Harry was not ready to accept this. Of course, one could not just tell Death no. Death saw and Death took. Death was fair, but not merciful. Death was and would always be.
That didn't mean Harry had to like it.
Death, in Harry's mind, was cruel. It was evil, and it needed to be stamped out. And yet, Harry aided Death. Unknowingly at times, and in others, wished Death to come to him as he might send Death to another. Perhaps this was why Death had taken from him what he loved. Because Death knew that he was a lonesome soul, doomed to wander his days on Earth, hoping, waiting, begging for an out. A corrupted soul, incapable of true feeling, of love, of humanity.
And Death would only come after a time of rest, of realization, and regret. When Harry learned patience and longed for repentance. Then Death would take him, and leave nothing but bones. And then even those would be taken from him.
Death was an unbending force, so powerful to watch from the shadows and take in the night, incorruptible, unlike Life. Life was fickle, it gave and when done, left its scrapes for Death. But once Death had you in its grasp, Death would not let you go. Perhaps that was why Angels fell from the Heavens. They were fickle creatures, willing to do God's bidding one moment, ready to fall into their own selfish ways the next. And God, in all his talk of eternal love would cast them out, fuelling the fallen creature's heart for revenge.
The rain pattered on his umbrella, running off the tips, a few stray drops falling onto his glasses, blurring his vision. Harry didn't care. He stared straight ahead, eyes glazing over the longer he stared at the tomb heads. So bleak, so dirty, yet the flowers overflowing beside them indicated that these people had been loved in Life and so they were loved in Death. The overflow of shrubbery almost concealed the names on the tomb.
Lily Potter
James Potter
His parents. His family. Gone, taken by the cruel hand of Death.
(and yet Death was not cruel, Death was just)
"Harry," Hermione nudged him gently with her foot. Her hair had flattened due to the rain, the ends already frizzing. Hermione was always displeased when this happened. It became harder to manage once it was wet and dried incorrectly (Harry hadn't even been aware that there was a wrong way to dry hair).
"It's time to go." Harry turned towards Hermione, startled.
"You've...you've never been here before." He told her, confused. His voice sounded weak in his ears. How could he have not heard her coming? How long had she stood beside him without his awareness?
"How are you here?" Hermione gave him a sad smile, full of (fake, tongue-biting) pity. Harry hated pity and it rolled off fools in waves. Those were the same fools who were content to spend time talking about him but not to him. Content to stare. Staring at him, his scar, knowing his troubles, his woes (his demons, so they thought).
"The same way you are. You've never been here either." Harry frowned at this. He'd been here so many times, that the way to this graveyard was so familiar, he could never lose his way here.
"Then how…?"
"Dreams, Harry." Hermione sounded exasperated. "This is how you want it to look." She gestured at the pitiful scene before her. "It's how you're dealing with guilt, and pain, and suffering. It's all fake."
Fake? That could not be. Harry knew what was fake. He dealt with it all the time. The fake smiles, the questions, the thinly veiled attempts from Dumbledore trying to turn him to his side (to no avail, although Harry knew Dumbledore believed he was firmly rooted in 'the cause'). The fake friends he kept around, sent his way by professors who worried for him, and saw him mope the previous day, or thought he looked down and could use cheering up. Fools, the lot of them.
(and still, Harry knew it was fake, but it was better to confront fake than reality)
And yet, even so, the lines between reality and dream and nightmare began to blur. The sky splintered like broken glass, cracks spreading, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.. The sky was no longer blue, but black. The rain was acidic, and his tears (had he been crying?) turned to tar. Hermione melted into something much more terrifying than anything he could ever have imagined.
His bogart.
Himself.
And it lunged at him, wand in hand, spell on his lips, and Harry screamed. Screamed louder than he had ever done before, leaving his throat abused and raw, and he couldn't stop screaming-
And Harry woke in his bed, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, throat raw and scratchy, and everyone staring at him.
"Good morning," He said weakly. Ron sighed. Neville was not in his bed, Harry observed. The door was open, just a crack. Harry watched the spot, waiting for a shadow to move, and when he saw none, he knew where the other boy had gone. Probably to get Dumbledore. Professor McGonagall if he was lucky, although she'd tell the Headmaster about this incident regardless.
"It's the third night in a row, mate."
Harry glowered. "I'm aware. You think I want to wake up screaming?"
Ron raised his hands in defense. "Don't get snappy with me. I'm just worried about you."
"Speak for yourself," Seamus said. "I just want to sleep without the freak show over there ruining my night," He pointed his thumb in Harry's direction. Harry was too tired to care, but Ron was a different case.
Ron whipped around to face the boy. "Hush up, you arse. Grindelwald didn't murder your parents and force you to watch, did he?" Seamus shrunk back, his anger pacified for now, although likely to rare up at the slightest offense. Dean hung his head low at the mention of Harry's parents. Even now, Harry could hear their screams-
("Harry, no!" his mother screamed again as the curse hit her. "You mustn't give in!"
His father's lifeless body lay a few feet away, his eyes wide open. Harry longed to close them, out of respect or to have those haunting eyes turned away from him, he didn't know. Perhaps he merely did not like their milky white appearance or the pale ash color to the skin. The way his glasses sat crooked on his face, and how Harry knew had he been alive, he would have pushed the harshly back up on the ridge of his nose.
"Give it to me, boy!" Grindelwald told him, a cruel smile adorning his face. His wand was pointed at his mother, Cruciatus Curse on his lips. "Hand over the wand."
Harry said nothing and still said nothing even as the killing curse was turned on his mother. His face betrayed no expression, no feeling as to what he witnessed. No love in his heart.
"My Lord, it's not here. And if the boy had it, he would have given it already." a follower told the Dark Lord, eyes full of awe and reverence. Grindelwald sighed.
"Very well," he sighed. He turned towards the bodies of Harry's parents. Harry still did not weep. "Ridiculous waste of life." And he left in a flurry of cloaks and robes. When the Auror's came and saw the remains of the torture, Harry did not weep still.
When Sirius and Remus took him in, asked him to confide in him, Harry shed but one tear. There was none more he had left to give.
Only when he broke a vase in the house, running around, having fun as children do, expecting to be slapped, locked in the basement, or sent to his room with no dinner, and Sirius told him it was okay, and he wasn't going to punish him, and he wasn't going to send him away-
Harry cried that day. More than he had ever cried. More than he ever would cry again.
Because Sirius had said he loved him.
And Lily had never done so)
-and he'll always hear them, like a throb in his head that would never leave. But Harry didn't care. He hadn't ever cared. They hadn't ever cared.
(and it was a lie, all of it, but Harry had yet to know)
(or perhaps he did know, and chose to ignore it)
"It's fine," Harry waved Ron off. Ron began to protest, but Harry repeated the phrase again, firmer this time.
"Based on what Mr. Longbottom has told me, I'd say it was not fine." Harry turned towards the door to see Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore enter the room. A small gathering of students and teachers alike stood behind them, trying to sneak peeks and glances as to what lay inside.
Harry bit back a groan. Two of his least (and most) favorite Professors and an audience. Goody goody.
"Harry," Professor Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with curiosity. "I've heard you've been the subject of a nightmare, three nights in a row now." Harry nodded in confirmation. "What have you seen?" Dumbledore asked him. Typical of the man. Not even speculating for a moment that it could be a dream with no meaning behind it. With Harry, everything had to have meaning and had to be treated delicately. Including him.
And Harry despised it. Hated it, even.
"My parents' grave." Professor McGonagall sucked in a breath at the mention of his parents. "Hermione was there too. She was telling me I had to wake up." He stopped. Dumbledore motioned for him to continue, a thoughtful expression adorning his face. "Then she told me it was all a dream. The sky turned black, and the rain was tar, and then Hermione was me, and then I-" he swallowed the lump in his throat he hadn't known was there. "I tried to murder myself." Harry frowned at that. Had he tried to murder himself? "At least, I think so. I woke up before I could find out what was to happen."
Dumbledore mused this information. "Have you tried falling back asleep?" The shock at the statement was instantaneous. Ron let out a strangled cry. Harry blinked. Even Professor Snape let his eyebrow rise to his forehead, disappearing behind a greasy mat.
"Dumbledore!" Professor McGonagall said, outraged. "What a terrible thing to suggest! You would ask the boy to-to go back to the nightmare, just to what?"
"Perhaps it is an omen," Professor Dumbledore said. "Perhaps someone or something is trying to tell you something."
Ron gasped from his bed. Rather dramatically, Harry might add. "Like with my father!" he said, turning to Harry. "And how you knew how he was attacked by Grindelwald!"
Harry sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Yes, Ron, thank you for reminding everybody." Ron blushed and stuttered out an apology. Harry waved him off. It was like Ron to get over-excited sometimes, and Harry didn't hold it against him. It wasn't as if Harry was upset with Ron. And it wasn't as if Harry thought what Ron said was rude, or offending, or mean.
If only everybody else would leave.
Professor Flitwick, sensing Harry's obvious distress, began to usher students out the door. The rest of the professors followed, save for Professor Snape.
"Come now, nothing to see here." Professor Flitwick muttered as he pushed students away from the door. Professor McGonagall turned to Harry's dorm mates. "I think it'd be best if you'd leave," she told the boys pointedly. They all wisely made no move to argue with her, although Seamus looked as if he'd like to have a row with her.
"Harry." Professor Dumbledore began. "I suspect there's more you aren't telling us about your dream." Dumbledore had only spoken after the door had been shut, and the sound of adolescent footsteps had faded away. Professor Snape cast an Imperturbable Charm regardless, paranoid bastard.
"I've told you everything already!" protested Harry. "Would I lie to you, Professor?" Harry schooled his face into a look of anguish at the thought of Dumbledore not trusting him. Professor Snape rolled his eyes from where he stood by the door. Dumbledore, ever trusting, was quick to reassure him.
"No, no, of course not, my boy." Harry almost made a face at being called 'my boy'. Harry belonged to no man. He was a host unto himself.
He was no one's boy.
("Oh, far from it," Death chuckled)
Professor Dumbledore began to rise and Professor McGonagall followed his lead. Professor Snape stood unmoving. "I'd like to question the boy further." Professor Dumbledore made a 'tut tut' sound.
"Come now, Severus. Hasn't the boy already told us all he knows?" Dumbledore, so naively optimistic. So easy to fool.
(Harry doubted he'd been fooled. He wanted Harry to succumb to guilt, to tell him just before he cracked)
(Harry wouldn't crack about this)
("Harry, no! You mustn't give in!")
Professor Snape sneered. "I feel it'd be best to get an unbiased view."
Professor McGonagall snorted. "From you? I doubt it. I doubt there's a man, muggle, or wizard who hasn't got an unbiased view with Mr. Potter." She turned towards him. "Not that the bias is negative, Mr. Potter. You understand, of course." Harry nodded.
Or course he understood. He was 'the boy who lived the 'strange wizard' the 'lying liar who lied' and Harry's personal favorite, 'the most powerful wizard of his generation. Harry had many names, and there were many views regarding him. And he'd learned to live with them all.
Professor Snape waited until the other two Professors had left. He cast the muffling spell again before turning to Harry sharply.
"What did you see?"
Harry remained quiet. Professor Snape glared at him and turned his face into a sneer filled with venom.
"I'd like to remind you that anything you might plan to tell Mr. Riddle," Harry sucked in a breath at the name, "Will eventually be reported to me regardless. What did you see?"
"Everything I told Professor Dumbledore." Professor Snape rolled his eyes, disbelief etched clear on his face. Harry wouldn't believe it either had he been in Professor Snape's position. Anyone with a brain and a thought process of their own that didn't rely on Dumbledore's could see how manipulative the old coot was. But he had his shining moments too. Harry just had yet to see them. "Except for the wand." He amended quickly. Professor Snape's eyebrows lifted. "It wasn't my wand."
"Whom did the wand belong?"
"Grindelwald. Or me. I'm not sure yet."
"Explain." Professor Snape demanded.
"It was the Elder Wand. But I don't know it's master yet."
"You haven't tried to use it? It's been in your possession all this time, has it not?" Harry eyed his trunk suspiciously, where the Elder Wand lay.
("Give it to me, boy!")
"No. Professor Dumbledore would know."
Professor Snape's eyes widened. "Ron?" Harry nodded.
"I'm not surprised he recruited people to be my friends," Harry said. Dumbledore was always trying to keep Harry under his influence. Perhaps he knew something important about Harry that he wasn't willing to tell anyone else about. Much less Harry. It's easiest to keep someone under your control when waving information right under their noses.
"Hermione is one of them?" Harry scoffed at that.
"Hermione is just a snitch." And she was. Harry knew she meant well, but honestly, sometimes the girl needed a good smack. Always butting her nose in, making decisions for others, assuming she knew best. Like with his Firebolt. There could have been something wrong with it, she claimed. There wasn't, of course. Harry would bet 10 galleons that the thought that an admirer of 'the boy who lived' could have sent it to him hadn't crossed the girl's mind.
(All Sirius and Remus wanted to do was not cause too much of a scene at the thought of an orphan child Harry Potter getting a Firebolt of all things. And all Hermione did was make it so much worse)
Professor Snape chuckled. "And a know-it-all,"
"So you haven't told anyone of the wand because Dumbledore has spies around you to report to him." Professor Snape raised an eyebrow. "Is that it?"
"I'm too scared to use it,"
Professor Snape nodded in understanding. Dumbledore wouldn't have done that. He'd have tried to convince Harry to do it for the greater good, to get over his fear, to gain knowledge-
To use him.
(Death chuckled)
And perhaps that was the only truth Harry would say that night.
But Harry would be full of truth in the morning.
"Harry." Harry flinched at the sound of his name even if it had not been yelled at him. Tom stood there, perfect tie, perfect robes, perfect hair, prefect badge perfectly shined. Imperfect Harry stood next to him in the hallway, messy hair, slightly wrinkled robes, no prefect badge in sight-
(not that he was one)
"Tom." Harry replied, just as cool. Or so he hoped.
"There were rumors last night." Tom began.
"It's Hogwarts, filled with teenagers, obviously there were rumors-"
"About you-" continued Tom, ignoring Harry's interjection.
"It's me-"
"And a nightmare that came from your scar." Tom finished, staring Harry down. His black eyes flashed burgundy, and Harry knew then that Tom was upset. Tom's eyes never would have flashed like that in a hallway like this, for any student, professor, and ghost to see. Tom was losing his composure.
Tom was angry.
Tom was angry at him.
Harry felt a hand grip his heart and squeeze. Black tar oozed out of it, showing proof that his soul was stained with Dark Magic, that he was a killer, he had no family, no friends, no love-
Tom was making this happen.
Tom was making him hurt.
Tom was doing this on purpose. Trying to get him to talk. Trying to get him to squirm.
Well. Harry would show him.
"Tom, I don't know where you heard that it came from my scar." Harry said instead of an apology.
(apology for what?)
(for letting Tom hurt him)
"You didn't deny the nightmare."
"The lack of sleep on my face makes that fact obvious. There would be no point in lying." And nothing to gain, Harry doesn't say aloud, but Tom here's it anyway.
"And so where did it come from?" Tom questions him.
"My head? Where else?"
Tom's eye twitches. Harry takes great relish in knowing it was him who did that. "Harry."
"Tom."
"Harry, please." Harry blinked because Tom never pleaded. Tom believed himself to be above such things.
"Tom, I can't," Harry said. "I don't even understand what happened, and it was my dream. Nightmare is more like it, I'd hardly call that near brush with death a dream as if it were pleasant." Harry rambled, and Tom frowned.
"Brush with death?"
Harry wanted to slap himself. So much for showing Tom, he might as well tell him the whole story now, before he heard the butchered version from anyone else and came to his own conclusions. Harry told Tom about the graves, and Hermione, and himself, the black tears, the acid rain.
He told Tom about Dumbledore, and what the professor had suggested. If Harry noticed how Tom's eyes had darkened on that particular part, he didn't say anything. He told Tom about his conversation with Professor Snape.
And he told Tom nothing about the Elder Wand. Tom could never, and would never, know about that wand. Harry wouldn't allow it. Tom would allow himself to become consumed by the obsession of owning such a wand. And Tom would ruin himself over it. And Harry couldn't let that happen.
("So for the time being, mum's the word on the wand?" Death asked. "I suppose we'll see how Tom will take this.)
"Harry, why would Grindelwald send you such a dream?" Tom asked him.
"I love how it's already been determined that Grindelwald is the one at fault here."
Tom ignored him. "It must mean something. Do you suppose he's trying to scare you? If he was, what for?"
"I wish I knew Tom. If I did, I'd throw a Riddikulus at it."
"It's not a boggart."
"I saw mine last night."
Tom was silent for a moment. "Was it you?"
Harry snorted. "How did you know?"
They started their walk towards the Great Hall, neither boy speaking a word. Neither boy needed to say a word. Silent looks were all that they needed to communicate. Peeves flew through the halls, tormenting their fellow peers, but one look from Tom caused Peeves to falter. The Heir of Slytherin would not tolerate any pranks.
As they reached the large doors to the Great Hall, Harry stopped.
"This is where we part, Tom." He dropped the hand that had been intertwined with Tom's, a hand he hadn't realized was doing that, a hand with a mind of its own.
But Harry loved holding Tom's hand. The warmth and the fact that it was there at all gave him a warm feeling through his body.
"So quick to be rid of me, are we Harry?" Tom said, eyebrows raised, smirk on his lips. But Harry would never be quick to be rid of Tom. But he didn't want anyone to know about Tom. Like Tom was a dirty little secret he hid from everybody.
Except for Professor Snape.
Because, for some reason, the slick-head knew everything about everyone.
"No, I just-"
"Don't want anyone to know." Tom finished for him. Harry nodded.
"Hm," Tom said. He acted like he was thinking for a moment, but Harry, knowing Tom, knew the older boy already had an idea in mind. "Appease me."
Harry snorted. "Appease you for what?"
"You don't want anyone to know about us-"
"There's an us now?"
"-and my feelings have been hurt-."
"You have feelings?"
"-and so you must appease me," Tom said, indifferent to Harry's interruptions.
"How shall I appease you, oh Master of Slytherin?" Harry said mockingly. Tom leaned down to stare at him in the eyes, and Harry realized just how tall Tom really was, and how small he felt compared to him.
"Next time you dream, lie to Dumbledore and tell me the truth."
"Professor Dumbledore." Harry corrected mindlessly, and Tom rolled his eyes.
"Fine." Harry conceded. He huffed and crossed his arms. "I'll appease you." He said grudgingly as if the choice was hard for him to make.
Tom smiled at him and brushed a stray hair from Harry's face. "Pretty little liar," He told him. Then turned around and swept into the Great Hall. Harry paused to let the feeling of Tom's hand on his face linger, then followed him into the Hall.
"Killer," he whispered after him, even if Tom no longer heard.
("But of course he heard," Death said with a shake of their head. "He always hears Harry. Always.")
Harry felt everyone's eyes on him when he entered the Hall, more so than usual. Tom was right, as usual. It seemed the news of Harry's nightmares was now the subject on everybody's minds. Harry glanced at the Gryffindor table and saw his friends seated amongst themselves, waving him over, a spot in between Hermione and Ginny for him. Ron sat across from Ginny, Neville next to him, next to Luna.
"Harry," Luna greeted him dreamily. "I heard all about the Umgubular Slashkilters that plagued you last night. I do hope they've gone away." Next to him, Hermione scoffed.
"Those...whatever they are-"
"Umgubular Slashkilters," Luna supplied helpfully.
"Yes, those do not exist. Luna, you must get out of your imagination sometimes."
Luna sniffed. "I don't need to see to see to believe like some brown-nosers," Hermione spluttered.
"Why you-!"
"Both of you, stop, please," Harry groaned and rubbed his scar. The others' eyes quickly flitted to his forehead.
"Sorry, Harry," Hermione said apologetically. "Didn't mean to cause you any discomfort."
"Would you like a cold compress?" Luna asked him, eyes seemingly glazed over. "It might help."
"I'll live," Harry grumped. Ginny raised an eyebrow, the motion was so similar to what Tom had done this morning that he almost flinched. Almost.
"Why so snappy?" Ginny asked him. "I know you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, but you usually never get this snippy with us." Harry's eyes flickered over to the Slytherin table, where he knew Tom would be holding court with his group of 'Death Eaters'. Ginny's eyes narrowed as she followed the path Harry's eyes had strayed.
"Tom was bothering you?" she asked sharply. Hermione and Ron swiveled around in their seats, scowling at Tom as if he would wither under their gaze.
"He wasn't bothering me-" Harry started to defend Tom, but Hermione's angry glare staring him down instead of Tom had him clamping his mouth closed.
"He asked about your scar, didn't he?" she asked him in a clipped tone.
"...yes, he did."
"So he was bothering you," Harry didn't speak, and Hermione took his silence as confirmation.
"Harry, you've got to stop being so...so nice to everybody. Someone could try to take advantage of you." Someone like Tom, she said with her eyes. Nods from the others echoed their sentiment.
"I'll try."
"You won't have to try alone," Neville told him, looking up from his Herbology homework that Harry surprisingly did, without any prompting from Hermione. "You have us."
Ron nodded. "You'll always have us, mate. No matter what."
Ginny reached for his hand from across the table. "Harry, you know we'd do anything for you. If Tom is really bothering you, and I mean really bothering you, you'd tell us, right?" Harry made a raw sound in the back of his throat.
"Of course I would."
Pretty little liar, Tom had purred at him.
Pretty little liar with honey-sweet lips.