A\N: Thanks for the reviews, and thanks for sticking with me this far! It's wonderful to see people engaged with something you've created (or in this case, extended, since I've created nothing) and I hope you all have a very good week.
Hogwarts, a place that Harry called home for the longest time, has become unfamiliar, and this makes Harry sad, makes him feel rootless and adrift. The war has made him accustomed to isolation, to silences, to spending weeks at a stretch in the quiet woods, where the only sounds apart from his friends' sparse conversation were the gentle humming of insects, the occasional warble of a bird, bright and liquid like quicksilver, and the drip drip dripping of rain against the canvas of their tent. Hogwarts is the very opposite of the woods, all noise and bustle from sunrise to well after dark, and Harry wonders how long it'll take for him to feel at ease in the castle again.
The first class scheduled for the first day of Harry's first year at school after the war is Defence Against the Dark Arts. This year's new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is a somehow simultaneously nervous and absent minded American named Irina S. She won't divulge her last name, says everyone can just call her Irina, and within the first five minutes of class, Harry learns that she previously taught at the University of California at Berkeley's Department of Magical Studies, and that her area of research was in the study of ancient defence magic. What Professor S. is now doing across the pond and in a classroom of seventeen year olds no one knows or dares to ask, not because she's intimidating in any way, but because the last question someone tried asking, which was "Don't you have a last name, Professor?" elicited a blank stare, and a very awkward silence that lasted much longer than it should have.
Instead of launching headfirst into the NEWTs curriculum, Irina decides to spend the first class of the year sharing a bit of what she knows on the magical defence practices of prehistoric civilizations, which sounds exciting and exotic to everyone until they realize no wandwork will be involved. Harry pays attention for about ten minutes as Irina talks about the magic, or heka, of ancient Egypt, detailing various types of curses and protective magic, then her nervous monotone and the scratching of Hermione's quill become one, and he tunes her out completely.
Eventually the clock chimes and they are released from purgatory. "Well that was a disappointment," Ron comments, and Harry nods in silent assent. "Oh I don't know," Hermione says, "I thought it was a very refreshing perspective. I think I might have a talk with her at some point on going on to University after the NEWTs. Harry?"
"Merlin what happened?" asks Ron, turning back and coming over to where Harry stands, gripping his arm and grimacing in pain. Harry's robes are shredded at the upper arm, revealing a laceration, and the culprit seems to be the suit of armour beside him, whose wielded sword shines crimson at the tip.
"I must have snagged my sleeve on his sword," Harry says through gritted teeth. "Either that or he took a swipe at me when I was looking the other way." He glances at the suit of armour, which remains motionless, admitting to nothing.
"When's the last time you got a tetanus shot?" Hermione asks. Both Harry and Ron look at her cluelessly. "Thought so. You should really get that cleaned at the hospital wing," Hermione says, "I'll tell Slughorn why you're late. Oh and-" she casts a quick Scourgify at the sword so it no longer looks like the suit of armour is fresh out of battle.
"Thanks Hermione," Harry says, and makes his way to the hospital wing, hoping that this won't be the first of many visits to come. He doesn't dwell on the curious accident for long, though. Soon he starts speculating, although not without too much concern, on how Slughorn's opinion of him is going to change now that he's lost Snape's copy of Advanced Potion Making.
Saturday doesn't come soon enough, but when it does Harry is the first Gryffindor out of bed, getting up just after sunrise, even though Quidditch practise isn't till ten.
After breakfast, the Gryffindor Quidditch team troops out onto the pitch. The Slytherins are just wrapping up their practice, doing their last laps and landing in the distance like little green birds. Harry spots a blob with a silver tip dismounting his broom and waves. It takes a second of hesitation and a bit of checking around him to see who else Harry might be waving at, but Malfoy waves back.
"So you two are all chummy now?" Ron asks, noticing the exchange.
"Not exactly, but I was thinking of asking him to Hogsmeade next weekend instead of third wheeling you and Hermione," Harry says casually.
Ron's eyes widen. "You know that sounds like a date, right?"
"It's not, and I'm sure he wouldn't take it that way," Harry says, while Ron shakes his head and mutters, "I've warned you..."
Flying is glorious, so glorious that Harry doesn't mind too much that his players are out of practice. None of them has played any Quidditch in over a year (Ginny tells him they sat out all the matches during the war, as an act of protest against Snape) and their formations are a disgrace to the sport, but the fresh air and the crisp cold and the breathtaking view of the lake opening up into the blue mountains beyond make Harry unusually optimistic, and he waves off their failures with an airy "We'll get it right next time."
Towards the end of practice, Harry splits the team into two, with him as the other Keeper and a reserve player as the extra Chaser, and starts a short game of mini Quidditch. Everything is going well, and the two teams are neck to neck even though Ron seems to be too preoccupied with trash talking Harry from across the pitch to be focusing on his actual job, until out of the blue Ginny's Quaffle comes hurtling at Harry much, much faster than she could have thrown it. There isn't time to duck it, and as Harry is knocked off his broom he's just grateful a Quaffle-sized hole hasn't been punched through him.
Seconds later, he lies sprawled on the ground wondering how he's still conscious. His vision is blurred but he can hear people screaming, and for a moment panic seizes him - Is this the Quidditch world cup all over again? Are they screaming because Voldemort is back? There's a swing of dark hair as someone bends over him. The features are blurry but Harry recognizes him as - Ali? Ellie? Elliot? whatever, Filch II - and he tries to open his mouth to ask the man if Voldemort is back, but before he can darkness opens its own mouth and swallows them whole.
Harry wakes up in a bed of flowers, and at first he wonders if he's being buried alive in someone's garden, but it turns out he's just at the hospital wing. Again. Someone's sobbing by his bedside, and he sits up to make it clear to them he's alive and well, only to regret his decision immediately when every limb in his body protests by sending shooting pains to his brain.
"Harry! You're up!" cries Ginny.
Harry settles back with a grimace, and Ginny perches at the edge of the bed so he can see her without craning his neck.
"What time is it?" he tries to ask, but it comes out as a croak.
"Water?" Ginny asks, scrambling to get a pitcher. Harry takes a sip to wet his throat, though most of the water ends up dribbling down his chin.
"What time is it?" Harry tries again.
Ginny checks her watch. "Nearly eleven. The rest were here all day, but Madam Pomfrey shooed them away at around dinner time. She let me stay, though. Probably took pity on me because I was such a wreck." The sobs start again.
"Don't cry Ginny, it wasn't your fault," says Harry, reaching out to pat her but immediately withdrawing his arm once the pain starts up again.
"But it was, though," Ginny says, sounding utterly miserable, "I threw the Quaffle that knocked you off the broom."
"Listen I think it was tampered with. There's no way you could have thrown it that hard."
Ginny frowns. "But who could have tampered with it? It didn't act up until the end of practice, and no one had it during practice except for us."
"What happened after I blacked out?" Harry asks.
"The new caretaker guy took you to the hospital wing. I think he must have slowed your fall, because there's no way you could have dropped out of the sky from that height and not… not… had your brains dashed out."
Before Ginny can start sobbing again at the thought of Harry's brains turning into an omelette, Harry asks, "What was he doing at the pitch? Hagrid's there to take care of the grounds, his job is inside the castle."
"I don't know Harry, we didn't have time to ask any questions. We followed you to the hospital wing, and he just left once Madam Pomfrey found you a bed. Do you really think he'd have something to do with it?"
"I don't know, but I want to talk to him," Harry says, "but I'm in too much pain to move."
"Oh, Madam Pomfrey said to give you this once you wake up in case the pain is too much to bear." Ginny produces a fragrant lavender potion from the bedside table, and Harry raises an eyebrow.
"You're sure that's not a love potion?" he asks, and Ginny blushes as she lifts the flask to his lips.
Within minutes Harry is out of bed and on his feet again. "Right," he says, hugging Ginny awkwardly, "Tell the others I'm okay, and don't worry too much about what's happened. I'm certain it wasn't your fault."
"Be careful, Harry," Ginny calls after him as he races towards the caretaker's quarters. "Oh dear," she says to herself when the sound of his footsteps dies down, "I should have told him the potion only lasts an hour," and bursts into a fresh wave of sobs.
Running up seven flights of stairs leaves Harry breathless, but at least the pain killing potion seems to be working, because he isn't any more winded than he would ordinarily be. Filch II's door is shut, but there's a sliver of orange light peeking through the gap below that tells Harry he either hasn't gone to bed yet or sleeps with a nightlight on, so Harry knocks.
No answer. He knocks again. "Hey," he calls, "It's Harry. Harry Potter. I think you saved my life on the Quidditch pitch today. I know it's late but can we talk?"
Nothing happens for a moment, then the door swings open, with no one behind it.
Harry steps into the room cautiously. He has to double check the sign on the door to see that the gold lettering spells "Caretaker's Quarters", because his first impression is that he's walked into the wrong room. The office is very different from how it used to be when Filch and Mrs Norris occupied it. Most noticeably, it seems to have been enlarged to around five times the size it used to be. Second most noticeably, the ambiance of a torture chamber from the middle ages is gone. Filch's manacles and chains have been replaced by shelves and shelves of books - thick books, leather bound books, books of the kind Hermione reads for fun. Walking through the room is like walking through a small library. Also, Harry realizes, there are absolutely no cleaning supplies in the office of this supposed caretaker.
At the end of the room, sitting on a leather swivel chair facing away from a handsome mahogany desk and facing Harry is-
"Fucking hell," Harry says, hardly daring to believe his eyes. He strides forward, crossing the distance between himself and "Filch II", who turns out to actually be Tom.
Tom's long hands spider towards his wand, and Harry can see why- it looks like he's about to attack- but what he actually does surprises the both of them; He grabs Tom by the wrists, drags him to his feet and kisses him.
And once the initial shock dies down does Tom kiss back. His kisses are fast and firm but surprisingly tender, and Harry can feel the shape of Tom's wolfish grin against his mouth even as his hands close around Harry's waist in a grip that is gentle but secure.
"I take it you missed me?" Tom asks hoarsely when they come up for air, and Harry is secretly triumphant to note the breathlessness in the other boy's voice.
Tom hasn't let go of Harry's waist, and he's tempted, very tempted, to continue where they left off, but his questions take precedence over any desire to make out with the impossibly charming and even-more-attractive-than-he-remembered ex-Dark Lord in whose arms he now stands, and so Harry reluctantly steps out of Tom's embrace.
"Sit," he says, pointing at Tom's chair. "I have questions."
Tom seems amused as he takes a seat on his swivel chair, but he doesn't say anything for now, just watches Harry with his dark eyes.
"One," Harry begins, leaning against a bookshelf and folding his arms, "Whom do you have imprisoned in your trunk?"
"What?" Tom asks, bewildered.
"Well you're probably impersonating whomever you're impersonating through the Polyjuice Potion. How are you getting your supplies?"
"Ah," Tom says, "I met a wizard in San Francisco with very long hair. It seems it isn't fashionable among American wizards to grow their hair out, but he identified as a hippie, and it seems to be fashionable in that subculture. Anyway, I convinced him I had a hair fetish and exchanged his hair for… you know…" Tom doesn't betray a hint of embarrassment.
Harry flushes. "Funny you would offer a fair trade in this of all situations," he says icily. "It isn't your style. Anyway, second question. What are you doing in Hogwarts?"
"Stalking you," Tom replies, and Harry glares.
"Try to be serious," he says.
"I really am, though," Tom says, and now he gets to his feet and starts to slowly pace the room with his hands in his pockets. "See Harry," he says from all the way at the other end of the room like he's delivering a lecture, "I think I might know why I'm here, and not dead like I should be. I had a little talk with our friend Irina Sasquatch, expert on the secrets of ancient magic, on the workings of sacrificial protection-"
"She knows about this too?" Harry cuts in.
"Don't interrupt. But no, she doesn't, of course she doesn't, or at least not right now she doesn't. I obliviate her after every consultation."
"That explains why she doesn't have a last name. She's forgotten it," Harry observes.
"Has she? Perhaps I should take the obliviates down a notch. As I was saying, Irina explained to me that sacrificial protection was practiced by the Celts. It was discovered by the druids circa 100 BC when it was noticed that armies of patriots stood far greater chances against well armed mercenary armies than they should have, and that usually the battle would swing after a significant amount of losses had been incurred on the side of the patriots, leading to the hypothesis that dying for one's country conferred a huge advantage to the remaining army. The druids followed this up with multiple observations of human sacrifice, none of which they engineered- they merely reported on known cases of sacrifice. However, this led to the misconception, eagerly perpetrated by the Romans, that the druids practiced human sacrifice. What they found was that dying for anyone, or anything, or any number of people and things, endows these people and things with protection."
"I didn't die for you," Harry says automatically.
"It's all a matter of phrasing, Harry. The universe is oddly nitpicky in computing this most handwavey of magical matters. The druids noticed this when they realized the protection created by the deaths of patriots during war extended not only to their fellow soldiers or the women and children they'd left behind, but to even the buildings: the homes and the temples, the fields, the animals, the trees… Because they died for their country, and it's not just people who make a country. Who did you die for when you walked into the Forbidden Forest unarmed and presented yourself to Voldemort?"
"My friends. My family," Harry says. "Everyone who died or suffered because of Voldemort."
"And was I not one of his victims?" Tom asks softly. "Did he not maim his own soul in the pursuit of greatness?"
Harry has to take a seat; what he's hearing is too much to take in and his knees are becoming weak. It all seems really unfair of the universe, when Tom Riddle wasn't all that great of a person to start with. "So your soul is whole again because of me?"
Tom shakes his head. "The pieces of my soul that you and your friends destroyed- thanks, by the way- are gone forever. But the one piece of soul that remained in my body when the Avada Kedavra hit... it's been set free, into the form I assumed before the old Tom Riddle began transforming himself into Voldemort. I've been given a second chance."
"This doesn't explain why you're back, though," Harry says.
"Again, Irina was of help on this matter. Horcruxes are an arcane form of magic that originated in Egypt. Not very much knowledge remains on the subject, and I think my past self was a bit of a fool to split his soul into seven without understanding the full consequences of his actions, but she hypothesizes that the seventh of my soul that remained in my body was too unstable to hold on to a new form on its own when it was saved by your sacrifice. So, for stability it latched onto the nearest person in the vicinity - you. This dependence I seem to have unfortunately developed on you is a physical one. Meaning that I need to be in your presence, or my soul loses it."
"What do you mean lose it?" Harry asks with trepidation.
"I mean that I go mad. Can't sleep. Can't think straight. The symptoms started within a week of my landing in San Francisco. At first I put it down to jet lag, and I managed to survive on sleeping potions, calming potions. But once the potions wore off I was back to square one."
"You know what the symptoms sound like, right?" Harry does his best to suppress a smirk, but the corners of his mouth quirk defiantly, and a burst of laughter escapes from him against his will.
Tom chooses to ignore the comment. Either that, or he doesn't understand it, Harry realizes, which is sadder than it is funny. "While I was job hunting at the neighbouring university, I happened to meet Irina. She told me about her research, which is when I realized it might all be connected- my mysterious rebirth, my sleeplessness and anxiety. We put together a theory which seems to explain everything."
"And you're going to stalk me for the rest of your life?" Harry asks.
"No." Tom walks the length of the room and leans against the bookshelf across from where Harry sits, so that their positions at the beginning of the conversation are now reversed. "At least not if I can help it," Tom amends. "Irina and I are working on an antidote to my dependence on you. We think introducing some of your blood into my system might help to stabilize my soul, since a part of your circulatory system will be close to me no matter where I am. Sorry about the Quidditch accident, by the way, I just wanted to get you alone for a second so I could draw some of your blood. Actually, blame it on that friend of yours for botching my attempt to get a sample off that suit of armour."
Harry scowls. "Yeah it's a pity that didn't work, might have given you tetanus. Seriously though, Tom, you could have just asked instead of landing me in the hospital wing. Twice."
"I wanted to keep a low profile," says Tom, and Harry wonders if this is really true, or if Tom just wanted to make a dramatic entrance.
"Argh!" Harry cries out suddenly as his muscles go up in flames.
"What is it?"
"Pain- from the fall," Harry sputters incoherently, "I- was on- a potion earlier. Hurts now- need- to lay down."
"Mobilicorpus," says Tom immediately, opens the door to an adjoining room and guides Harry into its darkened interior. There's a bed somewhere inside, and Harry feels pain shoot up his back as his body lands on the mattress.
"Thanks," he says faintly, willing the pain to subside. He breathes in Tom's now alarmingly familiar musky sent. The pillow and sheets smell of it.
Tom flicks on a light. Harry hates that in his agonized state he can't turn his head to look the other boy in the eye. It makes him feel exposed and vulnerable. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the other boy leaning against the doorway. He can't see his face, but he can feel Tom's eyes on him.
"Welcome to my boudoir, Harry Potter," says Tom, "I imagine it must be boring just lying there. Can I offer you a choice selection of fine sleeping potions?"