Notes:
Thank you to those who left reviews on the previous chapter! It really does encourage and motivate me a lot!
If you could take the time to comment on this chapter too I would be more than appreciative!
I'm really glad I could finish up editing this chapter fast, since it was so connected to ch1 (like I said, I was thinking of just posting them together), but, unfortunately, I can pretty much guarantee the other chapters won't come out this fast, haha!
The boy blinked, his expression shifting, fire and fury leaving his gaze for confusion.
"Who's…who's Tom Riddle?" he echoed, his voice soft and incredulous.
Harry jerkily stood, switched the sword to his left hand, and pulled a stick out of his right pocket, pointing both at him. Tom knew he shouldn't laugh, still, the fact that he thought a stick would be any sort of threat when he had a sword was rather ridiculous.
"'Who's Tom Riddle?'!" the words were stiff.
"That is what I asked," he replied in an almost bored way.
"Is this…is this some sort of joke? …No, no it can't be a joke—" Harry took a step forward, poking the air with the stick. "—because you don't have a sense of humor! You don't have a sense of-of anything!" he advanced on him, pointing both his 'weapons' as he did, and Tom took a step back.
He didn't know much about himself but he guessed he was right about the sense of humor.
"You tell me."
"No." Harry's voice and hands were shaking with rage. "No, you tell me. You tell me exactly what's going on here, Tom." He spat the name as if it was the vilest insult he could muster, like the word was as repulsive to him as 'Harry Potter' was to him, like some primal part of him must hate it—
Ah, so it was his diary, his name. But why did hatred course through him at the sound of it too?
—"Before I blast you to smithereens!" He held the sword higher, and pointed the stick.
"I'd really like to. But, I'm going to have a bit of trouble doing that without memory, now aren't I?"
He—Well, Tom he supposed, though it really didn't feel right—had been expecting a little more shock at the revelation, but Harry was quick to reply, without any whatsoever:
"Very funny," he spat like it was the least funny thing he'd heard all day. "Let's just skip the pleasantries and get to the part where you try to kill me, alright?"
Tom raised an eyebrow. "And why would I do that?"
"Because you're a vile, evil snake"—spit was flying from his mouth now—"who doesn't care about anyone but yourself, and kills innocent girls in your spare time—!" The words caught in his throat and his weapons lowered slightly, his eyes clouding.
Tom blinked, taking a step back, his eyes circling back to the girl, as if she had been placed into a different light.
Well. This was an interesting development.
So he had been the one to kill her. But…why? He wasn't sure he wanted to admit it, but there was some pride in the back of his mind at the thought…but, at the same time—(why was this the most unfamiliar sensation yet?)—his stomach twisted in knots too…and he just wanted it to stop.
Harry jabbed the stick at Tom's chest "No. You don't get to touch her, you don't get to talk about her, you don't get to …you don't get to even so much as look at her!"
Tom raised his hands and his eyebrows. Someone had anger issues.
"You won." He took a step forward, making Tom step back. "Why are you still here? Do you want to toy with me before you run me through? Fine, torture me. it's not like you can do anything worse than you already have."
He'd won? Killing someone, losing his memory, standing unarmed at the mercy of his enemy's sword wasn't the picture of victory to him. Especially when that enemy was a twelve-year-old boy. What sort of battle had they been waging? What game had they been playing?
"What do you want?" Harry spat. "If you're going to kill me, just do it already."
"I don't know what the person who I was before I woke up without a clue where I am, what happened, what I'm doing here, who you are, or who I am would have done." His temper rose in his voice. "But right now I have no intentions to kill a schoolboy I have no memory of."
"You're lying! You…you…you snake!" he lunged at Tom and pressed the stick hard into his ribs. "Age doesn't matter to you—young, old, you'll spill blood no matter where you go, or who stands against you! Don't think for a second I believe your're feeling merciful!"
Tom sighed. This was getting rather tedious.
"I told you" —He lifted his hand slowly to the stick— "no matter who I was, or what I would have done, before" —He wrapped his fingers around it— "I don't remember enough to make any such decisions now."
They grappled for the stick, it shaking between them with effort. Harry was stronger than he looked…or maybe Tom was just weaker. Harry bit his lip till it bled, apparently waging some great mental battle.
"Fine." The word was solid as a rock dropping from a cliff. Harry managed to win the stick back, as he seemed to get an idea. "You don't remember? Let's go to Dumbledore."
That name too shot burning, sourceless emotion though him. Pure, uncut animosity, though this time there was another emotion interwoven into it; a powerful, inexplicable, unavoidable, fear. It crawled all over his chest and dugs its nails into his heart
Why did he have such a thing against names?
"…I'd like to protest, but, as I have no idea who or what a 'Dumbledore' is, I don't have much way of objecting, do I?"
He blinked, surprise finally tackling the anger in his eyes. "You—You really don't remember, do you?" he said simply.
"As I've been trying to tell you this whole time." Tom sighed.
His weapons lowered, his eyes widening.
"So… you're not going to try to kill me?"
"As you happen to be the one with the sword, and a…whatever that is," he gestured to the stick, knowing there was probably more to it than met the eye, "that would be highly unwise of me."
Harry held up the stick, glancing from it to Tom. "'You don't know what this is?"
"Unless it's a stick, then no."
"A stick?!" A smile crept onto his face. "You really don't remember."
Tom gritted his teeth. He hated how smug Harry sounded.
"Now that you're aware I am, in fact, telling the truth, would you care to explain what's going on?"
"No," Harry said simply. Tom could tell he was trying to keep himself from grinning. "I wouldn't care for that, Tom."
Tom's hands curled into fists at the sound of his own name. Why did all the names spoken so far, including his own send sparks through his veins?
"Dumbledore will explain whatever you need to know. Until then it would be unwise"—he could tell he was mocking him—"for me to reveal anything."
"So, is there a reason we're dawdling? Why don't you take me to see this Dumbledore"—he forced the word through his lips—"fellow now?"
Harry looked back at the girl, his eyes swimming. Still that loyal dog, undesiring to leave his master.
"Yeah…I probably should."
Instead of taking him for a nice stroll back out through the chamber he dug the tip of both the stick and the sword into his back, forcing him to walk forward.
"Couldn't we be civil about this? There's no reason for me to try to escape."
"We're fresh out of civility today, sorry!" Harry said like he had been handing out lemonade at the stand.
Whoever built this chamber was really into snakes. As they stepped over the lifeless coils of the huge, once-living snake Tom saw that even more stone snakes lined the walls, and as they continued making their way out, the giant, shed skin of the once-living snake came into view, lying on the grimy floor.
After walking some ways, the sound of shifting rocks reached their ears, and they came to a part of the chamber which had apparently caved in.
"If you say a single word," Harry hissed into his ear, "I'll hex you till you can't even remember how to speak." He took the sword and stick from his back and walked in front of him.
Hex?
"Harry!" a voice spoke from behind the rocks. "You're alive! Thank goodness! Lockhart's in a bit of a bind. Spell backfired. He doesn't remember anything!"
Spell?
And what were the chances of two amnesiacs in the same place?
The speaker's head popped up from behind the rocks. The boy had red hair and freckles like the girl did, but he was tall taller and more gangly. When his eyes fell upon Tom he interrupted his train of thought to ask, not altogether politely:
"Who's the ruddy hell is this?"
Harry looked up at Tom, as if both daring him to speak, and wondering how he would explain it.
"He…he got trapped in the Chamber. I-I'll explain later." Harry's words were constricted.
"And where's Ginny?" The redhead spoke. "Is she okay?"
Ah, finally he got the name of the corpse. Not to mention finally there was a name that didn't send hatred through him.
"U-Um—" Harry seemed about to say something, but at the question his words sputtered, stalled, and died, his eyes freezing wide.
Considering how similar they looked, Tom guessed she was probably this boy's sister.
Well. That was unfortunate. No wonder Harry didn't know what to say.
"Uhh…I…" Harry breathed, trying to restart the engine, but only making rasping sounds, "Sh-She's…" he looked at Tom and that green fire blazed once more.
The new boy's face blanched. "Where's…" he swallowed, "Where-Where is she?" The question became a pained and desperate plea.
Tom was more than half tempted to say plainly "She's dead" and get the whole thing over-with. But he knew that would be unwise.
The redheaded boy scrambled madly over the rocks, falling onto the ground as he came over them. He quickly recovered and rushed towards his friend, grabbing him by the shoulders.
"Harry?" His voice was trembling, a pot starting to boil, "Where is she?!"
Harry took a step back, his face distorting with pain, shooting his gaze towards the ground, something in his eyes dying.
"She…." The word fell limp and lonely at his feet.
"Where is she?!" He shook his friend, "Goddamnit, Harry!" His voice sat on the border of hysteria, his cry now echoing throughout the chamber like a madman's howl, "WHERE'S MY SISTER?"
But Harry didn't have to say anything. The boy shoved him, his legs carrying him as fast as they could through the chamber, his footfalls the ticking of seconds he had left to believe she was alive. He screamed the corpse's name as he ran, like it was his only hope of calling her back to this side of the veil.
Harry watched him go, his eyes slowly drifting to the ground, as if lost at sea, glazed and hollow.
It was a moment later when they heard the screaming; a deep, guttural, screaming. Wordless wails, threats, questions, and most of all her name. Just her name.
And it didn't stop.
It was then that Harry looked over at Tom, and the force of the hate in his eyes made him physically step back. That emerald fire hotter than it was even before, the words You did this to her woven deep within his gaze, as searing as a brand upon him.
"Poor chap, do hope everything will be alright," another voice cut in, a little too nonchalantly, as if he hadn't truly understood the situation, or heard what they heard. They jerked their heads up to look at him.
A handsome blonde man had appeared on the other side of the rocks, smiling genially at them. He put his hands on his hips, peering out the chamber behind them. "Odd sort of place this, isn't it?" He looked at the two boys. "Do you live here?"
This must be other who lost his memory—perhaps the boys were rather adept at stealing memories?
They climbed over the rocks, through the hole to the other side.
The orange bird fluttered in behind them, then circled, front of Harry, waving its long, golden tail feathers at him. Harry looked uncertainly at it, before turning to the man, then to Tom.
"I think he wants us to grab hold."
"You're kidding, right? What do you expect—?"
"What did I say about saying a word?" Harry snapped, and Tom quieted.
"Fawkes isn't an ordinary bird," Harry explained, petting his feathers before, turning to them. "We've got to hold on to each other."
Harry reached up to grasp its impressive tail feathers, then turned to them, looking Tom up and down as touching him was the worst punishment he could ever think of.
"Professor Lockhart—er, that's you—" He pointed to the blonde man. "You hold on to my robes, Tom, grab his hand. Fawkes will carry us out."
"I hate to criticize your methods," Tom risked speaking up, "but I highly doubt that bird will be able to carry the three of us."
"Er, yes, I have several concerns as well." The Professor looked the bird, then Harry, as if questioning his sanity.
Harry only glared at Tom.
"Just do it."
Tom knew there was no point questioning him further. Harry tucked the sword and brown pile of fabric—which he thought up-close might be a hat—into his belt, and they did as they were told. The bird started flapping its wings, but instead of beating them madly with no results, as Tom expected, they were quickly lifted off into the air, a strange sort of lightness spreading through them as they flew through the pipe.
"Amazing! Amazing!" the Professor exclaimed as the wind rushed by them "This is just like magic!"
Tom had a thought that he was probably closer to the truth than he realized.
The chill air whipped about them as the bird flew them out of the chamber, and dropped them back on solid ground.
They were in...a bathroom, to be exact. At least, it appeared to be. It was a rather large one made of stone, a large basin of sinks behind them. It was less dreary than the chamber, but the floor was covered in water, so it was in competition, at least as far as dampness went.
This was a very strange world he had awoken to indeed. What sort of people put the entrance to a secret chamber in a bathroom? That just seemed unsanitary.
Yet again There was the sound of more crying. Tom was getting very sick of the noise.
"You're alive." A high pitched voice said.
"There's no need to sound so disappointed." Harry grunted, flicking slime off his glasses and hitting Tom in the face with it. Tom glared at him and flicked it back off.
"Oh, well, I'd just been thinking. If you had died, you'd have been welcome to share my toilet."
Tom jerked his head up at these strange words.
A wispy, transparent girl with pigtails and glasses floated above them. Her sad face was familiar, yet, like with everything else, he couldn't place her.
Was she a ghost? Was that what he had been before?
When she saw Tom she gasped, her face going whiter than it was before (if that was possible).
"T-Tom…?" she whispered. "But..."
Harry looked at him, his eyes widening.
The ghost-girl rushed towards him, "Is that really you Tom? No…it can't be. Unless…" She examined him quizzically. "What are you doing here? How are you back? …Are you a ghost too?"
Tom stood up: he barely knew her and he already found her annoying.
"Tom?" Harry answered for him. "You must be mistaken. No, no, this isn't a Tom, this is uhhhh…Marv. Yeah, Marv."
Tom raised an eyebrow at Harry, and Harry gave him that not-a-word look.
"Oh...I see."
The bird twirled above them, glowing slightly gold in the dark. Harry turned back to Tom, then without warning grabbed the hood on the back of his robes—(which was still damp from the chamber floor, mind you)—and pulled it too far over his face.
Tom pushed it back so he could see, glaring at Harry.
"Keep that up." Harry pointed to it.
"…Why?"
"Because nobody wants to see your ugly face. Now let's continue on."
Tom obeyed—(though made sure to give him his sharpest glare yet). It was clear people—or ghosts—seeing him, and/or knowing his identity, would be a problem.
"Now, that's not very nice!" Professor Lockhart piped up. "I'd say this young man is rather handsome!"
"I'm gonna have to ask you to be quiet too, Professor."
"Come on." Harry got up, beckoning them—(without offering his hand to Tom)—and they followed after the bird, out of the bathroom, and into a hall.
They appeared to be in a castle of sorts; the walls and floors were made of stone, rugs and tapestries organized upon them, suits of armor standing at regular intervals along the walls. Pictures littered the walls, and he swore he could see them moving, hear them…talking to each other?
Harry didn't give him a chance to observe, enjoy, or else ruminate on his surroundings, as they descended a staircase, which proceeded to move as they got on it. Harry wasn't the least bit surprised about this fact.
"A very odd place indeed…" Lockhart muttered more to himself than anyone else, staring wildly around, his hand to his mouth.
Soon enough they arrived at their supposed destination. Harry beckoned them to a door to the side, and opened it. For a moment they just stood on the threshold in silence, probably looking very strange, covered in the muck, slime, and blood from the chamber.
There were a woman and man, both with red hair—(like the corpse, and the boy's)—sitting by the fire. Probably the parents. The woman turned to Harry, her eyes clouded by fear and question, like the other boy's had, though she did not yet voice anything.
An old woman in a green dress, with a harsh, wrinkled face, and a tight bun on her head sat in the corner, pushing her glasses up, looking at them expectantly. An old man with a more gently lined face, a long white hair and beard, sitting at the desk in the center with the tips of his fingers together looked down at them over his half-moon spectacles.
When his blue eyes fell upon the hooded Tom hate shot through him, more powerful than ever before, a living thing rearing its head, a snake within him that wanted nothing more than to bite at his throat again and again and again.
"I'd like to speak to Professor Dumbledore," Harry's voice cut through the silence. "Alone." Then he added "Please."
The women both looked uneasy—(the red-haired one much more so)—as they turned to the old man, who gave a nod to Harry, then to the women.
Before they could leave, however, Harry interrupted:
"Professor Lockhart's in a bad way—memory spell gone wrong. I can explain later—or, Ron can. Someone should probably take him to the hospital wing."
The old woman looked at him quizzically, but took the man's arm and said "Come now, Gilderoy."
"Erm…" 'Gilderoy' looked around the room. "Well…alright." Before they left, the door creaking shut, leaving a heavy silence.
Dumbledore's piercing eyes flicked from Harry to the hidden Tom.
"Very well, Harry," he said calmly, "what is it you wish to discuss with me?"
