On Christmas Day, Harry Potter awakens.
It is the ward nurse who screams out the news at last, but no one takes any heed. He had already woken up once before, but had soon drifted off to slumber again. No one could find out what was wrong with him; only that he was not breathing. He had awoken to be a living ward's nightmare, but had quietly dropped off to slumber again. Auror Weasley had asked dubiously if that was normal. The Healers had soothed him, as long as Mr Potter's magical signature was not gone…but even they exchanged uneasy looks. Auror Weasley did not put up much fuss, after he had picked up a small piece of parchment from Mr Potter's bedside.
"At the very least, we can make him comfortable," he said, but he wrinkled his nose in distaste as he read the note. He gave out a disgusted sigh. "Oh, Merlin."
"Is there something wrong?" one of the Healers asked nervously.
"No, just that Mr Potter is a bloody teddy bear all set out to save old schoolmates and the like," Auror Weasley said, and sighed again, as if this particular thought greatly aggravated him. "Bloody hell, Harry, Malfoy better be worth it. It's not just easy to take him out of Azkaban when you're passed out and he's the suspect…"
With those mystifying words, Auror Weasley swept out of the room, after making the Healers promise that they will notify him when something arose.
When Harry opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the whiteness of the room. He feels groggy, as if he had just awoken from a deep sleep. Almost like death, he thinks. The bed is very soft under him. His body feel heavy. He tries to take a breath and he smells his own breath. Putrid. His neck hurts. Everything hurts. He moves his hand slowly, and raises it slowly, blocking out the glaring light. It looks waxen and deathly pale; for a brief, terrifying moment, he remembers Voldemort's hands. He tries to sit up and ends up coughing violently instead.
It's not very nice, this land of the living, is it? A voice in his head. That too, is now familiar. Why is it so? He has long accepted the Riddle-like voice in his head, without even thinking for a minute that perhaps he was crazy, thinking about his dead nemesis. Tom Riddle does not seem dead anymore.
Yesterday, and all the days that came before that, now seemed to him from a place far away. Yesterday he had sat in the Great Hall and laughed while Ron and Hermione ganged up on Malfoy. They were having a food fight. Or, rather, Malfoy threw a toast at Ron and Ron threw an apple at Malfoy and Hermione was bemoaning how boys were such idiots, which made Malfoy turn and throw another piece of toast at her. By that time, Harry had lost count and just watched, bemused at the surreal scene where Malfoy was being pummeled by bananas from both Gryffindors.
Malfoy had been watching him. Throughout the day, ever since the incident in the forest, Malfoy snuck glances behind his back, quickly pretending otherwise when Harry bothered to turn to meet Malfoy's gaze. Harry was half-tempted to ask Malfoy what was his problem. He was half-tempted to jest about him about pureblood debts. But Malfoy's face was scrunched up horribly, looking confused and exhausted when he thought no one was looking. Whenever he caught Harry's eye, however, Malfoy soon reverted back to his typical sneer. It was quickly becoming tiring. He had saved Malfoy the child; he saved Riddle the child. What next, will I save Snape? he thinks to himself, sardonic.
And then,
and then what?
Nothing; there was a grey room. There was Voldemort and Death. Tea buddies, just as he thought they would be. He had watched them from afar and could not hear their voices. He did not feel very amused at the sight of them, in their skeletal figures and hooded cloaks, but it seemed as if he was doomed to be their unknown audience. Death laughed. A moment later, Voldemort, too, laughed.
It was the laughter that woke him, he would later think. But he could not remember what that sounded like.
So he awakes. The ward nurse screams. He blinks, and roughly rubs his eyes. He feels very, very tired. As if he had awoken from a long sleep, or had walked across the land of the dead and back again to the living realm.
It wasn't just a dream, was it? he asks himself. Because…Hermione and Ron remembered me—or at least, a small part of me— when I became a Slytherin. Perhaps Malfoy does too.
.
.
.
"You are such a pain in the ass," Ron says, the moment he comes in, "I regret the day I sat next to you on the train when I was eleven."
But Ron is grinning, all smiles. Next to him, Hermione's eyes have already begun to water, and she elbows Ron sharply for his troubles.
"You're a fine one to talk, the way you've been trying to track the curse while Harry's been ill," Hermione says roughly, ignoring Ron's grunt, "Oh, Harry! You're awake! Again, I should add. Are you going to drop dead anytime soon?" she adds, with a sharper glint in her eyes.
"No, I don't think so," he says, with a trying smile of his own, "But I don't think I can control that, can I?"
"I don't know, it seems as if you can," Hermione says darkly, but she sits by his bedside and takes his hand. Her grip is soft and comforting. "You left a bedside note just before you stopped breathing again. Ron was very mad over it, and I—"
"Hermione was so sure it was Malfoy, she agreed with me for once—" Ron says, rolling his eyes.
"Yes, because it seemed like Malfoy was confounded you, forcing you to release him, and god knows what else—oh, don't give me that look, Harry Potter, what was I supposed to do, when you weren't breathing for weeks?" Hermione gives his hand a tight squeeze and he grimaces. "So I went to Azkaban and the guards—they weren't very happy to see me, but they couldn't well turn down a Ministry employee from the Law Enforcement, could they? So they let me in to see Malfoy and—"
"How is he?" Harry interrupts, sitting up from the bed and wincing. "Malfoy, I mean."
"Horrible," Hermione replies, pursuing her lips. "You look awful right now, Harry, since you've only been living off tubes and potions since you couldn't eat—but Malfoy looked even worse then you. He wasn't going to deny anything. He asked me how you were."
"If you were dead yet, in his own words," Ron adds, frowning. "I went round for questioning too, and yeah, he looked bloody awful. I thought I'd give him a punch or something, the way he's been such pain ever since you've passed out, but the thing is—" he pauses and gives Harry a very funny look. "I didn't hate him enough for that. Not like I used to anyhow. I mean, he's still a stupid ferret and everything. But I didn't want to actively strangle him. I felt sorry for him, if you can believe that." He shudders a little as if he couldn't quite believe it.
"You wanted to actively strangle him before?" Hermione looks as if she wants to show disapproval at this.
"I wanted to plummet him into a fistfight, of course, what do you expect? He was Malfoy." Ron shrugs again, looking unperturbed. "And he was such a lousy git when he was back in Grimmauld Place with you, Harry, he was so full of himself, thinking you were imposing on him, when it was the other way around—"
"He was in custody, of course he wouldn't be in his jovial moods," Harry says, and Ron snorts at him.
"Yeah, see, there you go, defending him as if Malfoy needs defending—but anyway, he wasn't such a horrible bastard, at least. He didn't even pause to insult me, just asked me straight off if you were alive. Isn't that a weird way to ask a question, though?" He shakes his head. "I told him you weren't breathing, but you left a very nice little afterlife note for me to chew on—and he was half-hysterical when he saw it. I mean, you'd think he'd be grateful, or something, seeing as you're doing your best to free him—and all he does is go on a mad little rant of how Potter is an idiot. I nearly joined him on his tirade there, myself." Ron gives him a flat look. "Because you are, you know. A massive idiot."
"I'll keep that in mind," Harry says with a small smile. Hermione makes a disgusted sound. "But I promised you, didn't I?" He looks at Hermione, who does not take her eyes away from him, and back at Ron. "I told you I'd be back."
"That you did," Ron says gravely. His smile falls off. Ron looks solemn, studying Harry as if he had truly died and came back again, and did not know how to take everything in. Ron's eyes are so very blue, Harry realizes with a small start. Ron's lanky figure stands in front of him, imposing. Ron repeats himself as if he could not believe it. "That you did—you came back."
"Yeah," Harry says, and clears his throat. "And I. Didn't try to mess up anything while I was—wherever I was, Hermione, so. You can stop glaring at me like that."
"I wasn't glaring at you—oh, fine, maybe a little." Hermione's face breaks out into a wobbly smile, and she squeezes his hand one more time, this time more gently, before letting go. "You were destroying out timelines. I could feel you in my memories. I'm sure Ron felt it too, even though he didn't tell me about it."
"Malfoy was in shock," Ron agrees, his eyes still on Harry. "I mean, I think he was surprised that he didn't immediately want to tackle me to the ground."
His throat becomes dry. He tries to swallow. "So…he remembers?" he asks, slowly and carefully.
Ron gives him an exasperated eyeroll. "Yes, he remembers. He's horrified, by the way. I think he knows you're his friend now."
He ignores his erratic heartbeats. He manages to mimic Ron's eyeroll and say flatly, "How are we all going to cope with this, after everything?" And hears Hermione's startled choking laughter, Ron's sigh, and Riddle's hiss.
I'm back, he thinks, then wonders, but am I back?
.
.
.
Step into the grey room, the waste land of your dreams. Step inside, and come, walk with me.
He does not resist this voice, despite knowing where it may lead him. To his death? But no—he cannot seem to die, it seems. Riddle does not want him dead. He is a horcrux, is he not? There is nothing to be afraid of. He had never been afraid of death, after all. It has been a long time since he feared Tom Riddle.
He steps inside and Riddle awaits him. They meet from across the room, watching each other. With wariness and amusement, neither tries to get the first word in. All is silent for a moment.
You were a very stupid child, Harry finally speaks, and has the pleasure of seeing Riddle's face flash with irritation. Are you going to point a wand at me for saying that? Kill me again while you're at it?
You do love to gloat so on the misfortune of others, Riddle says dryly, but does not bother to take out his wand. You know as well as I do that such magic does not work here. Otherwise we would have killed each other long ago.
Harry gives him a grim smile. Riddle returns it.
So, Harry says, looking around with feigned surprise, No tea kettles to put on? No armchairs? No heartening talks between us?
No, Riddle says, ignoring his jeer. Not today.
Got more memories that I should know about, then?
We're going for a walk, Riddle says.
A walk? This is a room, in case you haven't'—
The walls dissipate.
Oh, yes, Of course. This is a dream, how silly of me to forget. Harry feels light-headed and quite gay, a feeling foreign to him in Riddle's presence. Riddle does not seem to mind being mocked at in this manner, though, it seems. Riddle returns his glib words with a quiet smile of his own, and his eyes do not betray any irritation he may harbor. An unreadable Riddle is a dangerous one, he knows. But Riddle only says, "Let us go then, you and I," and pauses. Harry raises an eyebrow at the stilted words, is sure that he is missing an obscure reference only Riddle knows, but he concurs to Riddle's gesture and walks forth to the unknown.
They walk, Riddle and he, in their grey world of nothing and fog, an infinite space. They walk onwards, with no destination in sight. He does not speak. He does not look next to him to see Riddle talking softly to him, to himself, at times. He finds that it does not matter.
Riddle's cheeks are hollow and skin deathly pale, but still Harry finds him eerily unworldly and handsome. He thinks he had always found this monster so. He would have been a fool to have refuted otherwise.
Do you find me attractive, Harry? Riddle says then, laughing and carefree. It sounds awkward; Riddle does not know how to make jokes that are not sinister, it seems.
I can find you handsome and still think you're a sociopath, Harry says. For some reason, this has Riddle laughing once more, this time a genuine chuckle.
They walk together, side-by-side, neither raising a wand to kill each other, neither quite close enough to brush against one another. But close. Close.
It's funny, Harry says. Seeing you for more than ten seconds and not having murderous impulses. He finally slants a look towards Riddle. Riddle is humming under his breath. I haven't seen you for awhile. Here in the grey room like this. Properly having a conversation.
You were too busy killing off my souls. Riddle's eyes darken, but his voice continues to be pleasant. Did you enjoy murder, then? Dumbledore must be very proud.
Did you enjoy murder, when you were killing off people to spilt your souls? Harry throws back, matching Riddle's soft sweetness. He is getting better at imitating Riddle's casual demeanor. That is how you make a horcrux, isn't it?
Yes, Riddle says, unconcerned. It's quite simple, once you learn the logistics of it all.
People don't make horcruxes because they find it difficult to kill people, Harry points out. They don't male them because it's wrong.
Wrong? Or immoral? Riddle stretches his arms and rolls his head backwards. What a boring word. Don't be drab again, Harry. And we were getting along so well.
And before Harry could reply to that outrageous remark, Riddle throws him a smirk and speaks softly, cajoling, a tone that he had never quite used before,
"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table,"
"What?" Harry balks, horrified and a little amazed, and Riddle laughs a little again, that mortifying, awkward sound, looking young and, yes, dashing; Harry could easily imagine Riddle as a student, swooning everyone left and right with his charming looks and soft, deceptive voice, and those eyes that gleam. He hears Riddle's words clearly for the first time, it seems; the words rush through his ears. He had never heard Riddle's voice before in such a way.
It's a pity about his eyes, Harry thinks unconsciously, those dark eyes suit him. He shakes his head to banish such a troubling thought.
Riddle continues on, his smirk now wider and sly, as if he knew just how his charms worked on Harry,
"Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells,"
"That is horrible imagery," Harry says, "That is—what is that? What are you—what are you saying?"
Riddle continues on in a mocking lilt, seemingly delighted with Harry's horror-struck expression, and Riddle laughs a little himself, as if he knew what a joke he was pulling off just by saying such words,
"Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit."
"Can you stop," he says, laughing since he couldn't very well strangle Riddle to make the other boy shut up, "Stop, that is—is that a poem? Are you reciting poetry to me? You're mad, that's what you are."
"My Muggle professor was a fool," Riddle says, still smiling, "He had his eccentric habits. He loved to make us memorize famous Muggle poets, for one. I thought it was dreadfully tedious at times—but then, of course, that was before I met you."
"It's a dreadful shame, those wasted years," Harry agrees, mock-solemn, and shakes his head. "That was nauseating. Don't ever do that again. We hate each other, in case you've forgotten."
"And I became dreadfully bored by your company and thought to amuse myself." Riddle sighs, and then smiles again. A sharper smile. Harry has a sense of foreboding. "Or shall I recite other lessons my Muggle professor had offered to me as a student?"
"If it's another poem—"
"It's about Óðinn. Or shall I say—Odin."
Harry stops in his tracks. Riddle continues to walk and Harry is left to stare at his back, his lithe form, dark shadowy form.
"I know you want to ask me about him, Harry, ever since you've read that delightful little book. 'Who does Voldemort want to be—Loki or Odin?' Really, Harry—what a crass way to form a question."
Riddle does not sound angry at this. He sounds as he always does in his contemptuous amusement.
'Odin. Let's talk about him, shall we? Odin, the chief god of the tribe of northern deities, but also a wanderer who takes great delight in taking walks that venture far from the gods' kingdom, Asgard. He does not seek the salvation of others and is a curious god who wants to know everything. For his own self-interests, mind, because he does not care for anything but himself. He's a relentless seeker of wisdom, but has little regard for justice. He is not a law abiding god. Why, he is the ruler of both the rulers and outcasts. He is a war-god, but does not treat war as a noble and honorable cause. He believes in the good war that hallows any cause—Odin incites war, finds glee in it and its brutality. He evokes savage beauty and war, and the dead.
"He does not concern himself with the reasons why ordinary men fight—he is interested only in the chaotic frenzy of war, and he only honors the men who have fought valiantly and heroically. The rest he does not quite care enough to raise them from the dead. He is devious and inscrutable, both the highest ruler and trickster, and he prefers greatness above fairness. He is also favorable to bandits and outcasts who believe rules to be below them, apathetic to societal norms and who wage a war against all.
"Odin is limited in his powers—he is not immortal, after all. So he seeks for power and wisdom relentlessly, and is ready to throw away many things, his eye, for instance, for a glimpse of wisdom. He also sacrificed his life to acquire his powers, and he emerged, victorious.
"Odin is referred as the god to have conquered death, and he is often evoked when men sacrifice their lives in his name. In battles, it was his name that men cried out, and they sacrifice themselves—just as Odin had sacrificed himself for himself, gefinn Óðni, sjálfr sjálfum mér—and Odin collects the bravest, the ablest of those men, and takes them to the prestigious dwelling-place of the dead, Valhalla. Here he trains them, and waits for the day the world to end, when he may face off the wolf that will eventually kill him. He prepares for that moment, hoping to thwart death—although he knows all is futile. He will die in the twilight of the gods, and he will not emerge in the new world that is to come."
Riddle would have made an intense professor. Harry watches how Riddle's mouth moves to pronounce each word, succinctly and precisely, how Riddle's words come out elegantly but with a certain stumbling quality that makes it evident that Riddle is not used to explaining anything. He sounds like a scholar, sure in his mind that he knows everything, but less sure of how he can convey his brightness to the outside world. Sometimes Riddle hesitates on his words, but resumes again in a pompous manner, repeating certain phases, redefining others. He talks to Harry and not quite towards him, a faraway look in his eyes. Harry is not his audience; it is his voice, speaking onto himself. Harry listens to Riddle speak, that voice ringing in his ears. He is reminded of the torn parchment, scribbled with Riddle's neat handwriting—Odin's sacrifice of himself to himself—tucked neatly between sheets inside Dumbledore's book.
"So he did not conquer death," Harry finally says, when it seems that Riddle would not continue.
"No," Riddle says quietly, at last his eyes focusing on him, glinting knowingly, "No, not even Odin had managed to subdue Death."
"Death isn't something to be subdued," Harry says, thinking of his various and fleeting encounters with Death, "Death is…something to be accepted. Maybe Odin was too clever for his own good."
"Perhaps," Riddle says. His voice loses the calm, academic tone and is back to light mockery. "But it was an interesting lesson all the same. Odin the allfather—god of war, god of the dead, and," Riddle allows another smirk to curve up, "god of poetry."
"God of everything you set out to be, it seems," Harry says dryly, "Although I didn't know you even bothered with such rot. Poetry?"
"I forgot I had." Riddle tilts his head and taps one finger against his chin. Thin, spindly fingers. "I seem to have forgotten many things from my youth, it seems."
"Aren't you young?" Harry points out. "In this timeline, I mean. Or in this form. Whatever you'd like to call it, I suppose."
"I am dead," Riddle says flatly, raising an eyebrow. "Or has that escaped your mind? I am dead, so I am therefore…timeless, you could say. Memories are all I have now," he says abruptly. Riddle thins his lips. "Memories, and your dreamscape."
"Liar," he says, and he's surprised (should he be?) at how his tone sounds similar to Riddle's own; that word belongs to Riddle, him and his accusations, "You're not dead. Your body is gone, but your soul—you're still inside me."
Riddle does not bother to answer to that. He continues to smile, and Harry continues to watch him. He watched the other boy until the fog closes around him, and he cannot see anything, surrounded by nothingness.
Somewhere once more, he hears a voice, distant, There's still hope for your intellect, it seems. Followed by soft laughter.
Yes, Harry realizes, feeling drained, closing his eyes. Riddle's voice sounds quite real.
Riddle does not feel like a dream anymore.
Fucking poetry, he thinks, irritated and a little flustered. That is the last thought he has before he sinks into oblivion.
.
.
.
He opens his eyes. Whiteness blinding him. Voices. And then—silence.
Until, a singular, raspy voice jolts him completely awake.
"If you're awake, Potter, it's good courtesy to let people know that you are. You can't be that much of an attention seeker at this age."
He turns his head slowly towards the voice.
Hermione was right. Draco Malfoy looks horrible, in his grey robes with his gaunt, shallow face. Malfoy needs a haircut. He looks a little like his father, with his disheveled blond hair. He at least looked clean in his prisoner garbs, Harry thinks blindly, before he quickly tries to sit up and gasp out, "Malfoy," before doubling over and wincing. His entire body hurts. He lets out a guttural cry.
"Oh—for—Merlin's—" Malfoy quickly gets up from his seat and frantically grips one of his arms, "Potter, if you're going to black out again, I will personally skin you—"
What a Riddle-like threat, he thinks, before a chuckle escapes him. He chokes instead. Do all Slytherins like making jokes about mutilating the body? No wonder I couldn't fit in.
"Potter, breathe. Breathe!" Malfoy's hands press his back firmly, and rubs his arms. It is an unfamiliar warmth. "I just got out of bloody Azkaban, I don't fancy going back again because you want to drop dead. Again."
He raises a hand and Malfoy stops talking immediately.
"You're out," he says, and coughs a hacking cough. He looks up to see Malfoy's eyes narrowed at him. How older he is, Harry thinks, surprised. Child-Malfoy looms in his vision, with his slicked hair and arrogant eyes. Innocent. Did he truly think Malfoy was once innocent? Here now stands a Malfoy he had known for many years. Nemesis, Death Eater, prisoner. How…grown he is. How different he seems.
"You have Granger to thank for that," Malfoy says stiffly, hand still resting on his back. "You also have Weasley to thank for doing a terrible job, mucking up my records in the Ministry—how he became an Auror, of all things…"
"You're alive," he says, but that is the wrong thing to say, because of course Malfoy is alive, so he manages to laugh properly this time and amends, "You're so old, Malfoy."
Malfoy sneers at him. "You're a loony, Potter, never forget I was the first one who told you that." He hesitates, looking at his hand. Harry thinks that Malfoy would now flinch violently and remove his hand, and exclaim how his hand was dirtied. Or make some sort of childish fuss that would seem normal; more normal at least, than this mutual anxiety that they want to address. The room is too stifling for such confessions. He cannot get his lips to move: Malfoy, tell me I was in Slytherin. Tell me that you didn't actively hate me; tell me you helped destroy a piece of Voldemort's soul.
Perhaps, he thinks, dizzy with the myriad of possibilities running through his head, none plausible, it would be better if Malfoy mauled me again and kissed me. It wouldn't be as bizarre as us being civil to one another.
But Malfoy, after pausing, moves his hand away from Harry's back, and reaches out again to clasp Harry's limp one.
Harry stares. All the words he had wanted to say become meaningless.
"You're alive," Malfoy whispers, his voice very harsh and angry, but also—and he hears it but cannot believe his ears— relieved, "You're fucking alive, Potter, and fuck, I thought—but. No, you're fine. You've just a knack for dropping dead all the bloody time." Malfoy laughs a little. It sounds unhinged. Harry stares at him.
"Yes," he says, slowly, looking down at their clasped hands. Malfoy's hand is trembling. His grip is painful. Pain. How had pain felt? The grip is deathly. He does not pull away.
"I feel so—off," Malfoy whispers. He is not looking at Harry while he speaks. "When they told me you were awake, the first thing I remembered wasn't us, back in your hideous house. Remember that, getting horribly drunk? You were always up your nose in some book I was sure you didn't understand—either that or in your filthy armchair. But no, not those days. It was us—much younger. We were in the library. Granger was with us, and she was trying to convince me that the book we wanted wasn't there, and I was so irritated at her nagging voice—" he stops, his breath ragged. He laughs a little. "I feel as if I've gone mad," he whispers. He too, finally looks at Harry and his lips curve into a self-deprecating smile. "Tell me that madness isn't contagious, Potter. I can't live out my days as a mad werewolf, of all things. What will—" his voice shakes, "What will my parents say to that?"
He tries to speak. Swallow, breath. Staring into Malfoy's eyes is not helping. Looking at that thin face, that older, paler face—is definitely not helping. If everything had been a dream…
He croaks, "What house was I Sorted into?"
Malfoy grimaces and tries not to answer, but he is insistent; this time, it is he who squeezes their joined hands and repeats, more urgent, "Malfoy. Draco. What house?" Malfoy's name sounds foreign in his ears, but it is fine; it gets the job done, at least. Malfoy jerks in surprise and looks wildly about, as if he cannot believe still that this is all real. White walls, brightness, silence. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy in a hospital ward, hand intertwined in a vice-grip, not in a hurry to kill off the other.
"I'd like to say—Gryffindor," Malfoy says, and for one, brief horrible moment, Harry feels his heart sink, air leaving his lungs, "But that's not all. You—were also in Slytherin. You were with me, in our common room when I first came to Hogwarts. Mad as a hatter. Disastrous. But then later…I can't remember you there. Not at our tables. I remember—hollering at you across the Great Hall and then, you were wearing…Gryffindor robes."
He lets out a breath. He nods, and nods again, because he does not have it in him to adequately express the relief he feels.
"I—I remember you, Potter," Malfoy continues in a stuttering tone. Malfoy's voice is harsh and he croaks his words out as if he had not spoken for a long time. Or perhaps during his brief stay in Azkaban he had screamed aloud at the four enclosed walls until his voice grew hoarse and he had no power left to compose himself, Harry does not know. "I remember you as a Gryffindor, obviously, but what I mean is that. I remember you as a Slytherin too, and you told me—" Malfoy shakes his head and does not look at him as his whispers out, "Well, never mind that. It was just a dream, wasn't it? I just…I haven't been in my right mind you see, the Dementors…"
"Draco," he says. He is happy, no, fucking elated, staring at this broken man in front of him, twisting his fingers about, darting his eyes left and right, and Harry does not know what to do, how to make this all better, "You remember me?" As a Slytherin, he means. Who tried to save you again, you maddening arse. You were a right prickly child, I'll have you know, with your pointy chin and annoying eyes trying to catch me at everything I do. "You…you didn't say. When I last came to see you." When you were quite off your mind and pinned me to the wall to have your dirty way with me, he leaves out. Or perhaps Malfoy had hinted at something or the other. His memory is foggy from the words Malfoy must have said, too focused on what Malfoy had actually did. He had hissed unintelligible words and refused to repeat them, choosing to put his mouth for better uses.
He does not say, but then again, he does not need to.
Malfoy looks at him at that, a quick glance before his eyes swerve to the white walls. "So it wasn't just a dream then," he whispers.
"I—no. No, it was pretty real." Harry forces out a smile. "What gives?"
"You'd have never called me by my given name in any sane universe, except perhaps in the one that we've just left." Malfoy pauses. "Or the one that you just left behind and I was witness to your maddening schemes." He shakes his head a little and lets out a small laugh that sounds broken for all the wrong reasons. "You were in Slytherin," he says, and repeats the word. "Slytherin. You, Golden Boy, precious, Saint Potter, were in Slytherin."
"Yes, Malfoy, we've moved past that, keep up," he says, but he can't help but let out a smile himself, as Malfoy just shakes his head and mutters.
Malfoy stops. Takes a breath. "You saved me. I remember. Him—and the forest."
"Seems I do that quite a bit, sure."
"Why do you do that? It's infuriating."
"You'll learn to live with it," Harry says dryly, "After all, after I get out of this room, you'll be stuck with me again, won't you."
Unless your custody moved on to another person, or better yet, you are no longer a werewolf any longer. He swallows his words and waits for Malfoy's reply.
But Malfoy does not offer him any information that he can chew on. He gives a sharp nod and that is the end of their anticlimactic reunion.
You can let go of my hand now, Harry does not want to say. Malfoy's grip is surely breaking his bones, but oddly enough, it is reassuring. It means he can feel, that he is alive.
I am alive, he thinks. Feels.
.
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A/N: The poem Riddle quotes is from T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock-and you can be sure that it's NOT a happy love poem, if it is a love poem at all. When Riddle quotes the first words of the poem to Harry, he leaves out the epigraph intentionally, which comes out from Dante's Inferno, and we all know what THAT was all about lol... Eliot is such a snob and such a beautiful writer, I felt that if Riddle was going to quote anyone in the English language, it would have been him.
ANNND I have uploaded everything that I had written on ao3-if you want faster versions of this fic, please refer to my account on ao3: shilu_ette, or my tumblr: shiluette.
Thank you for reading, and reviews are always much appreciated!