Disclaimer: I am not making money out of this. I do earn the occasional cookie treat to reward me for my fanserving achievements, though. Woof. Does that count as cheating?
A/N: Plot! Plot everywhere!
Or alternatively: Suddenly plots! Thousands of them!
To NougatEvolution: Although Tom does not want to follow the bleak path Potter has described to him, since it involves death, insanity and other generally unpleasant situations, he is still a fairly ambitious individual. Furthermore, he is surrounded by wizards of great power, and it is only natural that he would feel the desire to reach (and surpass) them. Not becoming a Dark Lord does not mean rejecting the attraction of power altogether, and the line is thin there. So yes, well spotted!
To Ambre: I am glad I have converted you into slash, but you do have a very valid point when you claim that you feel this story is not about the male/male interaction itself. Indeed, it isn't. I am not writing slash for the sake of slash; I simply find these two characters extremely interesting. Had Tom Riddle been female in Rowlings' books, my story would have been het. I don't actually have any particular preference between these two types of relationship, to be honest: character development is my purpose here.
To Renart: Yes, this is indeed an AU element. I have said this before I think, but thank you for reminding me, so I can make this clear and help readers be rid of any possible confusion! This story is AU in three different ways. First off, Tom Riddle left the orphanage at the age of 6/7 and was adopted. Secondly, Potter did not defeat the Dark Lord in his Seventh Year (although he did come pretty close to that; the King's Cross scene did occur). The war lasted quite a while longer, and did not end with Voldemort's eventual death, either. Furthermore, the whole epilogue of book 7 is ignored. Everything else is as canon as I can manage, and hopefully in character, too.
To T-TrainorTurkeyT: I am GrecoLuxembourgish, and thus Greek and to some extent French are my mother tongues. Luxembourgish is also a language I am very comfortable with (although I absolutely loathe it), and English is something I picked up at school and later uni. But since English is today's auxlang and also the language of teh interwebs, I am trying my best to hone my English skills.
Warnings: Plot, homosexual attraction, and other such nuisances.
Chapter 38
Harry's PoV
And so I feel the familiar mind of Albus entering mine with careful, gentle movements, and I do my best to help him get in. The sensation of him digging around my poor little brain is a little odd, and so I push that particular vision towards him, the one he must be looking for, as to help him. The dream I had of him before my time-travelling adventure began. He views it a few times, or, more accurately, we both do, although I can't seem to understand what he seems to be finding so thought-provoking about it, and then he dives back into the dark, tangled mess of my memories, in search of something else. I am not too sure what the loveable, meddlesome man is looking for, but I let him mess around anyway, until he finally finds what he is looking for.
That vision of a King Cross' platform I had had during my duel with Voldemort in my Seveth Year, I notice; the time when I lost the Horcrux I'd been hosting for so long. It makes sense he'd want to see this, it occurs to me, since it –was- him I supposedly met there after all. Could the two incidents be related, I wonder? They should be; it would be too big a coincidence for my subconscious to somehow dig up Albus every time something monumental happens to me. The middle-aged wizard watches that whole dialogue a few times, too, and his mind feels thoughtful and grave.
Then, with a motion that could have been a little softer, he pulls out. His pale blue eyes, usually so kind and light-hearted, seem lost in speculation.
Silence reigns within the living room for a while, with both Gellert and Riddle staring at the graying redhead expectantly as he seemingly digests and analyses the information recently acquired from inside my mind. Eventually the future headmaster looks up, and despite still looking somewhat pensive and scratching his chin intently, light slowly creeps back into his eyes.
"I have a theory!" he then states rather loudly, in his usual oddly cheerful manner, while pointing the ceiling with his index is if his theory could be found hanging from there. After making that important statement he shuts his mouth for a minute or so, obviously frustrating the two morally challenged wizards in the room, who are both too proud to simply ask him to promptly proceed. Fortunately, he does eventually open it again, triggering a string of rather surprising deductions.
"When the piece of Voldemort's soul you'd been containing was hit by the killing curse, both you and Voldemort lost your senses and collapsed, isn't that right? Since that particular Horcrux was not killed in one of the manners appropriate for Horcrux eradication, it did not actually cross over, if you remember. Isn't that so, young Harry?" he asks at first, eyeing me with a slightly conspirational smile. I nod.
"Yes. You did explain that to me, at the time. Something about that particular fragment of soul being trapped 'in limbo', if I can recall," I mutter a little confusedly, unsure of where this is going, and why both Gellert and Tom seem so unnaturally fascinated by this conversation.
"So since you were at that point in the same plane of existence as that piece of soul, you were 'in limbo', too. That would be a logical deduction. And the one you found there, in the crossroad between life and death, was me. Curious, is it not?" he continues, and suddenly a suspicion starts growing in me, slowly but steadily.
"And then once again, when you, instead of travelling back in time in the usual manner, were removed from the timeline entirely only to be reinserted, it was me my older self you met during your moments of partial non-existence… It does seem as if I am frequenting that particular area between life and death quite a lot," he adds, and suddenly his eyes widen, and his lips part in recognition. "Could you let me in again? I need to verify something!" he requests urgently, his voice trembling in rather chilling way, a cross between shock, concern and excitement.
Before I even have the time to formulate a reply, I feel his mind plunging into mine with surprising desperation. He frantically swims around a bit, especially within the memories related to his death, and then he removes himself from my mind almost too gently.
"When did I die, Harry?" he asks, very softly. So softly that I think I am becoming a little concerned, and I just eye him worriedly for a second, before giving my answer.
"Severus Snape killed you. I am sure you have seen that memory before… It was part of your greater scheme and…" I begin a little hesitantly, feeling that it must be a trick question; and indeed it must be, because the auburn-haired man's lips break into a slightly frightening smile.
"You know, in many ancient works of spellcraft and wizardry, the time of death is taken to be the time when ones death becomes sealed. Not the exact moment of his physical death per se. A peculiar belief, isn't it?" he murmurs, and he scratches his chin again. And then I know just what he is talking about, and I almost hit my own forehead for not having thought of it before.
"The ring. The curse, right? The moment you put that ring on, the one with the Hallow on it, your death was sealed," I breathe at him hurriedly, feeling my own eyes widen in realisation.
"That's quite correct. When one becomes master of all three Deathly Hallows, they presumably master Death itself. When one dies though, he can no longer acquire mastery over any physical item. So what would happen if someone died the exact same moment when they completed mastery over the Hallows?" he asks rhetorically, and beside me I can hear Riddle's sharp intake of air, and Gellert's curious hum.
Tom Riddle's eyes are glistening in a unnervingly greedy manner, I notice as I turn my gaze towards the young student. There is a dangerous gleam of fascination in them, an impatience to earn more that feels a little unhealthy. He is, as usual, divinely beautiful, and yet, for a fraction of a second, I get the impression that I see a little fragment of Voldemort laughing at me from behind his magnetising eyes. It is not the moment to concern myself with that though, for Albus' question is still hanging emptily in the middle of the room, and because there is something a little off with his theory, which is...
"But, the cloak… You didn't have the cloak, did you?" I question, not very assuredly, since it feels like I'm still missing some crucial point here. A soon as the question leaves my lips however, I know the answer. "But you did not need to physically possess it in the first place! Just like the Elder Wand. It was under Voldemort's possession, and yet it was mine, because I was the one under whose will it was labouring at the time. So… I did own the Invisibility Cloak, but since at the time I had sworn to obey you and had bound myself under your leadership, your will was dominating mine. And therefore, the Cloak was recognising you as its master, too." I phrase carefully at first, and then more confidently, as I become aware of how truly plausible this is, and of how it makes absolute sense.
All of a sudden, Grindelwald's refined but unrestrained laughter fills the room.
"So vhat you are meaning to tell us is zat you –accidently- became ze master of Death, just as you vere dying? Seriously, Albus, you must admit zat only you could possibly manage to trigger such an absolutely odd magical situation!" he comments, a fond smirk on his thin lips; nevertheless, he does look genuinely intrigued by this turn of events.
"I see… How truly fascinating and rare… You actually acquired the Deathly Hallows at the exact moment when your existence was moving into this state of 'limbo', and thus, although you did gain their famed powers, you were limited within the boundaries of that particular plane of existence. It is almost poetic," Tom Riddle mumbles, his unearthly face seemingly entranced by this admittedly gobsmacking fact, and a ghostly smirk playing on his lips. Of course he would be absolutely enthralled by a concept so morbidly distinguished, I think to myself affectionately. Subsequently, I scold myself because honestly, I should be concerned with his immediate attraction to anything even remotely mysterious and morose, and not amused by it at all. And in fact, I am feeling increasingly worried.
This looks of greed, this dark, hungry fascination... I've seen it before, I whisper to myself, the memory of Hepzibah Smith appearing inside my mind.
Damn.
"How does that lead to my presence here, though? I mean, there's still a piece of the puzzle missing, isn't there?" I wonder out loud, my eyes suddenly wandering off towards the wall as I attempted to find the answer to my own question. Another part of my mind is also racing though, thinking about Tom; his demons, his darkness.
"I will admit I haven't figured this part out as of yet. But a first guess would be the following: that somehow, during that moment in the graveyard, you entered a state of 'limbo', and that it was therefore within my power to move your soul through time, life and death. And, for reasons unknown to me, I chose to bring you over here. Perhaps I had valid reasons to believe that your presence in 1940 would be for the best not only for you, young Harry, but for all of us. As I said, I am still not entirely certain about my future self's motives. I do sincerely hope he knows what he's doing, though," the middle-aged man states pensively, appearing not to be entirely trusting of his future self's judgement, oddly enough.
"Vell, it's been going pretty smoothly so far, ya? I am sure you knew vhat you vere doing, you old beast!" Grindelwald notes in a light-hearted and optimistic manner, that seems a little out of character, taking into account his usual detached and sarcastic demeanour; then he winks, too. Perhaps he is filling in with the obligatory cheery comment, since Albus, who generally produces those, is in a mood far too troubled to fulfil his duty, I wonder idly; they have a somewhat quaint relationship.
"Perhaps we could discover a way to temporarily send one of us into this plane of existence between life and death, and simply ask your future self about it…" Tom Riddle calmly suggests, abruptly breaking out of his silent sea of thought; and although his suggestion is fairly logical, I become immediately wary of the idea of Riddle toying around with life and death, and I throw a warning glare at him. This is quite a honestly becoming a rather difficult situation, and it seems to be drawing more and more Voldemort out of Riddle. And so I place my eyes steadily onto his perfect visage, in search of the shadows dancing inside his mind.
He seems to be expecting such a reaction however, for I discover his eyes already set right into mine, sharp and intense; he takes in my glare and does not yield. And although his face is as criminally beautiful and expressionless as always, I can sense him strongly demanding fom me to trust him.
I am a bit at a loss, I admit, but somehow I decide not to interfere. There will always be a bit of a monster inside this boy, and he will probably always be a little ambitious. Perhaps it is better to try and trust him for now; who knows, he might try and prove me right, and after all, I care so deeply for him, and for the sake of my own sanity, I need to trust him. I turn my eyes towards Albus, and I find him giving the young student a long, hard glare as well, examining the boy's eyes, his thin pursed lips, and then his slightly tightened fists; in the end, he also opts for silence.
"Your suggestion is very interesting, I vill admit. But such matters usually require some very dark magic, ya? The kind that easily ensnares a greedy little boy like you. I don't think our friends here vould appreciate that," Grindelwald observes, his mouth curving into a slightly frightening smirk and his eyes shining with an intimidating, shady gleam. I watch as Tom clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes to meet the former Dark Lord's own.
"It was merely a suggestion. I did not intend to cast any such magic myself in any case. After all, I am certain you have a much greater experience in such matters, sir," the young man states, his voice vaguely resembling a hiss by now, and he then turns his face towards me, an unreadable expression turning his statuesque features hard and distant. Once again, I say nothing, and nor does Dumbledore.
On the other hand, oddly enough, my heart is racing. The hard, distant, almost malefically detached perfection of the mask he uses as a face somehow draws out memories of war in my mind. Memories of war, loss, pain, destruction, and of my own detachment, my own fall into darkness. I feel my lower jaw pushing into my face as I try to chase the images away.
"Mmmmm. Is it so? Perhaps ve could give it a try, ya? I'll do some research. But I suggest, young snake, that you hold your horses a bit. I know how boring it is to be so poverfull, and yet unable to act on it. And yet, don't bite more than you can chew, ya?" Grindelwald whispers elegantly, offering the young student a smile so charming that it is almost seductive; and yet his eyes are dark, and full of warning. Tom merely nods, impassively.
In a sense, I am very relieved with Gellert's reaction, despite the fact that he did accept the boy's idea in the end; I hope his stance will help keep Riddle away from the alluring embrace of Necromancy and other such delightful branches of magic. At least for now.
Tom's PoV
The sun sets, and then a few more rather uneventful but slightly uncomfortable hours pass before the two middle-aged wizards decide to retire to their library, presumably to look into the possible feasibility of my controversial suggestion; and so Potter and I leave the living room as well, walking quietly towards the guest room. Although I obviously would rather be tortured in an excruciatingly slow fashion before I express that, I am slightly hurt by the blatant signs of mistrust I was shown earlier; It not that I do not comprehend the causes of such wariness, it is simply that I was hoping that at least Potter would not fear for my sanity as much by now.
Of course I do not blame him in the slightest; even I still worry about my sanity occasionally, and even I will admit that the inspiration behind my suggestion must have been, at least partially, my subconscious fascination with the magicks of death. Nonetheless, I did quite sincerely carry no ambition to soil my own hands with such matters as of yet; I merely thought my idea made sense. And yet, how attractive it was to listen to the story of the Deathly Hallows' spectacular power, and how seductive did the idea of such power appear to me; I shiver at the knowledge that indeed there is a part of me that desires this still: immortality, power, control, dominion.
Potter is right not to trust me, I deduce bitterly; I would not trust me either, for even as I try my best, a part of my mind is damaged, sick and hollow, and it will always be.
Accidently aquiring the power of the Hallows then, a little voice hisses inside my mind, a cruel, cold, violent little voice; what a waste, it adds meaningfully, what a waste. I bit my own lip down with passion, roaring loudly inside my own head, a scream of inward desperation echoing in an attempt to chase away these cursed thoughts; I do not want that power, I honestly do not desire it. Or at least, I do not want to desire it, I tell myself, begging myself to believe this; and somehow I need Potter to believe it too, and to know that I am not trying to come up with any machinations in order to get my hands onto dark artefacts.
Indeed, I am drowned by this furiously intense need to have Potter know of my not entirely Machiavellian intensions, and that I am doing my best to keep myself from falling into the darkness, so that he may develop a less bleak impression of the sort of processes that unfold within my mind, leading me to, without actually making a conscious decision about it, grab his sleeve almost desperately and have him face me.
He looks marginally startled at my intensely physical reaction, one of his dark eyebrows slightly arched, which is only natural, since I generally know better than to make such a blunt, unbecoming move; I momentarily curse myself for acting in such a childishly impulsive way. The apotheosis of pathetic.
For a fleeting moment I am uncertain of exactly how I should express myself, and also momentarily taken aback by the deathly, haunting greenness of his eyes; even after having faced them time after time, it is simply a sight I cannot get used to. However, his breathtaking gaze lacks its natural openness and warmth, and his strong, imposing features display caution, deliberation, guardedness; it is understandable, I repeat to myself coolly, that he would be a little vigilant when I so carelessly expressed an attraction to some fairly disturbing subjects, and I suppress my disappointment.
"I wanted to let you know that I sincerely had no intention to seek entanglement into matters of soul magic. There is this part of me... it is alluring but... I'm trying my best to keep it leased," I whisper a little hoarsely, feeling embarrassed by my desire to offer some kind of silly apology, since I am certainly not the kind of person that apologises, nor do I want to be, despite my desire to become a better man than I did in Potter's future. My eyes, in a rather pitiful effort to impermanently flee from his own steady stare, if only to fleetingly recover, fall onto my hand, and I am a little surprised to find my thin fingers still digging tightly into the fabric of his robes; I remove them at once, as if burned, and I place my gaze back into his, almost defiantly, heat rising on my traitorous cheeks.
For a short while, he appears to be searching for something in my face, and he scrutinises it in a manner so ceremonious and punctilious that I feel my jaw clench defensively and my lips tighten considerably. I do not lower my eyes though, and it seems that he does find what he'd been looking for, for he suddenly smiles at me, his sculpted face blooming into an overwhelming canvas of warmth and acceptance; a truly miraculous transformation, I whisper to myself inwardly, and feel my own bones loosen at the sight of this amicable softness.
"I believe you. Forgive me for being a little mistrustful at times. It's just that… you are important to me, and you can never be careful with important things," he says in a fashion that I find oddly simple, as if it was a truly evident reply, and I truly do admire the ease with which he phrases his affection; a month ago I would have thought him disgusting and foolish, displaying his pitiful emotions in such a way and making himself vulnerable, but now I simply find him charming and brave.
"Potter…" is what I believe myself to be wording. "Harry…" is what comes out of my mouth however, and I am somewhat incredulous as I recognise my voice, for it sounds docile, reverential, almost pleading; and it is nauseating, but it cannot be helped, for I could not possibly find in me the necessary cruelty to smother this nascent adoration.
And then that horrid, savage pang of lust tears into me, and I experience a need to lean my body onto his own wide frame so powerful that it is almost like the effects of a physical law, nameless and brutally irreversible. Nevertheless, I manage to hold back from him (this cursed object of desire, this… damned cynosure of all my deepest, darkest cravings), and in spite of the restraint I impose upon my self being almost unbearably painful, I stay unbending, for once. This time, I note inwardly with a great deal of sinful pleasure, it is he who succumbs to the undeniable attraction, and leans into me, closing the distance between our lips with a confident but gentle movement, his dark eyelashes fluttering against mine.
But that torturous man simply offers me a short, chaste brush between dry lips that provides no condolence at all, no solace and no relief, and then he pulls back with an equally smooth movement, smiling very softly, as if he wasn't suffering like me, and wasn't being torn apart from the relentless desire to clash his body against mine. That damned, cursed hypocrite, I mutter to myself, as a shaky breath slips from between my lips into my quivering lungs.
"We're returning to Hogwarts tomorrow, you know. We'll need all the impassive facades and impeccable self-control we an possibly muster," he drops in conversationally, and I give him a dark glare; he does have a very valid point though, for no matter what, I cannot possibly allow anyone to discover such an exploitable weakness.
"Well, it won't be pleasant, but I think we can both manage. After all, poise and composure come natural to me. As for abstinence and renunciation, they are only difficult when what you are abstaining from was otherwise attainable in the first place," I murmur bitterly and throw my eyes onto the thoroughly uninteresting wall; the atmosphere is completely ruined, I am almost relieved to note.
And then it's on again, for he lifts a strong, lined arm towards me, brushing first his hand and then his forearm onto my cheek, and subsequently running his steady, strong fingers through my hair, only to then trace the outline of my jaw. "Yes, I know. It's me I'm worried about," he mutters a little darkly, and although I suppose he is being humorous, since our relationship thus far has consisted of me trying my utter best to tempt him while he dexterously dismisses my advances, he does sound serious enough.
Which is flattering, really, I think to myself smugly as I tilt my face, so that I may lightly bite that enticing arm of his.
Albus' PoV
"You know I'm off to the castle tomorrow, right?" I suddenly mention, as I dip a cinnamon biscuit into my cup of delightfully warm Darjeeling. I tentatively bite the softened and moisturised part of the biscuit, and, finding it amply adequate, I hastily proceed to dipping it repeatedly. Gellert snorts a little derisively at my mannerisms, but I am certain it is all because he likes me so.
"It's ze fifth time you mention that, Al. During zis tea, zhat is. You vorry about it too much." he tells me, and I do feel a little embarrassed. Fifth time, huh? I sincerely thought it was the third. Well, not more than the fourth, anyway. I get myself a new biscuit, and stare at it as if it were the most interesting object in the room.
"The fifth time, then. Sorry, I guess I am perhaps a little absent-minded tonight." I mumble and beam a warm smile at him. It has been known to be an efficient disarming tool in the past. He does indeed smile back, but in an entirely different fashion than my own. He uses that technique where his calligraphically shaped lips pull back a little in a most dazzling way, revealing perfect albeit rather pointed teeth while a curl of golden hair falls in a seemingly innocuous way in front of his captivating eyes.
He usually does that when he wants to have sex with me, but I am pretty certain this is not the case. I find that departure from normality to be a little unnerving, quite honestly.
"Vhy are you so concerned about leaving me here, my little phoenix," he purrs at me, his eyes gleaming in a familiar way. Mmmm, yes, much like the predatory look of an Acromantula when it is just about to use its paralysing venom in order to… Well, that's not very encouraging, is it?
"I am leaving a former Dark Lord in a house full of dangerous grimoires and magical artefacts! Common sense requires me to be concerned, Gellert! And do not call me that for Merlin's sake! I am older than you are, and Fawkes finds it disturbing as well, if not offensive to phoenixes," I point out politely, but with a slightly accusatory edge on my voice. He smiles at me again, and then leans in to kiss me, to which I do not really protest.
"Albus… Magic is something I profoundly love, ya? But ze thing vith magic is, it is a logical, canonical entity. Vhen you repeat the same actions in ze same manner, under ze same circumstances, you get ze same result. It is science, and after a few decades of obsessing vith it, it does get a little repetitive, ya? But you Albus, you defy all logic. You are never, ever tiring. Sometimes you are ten years old, and sometimes are ze very essence of visdom, and powver, and balance. I am still a bit of a bastard, I vill admit. But now have become a vise bastard too, and I know how to choose long-term pleasure over short-term excitement," he offers as a reassurance, and I am not certain whether I should be flattered or concerned.
"I still can't believe you –accidently- became master of Death zough! Vhat a joke!" he adds, chuckling as he wraps a slender arm around me.
"Hmmmm, right, yes." I mutter, slightly annoyed, and sip down a large gulp of tea. "Now, I'd like you to behave while I am gone, alright? If you need to use my library in order to look into young Riddle's suggestion, you may do so, but I will be very upset if I discover you to be performing any dark rituals." I state rather seriously, and I throw at him one of these vaguely threatening looks of sternness and austerity.
In return, Gellert offers me one of these rare smiles. Soft, honest and loving, and he kisses he forehead. Suddenly, I am not that concerned anymore, I note to myself a little surprised as I bring my hand up to his irritatingly handsome face. "I've told you, Albus. Ze day I'll have my very own nightstand inside your house, I'll need little else in life, ya…?" he whispers tenderly, and I grab his face, pulling him in for more.
Fawkes croaks in a fairly miserable manner and turns his face to the wall, squirming.