Chapter 3
BOOK II: ACT IV
THE CAT, THE REAPER, AND THE LORD OF SILENCE
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There is no day or night in the Land of Twilight, unless Harry wills it so. As for this moment, it appears her subconscious can't quite seem to decide. The sky opens in yawning stretches of aubergine, blanketed with twinkling stars in unfamiliar patterns. The other side is draped in gold, a distant sun reflecting a pale and shimmering light upon the land.
Harry can't help but find it fitting. Stuck between life and death, she is paralyzed in a place that is neither day nor night.
This land lays far beyond the hands of time; Harry has no idea how long she has been here. It seems at once an eternity and yet nothing but a few mere moments. She could spend forever in this world of her own making, sipping tea quietly with James and laying out in the grass with Lily, staring up at planet Earth whenever it crosses past the sky.
Even the landscape is mercurial. A ring of yard surrounds the house, with its singular yew tree sentinel by the side, swing set in its eves. But aside from that, nothing is immutable.
It was only after staring at it for quite some time that Harry recognizes the house as a drawing from an old picture book she used to read when she hid in her elementary school library. It was a simple book about a girl who lived with her parents and took care of her pet cat. Harry adored it to pieces— literally. Even when Dudley had found her and torn it to shreds, she kept the ragged pieces and hid them under her bed.
She used to see it in her dreams, just like this.
Except it was always her and Tom who shared this house, not her parents.
Harry shoves the thought away.
This is a land of her own creation; it wouldn't do to sully it with such sad thoughts.
As if in tandem to her mood, darkness blots the sky, until even the peculiar light can no longer shine.
"Are you alright, Harry?"
It's Lily. She pokes her head out from the front door; her hair is braided to the side, and she's donned an apron in front of her dress. The house smells like dinner. A home cooked meal, made by her mother, just for her. Is it any wonder Harry hasn't had any interest in leaving this place?
"I'm fine." Harry insists, even though the sky has made it apparent that this is untrue.
But Lily is also a design of her own creation, and knows better than to ask. "Well, dinner will be ready soon if you want to wash up first."
The thought tugs at Harry's heart.
Even though it's all a lie, Harry finds herself lost in it anyhow. Every day she wakes up to the smell of her mother's cooking. Her father is already at the table with his copy of the day's news and a cup of freshly steeped tea. Her mother is just finishing up plating everything on the table when Harry comes downstairs. They talk about anything that strikes Harry's fancy. Afterwards, Harry sometimes joins her father in the library, or her mother out in the garden. Her mother usually makes sandwiches or soup for a light lunch; sometimes they eat in the kitchen, or in the sunroom. After that, Harry likes to swing on the swing set tied to the yew tree, or tries her hand at knitting. Then, no matter where she is, her mother finds her to tell her dinner is ready.
It plays out like this everyday, with varying degrees of alteration.
Harry knows, painfully and intimately, that it is all nothing more than a fabrication of her mind.
She knows this is not James Potter. Hagrid had told her he was an outgoing man that liked to play pranks and have a good laugh. He'd sooner drink a pint than a pot of coffee. Tom had told her he was a brash man on the battlefield, who took risks and rarely listened to orders. He wouldn't be content to sit around all day and read books in the library. That was just what Harry had always imagined from a father, fashioned from nothing but what she's heard from other people. It was, after some brief introspection, a weird mix of what she's heard of Hermione's father, what she remembers of Lucius's behavior when she stayed at their manor over the holidays, and what she imagines Tom would do if he had a body of his own, and plenty of spare leisure time.
Her mother too, is a facsimile impression of what Harry sees of the interactions of the woman's sister and her nephew. A doting mum who adores her only child, likes gardening and cooking.
Yet, despite knowing this, her own longing is too great.
She's wanted this for so long, she just can't seem to tear herself away from the dream.
Harry shakes herself out of her thoughts; her mother is still waiting for an answer.
"I—
A distant but plainly audible meow cuts her off.
Harry stops, and looks around. Lily looks too, frowning. Another meow. Harry sits up from the steps of the front porch, peering down the sides by the flower beds. She doesn't see a cat, but she can hear it clearly. Obviously Lily can as well.
"A cat? Do we have a cat?" Harry asks, smiling eagerly.
Lily only frowns further.
Harry walks down the side of the flower beds, inspecting them closely for a sign of something out of place.
It wouldn't surprise her if there was a cat, she thinks, excited. After all, the nameless girl in the story book she had loved so dearly had a cat. And here Harry was, wearing her clothes and living in her house with both her parents by her side, so why shouldn't her mind conjure up the cat as well?
"Kitty? Where are you?" Harry calls, wandering over towards the yew tree. Maybe it's up there?
"Harry," Lily says, from the doorway.
"I wonder what kind of cat it is," Harry enthuses, as she nears the swings. "A fluffy one?" She'd like a tabby, like Professor McGonnagall. Something big and fluffy too.
"Harry," Lily says again. Harry pauses, and turns around.
Lily isn't looking at her. She's staring at the edge of the property.
The scenery beyond the ring of grass changes as intermittently as the sky. Harry hasn't seen the dense forest since the day she arrived; usually it's fields of golden wheat, like what Ron Weasley once described was around his house. Other days it's rolling hills with a babbling brook for Harry to play in.
Today though, it has once again returned to the dark and ominous forest Harry had seen before.
And there, by the tree line, is an all black cat with gleaming yellow eyes.
Harry begins to walk towards it, even as Lily cries in alarm.
"Harry," she calls, for a third time. The warning in her voice is evident. "I don't think that's a normal cat."
"I know." Harry replies.
It most certainly is not.
After meeting that peculiar snake in such a similar manner, Harry can recognize the intrinsic presence of something other.
The cat stops meowing as Harry approaches. It's eyes sparkle in the low light.
Harry crouches low, reaching a hand out. The cat sniffs it, in what she thinks is a greeting.
Then, as she expected, it turns around and trots towards the first tree. Then it stops and looks back at her, waiting.
Harry meets its eyes, unblinking.
She stands, smoothes out her dress, and follows it.
"Harry!" Lily cries, sounding very far away.
Harry pauses midstep. She can't help but turn around.
Lily is standing at the steps of the quaint, two bedroom house. The only house Harry has ever called home, even if it wasn't real. Her father stands behind her in the doorway, with his crows nest hair and impenetrable expression. Her mother wrings her hands in her apron, her face twisted in alarm. Despite the fact she knows she could walk the space between them in mere moments, the distance seems endless. Impossible to cross. That place, she realizes, is a place that is no longer accessible to her. She couldn't sit in her dreams any longer.
"Goodbye Mum," Harry says. "Thank you for everything."
She follows the cat into the darkness.
.
.
.
"I'm sorry it took me so long." Harry says, conversationally.
Predictably, the cat does not respond. It merely trots alongside her in a constant, steady pace, making no acknowledgment it's even heard her. That's alright, though.
The dense tree line is besotted with a thick fog, making it impossible to see beyond a few paces in front of her. Regardless, she and the cat walk forward.
"I just… wanted to stay in the dream a little longer, you know?" She sighs.
It felt good to pretend, even if it was only for a little bit. Days, weeks, months— maybe even years. She has no idea how long she stayed in that little world of her own making, but she knew in her heart she could no longer stay there.
"I guess that was silly of me, though. I can't imagine you brought me here just for that, right?" She looks down at the cat. The cat doesn't respond.
Harry feels more and more apprehensive as they descend further into this unfamiliar landscape. One hand reaches up to clasp the stone around her neck tightly. The adder stone. She hasn't used it yet… and the longer she goes without using it, the more she wonders if it will even still works. What if she looks through it… and still remains here? What if she had no means to return?
Return to what, exactly?
It's not as if Harry ever had much to live for. Aside from Tom, who no longer had any need of her at all. Harry had no interest in school, or even friends. Nothing about life appealed to her— would it really be so terrible if she remained here forever?
Harry sighs, shaking her head.
She knows the answer to that.
As much as she would like to, she couldn't stay here in her own delusions. Even if that meant living once more.
The tree line breaks.
The cat comes to a halt by her side.
Harry stops as well, looking up.
The trees fade into a misty, familiar graveyard.
Harry wonders why she is here, of all places.
She comes to a halt at the altar of Tom Riddle Sr.'s grave. She looks up. The specter of death is perched on the side of the large stone tablet, scythe in hand. Harry visited this grave quite often back when she stayed briefly at Riddle Manor, and she is very familiar with this particular angel of death. The hood, the skeletal arm clawing out from beneath the folds of his cloak, his angelic wings wrapped around him like the cloak of darkness. She would even call them friends. After all, if she could call the mice and the spiders of Riddle Manor her friends, she sees no reason she can't consider the statues and gravestones her friends as well.
At any rate, despite the familiarity of the statue and the graveyard, everything else feels wholly out of place. She looks around the hedge stones, peering carefully. The order is all wrong. Tom Riddle Sr.'s father is supposed to be directly to his left, and after that his mother. But there are no grave stones by the skeletal reaper perched upon his stone throne; instead there are seven unfamiliar tombs, enclosed around them as if to encircle her. She cannot make out the words written upon them, but they do indeed appear to have some kind of etchings on their surface.
One in particular catches her gaze. All the other tombs are cold and empty, but the final grave has a candle lit in front of it, flickering softly in an invisible breeze.
Harry wants to wander closer to them for a better look, but something compels her to stay where she is, and once again turn and face the reaper.
The glowing red eyes peering out from beneath the hood are unexpected. The reaper no longer appears made of stone. He appears very much so alive.
"Oh," Harry says. "Are you really Death, then?"
She had been wondering if and when she would ever meet the mysterious death deity exalted throughout generations of human mythology. She was in the realms of the dead, after all. It would only be proper to introduce herself at some point.
The specter does not respond to her. At least, not vocally. It lowers its scythe, pointing towards her.
At first, Harry thinks it is pointing to the black cat.
But when she looks down, the black cat is also staring at her.
"Oh," she says again. "You mean to say, I am Death?"
That's… odd.
The etched engravings on the gravestone spelling TOM RIDDLE melt away.
YES, YOUR MAJESTY. Appears in its place.
"Your majesty?" Harry repeats, bewildered but also quite tickled. No one's ever called her that before. It makes her feel like a princess out of a fairytale.
YOU ARE THE KING OF THE UNDYING, the specter writes. THE MASTER OF DEATH. THE LORD OF SILENCE.
"Hmm, is that so…" Harry echoes, thoughtfully. Death's master. She's never heard of such a thing, but then, she wouldn't delude herself into thinking she knew everything there was to know about magic and the arcane.
Tom might have known, a stupid, traitorous voice says in the back of her mind.
Harry squashes it.
"I see, so I am Death's master, huh? I guess that's why I can come here whenever I want to."
"Don't get too full of yourself now, you impudent little brat."
Harry near jumps out of her skin at the sudden voice filling the void of silence. She looks down, where the cat is cleaning its paws with an air of indignation.
"I… you can talk?" She blinks rapidly.
"Of course. I'm not actually a cat, you know."
"I just spent the last ten minutes talking to you on the way here, and you just ignored me." Harry points out, brow twitching. "What was I supposed to expect?"
The cat turns its head away with a haughty sniff. Then it rears back on its haunches, and leaps onto the tombstone.
Harry takes a breath. She supposes there's no reason to be so antagonistic, so she tries again; "I don't think I ever properly introduced myself— I'm Harry Potter."
"I know exactly who you are, Lord of Silence." The cat stares at her coolly with its evil, unblinking red eyes. "I probably know more about you than you know about yourself."
Harry is at a loss for words for a few moments.
"Well, that's not exactly very hard." She replies, agreeably. "I'm an orphan; I know so little about myself that up until recently even the rest of the world knew more about me than I did."
If anything, her refusal to rise to the bait only appears to incense the cat more. "And yet you sound so unmoved by such a situation."
Harry shrugs. "It never crossed my mind to be bothered by it."
Harry neglects to mention that nothing ever bothers her, in the same way nothing ever excites her.
The cat sighs heavily. "Yes, that much is obvious." It sits back on its hind legs, curling its tail around itself. "Very well, I suppose an explanation is in order. I am your familiar, in the same way I have been the familiar of every Master of Death before you."
Harry's eyes widen. "There were other Master of Death's before me?"
"Yes, so don't think you're so special." The cat says, smugly. But then it looks consternated. "That being said, the first and only Master of Death aside from you was your ancestor, Ignotus Peverell. Unfathomably, he was even more of a bore than you are— completely unremarkable, and positively pedantic."
Harry can't help but think he actually sounds like someone she'd get along quite well with.
"Well, I hate to disillusion you, but I would also consider myself boring and unremarkable."
At the very least, she was lacking the ambition and determination that cultivated the robust personalities of her peers. She had no goals, interests, or hobbies really— there weren't many things she liked, and there weren't many things she disliked either. She didn't have opinions on most things in life. There was nothing about her to mark her as 'interesting'.
The cat blinks at her slowly, "Oh? And how so?"
Harry voices aloud her prior thoughts. "Well, I don't really have much in the way of hobbies. Or likes or dislikes. No ambition or goals. I don't have any favorite subjects, or sports I follow. I'm really rather disinteresting."
The cat snorts. "Is that what you think qualifies as 'interesting'? Likes and dislikes?"
Harry blinks again. She doesn't really know what else would qualify.
"For the record, I find all mortals droll and disinteresting." The cat begins. "But as far as your unfortunate species goes, I do have to say you have one redeeming differentiator that separates you from your fellow humans— even from your ancestor, the previous Master of Death."
Harry is curious. "Is that so?"
"Yes, you see— you say you have no likes or dislikes. And yet, from what I can see, there is something you have a fervent, and devout desire for."
"I do?"
"Yes. You yearn for death. There is nothing else that drives you but your pious devotion to death."
The cat is watching her now with something she thinks looks like feverish approval.
"This, regardless of anything else, is what makes you so deserving of such an exalted position, your majesty. You understand the all-encompassing passion of death."
Harry finds herself stunned into silence.
The cat flicks its tail, looking impatient, or perhaps eager. "Your predecessor was a disappointment. Despite besting Death, he had no desire for it at all. All he cared about was living his long and dull life as tediously as possible. He was perfectly happy to ignore the gifts bestowed upon him for all his life, until the end, in which he discarded his cloak and walked into the arms of Death as an old friend."
The cat looks more and more incensed as it speaks, until eventually all the fur on its body has risen menacingly, and it is near hissing. "He was a disgrace! A worthless vessel for the unimaginable power gifted to him."
The look it pierces her with is frightening. "I expect you to do better than that."
Harry has barely had time to process any of this. "Um. I really think you need to temper your expectations of me. I don't really get why you disliked him so much, but I'm not sure I'll do any better of a job than him… whatever the job is, exactly."
"You are the Lord of Silence; the wielder of death, the keeper of undying. There is nothing you can or cannot do. So long as you desire it, it is yours."
As if that wasn't alarming.
"Look, like I said, I don't have any desires." Harry reminds him.
"Humans are such fickle creatures; you are young yet, how are you to know you won't change your mind later?" The cat laments.
Harry supposes it has a point.
"I suppose you have time to decide, so the point is moot for now." The cat concedes. "But bear warning, mere mortal. Time stops for no one but the keeper of eternity; until you ascend the throne, you are but powerless dust lost in the hands of time."
"I thought I am the Lord of Silence, though?"
"The heir presumptive," the cat explains. "You cannot truly take up the mantle as Death's Master until you reach magical maturity."
Her sixteenth birthday then, if she recalls correctly.
Harry nods, thoughtful. "... And, what if I decide to decline?"
The cat looks incensed at the mere mention.
"Just— hypothetically speaking." She clarifies, hastily.
The black cat gives her a look of reproach, but answers her nonetheless; "Then you would be nothing." He says, succinctly.
But it is answer enough.
As far as Tom was concerned, to be nothing was a fate even worse than his most feared adversary, death. Despite lacking ambition of her own, Harry can understand the sentiment. To be nothing is to be helpless, impotent— weak. Perhaps some would argue that there is a sentimental bliss to be found in the existence of nothing. Harry can understand that sentiment too. She might even agree with it.
And yet, to rule over the domain of death…
Harry has never wanted anything for herself, except perhaps for Tom. But Tom is gone. Tom might never have even existed to begin with, just manipulative lies and her own desperate need for affection and belonging wrapped up in an image of her own creation.
The cat is right.
Harry wants for nothing, but the sweet, silent allure of death.
"I'll do it," she says, determinably. "I'll become the Lord of Silence."
.
.
BOOK II: ACT V
THE GRIM, THE SHADES, AND THE RISEN
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"Harry? Harry!"
Someone is shaking her.
"By Merlin's beard Potter, if you don't wake up this instant…"
Harry doesn't want to wake up.
Then the memories flood back to her and she bolts upwards so fast she rams her head into something very, very solid and very, very loud.
"OW!"
"Oh, Draco. Sorry." Harry says, distantly.
Draco is rubbing his forehead, which is angry and red.
Harry looks around. "Why are you in the girl's dormitory?"
"What do you mean, why? You completely missed the feast!"
Harry stares at him, eyes wide. "What time is it?"
"It's about 9pm." He reveals, and Harry isn't sure how to feel about that. She feels numb, like her mind is separated from her body. It's hard to comprehend. All the days and nights she spent in her own little world have ultimately amounted to nothing more than a few hours. She's lived a lifetime in the space of minutes. "Everyone's playing games in the common room. We wanted to see if you were feeling better enough to play some Exploding Snap."
For a long moment, Harry doesn't even remember what Exploding Snap is.
"Oh," she says again. "Actually, I, uh, don't feel good still."
"Okay," Draco deflates.
He's getting up to leave when he takes a step back, flails, and falls on his backside in a flurry of blonde hair. A high-pitched yowl resonates from the ground.
Harry peers over the edge of the bed, shocked.
A black cat is hissing at the foot of her bed, one front paw held aloft as if in pain, shooting a death glare at Draco.
"Is that… when did you get a cat?" Draco asks, blankly.
"I… " Harry is at a loss for words. She scrambles for the first thing that comes to mind; "I mail ordered it."
The cat gives her a deadpan look.
Harry grimaces.
Even to her that's outrageous. Who mail orders pets?
All the same, Draco is the farthest thing from a normal human, and probably doesn't even know the first thing about how plebians like her shop. He just nods along, oblivious. "Oh, I see. Just in time for Halloween, eh?"
He reaches a hand out, as if to pet the cat. The cat hisses back at him.
"He's not, err, very friendly." Harry says, as the cat glowers at Draco, and slowly backtracks underneath the bed.
Draco looks offended that the cat isn't rolling over to attend to his every whim. He sneers at the place the cat retreated, and then attempts to push himself off the floor as gracefully as possible. Harry refrains from mentioning his hair is sticking upright.
"What's its name?"
Harry looks at him, like a deer caught in headlights.
Oh, Merlin. What is its name?
"... Grim."
Draco tilts his head, grimacing. "Ah… Grim, huh? That's— err, interesting. Why Grim?"
"I have no idea, I just thought it sounded cool." Harry admits. And I just came up with it on the spot.
Draco just shakes his head, still looking mildly perturbed but willing to overlook it. "Well, hopefully he gets along well with Aristotle, or else we'll have to deal with them fighting over the whole winter holidays."
Harry nods along silently. The reminder that she'll be spending her holidays at the Malfoy's— and all her holidays for the foreseeable future, on that note— is a somber one. A feeling of abandonment creeps up on her, and she hastily shoves it down. To feel abandoned would mean that she ever had a place to belong in the first place, Harry reminds herself.
The only place I belong is in the arms of death.
Somehow, the thought is actually quite comforting.
Draco bids her farewell not soon after, leaving Harry alone with her thoughts.
Once the room is silent, the cat crawls out from beneath her bed. The cat— Grim she supposes— leaps onto her bed, expression just as unimpressed as it had been in the underworld.
"Grim, really?" He says, nonplussed.
Harry just shrugs. "Unless you have another name you'd prefer to go by?"
'Grim' looks disgusted. "I have no name. I am Death's familiar; he who walks alongside Death himself." The cat boasts. "Such things are beneath me."
Harry snorts. "I should have just named you, 'Pretentious Arsehole'."
The cat doesn't even look remotely offended. "It would be rather apt."
Well, at least he's honest about it.
Assuming, of course, that it is a he.
"Are you really even a cat?" Harry asks, suddenly. "Or are you actually a snake?"
Those gleaming eyes are a little too familiar to forget.
She remembers them from that day in the forest, the way the light seems to play tricks in them, like an endless illusion.
That cat grins, with teeth. "I have no concrete shape, although I will admit to having a certain fondness for black cats and serpents."
"So should I refer to you as a cat, or a snake?"
"You may refer to me however you wish."
She supposes that's answer enough.
Harry tucks her knees up to her chest, pondering. Her heart thuds in her chest, slow and steady. She wonders if it stopped beating when she died; it had in the bathtub, but that might very well have been because she was submerged underwater. She hasn't seen herself in a mirror yet, but she imagines if she looked too abnormal Draco would have mentioned it.
She turns her attention back to the cat making himself comfortable on her quilt.
"Are you going to follow me around forever then?" She asks.
Grim licks his chops. "You have proven yourself worthy of my time— for now." He replies. "I consider you, temporarily, a deserving enough master. We shall see if you are ready to put forth the effort for more."
"Thanks, I guess." Harry says, sarcastically.
/
Potter's new pet cat not withstanding, something feels intrinsically off about the second year girl.
Albus wasn't particularly perturbed when she hadn't materialized for the Halloween feast. Severus supposed he had more important things to worry about, like the ever darkening Dark Mark on his arm. The other staff members were more preoccupied with the feast, and in particular, the Weasley twins attempting to turn all the apple tarts into puking pasties. Severus, however, could care less whether the entire school began to projectile vomit in front of him, so that hardly held his attention. This was why he appeared to be the only professor in this school who had taken issue with Potter's disappearance.
When he had brought it up to the Headmaster, he had merely pointed out that this must be a trying time for the girl, and her interest in solitude for the evening was well warranted.
He can't quite figure out what it is.
Outwardly, she appears unchanged. Her demeanor and personality are as unflappable and unfriendly as usual. Her marks in her classes are still at the top of her class.
And yet, there is something distinctly different. Nothing tangible, nothing he could pinpoint. But he finds his gaze wandering towards her more often than not, something to her unbearably magnetic, not dissimilar to an itch he can't scratch. His fingers twitch at the sight of her, as if he wants to reach out and touch her. This above all else is disturbing; he always feels drawn to the girl out of some kind of silent suffering. He made a promise to her dead mother to see her come to no harm. The girl herself is hardly unlikable, even as inhospitable as her demeanor may be. But the sight of her is a wound unlike any other, a dull, throbbing reminder of all his failures. All he has to regret.
He has spent the entirety of her first year ignoring her, refusing to even look at her. He intended to spend her second year in a similar fashion. Instead he finds himself staring at her at odd intervals, inexplicably drawn.
Foreboding thoughts chase around his head, dark whispers even Occlumency cannot keep at bay.
Severus has felt this way before.
There was another, whom he was so drawn to. Someone of such power and magnificence an entire room would fall silent at their presence. The aura of darkness was a choking, oppressive hand at the base of his neck the first time he locked eyes with that man; it had literally brought him to his knees. That kind of dark magic was impossible to forget. As impossible to forget as the madman that wielded it.
That he feels similarly drawn to Harriet Rose Potter makes him want to vomit.
Why Lily's daughter, of all people?
Could she truly be a dark witch? But Lily was muggleborn, and Potter was as light a wizard as Severus had ever known the meaning of the word. How was it possible for their only daughter to have a presence as dark as Lord Voldemort?
Dumbledore had once remarked that Lord Voldemort and Harriet Potter were very similar. That they shared a connection, because of what happened on that horrendous Hallow's Eve night. He knew the other wizard could sense it; how could he not? Dumbledore was a Lord of Light. He should be able to sense such powerful darkness as easily as Severus could. To ignore it likely meant he was already aware of the developing situation and whatever it might mean. Whatever this connection could be.
If Dumbledore was not going to intervene, Severus supposed there was no reason for him to do so either. At any rate, what could he even do? He couldn't just command the girl to stop being a dark witch. That was impossible, and it wasn't as if she chose her magic to be like this.
He could only watch her carefully, he supposed, but the restlessness was overwhelming. His mark grew darker and more insistent by the day. It was only a matter of time before Severus was called back to his side.
And despite an earnest spark to her normally deadened expression, Severus labored under the distinct impression the girl was, in fact, rather unwell. She had gotten paler, if that was at all possible, and perhaps even thinner, although it was difficult to tell when her robes had always been overly voluminous to begin with. Still, he could catch a glimpse of a spindly, bird-thin wrist slipping out of her sleeve as she reached across her Potions bench, or a slip of an equally bird-thin ankle when she reached up on her toes for an ingredient from the shelf. Both were worrying signs.
His worry over Lily's daughter grew with every passing day— grew more and more unavoidable just as the mark did upon his arm.
/
Harry stares down at her hands, black and sticky with virulent blood. In the darkness of night they gleam in the moonlight, appearing wholly inhuman.
At her feet, Grim sniffs pretentiously. "Hm. You're not as bad at this as I thought."
Harry looks up from her hands, to the horrible decaying creatures dead around her.
It is yet another night spent in the Land of Twilight, and Harry has long come to realize just why the Bloody Baron would caution her so deeply against staying too long in it.
It is full of monsters.
Decrepit, deteriorating. The stench is enough to make her eyes burn. Everything in this land seems to exist in a state of decay, be that the ghosts who wander through it listlessly, or the fragmented, distorted reflection of reality around her that splinters across her hands and face whenever she uses too much magic. The Land of Twilight is a place inbetween; it is neither here nor there, neither the realm of the living or the realm of the dead. For the things unfortunate enough to get stuck in this purgatory, there is only one end for them. And it is currently lying at Harry's feet in a pool of black, inky blood.
Harry grimaces, and steps out of the puddle pooling around her toes. Her nightgown is stained down the front in one long, shiny black streak; she probably looks a frightful sight. She probably looks as if she belongs here, among these tragic creatures.
They're vile and disgusting, and yet rather pitiable.
She senses movement behind her. There is no sound in this lawless place, and yet she feels as if she hears them nonetheless.
Harry turns around. The Forbidden Forest looms wide and high above her, blotting out the moon.
Putrid monsters dripping in ichor emerge from behind the trees. Perhaps they were once human, but they have long since discarded their familiar forms. All that is left are the bones, the matter that sloughs off them like viscous sludge.
They are not very fast, and have lost all reasoning. It's easy enough to fell them with a few cutting curses.
Easy— but unfortunately messy.
The girl flinches as the ensuing spray of morass splatters against her.
"How much longer do I have to do this?" Harry asks, and if it doesn't come out as whiny as it should it's only because she's too exhausted to put up the protest.
Grim appears wholly unfazed by the scene of carnage around them, his feline grace allowing him to maneuver around the mess without incident.
"The moon is still high in the sky, is it not?" The cat returns, drily.
Unlike the little fake oasis she'd conjured up for herself, time is immutable in the Land of Twilight. As days pass in the real world, so too do they continue onwards here. Harry has until sunrise to remain here, lest she wants her roommates to wake up to her dead body. As it is, a couple of charms urging her fellow second years to leave her bed curtains alone for the night have worked well thus far.
"I'm getting tired," Harry says. Every night this macabre scene plays out through the quiet, empty halls of Hogwarts and its surrounding grounds. Harry hasn't dreamed in weeks.
Grim is unmoved. "Bully for you."
Harry absently rubs at her cheek, leaving a long smear of tar across her face in its wake. It feels tacky on her skin, but it's pointless to try to wipe it off. This body of hers is only temporarily corporeal, it doesn't really matter if she makes a mess of it.
At her lack of protest, Grim sighs. "A few more." He compromises, begrudging.
Harry nods, relieved.
She holds her left hand out in front of her, her right reaching to her hip for the dagger she now sleeps with on her person every night. Without hesitation she brings it to her wrist and slices a bloody line down her skin.
The glistening red fluid looks so different in comparison to the corruption bleeding out of these creatures. This dark tar is a sign of the final stages of decay, a reminder that these monsters she slays are no longer alive like she is, and haven't been for some time. The tantalizing smell of fresh blood— of life— draws them out of the woods in hungry, roving packs.
Harry wastes no time in striking them all down. She never expected to have much use for all the prolific dark curses Tom had taught her, but they're burned into muscle memory now.
Well timed cutting hexes are most effective and less likely to tire her out than constant uses of more powerful curses like sectumsempra. Bombarda is quickest, but also requires more magic and is far messier. Incendio has the best range, but the putrid smell of burning, rotting flesh makes her physically ill.
Grim has perched himself on the far side of the clearing, settled in on a nice, flat rock. He watches the proceedings with gleaming, calculating eyes. The cat is a hard task worker, but his efforts have bore results. Every night they do this, Harry feels herself getting stronger and stronger.
Becoming the Master of Death is no small trial, after all.
If Harry truly intends to become it, she'll have to get much, much stronger.
.
.
.
It's probably for the best Harry no longer dreams. She has a feeling they would be full of nothing but dark, terrible monsters haunting her every step, with empty eyes and decaying flesh, waiting to devour her. They truly were the stuff of nightmares. As it is Harry finds herself in a waking nightmare nearly every night.
Weeks have passed. Yule break is well within sight, a reprieve in the distance past the looming gates of end of term exams. Everyone is in a right tizzy about it, aside from Harry, who bears it with the stoic and unnervingly silent grace that everyone expected of her. She doesn't think there's anything in the Hogwarts curriculum that Tom hasn't already gone over endlessly ad nauseum. This is for the best, because Harry has difficulty opening her eyes, most days.
It occurs to her, somewhat belatedly, that literally dying every night is likely not good for her constitution.
That answer is obvious and glaring whenever she trudges into the bathroom to wash her face in the morning. Her complexion is wan and waxy, her eyes haunting, near burning.
"Are you alright, Harry?" Hermione whispers, as they leave the dining hall for their first class of the day. "You look like death."
You have no idea.
"I'm fine," Harry says, quietly. "Haven't been sleeping well."
"Oh, me either." Hermione frets, anxiously. "I keep having nightmares about our Herbology final. It's the one class I just can't seem to pick up. And then there's History of Magic to worry about… I think I'm going to go to the library after class and go over my notes one last time just in case…"
Harry can't possibly imagine Hermione having all that much difficulty with either of those subjects, but it's rather like the girl to worry endlessly over nothing. Hermione is still muttering to herself under her breath about History of Magic— she appears to be reciting the same ten bullet points on the Vampiric Wars of 1417 that she's been reciting for the past five days— and hasn't realized how far behind Harry has fallen. Harry doesn't have the energy to call out to her, even if she had wanted to, which she doesn't.
"Your Grace…"
Harry's eyes, drooping lower and lower as she trudges along the corridor, flutter open at the soft whisper. The hall is empty. Hermione has already turned the corner with the throng of second years, distant footsteps echoing down stone halls.
She looks around, brow furrowing. No one calls her that but Grim, but she doesn't see him anywhere.
"Your Grace, up here."
Harry blinks, then tilts her head upwards. The Bloody Baron is descending out of the ceiling.
"Mr. Baron," Harry returns, after a beat. It seems impolite to refer to him as 'Bloody Baron' to his face after all, but she's not entirely sure what else to call him. His expression is surprisingly solemn. "Why are you calling me that?"
"You are the Master of Death, are you not?" He confirms, gravely, as he floats down next to her.
"Not exactly," Harry replies.
Not yet, anyway.
She tilts her head, curious. "Why do you ask? Do I feel different to you?"
He nods zealously. "Indeed, your Grace. I'm sure all the ghosts in the castle must know by now."
This causes her eyes to widen in panic. "All of them?" She replies, voice high. "Even Piers?"
Merlin, but this was bad. Grim was very insistent that no one can know of her— of her potential, of her status as the heir apparent to Death's throne. If all the poltergeists knew of it…
"You need not worry about Piers, your Grace. He will never cause you trouble again." The Baron says, seriously. "Ghosts, spirits, poltergeists and portraits— we imprints of death are all your loyal servants. We would not dare to go against your will."
Harry relaxes by a fraction. "So, you haven't gone around exalting the return of your Master?"
"We would never." He swears.
Harry sighs in relief. "And thank Merlin for that," she mutters, under her breath. Then, shaking her head; "Please refrain from referring to me like that in the future, here in Hogwarts. I'm trying… not to draw too much attention to myself."
"Understood." The Baron nods. "But if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. Your servants will assist you in any manner we can."
"Right," Harry agrees, not entirely sure how comfortable she feels about having servants at her beck and call.
"Your Grace, I regret to call upon you so inconspicuously, but I thought the matter quite urgent." The Baron hovers closer, frown deepening.
"Is something wrong?"
"A dread creature haunts these halls." The Baron whispers, furtively. "Slytherin's monster has awoken once more, to finish what he started."
"What he started…?" Harry repeats, frowning. Then her eyes widen.
"The Basilisk?" She clarifies, although she already knows the answer. Tom had mentioned it's role during his own tenure at Hogwarts, and had toyed with the idea of somehow using it to get to the stone before ultimately dismissing the idea. Still, if he had thought to use it in this day and age he must have known it was still alive.
"Indeed. A most foul creature." The Baron sniffs, as if he'd smelled something rotten. "It has been hibernating for so long I thought perhaps it had finally perished. Evidently I was wrong."
Finish what he started…
He would likely be referring to the eradication of all Mudbloods and Muggleborns within the castle, then.
"It must be stopped." Harry says, resolutely.
What would Tom say to this?
What does it matter? Harry shook her head, furtively. Tom wasn't here. And frankly, she had no interest in writing to Voldemort and asking how to deal with the situation. He'd probably just ignore her.
"Yes, naturally." The Baron pauses. "But, your Grace, I believe… that is to say, the monster is not… what it seems."
Harry lifts a brow. "You mean, like, not a Basilisk?"
He shakes his head. "No, it certainly is that. But this aura… I sense a sinister power rising from beneath the castle. It is nothing I have ever felt before, and yet, it is something I know quite intimately."
"An aura?"
"Not unlike your own." The Baron confesses, furtively. "Dark and devastating. Please, your Grace, exercise caution. The veil between worlds grows thin with the winter solstice nearing."
.
.
Perhaps all her practice had paid off after all.
As all her classmates restlessly sleep off their first day of exams, Harry once again finds herself down in the bowels of Hogwarts during the end of term.
"This is an excellent opportunity!" Grim cries in delight, as Harry very nearly misses a deadly swing of the Basilisk's tail. It slams into the stone wall behind her with a painful shudder, and Harry has to blindly roll out of the way of the falling debris before she's trapped beneath it.
"How is this supposed to be an excellent opportunity?" Harry shouts back, as she stumbles into a dead sprint, Basilisk hot on her heels.
She can't see Grim, but she can imagine that blasted cat perched up somewhere in the plumbing, watching her with a grin full of teeth. He's really a sadist, that one.
"Basilisk fangs are well regarded as a prized crafting material for weaponsmiths!"
Harry ducks at the last minute, as the snake's massive jaws nearly close in on her.
"Well isn't that bloody lovely," she grunts, just barely missing the teeth in question before they sink into her leg. "I'm not a weaponsmith, you know."
"There's no time like the present to learn!"
This cat really expects way too much of her, Harry digresses. She wonders if he's intentionally distracting her, and for what aim, if so.
"You're getting ahead of yourself, don't you think?" Harry skids to a halt in the grand chamber, distorting the shallow pools of water as she does. Her socks are soaked clean through, and that's to say nothing of the rest of her.
"How so?" In the corner of her eye, she can see a dark shadow lounging upon the statue of Salazar Slytherin's head.
Harry scoffs. "Well, I haven't exactly killed it yet to skin it for spare parts, now have I?"
"A matter of time." Grim flicks his tail.
"Your confidence in me is severely displaced." Harry grumbles under her breath, as her eyes dart down the series of massive pipes before her, ears prickling for noise.
"Nonsense— you'll see." Grim says, with a severely displaced sense of confidence.
Harry has no idea why he's so assured of her victory. She's a twelve year-old girl facing down an ancient monster in an environment that's definitely tailored more to it than to her. If they're to fight to the death, her money is on the Basilisk, quite honestly.
She's not even sure why they're fighting to begin with.
From what Tom had told her, the Basilisk had been lonely and in desperate need of company. She'd taken to Tom as quickly as Harry had taken to Tom, looking at him as if he was her salvation, a taste of sunlight after years in the dark.
Harry hadn't expected to be as warmly welcomed, what with not being the Heir of Slytherin and all that, but she hadn't expected this.
Harry couldn't even manage to get in a polite greeting before the gigantic beast was launching itself directly towards her. She'd made some overtures of peace after that, but all of it was staunchly ignored. It was like they weren't even speaking the same language, which she knew for certain wasn't true.
Harry had to wonder if it was even the same Basilisk, to be honest.
Tom had never mentioned most of its… otherworldly qualities.
The great snake struck without warning, lunging from a pipe she hadn't even realized was above her. It was only from weeks of being ambushed by shadow creatures in the close quarters of Hogwarts' hallways that Harry had the reflexes to just barely get out of the way. She tried another severing hex, but just like all the other times, her dark curse dissolved against the oily black sheen over the beast's scales.
Harry bit down at her lip angrily as her curse sizzled against the miasma, until it was nothing but black smoke drifting off an unmarred surface.
Tom had mentioned it to be a beautiful, deep sea green in color, with majestic golden eyes and scales that shimmered silver in the light. This beast, dripping in a familiar black ichor with glowing, pupiless red eyes didn't seem to fit that description in the slightest.
It reminds her more of the lost monsters that haunt the Land of Twilight, and she doesn't think that observation has gone unnoticed by Grim, either.
He definitely knows something. Harry thinks, annoyed, as she again jumps out of the way of what would have been a lethal strike.
Of course he does. Had Harry actually expected the mysterious familiar to actually reveal all of his secrets, just because he thought she was a far sight better than her predecessor?
Gritting her teeth, Harry aims her wand dead center between its eyes. "Avada Kedavra!"
As she had predicted, the infamous jet of green light dissipates against that strange barrier. It dissolves into smoke just as all her previous curses have, and does nothing but further incite the Basilisk's anger.
Harry doesn't understand. What makes the Basilisk so different from the shades from the Land of Twilight? That substance is similar enough, but Harry never had any trouble felling them with dark curses.
He mentioned weapons. Harry is reminded, as she once again takes off down one of the flooded pipes.
He wouldn't have said it without reason.
Certainly he meant something, well, grand though, right? Because all Harry has that constitutes as a weapon is a bloody potion's knife, of all things. It's not as if she's got the sword of Gryffindor in her pocket.
Harry slides to a halt, spinning around. The snake comes barreling right at her, massive jaws full of innumerable spiky teeth closing in around her.
Without another thought on the absurdity of it all, she leaps into its mouth, dagger drawn.
I suppose if I can't do any damage to it from the outside, I may as well try the inside.
Harry was pleased to find that the inside of the Basilisk's mouth slices open like butter. The blood is putrid and possibly corrosive, and that's to say nothing of the fact the Basilisk has snapped its jaws shut and is doing an excellent job of crushing her.
Harry can't do anything about the poisonous saliva searing against her skin, but she can at least cast a bubblehead charm as she's swallowed deeper into its throat, dragging her knife along the way. The monster's angry spitting cries seem to rattle her bones, but that doesn't stop her from stabbing into it over and over again, shoving her feet against the slimy wall of its larynx and trying to make enough room for her to wiggle her wand.
Even with the bubblehead charm she feels like she's choking, her skin is on fire, she's fairly sure one of her arms is completely crushed, to say nothing of her legs, and soon enough the rest of her will be too.
She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling her magic resonate furiously inside her as she shouts, as loudly as possible, "BOMBARDA!"
There's the explosive, deafening sound of the top half of the Basilisk's head rupturing right open. Harry is hurtled out of its body and rolls as far away as possible from its death throes, choking and heaving.
I can't believe that actually worked.
If Tom was here, he'd have some very choice words about her senseless, absurd Gryffindor behavior.
But Tom isn't here, and laying here in a pool of blood-black water isn't the place to think about him.
Harry barely manages to push herself into a sitting in position. She's in as rough of shape as the Basilisk. She turns to the side to look at it. Well... perhaps not that bad. She split its head straight open, its brains and bits of skull splattered explosively around the pipe, drenching it in blood. Harry, by contrast, is bloody and broken and literally sizzling all over, but still in one piece.
She looks down at her hands. How she managed to keep both her wand and knife in grasp is beyond her.
Also beyond her is the way her wounds are healing at a rapid pace. She watches in morbid fascination as lacerations knit themselves together, and the violently marred skin up and down her arms bubbles over back into the healthy pink of newly healed skin. She can't help but recall her fall onto the river bank— the macabre scene of blood and brain dashed across the rock, and the tender, but undamaged back of her skull.
Fascinating. So physical damage and even magical damage can only harm her temporarily. Is it possible that only Harry can decide when and how she dies?
Harry limps her way back towards the main chamber.
Her wounds are healing at a rapid pace, but that doesn't stop her broken ankle from slowing her down as it creaks and snaps back into place. She doesn't even want to know how badly she looks right now.
"The snake is dead!" She calls down the empty stone walls, rolling her eyes. "No thanks to you, you berk."
Grim, surprisingly, doesn't have an uncharitable response for her.
Harry realizes why when she finally drags herself back into the main chamber, leaving a bloody mess in her wake.
The cat is sitting in the center of the chamber, staring resolutely at the statue of Salazar Slytherin's head. Harry notices, with rising alarm, that all the hairs on his back are standing straight up, his tail poofy and rigid.
"Grim?" She calls again, quieter this time.
The statue's stone eyes glow black, staring directly at her.
"Ah, how interesting." Salazar Slytherin muses, idly. "And unexpected. This pathetic slip of a girl is the one you now call Master? And you, Gremory— I could hardly believe my own eyes. The great Duke of Hell, reduced to a house cat?"
"Gremory?" Harry murmurs as she nears her familiar. "Is that your name?"
Grim actually rolls his eyes. "This is what you decide to fixate on?"
Harry shrugs. "I'm just impressed how close I guessed."
Grim sniffs and turns the other way. He begins to clean his paw, with the sort of disdainful apathy only felines could be capable of. "To speak of how the mighty have fallen— I too am in disbelief. The great Sin of Envy, reduced to a talking head on a wall."
Salazar's unholy, glowing all-black eyes seem to glow even brighter. His stone face loses its arrogant look of superiority as it contorts into rage. "You… you dare to speak of my sacrifices so cavalierly? After everything I have done to serve our Master? I am his beloved, his most loyal, I have sacrificed everything to this cause, purging the blood of the worthless, shunned by my own kind, tossed into exile—
"Um, so is it safe to assume you're the one who set the snake on me?" Harry cuts in with a raised hand, because she has a feeling if she doesn't this statue is going to be ranting for hours.
"YOU DARE TO INTERRUPT ME?" His voice is high and spitting. "Do you have any idea whom you speak to, you insolent, worthless Mudblood?"
"Half-blood," Harry corrects, but it is half-hearted.
The stone statue's expression contorts into one of great disgust. "This is what we have been reduced to? This deplorable, dirtied Muggle filth?"
"He really doesn't like me," this, Harry directs to the cat by her side.
If cats could shrug, she imagines Grim would do so. Instead, he begins to clean his ears. "He's just jealous."
Harry snorts. "Envy, huh? Yeah, I guess that makes sense."
Harry is fairly sure the poisonous miasma wafting from the stone head isn't part of her imagination. Nor is the faint rumbling beneath her feet, or the cracks splintering across the wall surrounding Salazar Slytherin.
"I am one of His chosen, His most beloved, one of the sacred Seven— Salazar Slytherin, the greatest of the Hogwarts four!"
He really likes the sound of his own voice, doesn't he. Harry thinks, unimpressed.
"And I will destroy you, you worthless child." Salazar promises, in a deadly, hissing tone. "To dare speak to me as if we were equals, as if your very blood is not an insult to our kind. You do not understand the game you are playing here. You are being led like a lamb for slaughter, and I will happily tear you into pieces once I'm given the chance."
Harry blinks, frowning.
Grim straightens up at that. He flicks his tail again and sits up from his haunches. "I believe we are done here. Harry, come."
Salazar doesn't say anything either, and with a furtive look between the two Harry turns her back on the portrait and follows Grim down the streak of her own blood. They follow the long smear of red down the chamber, and then into one of the many pipes. The smell of decay and death is suffocating. The great bulk of Salazar's dead beast takes up almost the entirety of the gigantic drainage system.
"Are you going to explain any of this to me?" Harry asks, and even though her tone is pitched low her annoyance is evident.
Grim just sighs. "Yes, but later. We have something more important to do at the moment."
Harry crosses her arms. "Oh we do, do we?"
Grim comes to a halt at the foot of the enormous slain snake. "Indeed."
"Are you going to enlighten me?" Harry asks, archly.
Grim peers up at her, feral grin decidedly mischievous. "Let's rub some salt in old Salazar's wound, shall we?"
After Harry has collected her Basilisk fangs, as well as a large sampling of the snake's scales, Grim has her stand directly at the base of where its head used to be. Harry stares blankly into the horrific mess she's made of the once majestic creature, reduced to nothing but corrosive, rotting flesh and jagged teeth. Grim sits at her heels, tail swishing impatiently as he explains what he wants her to do. Harry looks down at the cat skeptically. Grim just stares up at her with beady, vaguely evil eyes.
"Fine," Harry sighs. "But don't blame me if this doesn't work."
"If you can't have faith in yourself— then have faith in me." Grim says, causing Harry's spine to snap straight with an audible snap.
Grim whips his head to look at her, curious at such a sudden reaction from the normally impassive girl, but Harry's expression is impossible to read. She refuses to allow any of her emotions onto her face, no matter how painful those words are to hear, spoken from a different mouth, during a different time. A small, cramped cupboard, and a boy in her head that spoke with such assured authority Harry couldn't help but believe in him. If you can't have faith in yourself— then have faith in me, Tom had told her, all those years ago. And she had believed him.
"Right, okay." Harry takes a breath.
She holds out her hand.
"Arise."
.
.
.
Harry gives another jaw-cracking yawn.
"Feeling alright, Harry?" Hermione turns to her, blinking in concern. "That's your fifth yawn since the train left Hogsmeade."
Harry gives a noncommittal shrug. "Fine. Just didn't sleep well last night."
Hermione frowns at her, then sighs. "Well, if you're certain."
Harry surfaces a small smile at her. "Truly, I'm fine. I just— got caught up reading a good book last night."
This brings a sparkle to Hermione's eyes. "Oh really? What was it about? Was it a book from the library—
"Oh enough about books!" Draco complains, from his spot sprawled across the bench across from them. "I swear Harry, if you become any more of an erudite you're going to end up just as bad as the M— I mean, Granger."
To his credit, he did actually manage to catch himself from saying the word before Harry had to reprimand him.
He folds his arms across his chest. "When we get back to the Manor, there will be no more reading for all of break." He declares, imperiously.
Harry just cracks open an amused slip of emerald green eye. "Uh-huh."
"I'm serious!" Draco insists, sniffing. "We can go flying, or play chess. We can even go skating! Every year my mother turns the back gardens into a marvelous ice sculpture display with a gorgeous ice rink in the center. You'll just love it, I know it."
Harry barely manages to cover yet another yawn. "Sure, okay. Sounds fun. Wake me up when we get to the station, okay?"
She slumps in her seat, head resting against the wall. A snowy wonderland drifts across the windows, blinding in the midday sun. Harry gives the cat resting on her lap a few fond pats as her eyes droop closed. Hermione and Draco are, to her sleepy disbelief, managing to have a somewhat civil conversation without her, as they discuss different ice skating jumps.
In this warm, quiet scene of friends relaxing after their end of term exams, no one notices Harry's shadow, cast against the leather seats. It is so dark it seems opaque, a blemish upon an otherwise incandescent and bright afternoon. To look into it too deeply is like staring into the abyss.
And in that endless abyss of darkness, two gleaming Basilisk eyes stare back.
/