Author's Note: Hello again! Yes, this will be a multichaptered fic (I could not resist). Each school year will be only about a chapter or two long, and the events will be fairly similar to canon for the most part with me changing and manipulating whatever I need. There will be romance between Tom and Harry, though not until Harry is off age as I am not comfortable with it otherwise. That is all for now. Thank you all so much for all the comments and support of the first chapter! There aren't enough words to say how appreciated it is! Enjoy!
Chapter Two: A Dog, A Bus, and A Letter
Harry sunk his hands into the hot, soapy water, fingers wrapping around the heated metal of a fork. Pulling it upward, he rubbed at the prongs aggressively with a sponge, jaw clenched as he tried in vain to block out the words being spoken behind him.
"Getting ready for school to start, Dudley-Dear?" Aunt Marge asked, her voice loud and brash and like a bolt of lightning to Harry, setting his nerves on fire, his body thrumming with irritation. "What teacher has he got? A good one, I hope. Nothing like the sort he had at the beginning of term last year. She was absolutely wretched! You won't be letting the teachers bully you around like that this year, of course, Dudley?"
The response was smug, spoken through a mouthful of chocolate cake that made his voice sound thick, congested. "Absolutely not, Aunt Marge."
She made a hum of approval, and Harry curled his hands into a fist at the sound.
The woman was dreadful in every sense of the word, refusing to allow Harry out of her sight but unable to keep from ignoring him. Not a span of ten minutes could pass before she would turn to him, lips skewed into a frown, disdain evident in her beady eyes. Her words were cruel- cutting- and every syllable that left her tongue tied another knot in his frayed composure, permanent cuts indented on the inside of his cheek from biting down on them so hard and often.
Five days had passed since he had seen Tom in the woods. He had thought for certain that he would never return home that afternoon with the tree branch wound tightly over his legs, Tom bruising his arm with his tight grip. He had been surprised when Tom left him, disappearing with a crack, the feel of soft, pliable lips still lingering over the scar on Harry's head. His parting words still echoed in his ears, reverberating against his skull: 'I'll be in touch.'
They were a promise, a threat. But why hadn't Tom just taken Harry with him? He had claimed he wanted to protect him, that Harry would never be able to leave him. And yet, Tom had left him. Easily. Swiftly. Vanishing in a flourish of a cloak, a crackle of heated air.
And the roots unwound, sinking back into the earth. By the time he had found his wand- tossed among the strewn about sticks and overgrown brushes- and ran home, Marge had arrived for her week long stay. She had whacked him with her walking stick several times for his tardiness, calling him rude, pathetic and a scoundrel all the while. When he retreated into his cupboard below the stairs, knees knocking into his chin as he fell to the cot, he heard Marge congratulate Vernon on finally putting his foot down. 'It's enough that you opened your home to him, took him in when no one else wanted him. You were spoiling him by giving him a room- he wasn't very grateful for it.'
Five days of Marge had left him worn, adding onto the already mounting well of emotions. The anxiety and paranoia that left him looking over his shoulder, examining every shadowed corner with impossible scrutiny. Looking to the places beyond the glass of a window that were too dark, too distorted by the light from within a home to see properly. If Tom Riddle had been hidden behind the bushes, he hadn't seen him. Though it did little to ease his mind. He was fairly certain he could keep a well enough eye on Harry without having to lurk around the streets of Privet Drive.
"What's wrong with you boy?!" an unkind voice bellowed, and he startled, releasing the fork that he had been cleaning for several minutes. "Can't even figure out how to clean some silverware?"
His jaw clenched as Dudley snickered at the quip, Uncle Vernon leveling a stern glare in Harry's direction. "St. Brutus is far more fond of corporal punishments than they are in chores, though perhaps I should call the Headmaster about the oversight."
"While you're at it tell them to be more forthcoming with the cane on the boy. Must not be using it on him enough."
Harry twisted sharply away from the conversation, the muscles in his jaw clenched, aching with the pressure of the tight clamp. Settling the damning fork aside, he reached into the sink for a plate.
"It's lovely that you've got some place to ship him off to for the school year but I still insist that you should have sent him to an orphanage. No sense taking on the burden for someone so unappreciative," Aunt Marge drawled.
Fingernails dug into the porous sponge as he scrubbed at the plate a bit too harshly, a muscle in his jaw twitching in the strain. Funny that they spoke of an orphanage as if it were some sort of hell, a circle even lower and more vile than the one he had already been imprisoned in. Surely, a state home would be far more preferable to sleeping in a cupboard, his knees bent to accommodate for the considerable amount of growing he had done since he was eleven. Far more preferable to eating only the scraps that were left behind, portions so meager it was more a taunt than an act of kindness. Surely, an orphanage would not be so bad.
'Tom had hated it though,' he thought, the idea enough to still him, his eyes raising from the dishes he was washing to the window above the sink, the sky newly darkened as the day faded to night. Had Tom- Voldemort, not Tom, he's Voldemort- really even lived in an orphanage? Or had it all been a lie? A carefully constructed ruse in an attempt to trick Harry? Relating to him on such a raw, intimate way- a way that no one else had managed as they did not know what it was like to grow up without a loving family, to be 'the boy' and nothing more.
Who had mentioned being an orphan first? Had it been Harry, with To-Voldemort latching onto the confession and seeing the opportunity that it presented, eyes shining with greed and want? Or had Voldemort mentioned it first, a lucky guess or perhaps a grain of truth buried within a mountain of lies?
After a moment, he shook the thought from his head. There was something disconcerting about thinking of Voldemort as anything other than the behemoth, the terrible monster he had become. It seemed perverse that at one point in time, he had been like Harry. A thirteen year old boy. A student at Hogwarts.
That he had been a baby, would have cried and wailed for the attention of a mother that may or may not have been there to dote on him. What sort of mother would give birth to a child like him? What man had fathered him?
It was too normal. Too human.
"Boy!"
It was Uncle Vernon this time who roared, and Harry craned his neck around to see four sets of eyes looking to him.
"Marge is talking to you and you're being incredibly rude to her!" His face was ruddy, his own frustration with Harry mottling his complexion into an ugly palette of reds and violets.
"I'm sorry-" he began to say, struggling to sound appropriately apologetic.
But his words were cut off, Marge's nostrils flaring in disgust. "That's to be expected I suppose. Look at his genes- no offense to you, of course, Petunia, you're lovely. But in all honestly that sister of yours would have done well to keep her legs closed and away from that degenerate Potter."
The plate slipped from Harry's hand, shattering as it fell to the floor. It was loud, a piercing sound, and he was dimly aware of the shards of porcelain which splattered at his feet. Marge rose, her lips forming an 'o' in the beginning of a taunt that never left her mouth as Harry roared loudly, "Don't you dare talk about my mother and father that way!" His voice cracked, the young, prepubescent warble of a not quite man.
Marge stepped forward, shoving her chair to the side with a screech as the legs scraped along wooden floors. She extended an arm outward, a plump finger poking at the air before him accusingly. "I'll talk about your mother and father however I want to! They were no good- that mother of yours was a foul and dirty thing that would give it to anyone who asked politely enough and your father-"
"ENOUGH!" he shouted, his throat aching at the intensity. His hands were balled at his side, fingernails carving half moon shaped cuts into his soft palm. He was shaking with rage, trembling in a way that made him feel anxious, like his energy could not be contained within the structure of his bones and skin. He could feel the floor shake as several other chairs scraped along it, as Marge pounded towards him. Saw her lips twist and contort and he knew that the kitchen was a cacophony of noise and yells.
Yet, he could hear none of it. The only thing he could hear was a high-pitched whistle, like steam escaping a forgotten kettle. And the voice whispering in the back of his skull.
'Show her, Harry. Show her why she should never talk to you like that. Show her just how different you and your parents are. How special you are.'
There was a clatter behind him, dishes bursting with an unseen force. Bulbous wells of wine glasses shattering as they sat drying on the counter, water glasses and plates following in like fashion. And with a hiss, they flew into the air, jettisoning beyond Harry and at Marge with such great speed that he could hardly see them slice through her exposed skin before they fell to the floor, sticky with blood.
Anger left him, air escaping a balloon, and his eyes widened in horror as the tip of her extended index finger, sliced at the second knuckle, fell a half second later.
It was as if the world had been put on pause, mute, only for it to sped up, noise and color and reality sinking in all at once.
There was blood everywhere, deep cuts along Marge's haggard face only adding to the carnage of her severed finger. She was bellowing in rage and in pain, pausing in her tirade to scream as her uninjured hand clutched feebly at her wrist. Petunia was squealing, her long, bony fingers wound nervously in her blonde hair as Dudley asked over and over again what was happening. Only Vernon seemed capable of action, roaring obscenities as his face turned a brilliant shade of crimson. He took long strides across the kitchen to Harry, who startled at him before taking off in a run.
In his entire thirteen years of existence, he had never been so thankful to be so fast and wily, slipping just out of reach of the man and darting down the hall, his heart thudding in his chest. "GET BACK HERE!" Vernon roared behind him, his gruff voice booming over the chaos.
But Harry was out the door in seconds, leaving behind the blood and the screaming as he ran aimlessly down the street, not sure of where he was headed but simply knowing he needed to get as far away as possible.
He had made it two blocks before he came to a stop, bent at the waist and his hands gripping onto his knees. His legs were shaking, his breath coming out in raspy, uneven spurts. He stood like that for some time, attempting to steady his breathing and thinking of what to do, of what had happened.
What had happened?
He was no stranger to accidental bursts of magic, though they were few and far between since attending Hogwarts. But never before had it been so...malicious. It had felt as if he was submerged in ice cold water, his blood freezing in his veins as something else had taken over, a hand over his and something sinister within his mind that wanted to hurt.
Something sinister that had enjoyed hurting her, that enjoyed showing that horrid woman just what he could do.
He swallowed thickly, shoving the thoughts away for now. Further examination could occur later, when his thoughts were less jumbled and he wasn't standing outside on the street, the skies already darkened. The night was cold, and he felt his flesh prickle underneath his lightweight jumper, wrapping his arms around his torso for some warmth.
What was he to do? Where was he to go? He couldn't very well turn back after that.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of whimpering, the distinct whine of a dog.
He twisted where he stood, stumbling at the sight of an impossibly large dog in the center of the road. The thing was massive, despite looking quite underfed, matted and mangled black fur covering what he was sure would be visible ribs. It stepped forward, one huge paw that looked as if it had been chewed at, patches of fur missing, coming down on the pavement, and Harry took an involuntary step backwards.
He stumbled, tripping over the lip of the sidewalk. His head smacked against the gravel bed of a path that lead to the front porch of a home, his arms splaying outwards. A low groan slipped from between his lips as he slowly sat back up, rubbing a hand over a tender spot of his scalp. Wonderful.
Just what this evening needed.
A concussion.
Brushing dirt and small, embedded pieces of gravel from his jeans, he stood, just in time to jump out of the way of a careening vehicle, one which seemed to appear out of thin air. Tires screeched harshly over the road, one thumping over the sidewalk as what appeared to be a triple-decker bus came to a halting stop, forced at an angle by the uneven tires.
A dog barked, massive paws thudding into the ground.
The bus- a brilliant shade of violet that Harry had never before seen on transport- let out a hiss, doors squeaking open. A thin faced, mousy looking man poked his head out, looking about him before settling his eyes on Harry.
When Harry made no motion to move forward, he said, "Well? What're ya waiting for? An invitation?"
Tentatively, Harry took a step forward, peering through the curtained windows. He thought he could see what appeared to be beds in the interior of the bus. How curious, he thought, knowing that it surely had to have belonged to the Wizard World.
How muggle of them, appropriating a bus.
"Are...are you stopping at...the Leaky Cauldron?" he asked, licking his lips. It was the only establishment that came to mind, one that offered both a warm meal and lodging.
His stomach quivered at that. He hadn't had the opportunity to eat all. The Dursleys insisted he wait until after they finished eating before he was allowed to have anything at all, and their dinner had come to a rather unfortunate end.
"We can go whereva ya need," the man said, extending a thin hand outward. "Eleven sickles. Thirteen for a hot chocolate."
Harry's mouth went dry. In all his haste to leave, he hadn't grabbed any of his belongings. He had only the clothes on his back and the wand in his pocket. "I-er," he mumbled, slipping his hands uselessly into his pockets. His fingers met something hard and cold, and with wide and grateful eyes, he pulled out a handful of coins that had not been there before. He wasn't certain how they managed to sit in his pants without his knowledge- several galleons and about seventeen sickles was not exactly a light amount- but he had never been more thankful for his stroke of luck than in that moment.
Counting out thirteen sickles, he handed them over before slipping the rest of the coins back in his pockets.
"I'm Stan Shunpike," the man said as he stepped aside, his lips moving noiselessly as he counted the change. "You?"
Harry grimaced. "Neville. Neville Longbottom," he lied, entering the bus without any a thought to Marge and her severed finger, or the stray dog that had all but disappeared.
-xXx-
The Leaky Cauldron was busy, lively witches and wizards with reddened faces laughing, huddled together in earnest conversation. The bar was so crowded that Harry could hardly see the barkeep scurrying around between all the patrons, all the surrounding tables full with plates of hearty dishes- shepherd's pie, roast beef, and steaming potatoes- and he stood in the doorway awkwardly, feeling quite out of place.
His shirt stuck to him from where his hot chocolate had splashed onto him during a particularly sharp and frightening maneuver the Knight Bus had taken. His hair was still tousled from when he had been sent flying through the interior. He was immediately self conscious, running a hand through his hair and wondering what to do.
Surely, he had enough for a night stay in one of the rooms, and hopefully even a plate of food, his stomach growling at all the tempting smells surrounding him. He could figure out the rest later. Of what to do. Of how much worrying he should do.
Accidental or not, he had used magic outside of school.
Had harmed a muggle.
And even worse, like a common criminal, he fled the crime scene.
He frowned. Not as if it wasn't his first time fleeing such a thing.
"Ah, Mr. Potter! I had hoped I'd find you here!"
Harry startled at the loud declaration, turning to find a rather plump wizard coming towards him, a large congenial smile warming his face. His hair was thin, graying, and his arms were extending outward as if he might wrap them around Harry in a hug once he got close enough.
Thankfully, he had stopped just short of that, letting one arm fall to his side while the other reached out, expectantly. "Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge. It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance," he greeted, shaking Harry's hand vigorously.
Harry felt his heart plummet as he took his own hand back, curling it against his chest. There would be no time to figure out the rest later, it seemed. No putting of anything off until he had some food in his belly or a proper rest on a bed that he could fully extend out on without having to contort himself.
He might have wondered just how much trouble he was in, if he would be expelled from Beauxbatons before he even got to attend, but he was too distracted by the merry tone of Fudge's voice as he placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, leading him towards a table by the fireplace.
"I must say, we're certainly relieved to see you're alright. When we had heard about the Auror report, we had assumed the worst-" he said, causing Harry to skew his brows in thought.
"We?" he asked.
As if to answer the question, Fudge came to a stop, pushing Harry down into a chair opposite none other than Albus Dumbledore.
The older wizard smiled, leaning forward in his chair. "Hello, Harry. Glad to see you're well," he said, his blue eyes noticeably absent of their familiar twinkle.
"You are well, right? You don't need us to find you a healer?" Fudge cut in as he sat in a chair between Dumbledore an Harry. He exhaled in relief when Harry shook his head, muttering that he was fine.
A moment passed in which nothing was said, Fudge rubbing his eyes as though he were exhausted despite it only being about nine in the evening; Dumbledore gazing at Harry in that way that made him feel as if he were invisible, vulnerable and stripped and raw.
He shifted in his seat.
Coughed.
"Is this about what happened to Aunt Marge?" he asked. Best to get it over with. No pleasantries or kindness. 'We're sorry, our hands are tired. Magic in front of muggles and by underage wizards is strictly prohibited. You're being expelled. Hand over your wand, we'll bring you back to the Dursley's. Perhaps if your lucky, they'll let you stay in that roomy closet and not stick you in the one with the water heater for punishment.'
He was surprised when Fudge shook his head. "Marjorie Dursley has been healed and her memory erased by the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. Hardly the least of our concerns, really, what with everything that happened tonight," he said.
"Right," Harry said, trying to hide his confusion. He was beginning to get the distinct impression that his version of the night's events might have been a bit different from the version Fudge had.
"The Aurors were called in by the use of dark magic, you see, and when they arrived, they interviewed your family. You gave us quite a fright, running off like that! But that was quick thinking, summoning the Knight Bus. I'm sure that scared Black off right and well!" Fudge said, chuckling nervously as if he had something funny. He didn't.
Harry frowned. "Black?"
"The Wizard who attacked you and your family tonight. That is his name," Dumbledore explained, his eyes narrowing from behind the half-moon spectacles. "I understand you don't get the Daily Prophet delivered over the summer, but you might have heard about him through muggle reports. He escaped some time ago, from Azkaban-"
Before Dumbledore could continue, Fudge interrupted, leaning forward as if to bodily get in Dumbledore's way. "We've been working tirelessly at the Ministry to find him, I assure you. Aurors working around the clock, top researchers trying to figure out how exactly he did manage to escape in the first place. I myself wanted to make certain that we had several Aurors maintain a watch outside your home just in case this exact scenario should occur. But the director of the Auror Department wouldn't hear it, said we didn't have enough men," he said, the word disingenuous coming to the forefront of Harry's mind unbidden. Fudge chuckled inappropriately again. "She'll certainly be hearing about how her oversight nearly found our Harry Potter in grave danger."
Dumbledore flicked his eyes over to fudge, opening his mouth before closing it, as if thinking better of what he had to say.
Harry swallowed a lump in his throat. "I'm fine. Really. Just a little hungry and tired now that it's all over," he said, choosing his vague words carefully. It was a great deal of information- confusing information, that didn't quite match up with his own memory and it made his head ache to even begin to think of how both truths could exist simultaneously. He had no idea who Black was or why he would attack him, no guess to what an Azkaban even was.
And yet, he knew better than to ask. Afraid that doing so might dissolve whatever carefully fabricated story that Minister had discovered at that house on Privet Drive. He didn't know what was going on, but he somehow knew that maintaining the lie was the only thing between him and expulsion.
If they knew the truth- that Harry was not pursued by anyone, that he was running away from himself and his own mistakes instead of some escaped wizard. That no one but Harry and him alone had injured a muggle. If they knew any of it, they would ask for his wand without a moment of hesitation.
He hated to lie, least of all to Dumbledore, but he couldn't risk expulsion. Couldn't risk being sent back to the Dursley's where punches and kicks and empty plates were readily offered to him. Where he was locked within a closet with hardly any food in his belly and bruised ribs from when Uncle Vernon lost his temper when Harry didn't retrieve the mail fast enough or didn't clean to his liking.
It was a matter of survival.
He wouldn't live another month of the Dursleys.
This, he knew too with certainty.
"Let's get you some food then," Fudge said, rising from his seat and disappearing into the crowd.
"You have two nights before school commences. You can stay here, until then. I am told a staff member has already procured a room for you, you can fetch the key from Tom at the bar when you're ready. Your stuff, as well as that lovely owl of yours have all been dropped off and are waiting for you upstairs. You've been accepted into Beauxbatons, yes?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry nodded, finding it difficult to not look away when the blue eyes bore into him so painfully. Dumbledore had been the first- if not the only- person Harry thought he could trust, that he could believe with little hesitation when he said he cared for him and wanted the best for him. It felt terrible to lie to him- profusely, it seemed, ever since he had found himself in possession of the damnable diary. Tom's diary.
He curled his hands into fists at the thought of the other boy.
The Dark Lord.
Further proof that Harry was rarely ever good at knowing who to trust.
Dumbledore sighed, though at what he didn't know, as Harry had become too distracted by the start of a headache, the throbbing pain making his vision bleary. He placed a hand to his temple, wincing as he nodded along to Dumbledore's stories of the French school and the Headmistress, a beautiful if not unique witch named Madame Maxime.
A plate of food was placed before him, and he hungrily tore into it, feeling his headache subside the more satiated he became. He assured Fudge several more times that he was fine, that Black had not managed any damage during the attack. He asked Dumbledore questions about his new school, asked if there was any chance of Hogwarts reopening.
"I'm afraid not," he had answered solemnly. "Not until the cause of Ginny Weasley's death becomes clear to us."
Harry opened his mouth, the words he had wanted to say all summer dying on his tongue as his headache returned with such force that stars burst in his vision.
He clamped his lips, waited for the pain to abate, his right eye blurry, unable to see anything but half formed shadows.
Dumbledore watched him, scratched his chin in thought.
"That's too bad," Harry said after a minute before sinking the tongs of his fork into a piece of chicken.
Lying was survival, he reminded himself.
-xXx-
Harry came to a stop in front of the marked room. Room 4. He ran a hand through his hair, untidying it further than it already was as he slid the key into the lock, twisting it until it clicked.
He had never before looked so forward to sleep. The night had been exhausting and perplexing and he wanted nothing more than for it to end. He knew there was much to do- he still had yet to even shop for his school supplies- and now he needed to learn about this Azkaban and Sirius Black and how any of it had even tied together so that his own assault on Aunt Marge could be mistaken by Ministry officials.
He had bid both Dumbledore and Fudge a goodnight, sighing a breath of relief when they allowed him to go. He was safe, at least for the night. With any hope, he wouldn't be returning to the Dursley's until the school year would come to an end.
He pushed the door open, taking only a step inside before pausing.
The light hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room was on, casting a warm glow over the scene before him. His trunk was placed at the foot of the bed, just as Dumbledore had promised. Hedwig's empty cage sat on a desk placed beside an open window, the breeze rustling the curtains. But most curious of all was by the small complementary kitchenette, where Tom Riddle stood in front of stove, pulling a steaming kettle off a burner, the coils an angry red.
He looked up at the intrusion, blinking at Harry before tipping the spout of the kettle over a mug. "I've made us some tea," he said simply, as if they were old friends.
Harry spun on his feet, retreating back down the hall as fast as he could. With any hope, Dumbledore or Fudge would still be there, exchanging long farewells within the dining hall. And he could end it. End the torment and the guilt and the lies and the fear that over his shoulder was the young Lord Voldemort. He wouldn't have to tell them, wouldn't have his tongue bound in silence if he could just show them because he was right there, in the flesh, casually making tea in his room.
"Professor!" he yelled just as he made it to the top of the stairs.
He shot on arm out, bracing himself against the wall as the world begun to spin rapidly, colors and movements blurring into mottled shapes. The sounds from below- of laughter and conversation and goblets clinking on tables- dimmed, fading as it was replaced by a high-pitched hiss. The sound the Knight Bus made when it came to a halt. The sound of the tea kettle.
His face was numb, the pain behind his eye so immediately intense that it gave way to nothing, the nerves unable to take much more torment.
He wavered on his feet.
Touched a hand to his face, feeling something wet and warm.
Tears or perhaps blood.
When he fell backwards, it was into waiting arms.
-xXx-
Harry awoke nearly nine hours later. The sky outside the window was blue and bright, and he was greeted by the hooting of Hedwig, her wings rustling through the air as she flew freely about the room. She fluttered down to the bedside table, leaning forward and pecking playfully at his pillow as he twisted around to look at her.
He smiled, knowing that it was the first time all summer she had been able to stretch her wings, confined to the cage and spare bedroom at the Dursley's, where Harry could only see her once a day to feed her.
'She doesn't deserve that,' he thought rubbing a hand over his face, stilling when it found the gauze bandage covering his eye.
He sat up in bed, the events of the previous night rushing to him in quick succession, like the recollection of a nightmare as one sat panting and heaving in sweat soaked sheets. 'Tom was here,' his mind screamed at him, and he looked up from his lap and around the room, his one uncovered eye settling on the figure sitting before him. The dark curls pushed neatly in place as Tom bent over the table, a copy of The Daily Prophet in front of him.
"Morning," Tom said, reaching for a cup beside him and bringing it to his lips. When Harry said nothing in return, he settled the cup back onto its saucer, turning to meet his gaze. "Are you feeling well?"
He might have snorted at that if not for the sheer incredulity of it all. Instead, he asked simply, "You did something to me. And I can't tell anyone about you. Or even think about telling them." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
The edge of Tom's lips quirked, tipping into an smirk as he said, "Very astute." He turned back to the paper, adding, "A security measure of sorts. A necessary evil I'm afraid. It would be very unsafe if word got out that I'm back, and as much as I hate to cause you pain I had no choice."
At this, Harry did snort.
Tom looked up at him once more, his dark blue eyes wide. "You don't believe me?"
"You haven't exactly given me reason to," Harry answered, shuffling out of bed and pawing through the covers, tossing them aside. "Where's my wand?"
Tom ignored his question. "I'm being quite sincere. I know that may be hard given what occurred between you and the one they call You-Know-Who-" he paused here, a small smirk flitting across his face- "But I urge you to try to keep us separate. I am no more him than you are."
Harry ceased his search for his wand, glowering at the older boy as his lips pulled back in a snarl. "No! That's not true because you are him. I don't know what you did or how you did it but you're him just younger and you're nothing like me." The last few words were spoken through his teeth.
If Tom was startled by the anger in Harry's words and the vitriol with which he spoke, he didn't show it, only frowning as he said, "I wasn't lying to you. I was doing research, experimenting with things I had no business with, admittedly. I trapped myself- a part of myself- within the diary. What went on after that..." He paused, sighing as he rubbed at his eyes. "It wasn't me. Something happened to my soul and the part that remained in this world was merely a sliver of myself.
"I don't pretend to believe that Lord Voldemort is no monster. I have read of him. Tried to form a timeline using all the information I gathered to understand what he did with the life he took from me. He may have once called himself Tom Riddle, but I swear that is all we have in common. Something inhuman was stripped of me that night I locked myself in the diary, and that was the only part of me that continued to exist."
His words were pleading, a desire- a need- to have Harry believe in them. And for a moment, Harry felt himself soften at the sincerity of them.
Only for a moment.
"That's a real beautiful story. Got another one? I could use a laugh," he sneered, tearing through the drawers of both bedside tables. "Where is my wand?"
Tom sighed. "You don't have to believe me. I didn't think you would. That's why I had to curse you to silence. You never know whose ears are listening. If word spread that I got out of the diary, he would be after both us. More ardently than he already is, at the very least in your situation."
"Why?" Harry asked, feeling his patience wearing thin. "Why would he want me dead anymore than he already does?"
Tom blinking owlishly. "Because you helped me. You can condemn me all you want, Harry, but you're the one who killed Ginevra that night. Not me," his words were soft, as if to comfort him even as he accused of something so heinous.
Harry shook his head, something scratching his throat. "No. You made me. Somehow, you made me."
Tom rose from the chair, taking several cautious steps forward until he stood before Harry, still much taller than him despite his recent growth spurt. Tom reached out, fingers brushing against his jaw as Harry jerked away from his touch, flinching as if Tom was fire and acid and all things that would consume and destroy him.
"You wanted to free me. You trusted me. I made you do no more than you were willing to do."
"Get out," Harry said, his voice low and rough and as threatening as he could manage. He clenched his jaw, the crowns of his teeth grinding so viciously over each other that he thought his entire mouth might shatter into a million fragments of bone and tissue. "Leave me alone."
To his immense surprise, Tom nodded, turning away from Harry and gathering a cloak that had been draped over the back of the chair he sat in. "Very well. I'll leave, but only for now. You might not believe me, but it doesn't make my concern for you any less legitimate. I will still keep in touch with you."
Turning back to Harry, he tapped a long finger on his cheek bone, just below his right eye. "The patch can't be removed until tomorrow morning, taking it off early will compromise the potions I've treated it with. And do read that newspaper when you get a chance. From what I've read, this Sirius Black seems quite intent on harming you."
And with that, he was gone, the door clicking shut as Hedwig hooted at his departure, as if to bid him farewell.
The headlining article that morning had been about Sirius Black's attack on an unnamed muggle house the previous night. One muggle injured. Alert all authorities immediately if spotted. Do not approach. Dangerous and Mad. Former servant to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.
Harry tossed the paper from him, making a frustrated grunt. There were two Lord Voldemorts running about. One who is Tom, and one who is not but also once was. A deranged prisoner was hunting him. Ginny was still dead and he was still the one who did it. He wasn't even sure of his memory of last night and why it conflicted so much with the reports the Ministry made.
He looked up from the table.
His wand was just underneath the bed, perhaps kicked under from his hasty search of the blankets.
-xXx-
Tom wound his way through the crowd of Diagon Alley, parents dragging their children through the last of their shopping for school, children whining in that frequency that made mothers cluck their tongue. He kept his head bowed low, his hair curling around the edge of the soft cap he wore. It was a bit too hot for such adornments, but the precaution was necessary. If a bit extreme.
He was certain that nobody alive today would recognize him as the young Lord Voldemort, before his looks and charm had been so heavily distorted by dark magic and rituals. Well, nobody except a certain Headmaster.
'Former headmaster,' he corrected.
No, Tom Riddle had surely all but faded away. A handsome, promising young student who never lived up to his potential. Disappeared into obscurity.
He took a turn down an alley way, the crowd substantially thinner. Substantially less savory.
He smiled a rare, genuine smile at the thought of Harry. He was a stubborn one. Typical Gryffindor. Headstrong, too emotional for his own good. He supposed it was admiral, how he stood his ground, baring teeth that weren't nearly as pointy or scary as he thought. Like a kitten imitating a lion.
It was certainly not ideal, starting from square one in earning the boy's trust again. He, like many Gryffindors, could be loyal to a fault once it was earned, but Harry was not the most generous in that department. It did not take a genius or a muggle therapist to see that his tumultuous and abusive home life had made the boy distrustful, doubtful of any adult no matter how kind and trusting they seemed. Tom had spent a great deal of time within his head to know that he was even becoming a bit more shrewd to Dumbledore, avoiding his glances and skirting around questions.
Lying to him.
It made him proud, if he were being honest.
Tom wandered through Knockturn Alley, slowing by shop windows and inclining his head in interest at the displayed trinkets. A witch with a broken nose and glass eye stood only several feet away, calling out to come and see her collection of blood vials.
'Unicorn! Merfolk! Siren! Virgin! Each only 40 galleons! A right bargain!'
Tom considered her for a moment. Merfolk blood could certainly be useful, several potions popping in mind that he wouldn't mind having a go at. The Dursley family would be suitable guinea pigs, he thought, a wry grin twisting and marring his features.
No. He doubted it was even authentic Merfolk blood. Forty galleons was too much a bargain for that.
Still, the idea of teaching the Dursleys a lesson or two lingered in his mind, and he stepped into the shop, hoping to find something a bit more genuine.
He shivered at the remembrance of drinking the polyjuice potion, his skin bulging and sagging until he resembled Vernon Dursley, giving the Aurors an account of an event that had not happened. As proud and delighted as he was- watching Harry slice and dice that wretched woman until she resembled raw meat- it would do no good for the authorities to make wind of what had occurred.
Sirius Black had proved to be a handy excuse. A bit of memory work here and there, disorienting them until none of them could make heads or tails of whom the true attacker had been. Damaging the property a bit more- exploding a door out of its frame, bursting a window.
From there, it was only a matter of issuing a few unforgivables to alert the Aurors. A pluck of the hair and tossing the patriarch into the cupboard beneath the stairs- an irony he paused to chuckle at- Tom had assumed the role of Vernon Dursley and told the harrowing tale.
'That escaped loon came bursting in! Did something to my family- confounded them! Then he went after the boy! Chased him out the door and down the street!
It had, of course, been successful, though he rather loathed having to take the form of that oafish muggle. Just the thought of it made his lips curl into a snarl. Filthy.
But it had all been for Harry. The Ministry sent Marge to St. Mungo's, where she would be healed and obliviated. They had offered they Dursleys several healing potions, but Tom had vehemently denied them- no doubt the muggles would rather suffer through several days of lingering effects of the confundus before accepting magical help.
He paused in front of a display of potions, slim and oblong bottles of varying colors and clarity, yellowing tags wrapped around the necks of them with their price. He picked up a bottle of something dark silver, metallic and shimmery as he held it up to the light.
"Elixir of Odium," a voice said, and he turned to find the shopkeep- an attractive woman with waist length straight black hair and dark olive skin- approaching him. "Even a drop of it can inspire one to give in to their darkest and most poisonous hatred. Turn friends into enemies, lovers into bitter rivals."
He quirked a brow. "What if I just wanted it for some fun? As in making a family tear each other a part? Literally."
She grinned, gray eyes flicking over him slowly, drinking in his appearance before leaning forward, exposing more of her breasts to him. "I'd say you and I have a very different idea of fun."
He frowned, settling the bottle back on the table before leaving, ignoring her calls to come back. Snake oil salesmen. Knockturn Alley was overrun with them.
No matter, he could teach the Dursleys a lesson without their assistance.
When he was through with them, they would regret ever laying a finger on his Harry.
His horcrux.
-xXx-
Beauxbatons really was a lovely school, with all the charm and romance one would come to expect from France. It was smaller than Hogwarts had been, and the entire castle was raised on large, arched pillars over the river that ran through the countryside. The water was clear and pristine, the brilliant rock bed below the surface displaying an array of colors. Of greens and grays and blues. Wildflowers grew along the side of it, lilies and daisies racing on the water's edge, coloring the landscape in yellows and pinks.
The castle itself, from where it sat above the running water, was built in white stones, ivy growing over top it, snaking over the rough texture of the exterior. It stood clear among the world, no trees to hide behind, no mountains to be nestled in. It was surrounded only by a large valley of sweet and spicy herbs, of aromatic flowers. There was, not too far in the distance, a stable house, equally as stately as the castle itself. The silvery sheen of the Unicorns' coats could be seen from across the way, brilliant in the glow of the orange sun.
Really, it was very lovely, with high ceilings that contained picturesque and dizzying murals, so intricate that one would make themselves sick as they leaned back to take in the view of it all, turning about in circles. Paintings of all things lovely; of Aphrodite born from sea foam, of swans swooning through a blue sky, dancing around chubby cherubs with protruding bellies and full cheeks, golden curls. With tall windows and parapets, stained glass inlaid so that when the sun shone through it created a kaleidoscope of colors.
It was stunning, but it was not home. It was not Hogwarts.
The soft, silken tendrils of a willow tree shrouded Harry from the world beyond it, from the field and the gardens that enveloped the castle. It was cool and dark, bits of sunlight streaming through the small spaces left between the slim and looming branches. It was the first day of term, and he had already started off on quite the wrong note.
He was supposed to be in class- History of Magic to be exact, but it had all been too much. Too overwhelming.
From the feel of Hermione's small arms as they wrapped around him, and the hurt look on her face when he had not returned the embraced, slinking away from her and disappearing into the crowd (Ginny was dead and it was all his fault and his parents were killed protecting him and he was cursed and he would not drag anyone else down with him, no matter how much his heart ached at the absence.) From the food served at breakfast which was alright but not like Hogwarts's feasts- croissants and fruit and soft cheeses instead of hearty porridge and plump sausage which burst with oil when pierced with the prongs of a fork.
From the tilted accents. From the unfamiliar faces.
But he had managed. He had gotten through the morning well enough, quiet and to himself and with his head bowed. It hadn't been until lunch that it had decided he couldn't do it any further, when he had risen from his seat- plate untouched, and left the hall with a racing heart. A letter clutched in his fist, dropped on his lap by an unknown owl, with his name written on the envelope in a terribly familiar scrawl.
History of Magic had started ten minutes ago, and instead of sitting in class, he was hidden by the shadow of a looming tree, a wrinkled letter from Tom Riddle in his hands.
He toyed with the envelope, fingernails dragging over the wax seal until there was bits of smooth silver wax stuck under them. He would not open it. Not now. Perhaps not ever. He unwound the cord bunching together his rucksack, tossing the letter inside, where it would be out of sight though not out of mind. He couldn't imagine Tom ever would be.
He had wound himself in to the wrinkled organ that was his brain, wrapping around the synapses and the amygdala and all the other primitive parts. The parts that dictated fear, terror.
He stifled a yawn, pressing a hand against his mouth. He hardly slept the night prior, a bundle of nervous energy about the unfamiliar surroundings, the place that was an impostor of the school he had known (it was fine, but it wasn't home) and even when he had managed to fall asleep, he was startled awake by a nightmare.
Blood warped pages, dark blue eyes flashing crimson.
He was haunted by the ghosts of things he couldn't quite forget, things he couldn't really remember.
And yet, the air was cool and it was dark and quiet and he could hear the water as it ran over the rock bed, could hear the distant sound of songbirds tweeting into the morning. And his head fell to his shoulder, heavy, eyes blinking into the world that became less focused around him.
He wondered if it was possible to hallucinate if you were tired enough. To see things that weren't there as your brain ebbed between consciousness. It must be.
He could have sworn he saw a large and mangy black dog in the distance, only seconds before his eyes closed for good, snoring softly beneath the canopy of leaves.
-xXx-
Author's Note: I hope you all enjoyed! Follow me on tumblr at reneehartblog for sneak peeks, fandoms, and any answers to questions!
Thanks for reading!