Harry spent the time before dinner exploring his new surroundings.
Voldemort had given him no indication as to which room was supposed to be his – and there were a lot of empty rooms, all of them clearly in disuse.
He was starting to assume that he should just pick one and call it his own, since he'd be staying here for the not inconsiderable future. Or maybe it wasn't considerable. Maybe it could be measured out in a couple of hours, and the rise and fall of the sun.
Maybe by the morning he'd be blood seeping in the hallways, and a collection of limbs sent back to the village in a gift box. Returned. Didn't fit right. He shuddered at the thought.
But he didn't run.
Shadows over a small village ought to be easy to run away from, like rain clouds or wolves in the night. Driven back and fought.
But the village was cursed too. The manor, and its monster, was merely the central point.
Maybe that was why they kept giving offerings – hope and hopelessness. The hopelessness of not being able to stand up to such a creature, when all who did, died, and all who ran were killed the second they crossed the boundary lines.
Every old manor had a certain amount of territory allotted to it, after all.
And though they saw the sun in the village, they hadn't had a summer in all of their memory. Not a proper summer, anyway. Winter crunched for half a year beneath their feet, frozen and swallowing up what days and light they did have. Autumn and spring came too, but always bleak, always grey and rainy.
But not as dark as the hill – nothing could beat the living shadows devouring the Riddle House.
Then there was always hope – the hope that, if this was a curse and not just the condemning tyranny of a monster, that it could be relieved.
There were always stories of such things. Of saviours and heroes, pretty knights and maidens in shining armour, of true love and pure hearts.
Harry couldn't help but notice that all the mirrors in the manor were broken, the shards of glass dusty and never cleaned away, even when everything else in the house was spotless. The sheets on all the beds were fresh and ironed. And the house really did move. He saw it as he switched lights on – doors opening without a breeze, staircases shifting. The paintings, however, had all been slashed where the Lord of the Manor should have stood. Deep, violent gashes that left strips of peeling faces on the floor.
Harry eventually chose a room at the far right of the building. It seemed to be in the best condition, and … well, he was just drawn to it, he supposed.
It was the only room in the manor that wasn't in some way destroyed, and he studied it curiously. There was a large four-poster bed, a magnificent writing desk, and various other comforts.
And then there was the painting.
Harry stared at it, stepping up to read the inscription.
'Tom Riddle, Jr.'
It was the only painting Harry had seen in the house that hadn't been destroyed. It depicted a handsome young man, standing in a full portrait. He had dark hair, skin like ivory, and a knowing look in his eyes.
Harry's head tilted.
He wondered why this picture, of all the landscapes and family portraits in the building, would be spared. It didn't look like anything special.
He felt like it was staring at him.
He wasn't surprised. This whole house was bloody creepy. He gave a slight shudder and turned away.
Oddly … well, he wasn't actually sure what to do with himself.
He'd been prepared, however subconsciously, for a fight to the death.
Whilst Voldemort had undoubtedly been unnerving, he hadn't done anything overtly life-threatening. Just dug his nails in a bit.
It made him wonder exactly how the bodies accumulated.
He spun on his heel, examining the room again. His skin itched, palms tingling. In the end, he tossed his belongings upon the sheets, and stared at them.
It was funny to think that this was what was to become of him. A small assortment of belongings in a threadbare bag – a toothbrush, a few scarce changes of clothes, a knife, and a photo album – would be the sum total of his existence.
Nothing special. Nothing momentous.
Just a collection of stuff.
But he supposed that was why he was here – ordinary stuff. Not much to leave behind, and even less to take forward. Maybe everyone was just stuff in the end. Stuff and dust.
He didn't even have anything appropriate for dinner. Did that mean he was going to become dinner? And what exactly happened between sunset and sunrise?
He strode across the room, over to the window.
At least it wasn't barred, though it did take a few good shoves to force open. He drew in a breath, looking for something fresh and sharp against the stale heaviness in the room.
There was nothing. It wasn't smoke, but the sky was so dark that it felt like it might as well have been. Like he could catch it in his hand.
He shivered at the ice that seemed to seep in, and after a moment, shut the window again with a sigh. Even if he wanted to escape this way, cloaked in night, it looked like a pretty brutal drop.
He dragged a hand over his face. Escape was pointless, anyway – however much his bones thrummed for it.
Then he froze. Had … had the portrait moved? His mouth ran completely dry.
Of course, in a so far magical manor house, a moving painting was not the strangest of things.
But it made the back of his neck prickle, regardless.
Harry could have sworn its head had moved to track his progress across the room.
Maybe he was just being an idiot.
"… hello?" His voice was a little raspy.
"You're the offering."
Harry immediately had a flash of déjà vu. And nearly jumped out of his skin all over again. Moving and speaking portraits seemed very different things, even if the distinction seemed ridiculous. It was, after all, logical that it could speak, if it could move.
It still sent another shudder down his spine. Not that there was anything wrong with the voice. It was a nice, pleasing baritone.
"Yeah. I'm Harry," he said. He glanced at the inscription. "You're … Tom, right?"
"Correct. I am the Riddle."
Harry's brow furrowed at the strange phrasing.
"The Riddle?" he repeated. The painting just gave him a sly sort of smile in response.
"You should leave, you know," Riddle said. "When it gets dark."
"Voldemort said not to go out between sunset and sunrise."
"He would."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked.
"Beast by day, monster by night. Beware the war when shadow meets light," it all but sang. He really wasn't reassured by the way Tom was grinning at him sharply. And the … well, the almost-riddle didn't answer anything either.
Harry swallowed.
"If there's a monster at night, obviously it's not a very good idea to go for a walk," he replied.
"So you will dine with the beast then," Riddle murmured. "Interesting choice."
Harry's eyes narrowed.
"You act like this is all some sort of game," he noted. The painting raised its brows, head tilting as it examined him.
"Isn't it?"
Harry's mouth soured at that response, and he turned away. Wondered what he should be doing with himself now, in the hours before dinner. Besides talking to an infuriating painting.
Who was Tom Riddle, anyway? The former tenant before Voldemort? Or someone else entirely?
This was going to be interesting – if he survived the night.
There was nobody else at dinner. The house guided him to the dining hall at six o'clock, promptly.
There was quite a spread across the long table. Everything he could possibly hope to eat, really.
His stomach gave a growl of hunger. He'd been too nervous for a substantial breakfast that morning, and hadn't eaten since.
There were sweetbreads and potatoes. A whole roasted duck. A fresh salad, a bowl of various fruits. Peas. Sweetcorn. Carrots. Broccoli.
It all smelled divine.
He wondered who had cooked it. He'd found a kitchen in his exploration, but no people, outside of Voldemort. He wondered if the man intended to poison him, and poked suspiciously at the gorgeous food.
Well, he was going to die anyway if he starved himself, wasn't he? In a situation such as his, a hunger strike really did no good. He had nothing to lose in having dinner.
It tasted just as good as it looked, and he gave a small sound of contentment.
At least he could die in the lap of luxury, if that counted for anything.
Still, he wondered where Voldemort was, if it was apparently so important that he turn up for dinner. Then again, the man had said he'd see him tomorrow if he survived the night. Maybe he was about to be dinner once he was paralyzed by poison in the food. Or dead. Or something.
Was it really just him and Voldemort in this manor?
Even if he survived, that seemed a lonely life.
As he continued to eat his fill, he lost his appetite with every bite. The duck was delicious, so was everything – but he barely got through the plate before he was shoving it away.
He had no idea what he was supposed to do now. Start taking plates to the kitchen and clean up? He stood up, glancing at the windows overlooking the garden.
It was difficult to tell, but the sun was already setting in the sky. Dipping lower and lower, and taking the rays of light with it.
Don't leave your room between sunset and sunrise.
Was his room safe then? He hadn't seen any massive locks on it. Nothing that would keep a monster out.
He'd never liked the word 'monster', any more than he liked 'beast'.
Call a man Voldemort, and at least he could make a guess at what he was dealing with. Nameless things were far too vague, and monsters came in many forms. His muscles tensed a little.
Definitely time to go back, before the sun set completely.
He made it in good time, not intending to be stupid enough to linger. Not on the first night.
Though his bones felt heavy all of a sudden, leaden. Maybe he really was poisoned. But it was just heaviness, like weight on his shoulders and ball-and-chain shackles on his feet.
By the time he reached 'his' room, he was sweating slightly. He glanced at the portrait, and Riddle gave him a thin smile.
"Did you enjoy dinner?"
"… yes, thanks," Harry said. Honestly, that portrait was just a bit weird. Polite enough, but very strange.
The smile broadened.
"Seeds and deeds, Harry. I have another one for you – what do you call the nameless?" It was that same mocking, sing-song tone. It made Harry's skin crawl, if he was being honest.
"I don't know," he muttered. "What do you call the nameless? Surely you can call them whatever you want, if they don't have a name." He was far more concerned with the darkening room, the sinking sun. In a minute, at the most.
He moved over to the window. Could feel the anticipation sinking into his skin.
And then everything outside was black. Absolutely everything. Like black smog and liquid shadows. His own room, despite the lights being on to full capacity, had turned dimly lit too.
It made everything eerier, distorting familiar shapes to something different.
He supposed, if it was dark by day, it would be even darker at night. Here, in the centre of things. He inhaled shakily. Suddenly, in comparison to stumbling alone in the blackness, talking to Tom seemed a far more appealing option.
"Are you going to answer, then, Tom? What do you call the nameless?"
He turned again, and froze.
The portrait was empty. There was nothing there. Just – that wasn't Tom.
Just as quickly as the canvas was black, there was a new form there.
Harry swallowed. Squared his shoulders.
This one looked very different. Terrifying. Eyes like hellfire, skin as pale as ivory. Long, spidery fingers that he recognized from his hip. Hairless, noseless.
"Tom?" he asked, very quietly. The inscription was still the same – Tom Riddle, Jr. And yet … well, this creature looked absolutely nothing like the handsome young man who'd been leaning against the frame earlier.
He took a wary step closer.
"Harry!" It was a call, from outside the room. Ginny's voice. "Harry, help me!"
His eyes widened, and he immediately started making his way to the door but –
Don't leave your room between sunset and sunrise, no matter what you hear.
He felt sick. His eyes darted between the door and the painting. The man, the creature, was watching him with those mirthless, bloody eyes. He quivered on the spot, torn. His heart hammered in his chest.
He wrenched his gaze away, to the door and the screams, and back again to the painting.
It shook its head.
Why had the painting changed? What the hell was going on here?
"I don't understand," Harry said. "Where's Riddle? Who are you?"
"Don't."
Harry recognized the voice immediately. He'd heard it once today already. It was V–
"Don't," it repeated firmly.
He wondered if he would ever get used to the feeling of déjà vu. His eyes raked over the other's features closely.
Whilst he didn't look pleasant, and those eyes were terrifying, he really wasn't what one would expect from a beast. Harry's fingers clenched to fists at his sides, his brow furrowing with confusion.
The cries started again. High-pitched screams, wails for help. Everyone he'd ever loved, crying out in the darkness. Harry took an immediate step towards the door again, distracted, shaking.
"Don't." It sounded lazier this time. The warning was there nonetheless.
"What's out there?" Harry's voice cracked, just slightly. "What the hell is going on?"
"The Riddle already told you."
Harry stared, uncomprehending. An … actual riddle? He thought back to Tom, eyes locked on the painting uneasily.
"… beast by day. Monster by night. Beware the war when shadow meets light," he whispered. "Are you …?" The screams sounded again. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, bile in his throat.
Monster by night.
"He'll be coming for you. He'll always be coming."
"V–" he began.
"Idiot," the painting all but hissed. "Don't."
Harry swallowed. Every time he came close to addressing, or thinking…
"Why am I not allowed to address you?" he phrased carefully.
What do you call the nameless?
"Seek not to name the nameless. There is a library here. You should read up on the rules. The ones who did got the furthest."
"Got the furthest?" Harry questioned. It said nothing, just stared at him. Harry's fists clenched.
"Okay. Thanks, then. You've been really helpful."
"He's boring. You should come and spend time with me, offering."
It was another voice, and Harry yelped, spinning to face the door.
And then … then he just stared, mouth dry.
"How the hell many of you are there!?"