A bright warmth shined upon his face.
Harry turned away in protest, keeping his eyes closed as he grasped under his pillow for his phone and glasses. He groaned at the distinctive thud of his phone falling onto the wooden floor. And when he dropped an arm down from the bed, attempting to graze the floor for his iPhone 5...
An even larger thud followed as he fell from the bed, landing right on top of his phone.
Right on cue, the door clicked open, shattering any illusion of freedom and privacy.
"Mr. Potter," the dark-haired man said, his voice tinged with polite disapproval. "Do you require assistance?"
Harry opened his sleepy, puffy eyes to squint at the blurry man.
"I'm good, thanks," he replied hoarsely, watching as the servant gave a slow nod of acknowledgement before closing the door on him.
Harry dropped his head back to the floor and sighed tiredly. For all the luxuries of Riddle Manor, its house staff were nosy and meddlesome; he couldn't so much as piss without them hearing of it. He could feel their eyes constantly boring into his back, unwelcoming and judgmental, as if they were waiting for him to mess up…
He was severely outnumbered by the twelve of them; Lord knew why the Riddles needed so many staff when they both stayed in the U.S.
And that was twelve not including Tom Riddle himself, who had been absent ever since he'd dropped Harry off to the East Wing of Riddle Manor and strictly instructed Harry not to leave or bother him for the next week.
Harry yawned, sitting up and stretching his arms above him.
Well, time for another paid day of vacation.
He usually started off the day with a fancy breakfast, followed by hours of reading fan fiction. After lunch, he would try his hand at fan art. By three o'clock in the afternoon, he typically worked up the courage to open up a blank Google Docs in hopes of writing something… only to give up by four, at which point he would go on Discord to distract himself with fandom stuff.
Life was good.
… if not slightly lonely.
He tried FaceTiming Ron, but that didn't go as expected.
"What the fuck? " Harry blurted out. He watched, bug-eyed and thoroughly confused, as Hermione tucked herself against Ron, hiding under the blankets. "In bed? Together? "
Hermione bit her lip nervously.
"We had been planning to tell you, Harry."
"Yeah, mate!" Ron exclaimed earnestly, while shielding Hermione's body with his shoulder. "It's just that, lately, you've been so stressed about Riddle."
"And we didn't want to burden you!" Hermione ended weakly.
Harry immediately demanded an explanation. Apparently, Head_Girl and Roonil_Wazlib had decided to video call on Discord, and had been surprised to discover that they'd already met in real life. Through Harry.
"And I can't believe you kept our identities a secret from each other," Hermione huffed, crossing her arms and sitting up. Thankfully, she'd gotten dressed sometime during the call.
"Me neither," Ron looked over at the brunette affectionately. "Who would have guessed Head Girl is so beautiful."
Hermione blushed. "Oh, shut up, Officer."
Then they started making eyes at each other, and that was when Harry decided to end the call, feeling distinctly single.
To distract himself, he logged onto Discord.
His eyes stalled on his DMs thread with Voldemort, his fingers itching to swipe in and message the man. Part of him still couldn't believe that he'd had whole conversations with his favorite author. He'd scrolled through them so many times over the last few days, smiling to himself.
But whenever Harry resolved to actually message Voldemort, his mind went blank. As much as the other writer filled him with excitement, he also made Harry nervous. And Harry knew he was overthinking his communication with Voldemort at this point. But he couldn't think of anything… worthy to say to him. And he didn't want to be a burden , didn't want to waste Voldemort's time...
So as usual, Harry's insecurities stopped him from messaging the man and directed him straight to the Chamber of Secrets discord channel.
It was buzzing with excitement about Lord_Voldemort_'s latest update to Green-Eyed Monster , which Harry hadn't visited since the release of its first chapter. With everything going on in real life, he'd completely forgotten about Voldemort's latest fic.
Excitement bubbled in the pit of his stomach as he thought of all the updates he had to catch up on.
Harry frantically scrolled through the channel, absorbing everyone's thoughts and feelings to get hyped up before he inevitably swiped into the fic.
SpinnetToWinIt: AKSJFHAKKHSTEKJ
AngelinaBallerina: SAME GIRLIE
SpinnetToWinIt: The way he treats his assistant just KILLS ME
SpinnetToWinIt: Like, at this point,
SpinnetToWinIt: I'm not sure whether I'd pay to switch places with Marvolo's PA, or need to be paid to be his PA, you know?
LustyLavendar: The first, obviously. Marvolo is so freaking hot
PervyParvati: Duuude ikr. My favorite part was when James was sitting in Marvolo's lap and Marvolo Sr. came in ? ?
LustyLavendar: Doooon't — don't even get me STARTED on Marvolo Sr.
PervyParvati: I don't think Voldemort was even trying to make him sound hot but… there's just something about charming assholes I simply can't resist ?
Lee_the_Hot: So many daddies at the office
Gred:
Gred: Lee… c'mon bro
Forge: Yeah Lee you kinda sus
Lee_the_Hot: lol
Lee_the_Hot: Y'all know I'm bi right?
LustyLavendar: Ofc we do!
AngelinaBallerina: Yeah it's literally so obvious
Gred:
Harry snorted in amusement. There was always some drama or the other happening on the chat. He was pretty sure everyone had been shipped with each other by this point.
He was about to exit the discord when a snippet of conversation caught his eye.
AngelinaBallerina: Just one question
AngelinaBallerina: Who the hell is Harry ?
Harry blinked, rereading the previous line.
Once he'd registered it, his mind blanked, his eyes rapidly flickering down the discord chat.
SpinnetToWinIt: wdym?
AngelinaBallerina: [img] For Harry ;]
Harry's blood ran cold, his chest beginning to pound frantically.
No… no freaking way…
SpinnetToWinIt: OMGGGGG
ChoAegyo: OmO
LustyLavendar: Oh yeah, the author's note at the top of Voldemort's most recent chapter. Idk sis — probably some real life friend
PervyParvati: **loverrr you meannn
PervyParvati: Do you not see those trademark smirk-faces of his?
PervyParvati: whoever Harry is, Voldemort must be in love
SpinnetItToWinIt: Darnnn there goes my LightningVolt ship ? Harry better be worth it
The conversation continued from there, but Harry's eyes were already glazed over with panic. He clumsily navigated to the most recent chapter of Green-Eyed monster to look at the author's note.
And sure enough, there it was.
"For Harry. ;]"
Harry let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh as he came to terms with the significance of that note.
Everyone's speculations on Discord had been wrong. In love? Funny joke. That smirk-face served no other purpose than as a taunt.
Because somehow, Lord_Voldemort_ had figured out that lightning_boi was none other than Harry Potter. And Harry couldn't stop mentally tracing back through everything he'd said, wondering how on earth he'd possibly given his entire identity away…
Without further ado, he messaged Lord_Voldemort_.
lightning_boi: We need to talk.
Harry pressed send and stared at the thread, biting his lip nervously. It was unlikely that Voldemort would respond immediately… after all, he'd suggested being a busy man in the past…
But as it turned out, he didn't have to wait long.
Lord_Voldemort_: Are you always this demanding?
Harry's heart rate skyrocketed.
lightning_boi: I'm serious
He paused, before typing out:
lightning_boi: audio call?
Since Lord Voldemort already knew that lightning_boi was Harry, it wasn't like he'd be giving anything away.
Lord_Voldemort_: No. Messaging is fine.
Harry flinched.
Right. Just because Voldemort knew Harry's identity didn't mean he would be willing to let Harry know his. Why did he ever expect things to be… mutual?
Harry's eyes hardened, his jaw tightening.
lightning_boi: Alright, I'll cut to the chase then.
lightning_boi: I'm not sure how you figured out who I am. But I don't appreciate being doxxed.
There was a long silence after that.
It was times like these that Harry wished he could just see the other's face.
Lord_Voldemort_: What on earth do you mean?
Harry stared at the message, fury slowly beginning to build up within him. The man posted an author's note like that and then acted innocent ? How out of character.
lightning_boi: Your author's note on Green-Eyed Monster. How the hell did you find out that my name is Harry?
Harry waited with bated breath. The silence seemed even longer than the last.
Then,
Lord_Voldemort_: I was not aware that your name is Harry…
Harry's stomach dropped.
Lord_Voldemort_: …But I suppose I am now.
His mouth went dry, his heart pounding, his mind refusing to believe that he'd just made a mistake.
lightning_boi: but
lightning_boi: but what about
lightning_boi: that note
lightning_boi: your author's note
Lord_Voldemort_: For someone else. Someone else incidentally named Harry who also reads my fan fiction.
Lord_Voldemort_: Perhaps it may come as a surprise, but you are not my only reader.
Harry clasped a hand over his open mouth as heat flooded his cheeks in sheer embarrassment.
Imagine giving yourself the amount of importance to believe Lord Voldemort would dedicate an entire chapter to you. And then imagine confronting Lord Voldemort about it, only to be dead wrong.
Yeah, couldn't be lightning_boi. Certainly couldn't be Harry Potter.
lightning_boi: oh
lightning_boi: ahahaha sorry
lightning_boi: never mind thenn lollll sorry to bother haVe a nice DaY!
With that last message, Harry switched off his phone, stuffed his face into one of Riddle's luxurious pillows, and promptly began to scream in frustration at himself for being such an idiot.
Really, there had to be a limit the amount of stupid things he did in a lifetime. Hadn't he reached his quota by now? Could someone please just give him a shovel so that he could bury himself six feet under already?
Harry curled up into a ball, trying not to think about how he'd potentially ruined his relationship with his favorite author ever. With real life friends, making up was as easy as breathing — but online friendships were different. They drifted at the merest fluctuation: differing interests, trying out new fandoms, real life getting in the way, etc.
He groaned, running a hand through his messy hair and fighting the urge to rip it all out.
And right when Harry thought his day couldn't get any worse, his bedroom door was abruptly slammed open.
"Awww, the wittle baby is upset!"
A slim, dark-haired lady with heavy-lidded eyes was leaning against the doorway, her red lips curled into a taunting smirk that was nearly as punchable as Riddle's.
Beatrice… Botox… whatever her name was. She'd finally appeared.
His least favorite maid.
"What do you need?" Harry asked, too tired to play games with her.
She widened her eyes sarcastically. "No, no, sir . What do you need?"
Her eyes narrowed once again. "An invitation for dinner?" She looked him over with barely-contained contempt. "An invitation to shower and get dressed, perhaps? Is that so hard?"
Harry looked at her in disbelief, fighting the urge to defensively wrap a blanket around himself. Good lord, he was a night shower person, okay? And he had no one to get dressed for, considering that Riddle was always out.
What was this woman's problem?
"Aren't you supposed to be nice to guests?" Harry bit out.
The maid raised her eyebrows at him.
"The only man I'm nice to is my master." She grinned sharply at him. "Everyone else is fair game." A dangerous glint flickered in her eyes as her voice turned sickly-sweet. "Now, get dressed and come down for dinner or I'll make sure you don't get food for the next three days."
With that, she turned off the lights and pranced away, leaving the door wide open.
Harry was starting to wonder when his paid vacation would end.
. . .
That was it.
It had been two weeks since Harry first arrived at Riddle Manor — a week past how long Riddle had said he'd be gone — and he refused to sit tight any longer.
Harry had tried calling Riddle recently, of course, but it seemed the man had blocked him. How… unsurprising.
Then he'd tried leaving the Manor, only to realize that the Riddle estate was far vaster than he'd anticipated. Harry had tried walking in one direction for ten minutes, but he'd seen no hint of a bordering fence or gate. He'd even tried following the maids and servants to see if they knew some shorter passage to the nearest bit of civilization… but they never went anywhere except the Riddle gardens or farm. That too, on foot.
After all, there wasn't a single car parked near or within the Manor. Hell, there wasn't even a garage.
That was when Harry realized he was truly trapped in the middle of nowhere… that Riddle had abandoned him, leaving him to the mercy of his twelve merciless maids and servants.
Oh, the nerve of that man. He was getting tired of Riddle's bullshit.
After a few more days of walking and failing to reach anywhere noteworthy, Harry finally spotted something useful. It was chilling in the middle of the grass field, and there were vines all over it, but there was no mistaking it.
A motorcycle.
Finally, a way out of this pretty prison. Now he just had to find the keys.
Motivated by his find, Harry began to search the Manor, discreetly visiting random rooms and opening drawers when no one was looking. He couldn't afford to be caught by the staff, of course. They'd report him immediately.
… The only exception being his new friend — the cook.
"Harry," Regulus sighed as Harry walked into the kitchen a little past midnight. The man hadn't looked back once as he threw chopped vegetables into a pan, but he seemed to have a sixth sense for detecting whoever entered the kitchen. "You're not as slick as you like to think."
"What do you mean by that?" Harry asked, leaning over to grab one of the cupcakes Regulus had made and stuffing it in his mouth.
The dark-haired man pursed his lips, finally looking back at him. "Bellatrix told me she caught you snooping around in one of the abandoned rooms."
Harry froze. "Which person is that?"
The handsome cook raised an eyebrow. "Tall, dark-haired lady who hates you? Also known as my cousin? "
"Ohhhh, her." Harry's thoughts lingered briefly on her name. Bellatrix. Why did it sound so… familiar? "Yeah, she hates me, I don't even know why. I just told her I was lost though."
He shrugged before pulling himself onto the kitchen shelf, letting his legs swing. "Anyways, explain this to me: why does Riddle Manor have twelve house staff who rarely leave estate grounds when both masters are absent from the country?"
Regulus glanced sideways at Harry. "You always know how to pick the most sensitive topics."
Harry's eyes widened with interest. " Now you've got to tell me."
Regulus huffed with amusement. "Because of the Riddle will." He paused, dipping a large spoon in tomorrow's soup to taste his cooking. "Both Riddle men have confirmed that they plan to stay in the U.S. Because they have no remaining relatives here, they have decided that the Riddle estate would be passed on to their most loyal staff member. Staying on and taking care of the estate is one of the ways in which we prove our worthiness."
Harry's eyebrows shot up. So while the twelve staff members were loyal to their masters, they were also — in a sense — competing against each other. Interesting.
"What about Riddle's mother?"
Regulus's face pinched with discomfort. "I'm not sure, but it would be better if you asked Lord Riddle. And best if you didn't."
Harry nodded quickly, getting the message. He didn't want to lose his only confidant.
He slid off the kitchen counter, yawning. "Well, anyways. The hunt for the motorcycle key continues." He frowned. "Even though I've literally checked everywhere at this point."
He began to walk towards the door, pausing when he heard a softly-spoken remark.
"Not everywhere. "
Harry opened his mouth to voice his denial while turning back… only to realize Regulus had not spoken.
A tall, sallow-faced man with a curtain of dark hair had appeared, lingering near the curtains at the other entrance to the kitchen.
Harry's heart was racing. "I — er, hello sir."
The older man stared at Harry for a split second before turning to Regulus. "He's an open book. It's a miracle he's survived this long here."
Harry really hoped the man had meant that metaphorically.
Regulus held a hand to his mouth as if stifling a smile. "He has me."
" Obviously ," the older man said softly.
Regulus turned to Harry, his mouth twitching. "This is Snape. He's the Estate Manager. Also — he's right. You haven't checked everywhere."
Harry paused once more, before nodding in acknowledgement.
The forbidden and thoroughly unaccessible West Wing.
"I know. But I…" Harry shook his head. "I can't even enter… "
He trailed off as Snape came forward and pressed something cold and heavy into his hand — a silver, old-fashioned looking key.
Snape raised an unimpressed eyebrow at Harry. "Well, this should help."
Harry clutched it to his chest, grateful if not slightly intimidated by the older man. "Wow… thanks, Snape!" he said, his voice unwittingly pitched an octave higher.
He then turned to Regulus, clearing his throat. "Do you really think I can find the motorcycle keys here?"
Regulus tilted his head, bangs falling over to conceal his eyes. "I can't say for sure. I think…"
He turned back to his soup, stirring it. A smile flickered across his face, so fast Harry nearly missed it.
"I think you might find some answers to questions you didn't even know you had."
Harry looked at Regulus for a long moment, trying to understand what that meant before turning to Snape. This time, he managed to speak in a normal tone. "Thanks again. I don't even know why you're helping me, but I appreciate it."
Snape's dark eyes hadn't left Harry for a second. They seemed to be analyzing him, reading into his every word and breath.
"Your eyes… they remind me of someone," Snape said eventually. "A girl I went to school with." And with those words, the older man turned on his heel and swept through the curtains, blending back into the darkness of the dimly lit hallways.
Harry bid Regulus good night and went to bed, but he couldn't fall asleep. Dissatisfaction bubbled up within him; he felt as if he was missing something, but he couldn't grasp what it was.
Tomorrow, he vowed, turning over in bed. He'd figure it out tomorrow.
. . .
"How much longer?" Tom gritted out, trying not to lose his lunch as they travelled up one last hill.
The blonde chauffeur glanced sideways at his master. "Ah… not much longer."
" What kind of response is that?" Tom hissed, causing Draco to flinch and his hands to twitch ever so slightly.
Tom's eyes glued themselves to the blonde man's trembling fingers; they were a reminder not to lose his temper with a man who literally held both of their lives in his shaky, unworthy hands.
Bloody hell. He should have just driven himself and left the chauffeur behind.
Two weeks. That was how long he'd been looking for the woman. Someone must have tipped her off though, because she certainly hadn't been present at the Writer's Convention that Slughorn had said she'd be at… an event Tom had wasted all day at.
Well, it hadn't been a complete waste.
His lips curled fondly as he remembered his elevator imprisonment with Harry. Finding out that his personal assistant read his fanfiction after catching him reading at the office had been terrifying at first. After all, what if Harry somehow found out that many of the scenes had been inspired by him?
It had felt terribly… exposing.
But then, after realizing his personal assistant had remained completely oblivious, Tom slowly started to feel an excitement. A thrill in knowing that Harry was reading his fanfiction… that he was given access to Tom's feelings without knowing whose they were.
And so, just to play with fire, Tom — no, Lord Voldemort — had publicly dedicated his last chapter of Green-Eyed Monster to Harry.
… only to attract the attention of the wrong Harry.
Tom's mouth curved into a sneer as he remembered lightning_boi's words from last night. The audacity. Just because he'd enjoyed flirting with the boy online… enjoyed his conversations with the boy, yes… didn't mean he had dedicated an entire chapter to him.
How ridiculous. The poor boy must have been so embarrassed.
"We're here," came the trembling voice of the driver, shaking Tom from his distracting thoughts.
Tom glanced sideways, severely unimpressed by the man's character. Two weeks in Tom's presence and Draco already seemed like a broken shell of the man he'd once been.
If Harry had been the one with him, the rebellious and challenging assistant that he was…
Well, no matter. Tom was beginning to realize there was no comparison when it came to his assistant.
They sat in tense silence for a few moments.
"Unlock the doors," Tom gritted out eventually.
"R-right, yes, my Lord," the blonde stuttered, apologizing effusively afterwards.
Once he was out of the car, Tom took in the cottage before him. It was in the middle of nowhere, with no neighboring cottages or houses in sight. Yet, there was a certain charm to it — its simplicity highlighted the natural beauty surrounding it: the greenery, the hills behind it, where the sun was beginning to set in the orange and purple sky.
He rang the doorbell.
Silence, save for hints of the resounding echo from within the cottage. Tom waited.
Then he heard footsteps. And something about the rhythm of those steps, something about this whole cottage, told him that he'd finally found her.
The door opened.
A pretty, middle-aged woman with wavy blonde hair stood at the doorway, her wide blue eyes staring back at Tom.
"Tom," she said simply, her tone of voice at odds with her bewildered expression. It was calm, as if she'd been expecting him.
Good.
Tom smiled coldly at her. "Joanne."
An intake breath, and finally, those blue eyes narrowed.
"What do you want?" she asked warily.
Tom raised his eyebrows. "May I come in?"
"No."
Tom tutted, tilting his head and looking at her with amusement. "How rude."
Joanne tilted her own head to mirror his, her eyes considering him. "Almost as rude as showing unannounced."
Tom bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. "I had no choice. You never responded."
The tall woman's mouth curled unpleasantly. "You're on private property, Tom. Say whatever it is you came to tell me, and then leave."
Tom looked her directly in the eyes. "I want you to remove your Copyright ownership on the James Evans series."
Joanne stared at him.
And then her face twisted. Outrage painted itself across her face in violent brush strokes, from the firm line of her mouth to the clenched line of her jaw.
"I see," she said, her voice colder than ever. "And why would I do that?"
Tom took a step forward, reveling in the one she took back.
"Because if you refuse, I am suing you for defamation of character."
. . .
Harry observed the gray, wooden entrance to the West Wing.
It was arching, grand and magnificent, something between a door and a wooden gate. Seemingly as daunting and impenetrable as it had been earlier this morning.
Without further ado, he shoved the silver key into the knob hole and pushed the door open.
The atmosphere here was completely different. Quiet, dark, and haunted, which made sense considering this part of the manor seemed to have been completely abandoned. Harry found himself in a long, dimly-lit hallway with doors on either side… doors that all turned out to be locked.
After trying to open yet another one, he banged his fist against it and leaned his forehead against the wooden plane. What had been the point of obtaining this silver key when he couldn't enter a single room?
Harry lifted his head to face the last door he hadn't tried… the one at the very end of the hallway. Unlike the rest, this one had deep scratches… as if it had been clawed by dogs at some point. He slowly walked towards the door, placing his hand on the cold, silver handle before shoving as hard as he could.
Seconds later, he had pushed himself through into a freezing cold, dark room. Harry stumbled, hearing the door slam shut behind him of its own accord.
But he barely paid any attention to it. Harry was staring at a window at the other end of the room, through which the moon was visible and it was clear that night had just begun to settle in. But there was something odd about it.
The window was broken… just like everything else in the room. Harry realized with a jolt, his eyes flickering across the room. Furniture had been tossed, shattered, and scraped.
A chill went down his spine.
Harry's breathing was audible at this point. He leaned his back against the door, trying not to let his panic overcome him. Small spaces, he could deal with. But darkness… reminded him of his cupboard, reminded him of…
FREAK!
"Oh, shut up," Harry mumbled to himself, straightening and stepping away from the door. He had to find those motorcycle keys. And more importantly…
Harry looked around the room, curiosity slowly getting the better of his fear.
… he had to find out the secrets this room held.
. . .
Joanne let out a laugh, somewhere between disbelief and indignation.
"Whose defamation?"
Tom leaned back. "Mine, of course." He took a step forward, reveling in the one she took back. "After all, you based a villain on me…"
His voice deepened menacingly.
"... only to kill him off."
She glared up at Tom as he took another step forward, not quite crossing into her house.
"We were in an agreement," Joanne hissed, crossing her arms. "The last time you were furious with me over the fate of my villain, we cut ties and I published the last book with another company." She shook her head. "I thought this was over."
"You thought wrong," Tom said coldly. "Do not pretend I was merely your publisher."
Joanne stared at him.
"You're right."
Then, gradually, her narrowed eyes relaxed, her shoulders drooping as she exhaled. A pained expression crossed her face.
"You weren't, Tom . Together, we crafted many bits and pieces of the James Evans series… so many little details that made it as magical as it is today. I cannot forget the role you played."
Joanne took a step forward, looking up at him. "But this, you must understand, was all part of your role as my Editor." Her mouth narrowed into a fine line. "You may have given me inspiration, Tom. But every word of this series was written by me. "
The last word was resounding in its ownership, its possessiveness.
She shook her head as she looked at him, a betrayal in her eyes. "And you… you were the one to offer yourself up as inspiration. From the second book onwards, when I struggled with painting a villain, you offered up your thoughts as his… "
Her eyes burned into Tom's.
"... only to demand them back now?"
Silence.
Her voice fell to a whisper that the howling wind nearly carried away.
"As you delved into Marvolo's mind… I delved into yours." Joanne stared piercingly at him. "And over the years, we got to know each other, and we became more than editor and writer."
She exhaled.
"We became friends."
"Friends," Tom echoed, his voice mirthlessly. "Fickle thing, friendship." He tilted his head. "Perhaps if you'd anticipated breaking it, you might have made me sign a contract to prevent this very lawsuit. After all… "
His voice dropped to a dangerous pitch. "You must have a strange idea of friendship… to murder the character you based on me. Especially after I had devoted decades of myself to your writing, to our friendship. "
Joanne stiffened at the mocking tone.
"Not based on you," she said weakly, "Inspired by you."
"My middle name is Marvolo and my mother's maiden name was Gaunt." Tom gritted out. "I grew up in Wool's Orphanage. My mother, a mentally ill prostitute, died giving birth to me. My maternal grandfather and uncle ran a snake taxidermy business. Do not dare hope this is a lawsuit you can win."
Joanne could only stare at him, helplessness and fear finally settling into her eyes, clear as day.
"Tom… I'm sorry… "
"You ask for forgiveness?" Tom murmured, his voice cold and indifferent. "I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years… thirteen long years I spent on James Evans. I demand penance."
The blonde-haired woman shuddered, closing her eyes as if trying to unsee what he'd asked for.
"And what will you do?" she asked, her hands clutching at herself. "What will you do to James Evans? "
He leaned in close, his face mere inches from his past client's.
"I will rewrite the end of the seventh book. And I may even write an eighth."
. . .
The light switch had been smashed in, but thankfully, one of the lamps hadn't been completely destroyed.
After switching one of them on, Harry observed the room. There wasn't a single drawer, dresser, or table in sight — merely turned-over sofas and beds, under which only dust had accumulated.
There was, however, a white closet. He carried the lamp and plugged it in near the closet before opening it up.
Masses of boxes attacked him, papers spilling over. Harry fell down to the ground, wincing as the sharp corners dug into his stomach.
"Oww."
Harry shoved the boxes off of him with a pained groan, sitting up to gather the papers rapidly and dump them back into their boxes. But when his eyes caught on some of their content, Harry paused.
"And Death spoke to them —"
"Sorry," interjected James, "but Death spoke to them?"
"It's a fairy tale, James!"
"Right, sorry. Go on."
Harry's eyes widened in recognition.
There were quotes directly from the seventh book of James Evans . He skimmed his way down the page, flipping through the pages beneath it.
Not just quotes. These were typescripts… pages of the seventh book. Which made sense, considering Riddle had once been the Roaring's Editor. Perhaps this was an early draft.
There were notes in the margins too, scribbled all across the pages in Riddle's distinct calligraphy handwriting.
Harry flipped to a random page.
"Would you like me to kill you now?" asked Prince, his voice heavy with irony. "Or would you like a few moments to compose an epitaph."
And near it, in the margin —
Possibly allow Prince to live — develop his future relationship with James, uncluttered by misunderstandings.
Harry's jaw dropped. Tobias Prince could have lived? He wasn't too sure how he felt about that… though some part of him was tempted by the prospect.
He went straight to the beginning and began to work his way through the documents, skimming and skipping to his favorite scenes.
Pretty soon, Harry found himself paying more attention to the margins than the actual manuscript.
He was thoroughly fascinated by Riddle's analysis of James Evans. Not just analysis; it seemed as though these notes had been written during his very first read of the final book… so reading Riddle's reactions to everything was very entertaining.
James, though foolish, is an ultimately endearing character. He will live, of course — I only wonder if the Dark Lord will ever realize what James truly is before he dies.
These idiots. They wouldn't survive a second in that forest without Miss Jean. Kill off the boy Weasel, Joanne, he's useless.
Mmmm Madame Lestrange… she's delicious. Very good job illustrating her character…
Kill Ginevra. She's annoying.
Harry found himself stifling laughter at Riddle's remarks. They were so him, and hilariously so, even if Harry disagreed with a lot of them.
And then he reached the Final Battle scene.
"I thought he would come," said Slytherin in his high clear voice, his eyes on the leaping flames. "I expected him to come."
Riddle's handwriting began to seem more… frantic.
No, no. You wouldn't.
"I was, it seems… mistaken," said Slytherin. "You weren't."
No. Joanne.
Slytherin had raised his wand. His head was still tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. James looked back into the red eyes, and wanted to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear —
He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone.
Violent pen marks were slashed all across the page. Harry could barely read anything, spare a few, emotional phrases.
How could you… how dare you… After all this time?
Seemingly incoherent bursts of rage were painted across the page. Alarmed, Harry turned to the next.
On this page, everything was different. The font was different. The tense was different. The writing style was different. And yet, it still felt so eerily familiar…
James remembers the Final Battle very vividly.
He remembers the way Slytherin had been sprawled across the floor after the Killing Curse rebounded, his form oddly still. Cheers had overtaken the Great Hall as Death Eaters scrambled away from the castle, knowing their days as free wizards were numbered.
They'd celebrated too soon.
He remembers the way Slytherin's eyes opened again. Red, slitted, and eerily unaware.
The room had promptly frozen, laughter dissipating at once. Everyone had watched, paralyzed in fear, as Slytherin rose unsteadily to his feet. There had only been one question in the air, and it was the same question James continued to ask himself to this day. How on earth had the man survived?
The tall wizard had reached his hands out, as if grasping for something, his movements oddly reminiscent of a toddler's.
Then those red eyes had widened, unawareness overtaken by a panic. A ragged whisper had sounded from his form.
"No… it cannot be…" Slytherin had reached his hands out one last time before letting them fall to his side. An inhuman sound of grief had sounded from his throat, somewhere between a moan, hiss, and crackle. And then he'd fainted.
What broke the following silence had not been cheers, but screams.
Written below the passage, in Riddle's unmistakable handwriting, was:
Alternatively — the Dark Lord survives, but loses his magic. He must learn to live as the muggles he once despised and grow from it… perhaps with James' help. James Evans and the Fallen Lord. Book 8.
Harry leaned back from the document, closing his eyes as he tried to gather his thoughts. To think that there could have been an eighth book with that sort of premise… with that kind of title, which would make any Jarvolo fan go crazy…
Had Riddle really written that last passage?
Harry's fingers grasped at the papers, wishing there was more. He had never craved anything more in his life than that nonexistent eighth book.
To think it could have been canon.
Harry shook his head, exhaling. Placing the James Evans papers back into the box where he'd found them, he reached for another box. At the top of it sat a brown book, with a name — Tom M. Riddle — engraved across the binding.
Riddle's diary?
Harry took it out of the box and opened to the first page, seeing what appeared to be a series of… anagrams. In fact, it seemed that Riddle had run his name through an anagram program (perhaps he'd written it, being the computer scientist that he is) and pasted the printed results straight into his diary. And to the right of a few select anagrams was a handwritten reflection.
Tom Marvolo Riddle
Advil Drool Mortem - Good lord.
…
Dad rollover Tommi - Never.
Dildo Lover Rat Mom - … why bring her into this.
...
Immoral Lover Todd - It just keeps getting worse.
Immortal Love Rodd - …
Needless to say, Harry was dying. Holy shit, these were so funny. He just wished he could have seen Riddle's face at each of these anagram titles.
Then he reached a circled name, and his blood ran cold.
I am Lord Voldemort - Yes.
Harry stared at the circled anagram.
Panic rose in him like a tsunami, immobilizing him, his brain. His pulse began to beat loudly in his ears, blocking out the sound of the howling wind beyond the broken window.
" It can't be," Harry whispered to himself, feeling himself begin to tremble. "It can't. "
But he thought back to that passage of the unwritten eighth book… that perfect passage… and he knew, deep down, that it was true. And then every single memory of Lord_Voldemort_ began to crash down onto him, every single interaction, until Harry was absolutely overwhelmed.
Harry stood to his feet, staggering away from the boxes he'd strewn across the floor.
"I can't believe it."
"Neither can I," spoke a cold, furious voice.
The diary fell from his hands. Harry slowly looked towards the door, whose opening he'd failed to register in all his panic.
It was Riddle.
His tall and well-dressed figure framed the doorway, his suited form a silhouette in the darkness.
But the surrounding darkness only emphasized the paleness of his face. Moonlight highlighted the sharpness of those ethereal features; shadows brought out the hollows of those long-gone cheeks. And perhaps it was a trick of the light, but for a moment, Harry could have sworn those burgundy eyes had glinted bright red.
"Neither… can… I…" Lord Voldemort repeated venomously, his hissing voice inhumanly harsh. "... Harry Potter."
Then he took a step forward, crossing the threshold.
Harry ran.