Author's Note: I do not remember the name of the user to give proper credit (if you do, let me know so I can!) but a Tumblr post floated around awhile ago that the reason the Dursleys were so exceptionally cruel was because they were living exposed to a Horcrux- Harry- for all those years. While it's a pretty easy theory to poke holes into, I always thought it was a neat concept (and honestly would have loved for his horcrux to be more active in the books, which is pretty much what this fic is premised on.)- Not that it excuses or justifies the Dursley's treatment of him, of course, it was just an extra dimension I thought worth exploring. It's the drama it creates that I love, if I'm being honest. I'm a messy bitch. I sort of went with that theory here, as you'll soon see.
Chapter Six: The Search, the Painting and the Memory
(Beginning of Summer, in which Tom brings Harry to his home)
"Well?" Tom asked expectantly, settling the trunk down on the linoleum floor of the cluttered and dated kitchen. When Harry said nothing, unsure of what to say now that he willingly stood inside the home of the young Dark Lord, he added, "It isn't much, but it's home. Quiet. You haven't eaten yet, right? I can make up a sandwich if you'd like. I've also got some dried pasta if you don't mind waiting for it to cook."
Harry finally turned to watch him as he flitted about, opening the doors to a pantry which creaked and groaned in protest and he opened his mouth only to close it, stammering over the words. It was startlingly normal and domestic, and he was still waiting for the decision to go with Tom to turn against him, for a large snake to slither out from hiding and for the disembodied voice of Voldemort to cackle from another room. He had half-expected it to be a trap, a year long ruse of manipulation and torture and the promise of solace only for it to be torn from under him.
But there was no high-pitched laughter, and when Harry did not answer Tom poked his head out from the pantry to look at him, a brow raised. "Harry?"
He shook his head of the thought. "Sorry...a sandwich is fine."
Tom pulled a half eaten loaf of bread out, closing the pantry behind him as he made his way to the squat and ancient fridge. "I've got some ham in here, if you'd like. A bit on the dry side I'm afraid but more than edible. I might have some cheese as well-"
The sound of his voice was dimmed by the glass jars clattering together as he rummaged through, Harry turning away from him to examine the home. It was an old farmhouse, sitting on a large plot of overgrown and ill-kept land. Ivy crawled up the shingled facade, creeping underneath the wooden siding and growing within the very structure of the house, the gray paint chipping away to reveal the old wood below. The kitchen was uneven, it was the first thing Harry noticed, the floor dipping down in the center where the table and three mismatched chairs sat below a bare bulb. The cabinets were original and slanted on their brass hinges, the tiled counter dingy and cracked.
It made Harry crinkle his nose- this was hardly the place he had imagined for Tom. Everything about the older boy was thoughtful and perfect, not a stray curl deviating from his coif. He was ever aware of his appearance- almost comically vain- and his lips always skewed into a scowl when he saw Harry's untidy hair and his over-sized, baggy clothes.
Tom was sleek and cosmopolitan and the house was rustic and dilapidated.
"Where did you find this place?" Harry asked, eyeing the old and worn cookbooks on the counter, the lovingly displayed china that sat separate in a corner cabinet, the sort of china that Aunt Petunia had that he wasn't even allowed to clean, so precious it was. This house had belonged to someone, once upon a time. This was someone's home and these were their things and his stomach twisted with the revulsion of what Tom might have done.
If Tom knew what turbulent thoughts were running through Harry's head, he did not acknowledge it, shrugging as he layered uneven cuts of cheddar over top the ham. "An estate sale. The owner died several years ago and the house never went because of its distance to towns and cities, not to mention a crumbling foundation and mold problems. It was a steal."
Harry turned to stare at the back of his head, trying to determine whether or not it was true or just another crafted lie.
Tom turned, carrying two plates- each topped with two sandwiches- with him to the table and settling them down on opposite sides. "I can fetch you the legal documents if you're so inclined. I'm sure there's even a copy of the obituary we can dig up."
He settled a jug of milk in the center of the table, conjuring two glasses that twirled on the soft tablecloth before coming to rest by the food. Harry's stomach growled noisily, and it took all he had to not leap across the kitchen and stuff as much food in his mouth as physically possible. Straining to use his manners and not startle Tom, he sat down and brought the sandwich to his lips, tearing a too large bite off.
The ham was dry, the meat thick and chewy and the bread a tad on the stale side. But it was food and he savored the flavor as it sat on his tongue, enjoyed it even as he struggled to swallow the lump that sat like a heavy weight in his stomach. It was uncomfortable, in the most pleasant of ways.
When he finished his first sandwich, he paused, taking several sips of milk as he carefully avoided the look of concern Tom was giving him, dark blue eyes unusually soft.
"So your family just...wasn't there? They simply went on holiday?" he asked. He hadn't even touched his own food, and Harry blushed, suddenly realizing that Tom had watched as he devoured his with the ferocity of a feral creature.
He shook his head, cleared his throat- the ham really was too dry. "Honestly I'm surprised they made it this long before officially abandoning me. They've come close before, I guess. When I was eleven and was first going to Hogwarts they dropped me off only to drive away while laughing. They thought the idea of a platform nine and three-quarters was funny." He wasn't sure why he had shared so much, a simple yes would have been more than adequate. He grabbed the other sandwich and took a bite before he could reveal anything else, this one smaller and more manageable.
Tom took a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully and slowly, and they sat in silence for some time, the only sound the occasional clink of a glass as it was settled back on the table. When Harry had finished he settled his hands on his lap as the strangeness of the situation settled in- now what?
In answer to the unspoken question, Tom said, "I'll give you a quick tour in a moment and bring you to your room, but before that, there is something I'd like to discuss." He took a bite, considered his next words as he ate. Harry tried to steady his nerves, trying to not twist the simple words into anything more than they were. But this was Tom, and he immediately bounded to worst case scenarios, imagining that the sandwiches were poisoned or that Voldemort was hidden in the next room over.
"I think I'd like to teach you occlumency over the summer."
Harry frowned, narrowing his eyes. "Occlu...what?"
"Occlumency. It's the art of blocking your mind from intrusion...legilimency, as it's known as."
"Why?" Harry asked, only to scowl when he remembered that Tom had once told him he could read his mind. Though it did only make the question of why all the more confusing- why would Tom want Harry to guard his mind? It seemed the sort of thing that Tom would want access to, invading him like a disease.
"I've spent the last several months researching and theorizing about Voldemort and how we're all tied together and I think it might be the safest route." Harry shivered at that, not liking the idea of being linked to such men- a parasite which thrived in chaos and destruction; a pretty monster who spoke in only lies and manipulations. Tom blinked at Harry before continuing. "I don't think he knows yet about the connection, but he won't be in the dark forever. And when he does discover it, I can't take the risk of him trying to use it against you. And I'm certain you wouldn't want him poking in your head, seeing what you see?"
He shook his head, glasses sliding down his nose with the erratic motion. He didn't dare think about what havoc would be wreaked if Voldemort were privy to his thoughts, to what was happening to and around him. But there was a problem with Tom's plan, and Harry frowned as he said, "I can't use magic outside of school though."
"You won't need to. It's essentially meditating. It's a very difficult skill to master, but we can at least begin, that way you can continue to practice once school commences," he answered. He pushed his plate away from him, one half of his sandwich remaining, and leaned back in his chair. "So, you think you want to give it a go?"
"If it means keeping Voldemort out, than yeah, sure," he said. He might enjoy it, after all- getting to learn another facet of magic, immersing himself in the world he loved so much, yet was kept from for two months of the year. He had always loved learning, and Tom was, he begrudgingly admitted, a wonderful teacher. He recalled all those days where he had gone into the library to study, only to find his questions better answered by the blank diary than any text on the shelves.
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud thud, and Harry startled, looking up to where the single bulb shook in its place. The ceiling- sagging in the center- seemed to tremble with the reverberation of whatever had made the noise. He raised his head, watching as the chain hanging from the ceiling continued to shiver. He swallowed thickly. "What was that?"
Tom paused, looking at Harry thoughtfully, ends of his lips twitching. "A surprise for you. Getting rather rambunctious, if I had to take a guess." The words were not malicious, nor was there anything that ran between them that might have said otherwise; there was no harshness between the syllables, no cruelty worked between the playful inflection. And yet, it caused Harry to still, a small voice in his head condemning him, admonishing him for ever having thought he could trust Tom Riddle again when it had only ever resulted in blood that settled in the lines of his palms, a map of his sins.
What sort of surprise had Tom wrangled for him? What could possibly be locked away upstairs, impatiently waiting for Harry to stumble upon it? His thoughts went first to Voldemort, the insubstantial parasite that remained of the wizard. The one that had sunk its very being into Quirrel's head, digging unseen talons into gray matter, teeth into synapses, until nothing remained of the man except a vessel, one which would be easily disposed. How might he exist now?
It was impossible to imagine, a soul existing without a body. Not quite a ghost- a bit too real, a bit too corporeal. There was still a strength that lingered, the ability to possess someone, to feed off them. Still some magic that sparked and ignited within the nebulous veins, that ran through the nothingness, like the thunder that hissed and spliced through heavy storm clouds.
He was pulled away from his thoughts by the sound of a chair- his own chair- scraping across the floor, one leg tipping over the uneven tilt of it. He stood, wand slipping out from his sleeve to rest in his palm, a comfort, a security, and made his way to the threshold where the kitchen spilled out to a dark hall. He placed one hand out to clutch at the molding of the archway, the other coming out before him as he wielded his wand, peering into the darkness.
At the end of the hall was a large door, surrounded by two thin windows that ran the same length of it- the front door, no doubt. There was a chandelier that dangled just above, the chain running all the way from the ceiling, through the second floor and down to the first. It was coated in a thick layer of dust, cobwebs forming between the spaces of each separate arm. There were no decorative prisms or suspended crystals that meant to refract and bounce light, each cup enclosed by a shade made of stained glass. It might have been pretty if it were cleaned up, the ambers and crimson and navies of the glass muting and dimming the light, but it looked as if it had not been used in some time, and as if Tom intended to keep it that way.
There were two doorways midway through the corridor, standing at opposite ends of the wall- a parlor, a study, a dining room. Nothing, Harry was sure, of note, so he turned his attention instead to the large staircase, divided in half as it was split into a corner angle, obscuring from view the second floor that was shrouded in darkness.
"You're far too suspicious- are you certain you were not a Slytherin?" a playful voice came from behind him, the words warm as they curled around the shell of his ear. He gasped at the sudden closeness, his muscles tensing and flinching and he jumped, his back pressing against something soft yet sturdy.
Tom was standing directly behind him, had reached out a hand to place against Harry's shoulder and steady him. When had he moved so close? He had not heard the sound of a chair, the creak and groan of the ancient floor beneath his weight.
"I'm only suspicious because you've never given me a reason to trust you," he hissed.
He didn't need to look over his shoulder to know that Tom was smirking, one brow raised and dark eyes glittering as he said, "You don't trust me, and yet you've taken my invitation to stay with me all summer? You're either very foolish, or very brave then." He paused before adding, "Or both."
Harry certainly felt very foolish. He had willingly allowed himself to be dragged here, all because his stomach was taut with hunger and his skin prickled with gooseflesh in the cold. What had he been thinking?
He hadn't been thinking, he chided himself. He had given in to something weak, something selfish and pathetic and now here he stood, crouched within a doorway as he gazed into shadows. The sound came again, a soft thud, followed by a crash, as if something fragile had been knocked to the ground, shattering into pieces. The chandelier trembled slightly, dust motes, just barely visible in the light from the kitchen, fluttering in the air.
He moved forward, away from Tom and the oppressive feel of his chest against his back, his wand raised. The staircase creaked under his weight, the whole house an orchestra of rotting wood and sinking foundation. Tom followed behind him, muttering something below his breath that Harry did not hear but knew to be a taunt.
Tom was, at times, remarkably childish, Harry thought, though he shoved the notion away. To see the boy as childish was to underestimate him, and he would not fall into that mistake again.
He came to the top of the stairs, instinctively reaching his left arm out, trying to find a light switch only to meet air. Tom sighed behind him, flicking his wand. There was a three second delay before the light flickered once, twice, than finally settled, casting the hallway in a dim, orange light. The upstairs landing was large, wrapping around the staircase that sat in the center, a chain running down the empty space and to the chandelier below. Large windows took up one wall, though they were covered in heavy and ancient drapery, the plaid pattern nearly indistinguishable beneath the dust. The three other walls that wrapped around him were covered in peeling wallpaper, a chipped and dingy wainscoting that came halfway up the walls. There were doors dotted randomly about, the one before him with a strip of light below it.
"Go on then," Tom whispered behind him, his voice tilted in amusement. "Go and conquer the beast, Brave Gryffindor."
Harry skewed his lips, narrowed his eyes as he turned to look at Tom over his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to push the boy in the chest and send him reeling down the stairs. Each crash evoking a musical note from the noisy stairs, a descent marked in creaks and groans. But he didn't; instead he turned to face the door once more, bridging the distance between him and it and twisting the door knob, pushing it forward and revealing the lit room.
He didn't even have the chance to examine the room, eyes landing on the massive form of the black dog. Wide, brown eyes grew bright with recognition, and before Harry could even properly realize what was happening, Argos flung himself forward, massive paws coming to Harry's shoulders as he fell over. A wet nose prodded about his face, fluttering in sharp inhalations as if checking him over, making certain the boy was alright. Harry wheezed out a breath, the weight of the dog- so thin and frail looking, it seemed impossible he weighed so much- bearing down on his chest, making each breath a struggle.
"Argos," he hissed, nudging the dog away so he could sit up. Argos whined, stepped backwards so that he was settled between Harry's knees. He was anxious, head bobbing as he looked over Harry, brown eyes wide. Harry reached out, scratching the dog's ear, the fur matted and scraggly. "What are you doing here?"
Tom stepped forward to answer, standing uncomfortably close to Harry so that he was forced to lean forward, away from the oppressive weight of his shadow. "I thought you might like to care for him yourself. Besides, I won't always be available and I thought you'd like some more consistent company," Tom said, his tone souring as Argos barked harshly, hackles raising and baring his yellowing fangs. "Though of course, the best way to handle an aggressive mutt is to put it down." There was a sharpness there, the warning- or, more accurately, threat- and even Argos understood the intent, his bark turning into a low growl.
Satisfied, Tom grinned, turning his gaze back to Harry. "It's late. I'll let you get comfortable- we can continue our talk and plans for the summer over breakfast." He rose a hand, gesturing to the room where Argos had been concealed, was impatiently throwing himself against the door before Harry opened it. "This is where you'll be staying. My room-" he gestured now to a room opposite Harry's, across the hall and the winding staircase. "Is right over there. If you need anything, I'll either be there or my potions laboratory, down in the basement." He turned around, walking away from Harry even as he continued to speak. "Feel free to help yourself to the kitchen or the library over there. And don't worry, this house is heavily warded against intruders, you'll be perfectly safe here."
When he stood in front of his bedroom door, Tom finally turned to face Harry, lips curling into a smile, shadows falling across the sharp contours of his face. "Sleep well, Harry. I'll see you in the morning." With that, he disappeared, leaving Harry alone with Argos and the strange thoughts left behind in the curious boy's wake.
-xXx-
"Two weeks have passed, and still not a single report you've gone missing," Tom muttered, tossing aside the Daily Prophet and turning his attention back to his scrambled eggs.
Harry settled his fork down, reaching across the table to pick it up, pulling it into his lap as he scanned over the front page. There was nothing of great note, the headline news being yet another post about the much anticipated Quidditch World Cup- which teams still stood a chance to play in the game, and which teams were most expected to. Smaller blurbs sat around it- one dedicated to the upcoming school year and a project that a Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, was quoted to be 'very much looking forward to' and 'unlike anything they've seen before.' Another blurb was offered to pay mind to the still closed school of Hogwarts, and the mystery that lurked within- one which resulted in the death of a young student. Still no leads in an investigation that had run cold, the tragedy passing it's anniversary date just a few months prior.
His stomach churned as he returned the paper to where Tom had left it, his appetite gone. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you wanted the Ministry to be tracking you for kidnapping me," he said, trying to keep his tone light even as his smile twitched and faded, the words lingering in his mind, twisting and turning over and over again. The anniversary of the tragedy. Over a year had passed since Ginny's death, and here he sat, chatting with Tom over eggs and sausage.
"I could have killed you by now," was all Tom said, dark blue eyes turning up to meet Harry's own, lips pinched. "I could have killed you and Dumbledore wouldn't even know. You would think that there would be better systems in place." He stood now, chair scrapping noisily over the floor as he tossed his dishes into the sink. "Voldemort is out there roaming about, and Dumbledore couldn't even be bothered enough to make sure you get home safe? Would it have been so much to send someone out? He could have even gone out himself, not as if he's so busy being unemployed and all."
"Why do you care?" Harry interrupted, trying to keep his voice level. Tom had been surprisingly pleasant for the few weeks he'd been there, but he knew what potentially lurked beneath the surface. That Tom's moods could be mercurial, that there was very little to separate him from the boy he was now to the man he might grow to be.
"I care because Dumbledore clearly doesn't," Tom hissed in response, turning to lean against the counter, his eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. "Not only did he leave you to be abused and mistreated by the Dursleys, but he doesn't even check in on you? Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, going missing should be front page news but instead your absence hasn't even be noticed." He sighed, raising a hand and scratching thoughtfully along his jaw. His voice had risen, words being spat out as if they left a horrid taste in his mouth, but when he spoke again, his tone was soft, calm. "Why don't you care?"
"I-I.." Harry stammered, unsure of what to say or even what he would say if the words could come to him. Why didn't he care?
Was it because he was used to being invisible, the broad strokes of the Dursley's negligence leaving him comfortable in the feeling of being forgotten? He preferred it even- it meant they were not actively seeking to harm him, to torment or belittle him. Being unseen, the day slipping by with no one speaking to him or even acknowledging him as he passed- those were the good days. That was the standard that he had set himself when he was back in Privet Drive, that was where his spectrum lay, between the margins of abuse and negligence.
Or did he not care because he ceased expecting others to? How many knew of the way he lived and did nothing to stop it? The damning address marked on the letters Hogwarts first sent to him, the fact that the Weasleys had seen him in the room and pulled the bars from his windows and still did not mention it beyond using it as an excuse for breaking the rules. Of course they had to leave past curfew and steal the car, Harry was locked in a room, hardly getting fed. And then it was never brought up again.
He didn't care, because no one else seemed to. Not really, at least.
Except Tom. Again, when all others turned a blind eye, reacted with apathy or sympathy with inaction, Tom was the only one who cared. Enough to change it. Enough to help him.
Harry shrugged, wanting the conversation to end. He hated when Tom made him feel this way, twisting his thoughts until they became traitorous. He hated that he was beginning to agree. "The Dursleys are probably lying and hiding it. I doubt they want to get in trouble for losing me," was all he said, knowing that it was a weak and pitiful excuse. What chance did muggles stand, lying to wizards?
But Argos was whining, the pitch high and irritating and Harry was thankful for the distraction, tossing his uneaten sausage on the ground for the dog to eat. "Go on, better than to waste it," Harry urged when the dog did not immediately turn to eat it.
"What are your plans for today? Can't fly, not with this storm," Tom asked, turning his attention to the windows and the rain which pelted against it, turning the world outside into a nothingness of gray and the low rumble of distant thunder.
Thankful that Tom had let him change the topic- surely, if Harry didn't buy his own excuse, neither did Tom- Harry sighed. "I don't know."
He had gone flying everyday since arriving, going so high that he could reach the domed ceiling of the ward Tom had placed over the farmhouse, fingers pressing against the otherwise invisible shield that shined iridescently as Harry prodded against it. It had felt wonderful to spend his summer this way, soaring high alongside Hedwig, releasing and catching the snitch over and over. He hadn't played Quidditch since his second year, had barely even flown on a broom since entering Beauxbatons and he had nearly forgotten how wonderful it felt, how freeing. He did somersaults and loops, had counted how long he could fly upside down for before his head felt too heavy and his vision blurred. And when he became too tired to fly, he would lay in the overgrown grass, the heat of the sun settling over him like a blanket, reading the books Tom had given him for occlumency, Argos curled against him. Writing letters to Luna that Tom promised to send to her after charming them for security.
"Can we practice occlumency?" he asked. "Like real practice, not just me reading about it and you telling me techniques?" He had yet to actually try keeping Tom from his mind, had merely spent the few weeks studying and attempting to meditate. Something he was abysmal at as Tom enjoyed reminding him- "You're not clearing your head," Tom would say, adding "And thinking about how bored you are is only going to make it more daunting."
He hated being reminded that Tom was privy to his most intimate thoughts. But how could anyone possibly not think anything at all?
Tom hummed. "I have some potion orders to fulfill, but afterwards we can try. You should help with the potions, it doesn't require magic and it will go by faster that way." Before Harry could argue against spending an entire day with Tom, the wizard had grabbed hold of him and hoisted him up, leading him down to the basement.
-xXx-
(August 12, the Evening After Arabella Figg writes Dumbledore)
Petunia Dursley prided herself in keeping a good home. The garden was always bright and well manicured, the exterior of her home clean and neat- she had on more than one occasion instructed her nephew to sweep the path leading from the driveway to her home, even as he argued that such a task was ridiculous. She valued order and control, she thrived in routine, so it came as no surprise that she was practically electric with her nervous energy, twisting her fingers in her lap.
It was nearly nine in the evening now, and the roast she had made for dinner would be cold and untouched, having sat on the table for two hours. They were just preparing to sit down and enjoy supper when a loud pop rang through their home, bringing with it swift chaos and disorder.
And now she sat on her sofa, Vernon beside her, his face red and mottled. Dudley had been sent upstairs, with much protesting on his part, as her living room became stuffed to the brim with people she did not know, though many whom she recognized in the stories and memories that Lily brought with her all those years ago. She had only met two of them before, the older wizard with the long white beard tucked into his belt- Dumbledore.
The other she had known from childhood, long before she had learned of the bright and loud and magical world that she could never be part of. He sat quiet in the corner, looking just as pale and dour as he had as a child, though his clothes were tailored for him and not a much older, larger person. His hair was still lank and greasy, his nose somehow looking even more crooked than she recalled. Had he broken it since she last saw him?
She was drawn abruptly from her reverie by a harsh, callous voice, spoken by a man with an erratic glass eye and chunks missing from his scarred face. "You don't even care, do you? That he's missing. That he could be in danger. Hell, he could be dead and in an unmarked grave while you went about your summer like-"
"Alastor," Dumbledore interrupted, his voice as soft and measured as Alastor's was grating. The man stopped his tirade, though he mumbled something cruel below his breath that made her flinch.
She swallowed thickly, lowering her head to avoid the judging gazes and stared at her lap, at her too bony fingers as they wound in the skirt of her dress. Her mind was a fog, it was hard to think. It all seemed so clear and easy when Harry was there- he was a burden, a presence in their life they had not wanted that brought nothing but grief and misery and anger.
But when he was gone- when he was away at school and the shadow that seemed to move with him dissipated- it was less clear. What had he actually done that was so bad besides existing in a strange and frightening world? He was still a child, her sister's child, nonetheless. She had loved her once, she knew, but somewhere love had been replaced with jealousy and resentment and bitterness. How? When? Why?
She would vow to be kinder to the child, in honor of her sister whom she had loved and lost. But then he would return for the summer, and with it came the shadow and the cloud and she called recall with perfectly clarity just how rotten he was.
A pattern of cruelty even she couldn't quite understand.
"Where did you think he would go when you left him alone? He's fourteen years old, you think that's old enough to figure it all out?" She looked up- it wasn't the rough voice of Alastor, though not quite as soft or measured as Dumbledore's, fire and judgment lacing his words. The man who spoke might have been handsome, if not for some deep scars that cut into his face.
She fumbled for words, her tongue too dry, when Vernon cleared his throat. "He's got magic, hasn't he? I'd think he'd be fine while we went to visit my sister- who is petrified of him and won't dare come over even when he's away!"
The same man frowned, narrowing his eyes. "Why is she petrified of him?"
"She was here when that man- Black?- came after him. Did a number on her," Petunia answered, though the memory of that night was a bit of a strain to recall, like a dream she had dreamt a long time ago. Strange- perhaps it was the trauma of the evening.
"Her memory was erased," Alastor spoke, his voice a sneer.
She blanched, her temper swelling at his doubtful tone. She shook her head, hissing "I know that! But she's still afraid of him. It's like something from that night...lingered."
He always seemed to linger.
"So you just left him to fend for himself...leaving Black the perfect opportunity to snatch him?" The voice belonged to a young woman, her face pinched and stormy, her hair a ghastly shade of blue.
The indignation rose in her, growling within her chest. "And what would have changed if we had been here, then? Would Black have slaughtered my family? Am I just expected to put my safety- my son's safety!- on the line for him?" she yelled, her voice filling the all too crowded space, wavering despite her bravado. A deal had been a deal, sure, but she would only do so much for that boy. For her sister. The safety of her family was not on the table.
"May we see his room?" Dumbledore asked, and she exhaled sharply.
"Why?"
"I'd like to see if he settled in at all. Determine when within the week you were gone that he disappeared," he asked, his soft tone darkening, words unsaid staining the ones spoken.
She swallowed, sighing. "His room is used for storage. He's only hear for the summer, after all, so until he returns that's how it stays," she lied, knowing that there was no sympathy that would be gained if they knew where he really slept. That the spare bedroom they had given him had only been his for a few months between his first and second year.
Dumbledore did not falter, inclining his head towards her. "I'd still like to see it. To make certain whether or not he did manage to get settled."
She did not answer, biting her lip and turning her gaze to meet Vernon's. She could bring them to the spare room, though there wasn't even a bed in there, just some of Dudley's old toys and forgotten school books. Before she could think of the matter any further, a creak cut through the silence, gooseflesh prickling her skin. She turned in the direction of the sound, her breath hitching as the door to the cupboard under the stairs swung open, just barely visible from where she sat.
"Tonks, would you mind taking a peek in that curious closet?" Dumbledore asked, though there was no hint of amusement or kindness in his voice. His eyes did not move from Petunia, even as the girl with wild hair- Tonks- crossed the room and into the hall, falling to her knees and looking within the cupboard. She reached forward, pulling the string that attached to the bare bulb, light spilling outward. She stared at what Petunia knew was a thin, worn mattress, a matching blanket and pillow. There were some personal trinkets kept upon the shelves directly under stairs, tattered books Harry had outgrown but kept regardless.
Tonks sighed, the sound more like a growl, as she rose to her feet, slamming the door closed with such force that it bounced in the frame, opening as she walked back. "How long has he been sleeping there? Can't imagine a crib fit too well under there, eh?" Her words were vicious, taunting, as she rounded on Petunia, her wand gripped threateningly in her hand.
"Nymphadora," the man with cuts marring his voice said imploringly, and she growled, turning to him.
"Remus! They made him sleep in a closet half his size! Don't act like you wouldn't love to hex away his bollocks and her ugly mu-"
"I understand Black is the more obvious culprit, but all else failing, I believe we may want to consider the possibility that Potter ran away," Severus interrupted, speaking for the first time since the party had disturbed the Dursley's supper. There was a silence, a look of contemplation flitting over their faces.
Alastor scowled. "And go where? He sure as hell ain't at the Weasley's unless Arthur here is enjoying the wild goose chase."
A man with a round belly and fiery red hair frowned, shook his head. "No, obviously not. What about Hermione? Though I don't think she'd let him do something as irresponsible as just leave without owling it to someone..."
Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm afraid that Harry and Miss Granger have gone their separate ways. He avoided her all year and when I visited she expressed her concern over his sudden change of behavior." He looked pensive for a moment, raising a hand and tapping a finger against his lips idly. After a moment, he added, "I believe Severus may be right, in a way. I believe someone- Black, though I wouldn't discount others- may have spent the previous year, if not longer, manipulating Harry."
"Black broke out at the end of the summer last year...do you think that's enough time?" Remus asked, his voice low and heady, something to his words that Petunia couldn't quite distinguish, his eyes focusing on a fixed spot on the floor. There was anger and bitterness, yes, she was quite acquainted with those feelings. But there was something else, a sort of sadness to them maybe.
"Harry was inquisitive about Black. It's possible he somehow got in contact with Harry and managed to...twist things to him. He was friends with James and Lily before betraying them to Voldemort, he could have used that to endear Harry to him."
Petunia's head shot up at the statement, the sadness and betrayal, yes it was betrayal in Remus's voice. Because this man, Black, had been friends with them all and had betrayed Lily- her sister- to the man who killed her. He was responsible for her death and now he had her nephew?
There was a tightness in her chest, and heat prickled behind her eyes. The air was thinning around her, and she could hardly breathe, it was too sparse, there was not enough of it. There had been a veil of disassociation, a convenient forgetfulness. They had told Harry that Lily and James had died in a car crash, and even long after he discovered the truth, it was as if she had been living in that reality. The reality where her estranged sister had died quickly in a traffic accident.
She had somehow managed to separate herself entirely from the fact that her sister was murdered. That there had been a war- though Petunia did not know the details, had detached herself from Lily and ignored her incessant chatting about the world that would forever elude her. Her sister had fought in a war, had been hunted down by some...beast. And betrayed by someone she had loved and trusted, someone who had wormed his way into her life. Harry's life.
She was stung by the betrayal, not of Black's, but her own. She had allowed- through her neglect- her nephew to fall to the same fate as his mother and father.
She had loved Lily once, she recalled.
"But why wouldn't Harry tell anyone? If Black did turn him I doubt it was in one afternoon. He had to have worked on him for months. Why wouldn't he tell someone?" Tonks asked, the voice startling Petunia from her thoughts.
It was Alastor who answered. "A tongue-tying curse, I imagine. Most iterations are childish in nature and easy to break, but the darker ones..." he paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully before adding, "Some are practically Unbreakable Vows, though they don't require the consent of the second party. Generally they hinge on a sacrifice, though not of your life. I once worked with a mute who lost his voice after being placed under such a curse and trying to break it. Terrible curses. Terribly dark."
"So Black curses him to silence, spends a year trying to earn Potter's trust, then takes him for the summer when he's most vulnerable," Severus drawled, turning an unreadable gaze to Petunia, the inky black eyes looking down on her. "Sounds like an awful lot of work, and for what? Do you think he could be working in conjunction with the Dark Lord? That Potter was needed alive?"
Dumbledore looked thoughtful, eyes worn and weary as if he had not slept in some time, the exhaustion making him appear even older, making each wrinkle deeper. Fingers ran down the length of his silver beard, blue eyes looking about him as if he might find Harry hiding underneath the furniture. "It's possible. Alastor, why don't you and Tonks go ahead and alert the Minister, rally the Aurors and tell them what we believed to have happened. They'll want to perform their own investigation no doubt, so Arthur and Severus while stay here to ensure that nothing is altered while we await their arrival."
Petunia opened her mouth to protest, that her home was not open for these strange people to just traipse about it. That this was not a crime scene no matter how much they wanted to make it one. That she was under no legal obligation to allow them in- she was not a witch, and these were not her law officers.
But Dumbledore rose a hand to silence her before she could even speak, turning then to Remus and a stern looking witch, graying brown hair pulled back in a tight bun. "Harry may have lost touch with Hermione and Ron, but he did make friends with another witch. Luna Lovegood, a former Ravenclaw, I'm sure Minerva remembers her. Why don't you two pay her a visit and see what she can tell us about Harry. How he behaved, anything he said that might not have been stopped by a tongue-tying curse."
They nodded, dutifully, each readying to fulfill their task, a sudden flurry of energy taking hold of them. A purpose, a drive reigniting them. A loud crack, followed by a pitched pop made her jump and press against Vernon as Tonks and Alastor disappeared in a plume of smoke, followed by Remus and the stern-faced woman, Minerva. Arthur began to rummage about the home, peering into Harry's closet himself and tutting angrily before heading upstairs.
"My son!" Petunia called out sharply, not wanting Dudley to get pulled into this...this mess. This weird and chaotic world that was quickly enveloping her, threatening to strangle her. She made it to the landing before she was stopped, fingers curling around her wrist and pulling her down roughly. She stumbled, inclining her chin to meet Dumbledore's eyes.
"Your son will have to be interviewed, but I assure you, he will not be harmed," he said, voice cold in a way that even Petunia knew to be uncharacteristic. "Let's you and I have a chat. Is there somewhere private we can speak?"
-xXx-
Luna Lovegood's room was just as colorful and whimsical as she was, standing against a space that was organized in a manner only the one who organized it could discern. The walls were murals, each hand painted, lovingly and delicately. This wall was a canvas of the night sky, a deep navy saturated with swirls of magenta and violets, bright hot stars forming constellations. The wall opposite it was a garden of fauna and flora that Remus wasn't even entirely sure truly existed, but the certainty of each line, the vibrancy of the colors of the unfurling petals made him believe they were. The other two were unfinished, hazy lines and solid blocks of color that would be deepened and fleshed out when she had the moment. Twine ran across the length of the room, paintings clipped to it that he tried to examine but there were so many to get lost within he forced himself to stop and look to the girl before him.
Her long hair, the color of wheat, was tied into several braids, sprigs of lavender poking out from random knots, and she was smiling at him and Minerva sweetly, as if she were receiving a visit from long-ago friends.
"Here they are," she said, handing the letters to Remus that had been opened and then carefully placed back within their envelopes, bound in twine. "See? Harry can't be missing. He's been writing me all summer."
Remus returned her smile. "So he has. Do you mind if I take them? I'm sure this will help everyone feel better about his disappearance?"
Her smile slipped, and she hesitated. "I've never gotten letters before," was all she said.
"We can make copies, then? And you'll keep the originals?" he offered, knowing how painful it could be to lose that physical link to your friendship. That it wasn't the letters she wanted, but what they meant to her.
She nodded slowly. "That would be alright, I guess."
"I'll do that," Minerva offered, taking the letters from Remus's grasp and settling down at Luna's desk to copy them, pushing aside tins of watercolor- the dried dollops mixed with all the colors she had not cared to wipe from her brush.
"You and Harry became good friends this year?" Remus asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.
Luna perked up at that, eyes glistening fondly. "Yes. He can be a bit distant sometimes, but that's alright. He's always nice to me and listens to me even when he thinks I'm being silly. I'm smarter than people think, you know? But it's fine that he doesn't always believe me, because he's still kind and pretends to believe," she prattled on, her adoration for the boy evident in the lilt of her voice, the wistful look on her young face, still round in her youth.
Remus felt himself smile despite his concern for Harry and the fear that Black might have him. He had never gotten a chance to meet the boy, but he knew he looked like his father, like James Potter but with a terrifying scar and Lily's eyes. His personality was all Lily, however, and he imagined that she would have been proud to hear the reverent way Luna spoke of her son.
"Has he ever told you about anything going on in his life outside of school? Maybe another friend who didn't go to school with you?"
Her eyes looked upward in thought, humming slightly. "He did mention something about being offered a place to live for the summer. Not with the Dursleys."
Remus felt his heart skip, his pulse heighten. The sound of papers shuffling ceased, a chair squeak as Minerva twisted to listen in. "Did he say with who?"
Luna frowned, shaking her head. "No. Just that he had hurt some people, but wouldn't hurt Harry. That he was nice to him, at the least." She averted her gaze then, cheeks coloring. "I told him to do it. Is it my fault he's gone?" Her voice had lost its airy quality, dread and regret weighing it down and making it heavy, too heavy for the young girl. Her lip trembled, and her eyes had turned watery, tears clinging to her lashes as she tried to hold them back.
Remus bent down at his hip, gripping her shoulders tight and reassuringly. "Of course not. Like you said, he's still been sending you letters, so he must be fine. I know you were just trying to give him the best advice you could. You were being a good friend, Luna," he told her, and she sniffled trying to believe what he said. Pretending to believe, just as Harry had done for her.
Minerva said something then, about how the letters had been charmed to be untraceable- magic far too advance for Harry even if he could perform magic- but Remus did not hear them, the sound of his pulse becoming overbearingly loud. He did not see it before, too lost in the clutter of everything else, but from this angle, bent to Luna's height, he could see the painting just above her bed. The one that sat above her pillows- the one she would see first thing in the morning if she slept facing the wall.
Remus stood, stepping aside the young girl and towards it, reaching out and plucking it from the where had been taped up.
"I was thinking of giving that one to Harry. Do you think he'll like it?" Luna asked, voice warbling over her unshed tears.
It took him a moment to answer, unable to look away from the painting. "He'll love it, Luna. But what is this a painting of?" he asked.
"The day I met him. Under the willow tree in Beauxbatons. There's me," she said, pointing to herself, a crown of ugly flowers over her head. "Harry. And that's Argos."
"Argos," Remus repeated, the words metallic on his tongue, like poison. "Argos is your dog?"
She shook her head. "Our dog. He must have been a stray, we started taking care of him last year."
The words barely registered, the sound of his heartbeat like the crashing waves of an ocean against the shore. Last year. Sirius Black had escaped just before the beginning of the school year. Sirius Black, an unregistered animagus whose likeness was captured quite well by Luna's talented hand. He tried to speak, but had to stop as each word stopped short, become a monosyllabic utterance. Hastily formed expressions as he felt something overcome him. Rage? Fear? Betrayal? Perhaps it was guilt, guilt that hadn't revealed the hidden abilities of his childhood friends. Guilt that he could have saved Harry from this if he had only told someone to be on the lookout for black dogs.
It was his fault, wasn't it?
"Wh-where is...Who has Argos now, Luna?" he asked.
"The house elves at school agreed to feed him for us. Until we could come back," she answered.
He glanced to Minerva, who was looking at him with concern and questions she wanted desperately to ask but held back for Luna's sake. "Remus?" she asked, sounding very much like the teacher she had once been, the one who often admonished him and his friends when their lives were much simpler. She knew, he realized, the moment he had begun to sweat and shake at the picture of a dog…
She knew.
She knew, and because of him, Sirius Black had Harry.
-xXx-
"You told Mr. Potter and Miss Lovegood you would feed their pet dog for them while they were out for the summer," Dumbledore said to the house elf, long and knobby fingers pulling nervously at her eyes which flapped with each bob of her head. "That was very kind of you. Have you been doing so?"
She made a noise, a cross between a growl and a keening sound, not unlike the panicked bleat of a sheep. "No, no, no. Bosky was going to, even though its against the rules, Bosky is sorry for breaking the rules!"
Madame Maxime smiled reassuringly, gently patting the elf's bulbous head. "It's alright, Bosky. Why didn't you feed him?"
The elf shrugged her thin and narrow shoulders, twining her fingers. "Bosky was going to but when she went to feed him, he was gone. Doggy must have run away when the kids left."
-xXx-
"Legilimens!" Tom shouted, wand raised at Harry who stood before him, the wind rustling and pressing against them, as if trying to uproot them from where they stood. It was as if he was pulled into a tunnel, his mind lurching forward, across the distance between them. There was a wall of resistance, one that Tom nudged against with greater force. Harry was getting better, stronger. Where there had once been nothing to stop him, an open book ready and waiting for the entirety of the world to slip through its pages, there was now a base, something for Harry to build upon. It was not flawless by any means, but it was a difficult skill to hone, one that many witches and wizards would never manage.
This was the Harry Tom most enjoyed. There were many facets to the young boy, much like Tom himself. Though while Tom's were all pretenses, carefully manufactured and tailored for whatever task was needed, Harry's were all genuine. It was as if there was too much of him to be contained in one simple vessel, as if he were more complex than anyone else in the world and donned a different mask for each one of his complexities.
The honor-bound martyr Harry was decidedly the one Tom liked the least, and thankfully the one he was wearing away. Like a sculptor chipping at marble, unveiling his masterpiece, so too was Tom chipping off the pieces of Harry he didn't care for, the ones he found too tedious. Too exhausting. Leaving nothing but perfection and beauty in its place.
But this Harry, the one standing before him and groaning with pain as Tom tossed himself against his mental wards- Tom liked him most all. He was smart- he really was, when he wasn't encumbered with self-doubt or worrying about being the savior the world wanted him to be. He wasn't as intuitive as Tom, though hardly anyone was, and it was no matter, Tom didn't mind explaining things more concisely to Harry, cutting information up into bite sized pieces for him to consume.
He wanted to learn- he wanted to be able to guard himself against Voldemort, and he clearly had great respect for the magical world, the one that belonged to them. There was a desire within him to learn all it had to offer, to be part of something that had been denied to him for most of his young life. A desire to finally belong.
Perhaps Tom was being sentimental, seeing himself in this Harry, this ravenous version of Harry that wanted more. There was a potential for power, the ability to do great and wonderful things. He could see it lurking, when Harry stopped caring about that insipid Weasley girl or stopped worrying that Tom was going to kill him at any moment.
When Harry stopped trying to be what the world wanted him to be, when he was stripped of the layers Dumbledore imposed on him, he was strikingly similar to Tom.
It was with that thought that Tom finally managed to break through, the walls crumbling around him and leading the way to a deluge of memories. Of Harry, small and young and reaching out with desperate, searching fingers, a single word falling off his lips as tears streamed down ruddy cheeks. Mommy, mommy, mommy. He was reaching out for a mother that wouldn't come, an aunt that slapped his hands with a wooden spoon and yelled at him for calling her that name. An older Harry, looking ridiculous in an over sized sweater and slacks that were too wide for his legs, cinched at his middle with a belt and the cuffs rolled up to keep himself from tripping. He was running down the halls of a school as a larger boy chased him, threatening to shove his head down the toilet. But Harry was fast, and he dashes out to the school courtyard, turned down an alley and...finds himself suddenly on top of the roof, rain pouring down him and make the sweater sag in the weight, clinging to him.
Tom felt Harry push against him, trying with all his might to get him out of his head and rebuild his walls. But why should Tom go easy on him? What good would it do for Harry? It wasn't as if Voldemort would give him the same courtesy, and Tom can't afford for Voldemort to see what Harry sees. Not when it would reveal the existence of his younger self to him.
So he remained, unwavering and unrelenting, letting memories flash before him, snippets that he could grasp onto but didn't find interesting enough to do so. Until he found a later one, of Harry- in that same sweater, though now it fit better- standing in front of a mirror, gazing at his own reflection. But the mirror was charmed, and the reflection reached inside its pockets and produced a stone- maroon and sharp, the flat surface refracting the light of the torches that fill the room. It seems to be filled with a fire of its own, flames trapped within the polished gem the color of blood. The reflection dropped it back inside its pockets, and Harry's fingers twitched at the sudden weight.
'What a curious mirror,' Tom thought as he stepped closer into the memory, so that he stood just behind Harry and the man beside him. But before the scene could unfold any further, something tugged at him, pulling him by the collar as something else shoved against his chest. With a gasp of breath, Tom was thrust from Harry's mind, falling to the ground.
But he doesn't stop- it was as if the ground disappeared and he fell into an abyss, the gaping maw of a beast. Fingers are curled around him, clutching the collar of his oxford and when he finally stopped falling, it was not to the ground of his farmhouse, into the unkempt grass. But on the hard floor of a building he did not immediately recognize.
Not at first- the recognition came to him slowly, in mounting horror. The walls of tattered wallpaper, the floral design fading and grimy from years of wear. The floorboards old and dingy and they creaked with any weight against them- but not Tom's, he was weightless in this moment. He remembered it all, knew exactly where he was even as his mind argued against it, and yet he was still shocked to see himself- his younger self, the child he had once been in a time that seemed centuries forgotten.
And yet, despite how small this Tom looked, even to himself, he was being flanked by two men, dressed in the same uniform: white slacks and a matching jacket. He was struggling against their hold, shouting out with a young and prepubescent voice, "No! Stop! I'm not mad! I'm not!"
"We're just going to do some tests to make sure you're healthy, son," one of the men said, trying to coax him down to the automobile waiting just outside the orphanage. An ambulance. "You'll only have to stay at the hospital if you're sick."
"He was talking to snakes! I saw him myself, out in the garden. He was talking to them like they were people." came the shrill, frightened voice of Ms. Cole, the matron appearing from just outside the corridor, face pinched as if she had eaten something rather foul. "Of course he's sick! And he's dangerous, he's already hurt too many of my children and I'll not stand idly by while he does it again!"
One of the men nodded sympathetically. "We understand ma'am, we'll have him seen by the doctor as early as possible."
And they began hauling him out, even as Tom began crying- fake tears that looked frighteningly realistic, a desperate act by a child who knew exactly what to do. "I was just playing! It was pretend is all!" the words sounded pathetic, made only more so by the childish pitch, the way they stumbled over his cries. But it would work. Tom would return to the orphanage only a few days later with no diagnosis other than being a lonely child with quite the imagination. Ms. Cole had been less than convinced.
Tom turned, meeting the green eyes that had settled on him. Harry, wide eyed and confused, unsure of how he managed to get here. How he managed to drag himself into Tom's memories in his attempt to guard his own.
When Tom shoved Harry out, it was with more force than was necessary, anger filling him that Harry had seen something so private, so intimate. Harry yelled out in pain as he fell to the ground, his hand cupped and cradling his head that no doubt felt like it was being split in two.
'Good,' Tom thought, seething with untethered rage, trying with what little, tenuous control he had over himself to not reach out and curse him. Curse Harry until he was twitching and panting and coated in sweat. Until he begged him to stop.
Harry rolled onto his back, looking up at Tom through squinting eyes. His glasses sat askew, knocked over from when Tom had shoved him back too hard. "S-sorry. I...I didn't mean to."
He was afraid, and something within Tom delighted in that. Fear meant you held power over someone. Fear was almost as wonderful as worship, the cowering at his feet like a bow, the pleas to stop like prayers and kisses to the hem of his robes.
But he held himself back, stopping just sort of standing over Harry, his jaw clenched and trembling, the crowns of his teeth grinding down so hard he thought they might turn to dust. He didn't want Harry to be afraid of him. He needed- wanted- Harry to trust him, to yearn for him above anyone else.
"It's...alright," he forced himself to say, hoping the words sounded more natural than they did to him. "I didn't expect you to do that." Then he reached out, offering his hand as Harry stared at it dubiously, wondering if it was a trick. "I'm sorry if I hurt you," he added, and after a moments hesitation, Harry finally accepted, allowing Tom to pull him up.
He wanted to twist his hand, twist it until the bones in his wrist snapped and he cried out in agony. But he didn't, letting go of his grasp when Harry was standing.
"Do you-" Harry started, but Tom ignored him, turning on his heel to disappear into the basement.
He had enough occlumency lessons for a day, and Harry seemed to agree. He didn't follow him.
-xXx-
The next morning, Harry wandered towards the kitchen tentatively, lingering in the door frame as if deciding against going in. Tom was sat at the table, bent over the morning's Daily Prophet, a bowl of porridge long forgotten before him.
He had been avoiding the boy ever since he had somehow entered Tom's mind during his lesson, the memory that was not his own playing over and over in his head on an infinite loop. And even when he fell asleep, hoping for a moment of reprieve, he instead dreamed of it all over again. Of the cries and shouting of a child as he was dragged away. He looked no more than six years old, and the image clashed against the one of Tom he had grown so used to. The image of a young Dark Lord capable of evil, reduced to tears and desperate, juvenile pleas.
"Are you going to come in or do you just intend to stare?" Tom snapped, startling Harry from his thoughts.
He felt his cheeks burn at having been caught, and mumbled no as he walked in, pulling a bowl from the cupboard. Each sound seemed amplified, the creak of the door as it swung, the clunk of the bowl against the counter. The cereal shifting in the box as he poured it in, Argos's large paws as he padded to Harry's side, growling low in his throat; a grating symphony of the tension between them.
He sat the box down, stared at the cereal for a moment, wondering if he should just eat it in his room and avoid Tom for one more day. He dismissed the idea, though. He was a Gryffindor after all- once upon a time.
He was speaking before he even realized he was. "My aunt and uncle brought me to an orphanage, you know. I found the paper work one day when I was cleaning the garage. It was the day after my parents died, when they saw me on their doorstep." He didn't turn around to look at Tom, worried that doing so might shatter the small bit of peace between them. Like a tightrope pulled taut between a great distance. "I was only there for two days- I don't know what made them come back. They certainly didn't want me, so I just don't understand. A part of me wishes they had left me there."
When Tom said nothing, and the silence felt too much like mocking, Harry finally turned, holding the bowl of cereal in both hands. If he was startled to find Tom looking at him intensely, he did not show it, trying to steady himself against the dark blue eyes, the ones that seemed to see through him. Taking him apart and breaking him down to nothing.
"I always thought the Dursleys were worse, but maybe that's not true," he said, unable to stop himself from speaking now that he had started. A stream of consciousness that he had no control of, each word making the next one worse. He felt, all at once, stupid. He had never even told anyone this, and hadn't thought of it much outside of that afternoon when he was eight years and covered in dust and cobwebs, sorting through filing boxes and crates of holiday decorations. Sometimes he thought he had even imagined it.
But Tom did not try to stop him, even as he followed Harry's movement through the kitchen, his eyes unblinking as Harry sat down and settled the bowl on the table. There was that silence again, feeling too much like laughter and judgment. "I thought you lied about it. The orphanage. I thought you made it up to get closer to me."
"No."
Harry jumped at the word, not expecting a response. Tom was still staring at him, but his gaze had softened a bit, narrowed in curiosity. "I'm sorry," Harry said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I know what its like growing up without a family. I can't imagine anything other than that would have been good." Argos whined, butting his head against Harry's shins but he shooed him away, his own curiosity blossoming within him.
What had happened to Tom's family? It seemed like a foreign concept- Lord Voldemort having a mother and a father. How old was he when they died? Did he remember them at all? Did anyone?
At least Harry had something, nebulous as it was. The fond recollection of his parents from those who had known them, the assurance that he looked exactly like his father but with his mother's eyes. He had some photos, thanks to Hagrid, and he knew their names. Did Tom even know his parents' names? Or were they lost forever? No one to remember them, no legacy for even their son to hold onto?
It was terribly sad, and Harry found himself actually feeling bad for Tom. Growing up without a family was tragic enough, but what if Tom hadn't come back to the orphanage? What if he had been trapped within the asylum forever, just because he existed in a world that did not understand him? The same thing could easily have happened to him, Harry knew. That if they thought they could get away with it, the Dursleys would surely lock him away forever. And who would believe him? Magic and potions, three-headed dogs and trolls so tall they knocked into chandeliers. He'd be considered a loon, and would never see the light of day again.
Never see Luna again. Or Hermione. Or Ron. Or Argos.
He would never see Hogwarts or Beauxbatons.
He would simply exist between two worlds, the one that thought him mad, and the one that had forgotten him. The thought was terrifying, and he felt his pulse quicken at just the idea of something so cruel.
"Here," Tom said, interrupting his spiraling thoughts, tossing the Prophet across the table at him. Harry blinked, shaking the images from his head as Tom added, "And with only two and a half weeks to spare."
"Huh?" he muttered turning to the newspaper to find his face staring up at him, underneath a bold headline.
'Boy-Who-Lived Lost: Harry Potter Not Seen Since Arriving Home for the Summer'
-xXx-
Author's Note: I've always headcanoned (it's a verb now) that the Dursleys would have tried to get rid of Harry, only for Dumbledore to intervene. I just can't imagine them abiding by a strongly worded letter. Again, I cannot stress enough that I am in anyway justifying Harry's abuse- I understand that Petunia's POV bit could be misinterpreted that way, but that is certainly not the intent. In that same vein, and though I think this goes without saying, it is important to note that in this story, Tom and Harry will never have a healthy relationship. Even if Tom adopts an entirely new personality, the foundation of it can never change. This is just personal for me; I don't think any relationship with Tom would ever be healthy without his character being massively OOC. If you were looking for something healthy, this is not the story for you.
Also, as I'm sure you all have guessed by now, next school year will feature the Tri-Wizard Tournament. My plan for this fic has always been to use the existing years as templates, twisting things as needed for this AU. The main reason for this is because I want to spend the time focusing on Harry and Tom's relationship as it shifts and changes, as well as his relationship with Dumbledore's and the Order, and of course, on Voldemort learning of his other half. Using the canon years as a template allows me to do that without getting lost in trying to create and tie together plot points, as well as turning an already substantially long fic (each chapter is roughly 10,000 words, and there will be several for each school year) into a tedious epic where we, essentially end up in the same sort of places and situations as the canon material anyway.
That being said, and clearly unable to use Hogwarts for the tournament, I will be using another school in its place.
Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed!