the word for it. Despite how Dark Bill knew the man to be – and, having lived all his life around his father, he had heard rather a lot about that subject – there was no denying that the older man possessed Presence.
Between that and the significant height difference, it was almost … no, entirely overwhelming. And fascinating, in the sort of way – not to be trite, but it was the first metaphor that came to mind – a mouse might find a snake fascinating in its last moments of life.
Currently, the man in question wore an expression that Bill tentatively identified as "paternally indulgent" (tentatively because his only real experience with that particular expression was from his father, who went about the matter far less superciliously than Lucius Malfoy).
"Claudius, my boy. How good to see you."
"A pleasure to see you as well, Father." A strange transformation seemed to have come over his friend; gone was the boy his age with whom he had shared scraped knees and late-night library raids; replacing him was a strange automaton that looked and acted, he supposed, like a 'real Malfoy'. "And this is –"
"You brought a friend home with you?" The barest hint of displeasure colored the Malfoy patriarch's tone; it was obvious he had expected nothing of the sort.
Drawing on reserves he didn't know he possessed, Bill straightened and bowed slightly. "William Weasley. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." With all the pleasure filling this corner of the room, you'd think the atmosphere would be a bit less icy.
"A Weasley." The displeasure was more than evident, now.
"Claudius and I are quite well acquainted with each other." Bill wondered what on earth he could do to avert the disaster he could just feel looming.
"He and I have a great deal in common." Claudius added quietly, throwing Bill a quick apologetic glance – why? It was certainly true.
"Curious." Lucius drew the word out into a considering hiss. "Then, the diary I sent you earlier this year?"
Somehow, Bill didn't think "I liked the diary until it possessed me with the spirit of a younger Dark Lord; these days my fondest memories of it are watching it burn to ash" was quite the response Claudius' father was interested in receiving.
"Oh! That diary, was it originally yours, sir? Claudius gave it to me, and I must say I've enjoyed it terribly. Thank you, sir." He was beginning to worry that he had been laying on the 'sir's a bit too strongly, but Claudius' father did not seem terribly suspicious.
And for some reason, that did the trick. The displeasure faded away and something strangely like a smile made its way onto the Slytherin's mask. "I see. Well met, young William." He reached over and shook Bill's hand lightly – evidently he was not well enough met to entirely erase the distastefulness of shaking hands with a lowborn blood traitor. Sparing a quick glance, Bill caught Claudi's mask cracking slightly with relief.
Glancing back up at the father, he could have sworn he caught the urbane older man … winking at him.
But that was absurd, wasn't it?
# # # # #
When Harry opened his eyes, it was to a familiar – but in this case rather unwelcome – sight. He sat up and looked around, idly brushing the dirt from the front of his robe as he took in the sight of the Weasley house and gardens, looking as always a strange combination of utterly bizarre and carefully tended. "Well, that didn't work right." Using the support of a nearby fencepost, he pulled himself to his feet.
This brought to his attention several things. First, that his robe had existed to have dust brushed off it. Second, that his hand had existed to exert enough force on the fencepost to help him to his feet. Third, that his feet were planted quite solidly on the ground now.
He looked at his hands in amazement, slapping the fencepost to verify that it was indeed there and he was indeed touching it (and as a bonus, his hand even stung and reddened a bit), before turning to stare around the yard a second time. "What in the world is going on?"
Silence greeted him – unusual, for a place he'd always associated with movement and noise. Maybe no one's home?
He leaned against the fencepost, eyeing the house. Going up and knocking on the door, to see if anyone actually was home, seemed to be the next logical step. On the other hand, when he thought of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weasley again after eavesdropping on their conversation – of knowing their real reactions even if they tried to put a brave face on for his benefit – he couldn't quite make himself take that step.
He eyed his hand again, flexing it idly. On the other other hand, the fact that I'm corporeal right now is a strong sign that it's unlikely to be the Mr. and Mrs. Weasley who are acquainted with me personally who reside in that house. He closed his eyes and poked around his mind carefully, not entirely sure what he was doing or whether it would be of any use at all. Eventually, he gave up and reopened his eyes. Well, either whoever I'm possessing currently is being very quiet, or I am actually currently alone in my head. Which is … kind of weird, actually.
He shook his head. I can't believe I almost miss being forced to share headspace with other people. Being dead must be driving me nutters. A fond smile. Peter and Severus were pretty fun, though. And even the others weren't so bad. Usually.
… Which was really just trying to distract himself from the fact that he was still leaning against the fence post, just out of sight of the Burrow's front door.
First things first. Let's try to find someone more likely to have some idea what's going on. Assuming I can still do my little Apparition-like trick. He considered that notion, and quickly came up blank when he tried to think of any authority figures in the past that he'd actually be willing to talk to, much less who might have any insights. If I were back home, I could try Dumbledore, but … fat chance.
Thoughts of Hogwarts naturally turned to thoughts of Remus, and he bit his lip. I really should go do what Bill suggested, and have a talk with him. He glanced towards the Burrow again and smiled wryly. Though if there's any other conversation I'm less eager to have … He snorted. Well, I suppose talking with this Dumbledore about my last name and past still top that category.
He sighed, then straightened, throwing back his shoulders. "Well, are you a Gryffindor or aren't you?" He mocked himself.
Besides … hard feelings aside, it would be good to see Remus again. By Harry's count it hadn't been more than a few hours (not counting the time spent unconscious on the Weasleys' front lawn, since he had no idea how long that had been – and come to think of it, why hadn't anyone come by and noticed him in that period of time? Was he still invisible despite now being apparently corporeal?), but it seemed like it had been far longer. And given the way these jumps usually worked, for Remus it had probably been weeks if not months since their argument.
He closed his eyes again, falling into that state of mind he'd used several times before, ruthlessly shoving aside the worry that he wouldn't be able to do it this time – that it was something specific to his only-visible-to-certain people ghost form in his present time. Then again, I never tried to do it in the past – too busy possessing people. So I don't know that it won't work, either.
He concentrated, hard, on Remus and Hogwarts, and released that twist of will that insisted 'take me there!'. Yet even before he reopened his eyes, he had a sinking feeling that he knew what he would see.
The Burrow, still as comfortingly bizarre as always. For a very brief moment, he had thought he'd felt something resembling the coiled sense of tense power that seemed to … propel him to his destination when he'd used this trick before. But then it had dissipated, so quickly and so thoroughly that he wondered if he'd simply imagined it.
Three more tries netted the same results, and at last he gave up, shoulders slumping slightly. I guess reconciliation with Remus will have to wait until another time. Which means …
Forcing himself to act with a determination he didn't entirely feel, he pushed himself away from the fence and started the short trudge up to the house, aware but not entirely capable of forcing himself not to drag his feet.
Slowed progress or no, he still found himself – far too soon for his tastes – standing in front of the door, hand raised, hesitating.
Another wry grin. "… Are you a Gryffindor or aren't you?" He asked himself again.
And, before he could succumb to any more second thoughts, he knocked.
Silence.
He strained his ears for any sign that the house might be occupied, its occupants simply not having made it to the door yet. Still nothing – and in fact, he suddenly realized that it wasn't just the house, but the entire surrounding area that was silent. No cries of birds – no birds or other wildlife at all, that he'd seen – not even the gentle background rustle of wind through the grass and trees. Well, and no wind, either. He shot a concerned look back towards the yard, to the handful of small trees that now seemed unnaturally still.
Then shook his head. Worry about it later. And knocked again, slightly louder.
This time when he listened, he caught just the faintest hint of sound – a short, flat sound, like someone had bumped into something – and plastered a smile onto his face that he hoped looked friendly and harmless. Though without a wand, 'harmless' is pretty close to the truth, plain and simple.
The door jerked open. "What do you –?" a familiar voice snarled irritably, before his eyes caught up with his mouth. "You!"
Harry's first reaction was shock and the desire to get away, but before he could as much as take a step away, that was swamped by anger. Almost without realizing what he was doing, he'd fisted the older, taller boy's cloak in his hand and pushed him back against the hallway wall. "What the hell are you doing here?" He hissed. "And what did you do to them? Haven't you messed with their lives enough?"
(A very small corner of his mind thought he should perhaps be more afraid; angering this man was generally not a bright idea. Another small corner of his mind pointed out that he had, after all, killed him already. Twice. Three times, if he got to count his older self.)
Behind the two, the door fell shut, abruptly cutting off the sunlight (or had the sun been shining? Now that he thought about it, Harry wasn't entirely sure); the room seemed dim in comparison for the moments before Harry's eyes adjusted.
The older boy stared down at him with disdain, as coolly as though he had not been gaping mere moments before, apparently utterly unconcerned with the fact that Harry still had his cloak in a death grip. "It truly is irritating to be continually accused of crimes that I haven't committed." He remarked.
An increase to the glint in the other's eyes (and once again he was struck by the similarity to his own) was the only warning he was given – too little, too late – before the other boy swept his hand up, dislodging Harry's hands as casually as swatting a fly, grabbing hold of one of his arms in passing with a grip that was just shy of painful, and swung the two of them around, hand pinning Harry's captured arm – his wand hand, of course, not that it was much good to him without a wand anyway – to the wall.
(That second corner of his mind allowed as how both those other times he'd had his hands on the other boy's weak point and a weapon to destroy it with, neither of which was true in this case, and tentatively registered its reluctant agreement with the first corner.)
He looked down at Harry, the light above and behind him casting his face in shadow. "And really, I think that should be my line." Tom said. "Both 'what are you doing here?' and 'haven't you messed with my life enough?' are … quite fitting, in fact."
Preoccupied with his struggles to escape the taller boy's grip – an attempt to lash out with his free hand had simply resulted in that being captured as well – it took a moment for Tom's words to sink in. Harry stopped struggling, genuinely confused. "… I'm pretty sure that as a friend to the family" at least I will be in fifteen years or so "I've got a great deal more right to be here than someone who desires nothing more than to kill or possess them."
Tom's grip loosened – not much, but enough – and Harry gave in to his initial impulse, wrenching himself away and putting several feet of space between them. Irritation sparked briefly through the mild puzzlement on his face, but strangely, Tom seemed to decide not to follow. "You appear to be laboring under a misunderstanding." He finally observed, still eyeing Harry strangely.
"I don't know where this place is or who it belongs to in the real world – though I have some strong suspicions, and seen from that perspective you are likely correct. However, this in particular" he gestured idly to the surrounding area, "is not the real world, but is in fact simply a construct built by William Weasley's subconscious to trap what shreds of myself remained when you were so unkind as to destroy the rest of me." He smiled insincerely. "And I would say you have as little right to be in little William's head as I do – arguably, less, given that I at least was invited in initially."
Harry became aware that he had continued to back away when said back ran into something – a chest of drawers, perhaps, given that he could feel the edge a bit above his waist, and the bits beneath that he had run into were uneven. He resisted the urge to glance behind himself to verify that he hadn't damaged anything valuable, given that taking his eyes off the younger incarnation of Voldemort was probably listed in the thesaurus as a synonym for 'bad idea'. Distracted, it had taken him longer than usual to process the other boy's words; when their meaning penetrated, he blinked. "What?"
Tom treated him to a decidedly unimpressed look. "I'm trapped in the Weasley child's mind. And now you, my destroyer, are apparently now trapped here with me." He smiled again, this time in a way that looked like it might actually be attempting sincerity. Or at least the appearance thereof. "I must admit, I am quite interested in hearing any additional information you'd care to share about how that came to pass."
Harry shot him a disgruntled glare. Condescending tone: not necessary. I suppose I can't really say I'm surprised, though. "How do you know? It seems perfectly real to me." He slapped the wall to his right, just within reaching distance, and once again experienced a small thrill at the fact that he could actually feel his skin's reaction to the abuse. "… And why do you think I'd be willing to tell you anything?"
Tom shrugged. "Because unless you know some trick you're not telling, you're as stuck here as I am. And however much you hate me – for whatever reason, justified or not, though seriously, I'm pretty sure I've never met you before so I really don't know how I've managed to offend you that much – I suspect you'll find soon enough that human interaction is more interesting than trying to hide from me and sulk."
Harry gaped, not even knowing where to start. "… Sulk?" So of course I pick the least important part.
Tom rolled his eyes – to be fair, that was about all the response that his response justified. "As for proof of where we are – well, if the fact that I'm standing here talking to you when you should know as well as I did that you destroyed me isn't enough proof, come on." He jerked his head briefly behind him, then turned on his heels and strode back down the hall, apparently blithely unconcerned that by doing so he'd presented Harry with his unprotected back.
Then again, he's already proven he can physically overpower me with insulting ease. And if he has his wand, still – do wands even exist inside other people's heads? – that just gives him that much more of an advantage.
Harry eyed that back, considering options. I could attack again – but we saw how well that worked out. I could turn away, go barricade myself in Ron's room or something – does that even exist yet, if this is a mental construct of a thirteen-year-old Bill who only has two brothers, not five and a sister? –… and then do … what, exactly? Keep trying to leave? That worked so well before, after all. And if he hasn't been able to escape … He may have violent arguments with the man's goals in life, methods, and morals in general, but even Harry had to admit that Tom Riddle was far from unintelligent. Given that he himself was far from being a genius, chances were quite good that if Tom couldn't figure out a way to escape, he wouldn't be able to either.
He sighed, shook his head, and followed. … Or I could give in to my curiosity and find out where he's leading me. Cautiously.
He didn't have long to wait. As he'd remembered, the hallway led to the kitchen, which opened out into the dining room, the table looking queerly stunted with only four chairs – five, if one included the high-chair propped at one end. They must have bought a larger one once their family outgrew this one. Also strangely empty – it just didn't seem right to see the table when it wasn't covered in food and surrounded by happy chatter. He tried not to let it bother him, these little changes, but it was difficult to put them out of his mind entirely when so much of the rest of the house matched his memories. Like a few out-of-tune notes in a familiar melody.
Then his eyes slid past the disconcerting table to the sitting room just beyond, where Tom stood, hands in pockets, looking at something that, due to the way the walls were situated, was just around the corner and out of sight. Again reminding himself that 'cautiously' was the theme, Harry skirted around the table – if nothing else, its smaller size meant that the dining area was a bit less cramped – touching a nostalgic finger to it as he passed, then walked on into the living room, turning towards the direction in which Tom had been gazing.
What on Earth is that?!
In place of where he thought he remembered the fireplace, framed by two windows that looked out on the yard, was a gigantic – well, window, he supposed, though it was larger than any other window he'd ever seen, and what it looked out onto was most decidedly not the yard.
It looked, in fact, very much like a view of Platform 9¾ - though again, there were little disconcerting differences here and there that kept reminding him that he was still around twenty years in the past. And then there was the big disconcerting difference: the centerpiece of this window's view was roughly the upper half of what was quite clearly recognizable as a younger Lucius Malfoy.
Sound seemed to be included, too – the distant rumble of other trains and the indistinct murmur of a thousand other conversations happening simultaneously drifted through the air, quiet enough to ignore, but clearly audible if you thought to pay attention.
"Why is he here?" Harry asked, glaring at one of the few people he hated almost as much as Voldemort.
"Picking up his son, presumably." Tom said idly, and Harry noticed that yes, Claudius – for the miniature near-clone of Malfoy still wearing his Ravenclaw-badged Hogwarts robe could hardly be anyone else – stood a few feet to the side of and a bit behind his father, face a bit pale (or maybe that was his natural color), determinedly blank, and eyes flickering back and forth between his father and – the window.
Bill. Harry recognized, finally reluctantly willing to accept Tom's words as truth. We must be seeing out of Bill's eyes. Somehow.
"The more interesting question," Tom continued in that same idle tone, "is what is William doing here? As reluctant as I am to associate with yet more Weasleys, I would have expected him to go join his family, not come over and make nice with a man who not only is an enemy of his family, but who I would expect him to regard as a personal enemy, given – well, me."
Harry frowned, drifting closer. Yes, come to think of it – especially given that I know that in my home time, Bill didn't go with Claudius. So what changed? The diary? Bill probably would have mentioned it if he had encountered it in his own past. But … I'd think that having been possessed by an evil magical object – he slanted a glance at Tom – would have made him more likely to want to avoid the Malfoys, not less.
He frowned deeper, something niggling at him, but he couldn't quite place what. Something about … chicken pox?
"Well, I see it is just as well that I had a private Floo room reserved." Lucius Malfoy said, his voice resonating throughout the room, seeming to come from all directions, though at a thankfully normal enough volume that it wasn't completely overwhelming. "Come."
He turned on his heel and strode away, apparently not caring whether or how fast anyone followed. Their window slid slightly – a turn of the head? – to center on Claudius, whose mask cracked just enough to show a wry smile before he shrugged and turned to follow. Their window bounced, shooting forward faster than what Harry would have guessed constituted walking speed – a quick dash? – then slowed to what seemed like a more normal pace – and, thankfully, less shaking – as it drew even with Claudius. He grimaced. "Is it always that …?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom shrugged. "That's pretty typical – be glad you didn't have to watch him running late for class. You get used to it."
Hopefully I won't be here long enough for that to become a problem. Harry thought, though even to himself he didn't have a whole lot of confidence in the assertion. Hopefully I'll find some way out.
"Can you affect things at all?" Harry asked, not even sure what he hoped the answer would be. On the one hand, 'yes' would mean that Harry would have a way to communicate with Bill, to maybe work out a way between them to get him out of this trap and out of Bill's head entirely. On the other hand, that would also mean that Tom would have similar access to Bill's thoughts – and for all that he had been, for the most part, remarkably polite so far, Harry still didn't trust the younger incarnation of Voldemort any farther than he could throw him. Without magic. While incorporeal.
"No." Tom said, tone colored with a hint of frustration. "Well, occasionally if I yell loud enough it seems almost like he's received the comment as some sort of subconscious hint. It only seems to work part of the time, though, so I suspect he simply happened to have independently decided at that moment to take the course of action I was proposing."
"Ah." Harry sighed in mixed relief and disappointment.
"Last chance to back out." Claudius murmured. The window swung from where it had been focused mostly forward to look at the Ravenclaw. "You really don't have to come with me. Between the baby being sick and Charlie having the pox –" Harry started. How did I know that? "– you know your parents would really appreciate the help. I'll manage somehow – and we can trade stories when we get back."
The window shifted down to look at Claudius' hand and Bill's own, separated by several inches until Bill reached out and grabbed his friend's hand, view swinging back up to center on Claudius' shocked face. "I made my decision, and I plan to stand by it." His voice resounded quietly, sounding somehow closer than that of either of the Malfoys – though of course, that made sense. "And – I know this is silly – but I have this strange feeling that if I let you go now, I'll never see you again."
Claudius' eyes flicked downwards to where their hands were probably still joined – it would really have been far more convenient if they had been given a more panoramic view instead of simply what Bill's eyes could see – and then back up, as a light blush dusted his cheeks. "Very well." He sighed. "Far be it from me to interfere between a Gryiffindor and his plan. Just – be careful, will you?" A grimace. "You're not the only one who has a bad feeling about this vacation."
He moved away a bit – far enough to see that his hand was now empty. Harry couldn't see Bill's face, but the grin was clear in his voice. "Don't worry so much. We'll make it through – and make it back – together."
Claudius shook his head, smiling wryly. "Gryffindors."
They both turned their attention back forward, speeding up their steps in an effort to close the distance between themselves and Lucius Malfoy – who, if nothing else, was at least difficult to lose, regardless of how crowded the station was otherwise.
No longer transfixed by the conversation, Harry turned part of his attention towards Tom, surprising a mildly disgusted look on his face before he appeared to notice he was being watched and turn to look at Harry in turn, face smoothing to a more neutral expression. Is he trying to … make nice? Harry attempted to shove that thought away, unsure whether to be more disturbed by it, or by the fact that it was actually … sort of working. They'd been interacting for all of maybe twenty minutes, tops, but already he found that he could forget for minutes at a time that this was the younger version of the man who would ruin his life. When he'd been focused on Bill and Claudius' conversation, he'd almost forgotten the other boy was even there to begin with.
Perhaps that would explain why he said what he did. "Did anything … weird happen when I arrived?"
The look on his face turned rather worrisomely sharp, but Tom seemed to be giving the question his sincere consideration. "Obviously I don't know when, precisely, you arrived." He said. "But if it was … hm, probably a little less than ten minutes before you knocked on the door?"
Harry squinted. "I didn't think I stood around for that long, but I've been known to lose track of time before. I'd be willing to believe it. Why? I take it something did happen?"
Tom appeared to consider for a moment, then jerked his head towards the corridor from which they had come. "Did you notice anything … different when you were stand outside?" A pause. "Well, given that you were convinced that this was a real house and I'd done something to its occupants, I suppose that question answers itself."
Harry did his best not to bridle at the condescending tone, but couldn't entirely erase the offense from his voice. "I noticed that it was awfully quiet – no animals, not even the wind rustling the trees. If that's what you mean."
Tom raised an eyebrow. "That's certainly part of it. If you had tried walking down the path towards where I presume some sort of quaint little village is, you'd have barely gotten halfway the bottom of the hill before finding yourself wrapped back around, approaching the house from the opposite side. It looks very broad, but in reality the bubble I'm – well, I suppose I should say we're – trapped in is quite small."
"Okay." Harry said, glad to have the information (though he intended to check out its veracity at the earliest reasonable opportunity – if he was stuck here that long – just in case), but still a bit weirded out at the way Tom appeared to be acting relatively pleasant and – dare he believe it? – maybe even genuinely helpful. "But what does that have to do with what may or may not have happened when I arrived?"
Tom stared at him a moment before shaking his head, rolling his eyes. "Right, right, you're – what, a third year? And probably Gryffindor at that, you lot can never be bothered to learn anything that doesn't involve explosions of some sort."
Harry opened his mouth to point that he'd learned the curse that utterly destroyed the other boy's older self just fine, thanks; reconsidered and settled for a mild, "Fourth year, actually." He was getting so used to the tendency of everyone around to subtract years from his age that he found it almost not even worth getting irritated about anymore. And it's kind of nice that everyone doesn't know my age at a moment's thought simply because my history is just that well known.
"Fourth? Then you really should have started with at least the basics of wards."
"I haven't had very many competent Defense teachers." Harry said shortly. Considered. "Also, I didn't grow up in the middle of a war." At least, not one that more than a handful of people realized was still going on.
Tom shook his head. "I swear, the things they're teaching people these days. I ought to just become Defense teacher myself." His smile took on a fixed quality. "If I wasn't simply the last remaining fragments of a shard of soul too stubborn to die."
I suppose if the Defense position really is cursed, I can easily guess who put it there.
He shook off the mood – thankfully, given that Harry really didn't know what to say; an apology might have been appropriate, but he would have been lying – falling into an instructive tone of voice. "As you probably – or I guess, probably don't know, if you haven't been taught anything and clearly haven't gone out of your way to better yourself outside of class –"
Harry couldn't help cracking a dark grin at that. "Oh, I have done some very interesting – and ultimately quite rewarding – research in my time." He said cheerfully. "I just never looked into wards."
Tom eyed him, clearly irritated. Harry shut up. "Anyway, there are two broad categories of warding: inward-turned, which focus on keeping something inside the ward there; and outward-turned, which focus on keeping things outside the ward from getting in."
Harry squinted, rather interested despite himself (and, more impressively, despite who was talking). "So, Fidelius would be an outward-turned ward, then? Since it doesn't prevent people from leaving, it just prevents people on the outside from finding anyone or anything inside?"
Tom stared at him for a moment before rolling his eyes skyward. "He doesn't know even know the basics of ward theory, but he knows what Fidelius is." An exasperated sigh. "But yes, Fidelius is a classic – if horrendously difficult – example of an outward-turned ward."
"… And I guess what you're leading up to is that we're inside one of those inward-turned wards?" Harry asked. "Though how does that work when we're also inside Bill's head?"
Tom shrugged. "Magic? Probably his subconscious dreamed this up as a metaphorical representation of his need to trap what was left of me, when it turned out I wasn't completely gone." He nodded. "And yes, as far as I've been able to tell, this is a textbook example of what is known as a Wraparound Ward – it encloses a certain, generally small area, making it so that if the people trapped inside attempt to exit the enclosed area, they simply find themselves walking back into the enclosed area from the other side."
"Ah, like you were saying you did before." Harry nodded, then paused and eyed Tom. "Not that this isn't interesting, but – what does it have to do with anything?"
Tom blinked. "Right. So the Wraparound Ward – assuming, for the time being, that this is one in truth and not just something that looks and acts very much like it – is pretty difficult to break from the inside, as you might expect. It would be a different matter if it were shoddily constructed – then if you can find one of the rough spots, you can generally break it with sheer power – but this one is almost unnaturally well-constructed, so that was a wash."
"Magic." Harry offered, lips twitching.
"Likely so." Tom shrugged the interruption off. "The main weakness of even a well-constructed Wraparound Ward is that it doesn't deal very well with intrusions from the outside. If something enters the ward, or even just makes prolonged contact with it, that area weakens. To anyone at all familiar with ward construction, the weakness is noticeable and can be taken advantage of."
"So it's pretty effective against a small, localized group of people, but if even one of them escapes being trapped by the ward, it's effectively useless." Harry summarized. "And I'm guessing that you're one of those people who's at least passingly familiar with ward construction, and that roughly ten minutes ago you felt a momentary weakness in the ward that we're assuming corresponds with my arrival." He cocked his head. "So if you felt it, why didn't you take advantage of it?"
Tom grimaced. "I wasn't prepared, and it didn't last long enough for me to prepare. That's why it's best to have co-conspirators on the outside who can hold the weakness steady long enough to actually do something about it." He shook his head. "A few minutes after, it happened several times in relatively quick succession; I was about to come out and see what was going on, but then it stopped happening, so I put it down to some sort of fluke." He eyed Harry. "You didn't come with friends, did you?"
Harry shook his head. I wonder … "No, I'm alone." He answered absently, closing his eyes. I can't believe I'm willingly closing my eyes in front of Tom Riddle. Am I nuts? … But then, he's been remarkably civil so far, so I guess … I'm willing to risk it? He once again visualized Hogwarts, this time focusing that little out-of-the-way nook where he and Remus had sat and argued. Take me – there!
Tom made a noise of surprise – Harry was not at all surprised at the confirmation that, like all his other attempts, this one hadn't worked either – and Harry's eyes snapped back open just in time to see the older boy advancing on him. "Just now – what did you do?"
Harry skipped backwards, not willing to trust their current – cease-fire? – that far. "So did that do it again? Affect the barrier?"
Tom abruptly stopped advancing, clearly noticing that it was doing more harm than good, and relaxed back into a deliberately casual pose. "Yes, it did. I take it, then, that you may not have others with you, but you do have an idea what caused the later disturbances?"
And if that wasn't a politely roundabout Slytherin demand for him to share the information he held, Harry would – well, he didn't even bother to finish the sentence in his head, so sure was he that he would not have had to carry through with said unspecified promise. "… Yes." The question was, should he?
"This doesn't look like a Malfoy holding."
Bill's hiss was clearly lower in volume than the previous quiet conversation the two of them had been holding, but still more than loud enough to thoroughly distract both Harry and Tom from their current conversation.
Harry eyed the surrounding area – or at least as much of it as he could see from their Bill's-eye-screen, a large part of which had been taken up by his focus on his friend's face. Certainly it didn't look anything like his private imaginings of what a Malfoy residence would look like, either. It looked, in fact, distinctly … shabby.
Claudius frowned slightly. "I must admit, I wasn't expecting this, either, until Father told us where to go – usually we Floo straight home rather than bothering with this roundabout path." He shrugged, wiping the expression away with an equally faint smile. "Father must be feeling more paranoid than usual."
"Boys?" Lucius Malfoy's voice called, muffled as though separated by a thin wall or two. Bill and Claudius exchanged looks, then scampered in the direction of the older man's voice.
After a stroll through what Harry was tempted to call the back-alleys of some small town he'd never seen before, they ducked into yet another shabby-looking house, and once again utilized the Floo at Lucius' direction. After three additional similar hops, Bill claimed a need to rest and let his head stop spinning. (He might even have been telling the truth – certainly Harry was very glad that motion on the outside didn't appear to have any effect on their little room. The spinning as Bill went through the Floo was bad enough to watch, but at least he could close his eyes or turn his head away from the view window when it got too bad.)
Lucius looked to be momentarily torn, then shrugged a shoulder elegantly and informed the two young men that he'd be waiting in the front room and to catch up when they'd re-adjusted – but make it soon, mind.
Claudius looked about to follow his father when Bill caught his sleeve, using Claudius' body to hide the arm he'd used for the grab from the line of sight Lucius would have had if he'd been bothering to pay any attention. "What's going on?" He hissed. "I know you said your father was being more paranoid than usual, but this is just getting ridiculous."
Claudius' face was very blank.
From the lack of jittering in their view, Harry suspected that Bill was staring back.
The moment stretched, stretched some more, and finally broke as Claudius' mask cracked. "I don't really know what's going on either. Maybe he's just feeling really, really paranoid?"
"But you don't think so. You think something else is happening. Something bad." Bill said. At Claudius' surprised look, he sighed. "I have been your friend for nearly three years now. Give me some credit for being able to tell when you're worrying and trying to hide it."
Claudius huffed a laugh. "Fair enough, I suppose. Yes, I'm worried – Father said some … things … in his letters about break that gave me the impression that I might be … shall we say, getting a special opportunity to meet someone … important."
"You don't mean –"
"—Don't even think the name." Claudius hissed, looking around as he held a finger to Bill's lips – at least, Harry was pretty sure that's where the finger had gone. "I –" he hesitated, closing his eyes briefly, before admitting, "—one of the reasons I invited you with me was because I figured he would … change his plans if I had you around too." For a moment, Claudius' face reflected what Harry thought were probably his true feelings – bone-deep fear, both for himself and for his friend, and guilt at his part in bringing things to the current state. "Instead, I just got you mixed into this mess with me. So – I hope I'm wrong, but …"
"… I hope he is, too." Tom said, as heartfelt as Harry had ever heard him. "Merlin's balls."
Bill released his hold on Claudius' sleeve, moving that hand up to pull the Ravenclaw's hand away from his face, clasping it briefly. "Needless to say, I hope you're wrong too. But even if you're not – I'd rather be here, facing it with you together, than sitting at home wondering what's going on, waiting for you to come back with crazy stories … or wondering why you never made it back." He stood. "Well – no sense putting off the inevitable. Let's go."
As the two headed out to find Claudius' father again, Harry was released from his fascination with the events playing out on the screen, belatedly replaying the last couple of minutes inside this room in his mind. He turned to Tom and blinked. "You … do? Hope that they're not going to meet –" he considered using the name, like he always did, but at the last moment decided against it, perhaps remembering the fervent look on Claudius' face. "—your future self? Why?"
Tom stared at him as though he'd asked why the sky is blue, then seemed to remember his audience (and his opinion of said audience's intelligence) and sighed. "This –" he pointed downwards, "—is the body of a Gryffindor – which means he's by definition incapable of keeping his inflammatory opinions to himself – who is firmly on the Light side. The chances that he will successfully navigate a meeting with my future self without that coming to light are next to nil. I don't take well to potential traitors – or fools, or Gryffindors, at that – and I doubt that that particular trait of mine has softened in the intervening years."
"But while this existence is terribly frustrating and only just this side of meaningless," Tom glared at Harry, as though he thought the younger man might need a reminder just whose fault that was (or as though he thought Harry would feel guilt about putting him in that state, which … no, to be honest, he really didn't), "I find that I am still quite protective of what few remaining shards of life I still call my own. I'd really rather not lose what remains of my life just because some thirteen-year-old Gryffindor couldn't keep his mouth shut."
It was likely a terribly bad idea in any number of ways, but somewhat to his shock, Harry realized he believed Tom. By all accounts, he's always been terribly concerned with self-preservation, after all. And, furthermore, that sometime during his distraction – partly, but not completely, due to Tom's latest comments – he'd made his decision, too. "I don't know how much you've guessed about who or what I am." He said suddenly.
Tom's sudden narrow-eyed and very intent regard told him that the Slytherin was quite aware that said comment was not nearly as much of a non sequitur as it seemed. Rather than say anything, he simply raised an eyebrow, inclined his head minimally, and waited.
Harry tried not to let it bother him – tried not to second-guess himself – too much. "I'm a ghost. Ish. You're probably familiar with the Soul-Killing Curse?"
Tom blinked. "I thought that destroyed the other person utterly. And you're just a kid – who would hate you badly enough to pull something that drastic against you?"
Harry huffed a laugh. "You'd be surprised." Literally, you. "And I think you've misunderstood me. I wasn't the target – I was the caster."
It's a pity, he mused, doing his best to hide a grin at Tom's completely floored expression, that I don't have a camera. I doubt I'll ever see this again.
"Anyway." He said, hoping to avoid whatever tangent Tom was likely to strike off on once he got his face back under control, "To make a long story short, I used the curse and died in the future – no, I'm not going to tell you when or who against, so don't even ask – and then found myself here, in my past. Well, a version of my past, at least." He shook his head, in silent reminder that he too should avoid tangents if he wanted to get this over with.
"I only seem to be able to exist here in the past by temporarily possessing – sort of – people living in this era. Usually it's more of a time-share sort of thing, in some manner." He gestured upwards. "I suspect I got stuck here because when I started to possess Bill, his mental defenses, already primed against your intrusion, cornered and shunted me in here." A shrug. "I think I may have actually been in his mind proper for a few moments there – I remembered the bit about his brother being sick before he brought it up again, and I think I may have been the source of the warning that made him change his mind and come with Claudius after all."
"Thanks for that." Tom grumbled.
"Yeah, well, not like I had any control over what he'd do with the warning – if I'd had the chance, I'm sure I would have made a point of stressing that he should keep Claudius there, rather than leave with him." Tangents. Stay on topic, Harry. "Anyway. When I leave a body here, I snap back to the future – my present – in an independent ghost-like form. I'm not precisely a ghost, because not everyone can see me, but I'm definitely incorporeal. And one of the things I've discovered I can do while in that form is a sort of … wandless Apparition. Except I think Apparition requires pretty strict visualization, whereas I can pop somewhere else just based on vague commands like 'find this person' or 'go somewhere safe'."
"Ah, I see." Tom said, his face – formerly a study of combined fascination and impatience – clearing, leaving only something that looked worryingly like satisfaction. "And you were trying to invoke that Apparition-like thing you do, earlier, and you think that's what was causing the disturbances in the ward?"
Harry shrugged. "The timing and frequency seems to roughly match. And I can't think of anything else it could have been."
Tom leaned forward, satisfaction morphing into a predatory eagerness. "Then I think I may have a plan."
17 October 2012