Chapter 6 - Ash
Harry thought he'd been terribly lonely right after making the decision not to look back eight years ago. Funny, how one can forget true solitude when blessed with support for so long. At least back then, the sting had been eased by knowing it had been self-chosen misery. Had the weight of missing Ginny, Ron or Hermione become too much to bear, there would have been a paved way back, a house full of people who'd take Harry in again. Now…
Now, the loneliness is pressing like the darkness of his cupboard and cutting like the words of his aunt telling Harry that he will never be wanted. That no-one will ever miss him.
He no longer visits the bar, or the next mobile phone store when his newest one inevitably breaks again, or even St. Mungo's for a much-needed batch of detoxification potions.
There are few ingredients he buys on his bi-weekly grocery trip.
Half of them come in bottles.
Hedwig is his only saving grace, a wing to cry on and the only one to remind him of the passing of time by nipping gently at his fingers when wanting to be fed.
October turns to November, then to the early biting frost that December brings, which Harry only registers whenever he opens the window for his dear friend to fly out into the fresh air or during the short walks to his local ASDA.
During one of his brighter moments, Harry gets out the old photo album, practising apologies to the smiling faces of Ron and Hermione, awareness dawning, deep down, that it can no longer go on like this. Grovelling to them might be necessary but really… has he not sunk to the lowest point already?
''Getting sentimental?''
Laughing and waving photos crash to the floor as the book slips from his fingers.
Ever so slowly, Harry dares turn around, facing the one he's been missing so dearly. Styled as always, nonchalantly leaning against the doorframe that leads into the hallway, is his stranger. He wears the very same outfit as on the first day they met. ''How- you…'' he stammers, overwhelmed by an onslaught of different emotions.
''I said I needed time, not that I would stay away permanently,'' the man scoffs, stepping closer. Before Harry can reach out , the other has already brushed past and made himself comfortable on Harry's armchair. One foot rests on the table in his usually arrogant manner. At least he adhered to Harry's house rules by taking his shoes off. ''You made a right mess of the place.''
''How did you get in?'' Even in drunken stupors, Harry never forgets to lock the door. Going outside only once every fortnight, the front door is closed almost permanently nowadays.
It appears as if his stranger is contemplating something, head cocked to the side ever so slightly. ''Alohomora,'' he softly says, and it takes a moment for Harry's brain to catch up. When it does, he feels… defeated more than angry.
''You knew…'' he whispers, sitting down on the floor, not trusting his wobbly knees not to give out. A wizard… his stranger has been a fucking wizard all this time. ''Was it all a ruse?'' he accuses. ''Were you selling info to the Prophet? Did anyone hire you to stalk poor insane Harry Potter?''
No guilt or even discomfort cross the handsome face. An arching of a single eyebrow is all he receives in return. ''I have not been in contact with many other mages in the past decade either, Harry.''
Letting that sink in, he grapples for the right questions to ask. ''So… so why not simply tell me, then? Why make a huge secret out of it? You obviously knew that I am a wizard. So, it's not as if you could have been afraid of exposing your secret to a Muggle with me.'' Even if the other was a cave hermit or something, Harry is painfully aware of how far his name has carried ever since he was one years old. Assuming anyone does not know of him is out of the question.
''It is because I sought you out for the purpose of revenge.''
The silence is deafening, and Harry vaguely notes that the entire scene looks mighty silly. Here he sits on his own floor unwashed and unshaven, wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama pants, stared down at by someone who might as well be a super model, speaking of getting revenge. On him.
The confession doesn't even come as a complete surprise. It wouldn't be the first time someone he trusted played Harry for a fool. Teachers whom he'd thought to have a decent relationship with had turned out to be Death Eaters. Classmates and friends had turned tail whenever he fell out of favour again. Even Dumbledore had been scheming to have him die in order to fulfil that blasted prophecy. It would be just Harry's luck if one of Voldemort's lackeys had broken out of prison to get back on him for ending their master's life.
''Revenge…'' he echoes emptily, then gestures around. ''Whatever your reasoning, there's little left to take away from me.''
The stranger scowls at that, crossing his legs the other way and tapping impatiently on the armrest. If he hadn't had the boldness to march in here declaring to be out for blood, Harry would have thought these to be signs of anxiousness. ''Oh, my plan was nothing so elaborate at the start, Harry. I wanted… I wanted to hear the story from your side and, when inevitably judging you to have been in the wrong, punish any transgressions through use of physical violence before executing you at last.''
Harry can't muster the energy to be outraged. ''You might want to get in line,'' he remarks. ''I'm not exactly new to punishment. Or death threats.''
''Of course, you just had to throw my plans into disarray from the moment we met anew,'' the man spits as if Harry hasn't responded at all, reddish-brown gaze turning harder. ''Speaking of mourning, of regret and second chances. Of the pitiful empty life you've led so far. Wiping your existence away would have done nothing. It might have granted you more relief. You, who bought into Dumbledore's rhetoric about death being nothing but the next great adventure.''
The outraged confession stirs the edges of repulsive memories, Harry's stomach coiling uneasily.
''So, I used your obvious, hopeless attraction to me, determined to make you fall head over heels so you'd be utterly destroyed once I revealed myself. To shape you so you'd only be loyal to me before dropping you into the icy waters of betrayal. But then-''
The stranger abruptly pushes himself up from the chair, furiously pacing up and down with long strides, hands folded behind his back. ''When I took possession of your mind during my battle with Dumbledore in the Department of Mysteries, I imagined I saw all your memories. Your friends, your family… I saw your burning happiness and could not stand it. Ah, Harry… how should I have known you were such a bleeding-hearted fool that you'd protect those who despised your very existence, subconsciously hiding all they did to you? When you revealed to me how you'd been treated, I was not merely taken aback. I was angry. Furious. On your behalf!''
Russet shift into blazing red now, the colour of his nightmares pinning Harry's form to the floor. He can't focus on the last part of the rant, mind stuck on 'battle with Dumbledore in the Ministry'.
''No…'' he moans in despair. ''Not you…''
'Call me master' flashes through his mind, clouded though it is.
Voldemort stops his pacing, closing the distance between them to look down on Harry. ''It was my intention to revel in this moment,'' he utters quietly, reaching down so his palm rests on the crown of Harry's head. Harry tries to get up, finding his limbs too shaky to succeed in the attempt. A spell? Or his own doing?
''You killed me so many times, Harry Potter. Vanquished me on the night I first attempted to take care of a threat, destroyed numerous pieces of my soul, going so far to trick me into killing the sliver that resided in you, and finally arranged circumstances so my curse would fire back at me. If you had been more thorough, I would have died permanently. Even though you were not, I once again lost my body for many, many years. The last of my followers are dead or locked away, my laws have been undone, and I have understood that the magical world does not truly want change. As another revolution is as doomed to fail as the last two were, I at the very least wished to get back on the one who'd put an end to both of my attempts.''
''Anything I did to you-'' Harry counters, attempting to keep his voice steady as he glares upwards. He doesn't fully succeed, teeth chattering with nerves, anger, disbelief and fear. ''You started it. You started all of it. Your unhinged ideals that rooted in oppressive hatred would always have turned the stomachs of decent people. If not me, then another.''
''Perhaps… but it was you. We cannot change that fact now.'' The man sighs, fingers carding themselves into Harry's hair and scratching pleasantly at his scalp. He wishes to tear them away, break those hands that brough him ecstasy in a lie. His body feels too sluggish to do so, too frozen. Too drunk.
''How did you survive?'' Harry questions, attempting to ignore the touch or his own shivering in reaction to it. No matter the horrible things Voldemort will have in store after today, he most of all needs to know where he's gone wrong.
To his annoyance and surprise, Voldemort chuckles at that and kneels, palm shifting to press itself against Harry's cheek instead. ''Everyone appears to think I truly died that second time… How many Horcruxes did you think I had, Harry?''
Blinking in confusion, he hesitantly answers: ''Seven. You made six on purpose and one by accident: me.''
''And how did you reach that conclusion?''
Figuring it can't hurt Slughorn anymore – during one of the hospital visits about five years ago, he read in the newspaper that the old potion teacher died– he answers truthfully: ''Dumbledore found a memory, in which you discussed the concept of Horcruxes. You debated whether one could split their soul into seven pieces. That would equal six Horcruxes, plus yourself, as seven is the most powerful number. That you ended up with eight pieces was a mere mistake.''
The self-satisfied smirk grows. ''That is it? My life was saved due to the combined abysmal listening comprehension of you and Albus Dumbledore? Harry, what I discussed was Slughorn was whether one could split the soul seven times. Perform the action of creating a Horcrux seven times. What matters to magic is the actual use of magic, the undergoing of the rituals and spellwork. That is what I wished to have sevenfold, not the end-result. I made seven Horcruxes on purpose, plus you, giving me nine pieces of soul including my own. When my Killing Curse backfired on the grounds of Hogwarts, I still had one Horcrux left that none of you ever cared to look for. I was reduced to a spirit once more and managed to restore myself earlier this year, with a ritual not so dissimilar to the one you witnessed in the graveyard of Little Hangleton.''
It's as if claws of iron are pressing into his chest.
It was for nothing. Their quest, the deaths on the way… In the end, Voldemort still lives. Worse, if his instant plan for vengeance is anything to go by, the Dark Lord learned nothing.
''And now?'' Harry whispers, already eyeing the room for his wand. He's grown too careless when living in the Muggle world, no longer carrying it on his person. ''Is this it, then? Your vengeance?''
The other withdraws as if burned. ''Were you not listening to me?'' Voldemort snaps, teeth baring as he painfully grips Harry's chin and brings their faces almost close enough to kiss. ''My ultimate plan was to reveal who I was during your most vulnerable moment, preferably right after I fucked you. I would not have left without explaining myself, granting you months to find your own footing again.''
Shame burns his face at the mere thought of having discovered Voldemort's identity moments after having completely succumbed to the other. Slowly, something clicks. Baffled and horrified, he inquires: ''Did you… did you think you were doing me a favour? By leaving?''
''I imagined that someone as independent as you, with experience living on your own for so long, would soon return to your usual routines, yes. I am… rather displeased to have found you in such a state.'' Voldemort draws back several inches, brows knitted and grip shifting into something tender, the pad of his thumb coming to rest on Harry's bottom lip. ''You fought so many battles and won… I do not understand why you were unable to drag yourself out of this ditch you've dug.''
''One I dug?'' he retorts, gathering all of his strength to grab the pale wrist and shove it away so Voldemort isn't stroking his face anymore. Be it a tactic to confuse him – which is working – or something else, he can't just sit here and do nothing as his resurrected nemesis casually admits to having tricked Harry into sleeping with him. So what if he consented to the outrageously mind-blowing sex? If he'd known from the start it was Voldemort… ''Once again, you sought me out. Even fleeing to the Muggle world wasn't enough to get you off my back, was it? Oh no, you had to concoct this whole scheme to hurt me because you still weren't through, you obsessive, repulsive madman!''
Harry at last manages to scramble to his feet, intent on putting more distance between them. Predictably, Voldemort casually steps forward again to catch Harry around the waist, drawing the both of them so close they stand chest to chest. ''I abandoned those schemes,'' Voldemort sternly explains, as if he is a professor talking to a particularly dense student. ''The instant you made me feel what I never have before. Empathy.'' That one word is wrapped in serenity, as if this should be some sort of secret revelation to Harry. As if this changes their entire situation.
Staring in disbelief is all he can do. ''Do you want an award?'' he blurts out, getting more worked up by the minute. ''The I-abandoned-my-plan-to-intentially-ruin-Harry-Potter-so-I-did-so-by-accident-instead award? I gave you a chance for regret and empathy! Fucking nine and a half years ago, Tom! Do you expect me to cheer you on now you've broken off your next attempt to finish me? Because you know what, that does not change the fact that you succeeded in it. You still made me attached to you, left me for months, and now I was finally getting halfway over being practically dumped out of the blue, you show up at my doorstep telling me all of my feelings were based on just another lie! Can you feel empathy for that?!''
Harry doesn't care that he is yelling right in Voldemort's face, balled-up rage too great to consider the possible consequences. ''You were right in one thing, though,'' he spits, nails digging into the man's jacket as he can't decide whether to tear at skin or shove Voldemort away. ''I'd rather have you try to murder me again than this.''
Voldemort's jaw flexes through the entire tirade, yet he does not interrupt, or even make a snarky comment. When Harry next breaks their cruel embrace, there is no body insistently following his own. ''If you truly want to do some good, Tom-'' Harry tiredly advises, hugging himself. ''Then obliviate me and turn yourself in.''
''You know I won't do either, Harry.''
''In that case, get the fuck out of here. I can't stand to look at you anymore.''
By some miracle, no curses are flung at him for the insults. Wordlessly, Voldemort turns on his heel and leaves, not even stopping to pick up his tailored black shoes. The slamming of the door echoes long in Harry's weary mind.
What in the world just happened?
More importantly, what is Harry supposed to do?
AN: Well, Harry has fallen to the deepest point.. what way to go from here but up? 2 more chapters left! (plus an epilogue I couldn't resist writing :3 )
The theory of splitting one's soul 7 times vs into 7 pieces is not based on the books, but the movie script. In the books, it is quite clear that Tom is asking about splitting the soul into seven pieces. However, in the movie script Tom's question is shortened/adapted to: ''Can you only split your soul once? For instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number?'' which leaves much more ambiguity. And although Slughorn responds the same as in the book with disbelief about ripping the soul into seven pieces, that wasn't Tom's actual question here. (due to sound distortions in this specific scene, the actual lines that made it into the movie are even shorter: ''Can you only split your soul once? For instance, seven?'' which again sounds more like he wants to split it seven times as opposed to six.) I just thought this was a neat difference to play around with, as it can change the entire course of events.
Read and Review!
xx GeMerope