Chapter 3: Sticks and Stones
Two months later: a Saturday
Something important had shifted. It was the kind of shift where you knew something very important had just taken place; you just weren't sure what yet. All that you knew was that it had happened and that it was just the start. Like the first bout of queasiness that hit you right before an earthquake, where, for those few moments, you wondered if you had just eaten some really bad sushi.
Then the ground would shake and you would be thrown from your feet unexpectedly. Suddenly you would know that the world was moving beneath you and if you had had some better warning you might have been able to prepare for it.
Voldemort was at the point where he was just starting to feel ill without really understanding what was causing it.
The shift was a basic one, as most of these things go. Simply put; people had started to notice him.
"You're that bloke who's been spending time with the freaky kid right?" His latest assailant asked him as he proceeded to slide the groceries across the scanner. The teenager pressed some buttons on the till which made an obnoxious 'beep beep' with every finger tap. He blew a large bubble with the gum he had been chewing on.
Voldemort's eye twitched and he ground his teeth together.
It always started like this, usually at the tills or at a restaurant when he could no longer ignore the fact that he needed food (and recently he had needed more than he remembered needing since Hogwarts. He knew that it was due to his still recovering magical reserves, but that didn't make it any less aggravating to have to deal with). His server or attendant would ask him, in no discreet way, if he was the one spending time with the 'freak child'. Some of them would use Harry's name, if they knew it, though most didn't bother to extend that courtesy. It drove him to the brink of killing every single last one of them, but they were smart, damn them, and only approached him in crowded areas, such as the market he was currently at.
For a place where people were supposed to be good at minding their own business they were obnoxiously curious about new people moving into the area, especially when they did something unexpected. He had hoped that the novelty would have worn off by now, but that seemed to have been a lofty wish. People just didn't move into this area, he was the first in a long time and it seemed he would be the last for an even larger amount. Add that to the fact that he was spending time with Harry, a child that was ostracized from the community; it was a recipe of gossip. He should have realized this long before he had even decided on this course of action, and he was severely regretting his lack of foresight now.
He supposed he should just be thankful that he had yet to have any of the less innocent questions thrown at him. He knew those thoughts would probably pop into these people's minds sooner rather than later, and it wasn't something he was looking forward to in the least.
"I don't see how that is any of your business," he ground out with a glare, but the till worker wasn't looking at him, he was focusing instead on running the eggs over the scanner one too many times.
This was Ms. Gudrun's fault, somehow, he just knew it.
"Ya, what eves' just thought ya' might want ta' know, that kids a weird one. Bad luck. I would avoid him if I was you, he's no good really."
It was the same every. Single. Time. And he couldn't stand it. These muggles acted like they knew better than him, like they had any right to tell him what he should or should not do.
His eyes flashed red.
He closed them tightly and breathed out slowly while counting backward for ten and then doing so again. He had to remind himself that he had self-control. He hadn't had to practice it in a long time – war gave you ample opportunity to take out your anger on others – but it existed.
Somewhere.
He just had to remember where. The muggles weren't making it any easier and they were all pushing him to the last of his restraints.
Oh, how he wanted to kill one, just one, to get it out of his system.
He wasn't senseless though, he knew that one would become two quick enough and two would lead to more until people started to notice. If he gave in just once to this anger it would be difficult to stop. He was aware that when he killed out of anger and madness he tended to lose control of himself; it was something he had had to come to terms with long ago. It hadn't been an issue during the war, but before that he had had to control his murderous urges. Killing because it benefited you was one thing, but killing just to kill was another monster entirely. Killing was like a demented drug to him, as much as he hated to admit that. It was a way for him to relieve pent up stress, but once he started he found it almost impossible to stop. It was a weakness just as much as strength.
His eyes caught those of the till workers and the young man paled in fright, "I said it is none of your business what I do with my time and who I decide to associate with. It is none of your or anyone else in this God forsaken little corner of Hell's business do you understand me?" The teenager nodded quickly, trying desperately to pull his gaze away but found he was unable to control his body. "Good, and should you dare to try and give me advice on how to live my life again, I will personally cut out your tongue."
His hand itched to pull out his wand and massacre the man along with every other person in the market, most of which he knew were trying to pretend that they weren't watching. Instead he turned and marched out of the store, forgetting about his purchase in the process.
He hadn't felt this far out of control in a long time and he was starting to remember why he hated that feeling in the first place.
Something in Harry's life had shifted too, and not in a good way as one would expect. Instead he was facing ridicule that he had never had to face before. He had gotten so used to people calling him a 'freak' and 'useless' that those didn't really bother him anymore, but the things people said now played with his own fears and doubts. He was finding it difficult to ignore the words being thrown at him.
"Why would anyone want to spend time with you?"
Ms. Gudrun said they were just jealous and not to let it get to him (in far more colorful words of course), and Harry knew she was probably right, she was usually right about these things, but knowing that didn't make it better, didn't make the words go away. People, no matter the age, turn into monsters when jealousy takes hold. The brutality that was only hinted at would come out full force to tear down those around them.
"You can't really think he's going to adopt you, No one's ever going to adopt you!"
The physical blows Harry could handle, it was the non-physical that caused him the most pain. He tried to ignore the words like he did before, but he couldn't help thinking, over and over again 'what if they are right?'
"Bet he doesn't even like you, bet he just keeps you round because you won't go away."
Harry closed his eyes tightly and thought to himself 'there just unimportant words, just like Ms. Gudrun always says'. They didn't mean anything, they were just words said because the other kids were jealous.
"Who would ever want a thing like you?"
He just wished it didn't hurt so much.
"There he is!" he heard from behind him and his eyes flew back open, he had thought he had lost the other boys at the last corner, but he had obviously been wrong. He quickly turned forward again and ran. He could hear the other boys following after him and the angry yells from adults as they rushed around their legs.
He needed to find a hiding place or they were going to catch up with him. Maybe he could duck into one of the stores? The last time he had tried that it hadn't turned out too well, with the owner kicking him back out into the street where the other boys had been waiting. Maybe this time would be different, maybe if he chose the right store –
As he turned the next corner he realized, happy, that he wouldn't have to risk that. A familiar figure in a simple black suit came into view and Harry smiled, the other boys wouldn't chase after him now he knew. He might even be able to enjoy his first day of summer break.
"Mr. Tom!" he yelled as he ran to catch up with the man.
He was half way back to his house – another situation that he did not want to think about right now – when a voice called to him from across the road.
He let out a heavy sigh, though he was ashamed to discover that it had less to do with his agitation and more to do the feeling of relief that washed over him. His whole trip to the market and now home had been plagued with muggles trying to pretend they weren't watching him. They watched him from the corner of their eyes trying to figure out if he was insane or not, because only someone insane would ever take a 'freak' like Harry into their care. He had yet to figure out how to get them to leave him alone, short of a disillusionment charm or mass murder, other than to keep Harry around. For whatever reason – be it courtesy or some kind of fear (which begged the question as to why they feared a child but not him, because the worst Harry had done, as far as he knew, was disappear and reappear on a roof). So the spike of relief at hearing Harry's voice calling him shouldn't have been a surprise, in fact it was a common occurrence by this point, but he still left him feeling annoyed with his own lack of control over the situation. He should not have to depend on a child for any kind of defense.
"Mr. Tom!" Harry called again as he quickly ran across the road, making sure to check for cars before doing so.
"You are going to get yourself killed by doing that." Voldemort reprimanded him as he continued walking, though he slowed his stride so that Harry could easily keep up. In the last two months he had figured out the exact pace he needed to have in order for Harry to not have to jog beside him. That bugged him too, because why should he care if the boy could keep up or not?
"I checked this time, just like you said!" Harry insisted before looking across the street again. Voldemort followed his gaze, only to see a group of boys watching them from across the way; Voldemort recognized them as some of the other orphans at Wool's. Justin, David, James, Henry, and Douglas his mind provided without his consent, sometime he hated having the memory he did. It wasn't like he actually cared who the other boys were, but Harry had slowly pointed them out to him during their time spent together and so now their names were forever stuck in his head.
Harry shifted closer to him and tried to hide his tiny forum from the other boy's sight.
It would seem then that he wasn't the only one who was relieved to find the other then. He had noticed that Harry tended to use him just as much for company as he did for protection. They were even in that sense at least, but he still didn't appreciate having to act as the boy's shield. Not that anyone had tried to confront either of them while the other was around, but it was the point of the matter. That the child honestly thought that he would protect him was laughable, or it would be if that wasn't exactly what he wanted from the boy. It meant that Harry trusted him, which would make killing him that much easier.
He frowned at the sudden sinking feeling in his stomach, it was becoming such a common occurrence and he had to wonder if he had caught some kind of disease from these degusting creatures.
They walked in silence for a long while, with no real destination in mind. Voldemort had planned on returning to his house, but he was finding lately that he didn't want to return to that little corner of damnation. Even the thought or returning there left him feeling agitated and made his skin crawl. Besides, he reminded himself, he didn't want Harry to know where he lived because there was a very good chance that the boy would follow him home and never leave.
It was as good an excuse as any.
Their aimless wandering brought them to a small residential park, the same park they always seemed to end up at, at some point or another.
The little run down park was about three blocks from his house and ten blocks from Wool's, the residence who lived around the park were, for the most part, older couples and so, during the day, the park was almost always completely abandoned. (Night was a whole different matter, at which point the playground turned into more of a black market then a place for kids). Harry would usually run off to play on the swings or on the slide and leave Voldemort to sit on one of the few still intact benches to make sure the kid didn't break an arm. He didn't see why he had to accompany the boy to the park when he could very well take care of himself, but Harry insisted that he couldn't stay there if he was on his own and that it was too far from Wool's to walk by himself. So the Dark Lord had merely sighed and taken to carrying around a newspaper or book to occupy his mind while Harry played.
He sat down at his regular bench as Harry ran off for the swings. He never realized how young Harry was until he brought him here. The boy did his best to act older, a defense mechanism that everyone growing up at Wool's learned, but his childishness came out when he was at this park. He waved at Voldemort from the swings as he started to climb into the air in a dissonant kind of movement. He still didn't know how to move his legs properly to get the swing to go how he wanted.
The Dark Lord had to admit that it had been ridiculously funny to realize that Harry had no idea how to work a swing the first time they had found themselves at this park. The boy had tried desperately to get the swing moving while wiggling both feet back and forth against each other. When that had failed he had tried to push the swing into motion and then jump on it, which had left him, more often than not, face down in the dirt. Eventually the Dark Lord had taken pity on the child and yelled across to him that he needed to move both feet at once, something that the boy was still getting used to.
It was a stark reminder that the child had never actually had the opportunity to play on a playground. Wool's didn't have one within a close enough walking distance that most of the younger kids were willing to risk, and he had informed Voldemort that the kids at school didn't let him get anywhere near the playground equipment. Instead he took the time to sit and draw in the sand until one of the other kids would run over to destroy it.
Voldemort watched Harry as he laughed and smiled on the swing before jumping off the go on the slide. The child's voice was one of the only sounds to fill the air, besides the occasional motorcar driving by. It made Harry's laughter seem odd, like it didn't belong in this place. It felt like the only thing that should fill the air in this place was silence, like that of a black and white film.
Sounds of joy did not belong in a place like this. 'There aren't even birds to fill the air with noise, not even the disgusting rat like ones' He noted, looking around at some of the sickly looking trees that were scattered around the area. Nor were there any signs of life outside of the humans that lived there, it reminded him of something he learned a long time ago: animals could sense when disasters were about to happen long before humans could and as a result they could be seen fleeing an area long before anyone else did.
He wondered what it said about the area that not even stray animals or pigeons would dare live there.
'That muggles are stupid enough to live where nothing else will, even the plants look like they don't want to be here.'
Then he wondered what it said about him, since he was voluntarily staying there too.
It wasn't something he wanted to think about.
Thankfully he didn't have to, as Harry decided at that moment to run up and sit next to him on the bench, his legs swinging back and forth under him. "So you can do that properly here, but you can't get it right on the swing?" Voldemort asked, indicating to the child legs that were now moving in time with each other. Harry looked down and blushed a little in embarrassment.
"It's harder when you're moving," he insisted to which the Dark Lord conceded that he likely had a point. He had never had the opportunity to try a swing, he merely knew how they were technically supposed to work, so in this he supposed Harry now knew more than he did.
"Have you eaten today Harry?" It would be a little after one soon, and even he was starting to feel his hunger. He was regretting having forgotten his groceries at the till now. It had been a needless show of emotion, and though he had nothing against emotional displays when they could be used as a means to an end, they annoyed him when they served no obvious purpose. It annoyed him even more that it had been him performing the act, he knew he should have more control but lately it felt like that was in short supply.
"Ya," Harry answered, but by the scrunched up look on his face Voldemort doubted that whatever he had eaten could be described as anything close to food.
"Well it is past lunch time and I am in need of something to eat, feel free to join me if you wish. If not then I will, likely, see you later." He said as he stood up. Harry was quick to follow which, thankfully, meant that no one would bug him while they ate.
They made their way in silence, which by this point wasn't uncommon for them while walking, but Voldemort could tell that something was different about this silence. He looked over at Harry who seemed to be thinking heavily to himself. His lower lip was slowly being worried between his teeth which usually meant he was debating whether or not to do something.
It was the same look he had had before trying the swings for the first time.
Voldemort wondered if he should just ask the boy what was wrong before deciding against the idea, whatever it was the child would likely ask him sooner or later, so there was no point in rushing the talk.
They made it to a little Indian restaurant where they had made an appearance twice before. Voldemort, for his part, enjoyed spicy curries, and he had found that this place made the best in the immediate area.
Harry wasn't one for spicy food and had opted to order chicken tenders off the kids menu.
Lunch proceeded in a quiet manner which worried the Dark Lord more then he knew it should. Harry had a habit of filling the silence while they ate with silly stories and tales from school along with a number of random and unimportant facts that he had recently learned. It was something Voldemort had originally tried to break the boy from, but had quickly decided to focus on the child atrocious table manners instead. So, as a consequence, there meals were usually filled with noise.
It worried him now that this had changed. Voldemort liked things to be predictable and constant, something that he found happening less and less often lately. Harry and been one of the few forces in his current life that had been predictable (except for their meetings, which had become so unpredictably predictable that he just assumed it was more likely to happen then not). The fact that this had changed made him nervous, like somehow the ground had shifted beneath his feet and he wasn't too sure where he stood any more. He found himself needing to break the silence between them.
"Is something wrong?" He asked, maybe the boy was coming down with something, maybe he had given it to him, it would explain the uneasiness in his own stomach at least.
Harry looked up at him like a raccoon caught in headlights, not knowing whether to run of stay still. "Nu-uh- I mean 'no'" Harry quickly corrected. Silence fell again and this time Voldemort was all but ready to tear into the boys mind to find out what was bothering him.
He, thankfully, didn't have to resort to such measures as Harry seemed to finally find the courage to talk about whatever was bothering him.
"We're on summer break now." Harry started, which was redundant because Voldemort already knew that, the child had been mentioning it non-stop for weeks. "So we don't have to be in school most of the day anymore," which was, once again, redundant but Voldemort allowed the boy to continue without a lecture because, for whatever reason, this honestly seemed important to the boy. "Which means I don't have anything to do all day Friday, and um..." He stopped, finally looking up at the Dark Lord as if the rest of the sentence was obvious.
Which Voldemort supposed it was, but since when had the boy actually asked his permission to spend time with him? "And?" The Dark Lord prompted, knowing that there had to be more to this request then he was comprehending.
Harry chewed at his bottom lip again before finally answering, "it's just...it's gonna be my birthday, I'm turning seven and all, and I just thought maybe, if you're not busy, that I could hang out with you that day?"
Harry looked up at him with pleading eyes, but Voldemort's thoughts were elsewhere. It was almost the child's birthday? It was almost the end of July!? How had he not felt the passing of so much time? Subconsciously he knew that the days had come and gone in their proper order, but somehow he hadn't registered it.
There was so much he still had to get done! What has he been doing these last three months?!
The ground shifted beneath him again, and now he could no longer tell if he was standing or falling.
"- I mean, I know you must be busy, or work or something so it's not important-" Harry was stammering out now and Voldemort quickly came back to his senses.
"Alright," he conceded before he even registered what he had said, which only made him feel more off balance. There were other things he needed to get done, especially now that he realized how long he had been putting them off for. He shouldn't be spending time with the child's on his birthday when there were more important matters to attend to.
The look on Harry's face when he agreed was ecstatic though, and Voldemort realized that, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to go back on his word. Harry's joy was obvious and he quickly expressed it by jumping into a number of stories about some of the other kids birthday celebrations at school.
As upset as Voldemort was that he had agreed to the kids offer, he was also relieved to have the chatter back. At least one thing was back to its proper order, because the rest of his life seemed to be falling into shambles around him.
Most people, when they picture a Dark Lords home, would picture something dark and sinister, like a castle that seemed to continuously have a thunderstorm raging above it, or perhaps a decrepit mansion half rotting with weeds covering the front lawn.
At the very least it was expected to be black.
Lord Voldemort's current residence - which he had commandeered from the previous tenants who were now resting pleasantly in the back garden - was none of these things. It was actually a quaint little two story, three bedroom two and a half bathroom white-wash house with a patched red roof. It was run down with age and neglect but with a little bit of work and a touch of magic it looked decently new. The front yard was nice and tidy and anyone seeing it for the first time would assume the person that cared for it had some kind of obsessive compulsive disorder.
A large bay window looked on into the living room from the street. This had been charmed to show the same image anytime anyone tried to look in. The scene was a lovely little living room with a small couch, two arm chairs, and a brightly polished coffee table all set in front of a beautiful fireplace. It looked inviting and warm and like something out of a home and gardens magazine. In fact the exact image could be found in the latest issue of H&G, though no one in this part of London read stuff like that if they even capable of reading anything at all
Over all it looked like a lovely house to live in and raise a family if one ignored the fact that I was located in the worst borough in London.
In truth the only things that let on that the Dark Lord Voldemort lived in the house were the extensive wards around the property and the little copper door knocker that was designed to look like a snake. It was a beautifully crafted piece of work that had the added bonus of biting any solicitors that took it into their head to come around.
It was here that the Dark Lord returned when he left Harry back at the orphanage. It was a number of blocks away from Wool's, which, though technically convenient, was currently unpleasant to the Dark Lord. He had no wish to be at this place, especially now that he was keenly aware of the passage of time.
"Get out of my way" he hissed at the door knocker and the door quickly opened for him. As far as passwords went it was pretty strait forward.
The inside of the house didn't really scream 'Dark Lord' any more than the outside had. The walls were still that egg-shell white of every house that had had owners too lazy the paint. Most of the floors had carpets which were, for the most part, that speckled brownish color that was also all too common in these houses. Those that didn't have carpet were covered in a light wood that really wasn't wood at all but some plastic contraption that was likely made in Taiwan. The stairs were the only real exceptions to this, where a beautiful forest green rug lead the way upstairs. The carpet had been a deep red (though stained and in tatters) when the Dark Lord had taken over the place, but he had been quick to fix that, along with all the other damage and filth that the last muggle inhabitance had left behind.
It was about the only thing he had done to the house by this point.
Voldemort made his way into the white hallway that led to the rest of the house. He turned to the right and entered the egg-shell white and plastic-wood-floor living room. The windows could potentially let in a lot of natural light but clouds had started to roll in and they ensured that this didn't happen. Instead most of the light filling the room came from the small fireplace where a charmed fire was burning happily.
Voldemort sat himself down in the armchair by the fire and thought that maybe he should think about getting a couch. Given that the armchair and a half empty bookshelf were the only things in the living room at that moment it was probably not a bad thought.
'I should probably also get some books' he added, and that was a problem, the whole thing was a problem, because at the end of the day he knew, deep down, that he would not be getting more books.
He had been procrastinating; he knew he was even now. He just didn't know why. He was usually so efficient with his time and energy, getting things done at a sensible and precise manner, but now...now it seemed almost impossible for him to complete even one task on his list, and the list just seemed to be getting longer and longer as the days went on.
He looked around his desolate living room knowing that the upstairs was similarly furnished. His bedroom consisted of one dresser that only had one drawer a quarter full of clothing and a closet that consisted of two simple back robes that he had bought on his original trip to Ubique Alley. He knew he should go out and get a proper wardrobe, not just the simple black and white suites he had, it was on his list, his list that kept expanding and expanding and never shortening.
His bed was the same that had originally been in the room, a sad looking cast iron thing that had lacked a mattress originally. He had purchased one quickly enough because contrary to popular belief he did need to sleep at some point or another (though it was usually only in the early hours of the morning after having been up for nearly two days in a row).
The only room that was anywhere close to being completed was the second bedroom upstairs which he had converted into a potions laboratory.
If frustrated him to no end to realize that he was even putting off such mundane tasks. He was better than this, he knew he was. If he had been on top of things, like he normally was, then this place would have been fully furnished and functional months ago, but here it stood, looking little better than it had when he had first found the place.
So why was it so difficult? Maybe it had something to do with his resurrection? A side effect maybe? It was possible.
And then there was the situation with the boy. He had spent more time with the child these last two months then he had ever intended to, and not because he wanted to. The boy seemed to be able to find him anywhere no matter how much he tried to avoid him. He had seen him at least twice a week in the last few months, and with summer break starting he was honestly worried that that time would increase.
And now he had agreed to spend the child birthday with him.
There was so much he could be getting done, should have been getting done this whole time. Instead he had just put off for the sake of what? Spending time with a child? What was wrong with him?
The sad part the whole situation was that it didn't even cross him mind while he was with the boy, it wasn't until he was walking back to his house that he would realize what a waste of time it had all been.
It wasn't so much seeing the child that upset him, it was the exact opposite in fact, and he found himself honestly enjoying the kids company. Once they got past the insentient talking, having the boy around was almost calming in an odd sort of way.
He tried to justify it by telling himself that he was learning important things about the child, but that was too blatant of a lie for even him to convince himself of. Not one thing he had learn from the boy in the last two months had brought him any closer to understanding how the boy had survived the killing curse or anything about that scar on the child's head (which still hurt the boy though Harry insisted that it wasn't so bad and had been getting better rather than worse.)
The truth of the matter was this: spending time with Harry gave the illusion of productivity, kind of like buying office supplies or potions ingredients with the intent to use them at some point, though you knew you never would. And that was exactly what this situation was, an illusion, because he wasn't learning anything different from spending time the child.
And that worried him. He should hate the child, he needed to kill the child, which was something, he was coming to realize, he had been putting off too.
He gave into his frustration and pulled at his hair, this would not do, at all; he needed to do something, anything. His control of this whole situation seemed to be crumbling beneath his feet and he couldn't figure out why, it was almost like he own mind was rebelling against his own plans, like he subconsciously didn't want to complete his work here. He needed to get things done! He needed to finish this house, he needed to actually study the child, not just talk to him, and he needed to figure out how to kill the boy!
It was upsetting how often he had to remind himself of that fact.
Three days later; a Tuesday.
He had bought a ball. It was color changing and un-breakable and he had actually walked into a store and bought it.
In the last three days he had come no closer to finishing anything, nor was he any closer to understanding why. It was frustrating him to no end. Add that to the muggles current opinion of him, which had at some point this week (likely due to his outbreak at the grocers) shifted from 'he's just new and doesn't understand' to 'he has to be insane, maybe even worse then the child' was driving him up the wall. It didn't help that he was starting to wonder the same thing about himself, surly there must be something wrong with his mind for him to be acting so off?
He had decided then to go, for the first time since he had been resurrected, to Diagon Ally. He had hoped that being amongst his own kind, in a familiar place (a place that even for him held such great and wonderful memories) would bring him back to himself. That somehow the magic that permeated through the air would bring him the answers he needed.
Instead he had found himself walking through the streets (and no one was looking twice at him, no one was paying him any notice, no one here thought he was crazy! And oh, wasn't that just a wonderful feeling), without any real idea of what he was doing there. He felt like a stranger in this place, like he was somehow not meant to be there, like it was all a big farce. And it was; he was upset to realize. None of these people knew him as the Dark Lord, and as much as he appreciated not being noticed for a change, it somehow made him feel like he wasn't himself here either, like he was still only 'Mr. Tom', a personality that he was quickly coming to hate. Voldemort held power and fear, so much so that people were still terrified to mention his name. 'Mr. Tom', he was coming to realize, was just a man who couldn't even get muggles to leave him alone, who couldn't bring himself to kill a single weak little child.
He had hoped Diagon Alley would be an escape, but it was only a different kind of prison.
He had walked around for a short while; upset at himself, with Diagon Alley, with all the stupid muggles that couldn't mind their own business, until a little toy shop had caught his eyes.
The sight of the store had very suddenly forced an annoying realization into his mind, and he very quickly knew that his whole reason for coming here wasn't just some misguided attempt to remind himself that those muggles were wrong, to prove to himself that he was still the Dark Lord, because of that had been the case he would never have chosen to come to a place like Diagon Alley. The real reason he had come here was simpler and far more idiotic then that. It was because Harry's birthday was on Friday, and whether he had wanted to admit it to himself before or not was irrelevant. The truth of the matter was that 'Mr. Tom' had come to Diagon Alley to get Harry a gift.
He could have been anyone when he had stepped foot through that hidden wall, he could have used a Polyjuice potion or any number of spells to become anyone he wanted to be. Had he really wanted to be Lord Voldemort again, as stupid as it would have been, he could have in a heartbeat.
But instead he had walked into Diagon Ally as Mr. Tom without so much as contemplating changing his appearance. Thinking about it now he was horrified to realize that he no longer associated this face with his presence as a Dark Lord, but rather as someone purely associated with a boy named Harry Potter. This face belonged to Mr. Tom, not Voldemort.
And as Mr. Tom he had decided to walk into the little magical toy shop, nod at the smiling attendant, and purchases a small bouncy ball for the child he looked after.
These realizations scared him, because what did this say about his state of mind?
He tried to justify the purchase in his own head but he was finding it difficult. He would like to think that he had gotten it as a means of furthering his plan, but he wasn't in the habit of lying to himself. The sad truth of the matter was simply this: He had bought it purely as a way to give the boy something to make his existence a little more tolerable, because it was something that Mr. Tom would do. But 'Mr. Tom' was a lie an image that he, the Dark Lord Voldemort, had created to get close to the boy. And as the Dark Lord he should not want to make another person's existence better.
Mr. Tom did not exist, he was just a mask, a mask that the Dark Lord should be able to slough off at a moments notice. It should not be affecting his thoughts and decisions like this.
His stomach lurched and he felt like he was losing his balance.
The whole thing sounded like a situation out of some muggle psychology book and he didn't like the implications one bit. Was this perhaps another side effect of breaking his soul into pieces? The piece from the diary had been young and inexperienced with the world, that piece had never really even been the Dark Lord Voldemort; in fact he had just started to go by that name. Maybe the piece of his mind that was associating with the 'Mr. Tom' personality was the piece that had come from that younger piece of soul, a piece that, given when it had been created, could very easily be sympathizing with Harry's current situation.
If this was true then it suddenly made sense why he was having such a hard time dealing with the child and why he was having such a hard time restraining himself around the muggles he was forced to interact with. Those exact words that so many of them used when talking about Harry had been directed at him fifty years ago. It would also explain why he was finding it so difficult to make any progress in killing the boy, it had to be because Harry reminded him too much of himself. It was like trying to think about killing his younger self, and that was something that he would never be able to do.
He frowned deeply as he made his way back to his house, opting to walk the long distance rather than apparite. This had to be the fault of that little corner of hell; it pulled long forgotten memories from the depths of his mind, ones that were better of buried and burned. The town was not only making him relive his childhood through his memories, but also bringing them back to life with every interaction he had with Harry.
But now that he had an idea as to why his interactions with the boy affected him so much he could very well find a way of moving past them. Maybe then he would be able to find his footing again and somehow grasp his slipping control. There were still a lot of problems that he needed to consider, but now that he had an idea of what the problem was he could move forward to address it and all the other issues that have slowly been chipping away at him.
He would start by slowly dismantling this 'Mr. Tom' persona and reminding himself that he was still a Dark Lord, and one of the most powerful ones Britain had seen in ages.
He smiled to himself, feeling like he was finally making some progress, before frowning again and looking down at the bag he was currently carrying. He shouldn't have bought the blasted ball, but there was nothing for it now. He had already, stupidly, spent the money so he might as well see it through. Besides, his frown deepened; he still had to stay in the boy's good graces if he wanted to figure out how to kill him.
He felt ill at the thought, but at least now he had an idea why.
Three days later, Harry's Birthday: A Friday
Harry had done his absolute best to stay out of trouble this week. He made sure to stay out of the way of all the other kids and Mrs. Palmer, opting instead to stay in his room most to the day, it was safer there. He knew he couldn't afford to get in trouble now, because what if Mrs. Palmer decided to lock him in his room on Friday? He would miss his chance to actually do something on his birthday.
All his past birthdays, as far as he could remember, had been looked over as if they never happened. One day he was one age and the next he was another but that was it. He knew the birthdays were something that were celebrated though, because his cousin used to have big parties for his. the only reason he even knew when his own birthday was was because his cousin would tease him about the fact that he wasn't important enough to have a party. After all, who would want to celebrate the birth of a freak?
'Mr. Tom does,' Harry reminded himself happily as he watched people move around outside his window in the early morning light. The other kids hadn't stopped their hurtful words, but Harry found it easier to ignore this week because Mr. Tom had agreed to spend time with him, he had agreed to actually meet with him and on his birthday too.
Harry didn't know when Mr. Tom would show up, but he had woken up early and kept an eye outside just to make sure he didn't miss him.
Voldemort, for his part, spent the rest of the week trying to figure out what had gone wrong with his resurrection, because that was the only explanation that made any sense for his current actions and thoughts. He had gone through a number of diagnostic spells, looking for any physical problems (there were none), Mental problems (Sociopathic with murderous tendencies, but those had always been true, there were no signs of a developing split personality disorder or anything else that could explain his current predicament), and lastly any damage to his soul. That one was a little bit more difficult to interpret given that his soul was literally in tatters, but the two pieces that he had merged together to forum this new body seemed to have successfully fused. He could find no place where The Dark Lord Voldemort' ended and the school boy 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' started.
None of these results brought him any closer to a solution, or really even an answer to what the problem was. As the week moved and Harry's birthday rolled around he found himself no closer to a solution then he had been the last time he had seen the boy.
He sighed and did his best to mentally prepare himself to meet Harry for the day, though he somehow knew that this day could only end badly.
Mr. Tom showed up around eleven and Harry ran down stairs the moment he saw him coming down the street. He took the stairs two at a time, nearly running into one of the older orphans, before barreling outside.
"Mr. Tom!" He yelled as he ran up to the man that had just arrived at the gate.
"Harry, what have I told you about running like that?" He asked as Harry come to a stop in front of him.
"Um- that I am going to trip and fall if I'm not careful and that I 'need to learn how to compose myself better'" he quoted and smiled up at him, "I'm sorry, I'll remember next time."
"I highly doubt that." Mr. Tom answered before shifting a little and holding a paper bag out to Harry. It was brown and it kind of reminded Harry of the lunch bags that the other kids brought to school sometimes, except that it was bigger. Harry looked at it skeptically before giving Mr. Tom a quizitive look.
"What is it?"
"It's a birthday present, that's what people do on other people's birthdays, they give presents." Mr. Tom answered, and though he said it like it was obvious Harry thought he looked a bit unsure of himself, like he wasn't really sure if people actually gave gifts on each other's birthdays or if it was just something the people on the tally made up.
Harry knew that people, normal people at least, did get gifts on their birthday though. After all, his cousin had always gotten a lot of gifts on his. Harry just never expected to ever get one himself.
He quickly took the bag from his self-proclaimed mentor and held it in his hands hesitantly. Harry thought they both must look a bit funny to anyone watching, since neither of them seemed to know what they were doing. It made Harry wonder if Mr. Tom had ever celebrated a birthday himself or if this was the first time for him too.
If Harry had to guess he would say that it was.
"Can I, um…open it now?" Harry asked moving the bag about to see if he could guess what was inside.
Mr. Tom shuffled a bit and seemed unsure about what to do with his hands, he finally seemed to decide that the best place for them was his pockets and quickly shoved them in. "I don't see why not, it is your birthday after all."
As soon as those words left the man's lips Harry tore into the bag, a smile spread across his face as he saw what was contained inside. "It's a ball!" Harry said excitedly, letting the bag drop to the floor forgotten as he removed the bright red ball from within.
"thats littering Harry, haven't we discussed this?" Mr. Tom reprimanded him and he bent down and recovered the bag. Harry didn't pay much attention though, as he was happily observing his birthday gift. He threw the ball up into the air, caught it, and very nearly dropped it as it changed colors at soon as it hit his hands.
"Wow," Harry said as he tried it again, this time when the ball hit his hand it turned a bright green. Harry's smile widened as he bounced the ball on the ground, it flashed yellow as it hit the sidewalk and then turned blue as so as he caught it again. "It's magic!" Harry said excitedly as he continued to bounce it at his feet.
"You expected anything less?" He heard Mr. Tom ask and Harry looked up to see him observing him, Mr. Tom did that a lot, his face held a look like he was trying to understand something that didn't make any sense to him.
"I've never gotten a gift before," Harry said as a way of answer. He bounced the ball one more time, restoring it to its original red. "You're the best!"
Mr. Tom shifted uncomfortable at that before indicating with a nod of his head down the street. "Though I don't mind staying here all day, I thought you might want to actually go somewhere."
Harry blushed a little in embarrassment, realizing both that they were still standing just outside of Wool's front gate and that he actually hadn't thought up any plans for the day. "Um…" Harry said looking down at the ball in his hands and trying to think of something they could so. What did other kids usually do on their birthdays? He didn't have friends or a house to invite people over to, nor did he have someone to make food or a cake like his aunt used to on his cousin's birthday.
What did you do then when you didn't have a house or friends to have a birthday party with?
Mr. Tom seemed to realize that Harry had no idea what to do and thankfully cut in, "Well, if you have yet to eat then I think that would probably be a good place to start, don't you?"
Harry looked up at him with a smile "Ya! Can we go to Ms. Gudrun's!?" Harry asked excitedly.
Mr. Tom cringed, which worried Harry, but he ended up nodding anyway "Very well." He consented and Harry happily followed him in the direction of the little tea shop. Harry didn't understand why Mr. Tom didn't like Ms. Gudrun's; Harry thought that her food was the best in the whole of England.
Brunch had been amazing, though Harry thought that that was probably due more to the fact that he was still hyped up from his gift than anything else. He had spent most of the time telling Mr. Tom about his plans for the summer and how he had managed to sneak a couple of books from school on the last day (The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, which was one of his favorites when that had read it this year, and a book of nonsense poems that he thought were funny). He knew that Mr. Tom didn't actually listen to him when he talked about things like this, but Harry was just happy with the fact that he had someone to talk to.
They had left the little tea shop and Harry tried to think up something fun to do for the rest of the day, but he was finding his imagination lacking. He didn't have any idea what there was to do on your birthday, or if there was really anywhere special to go that was close enough to walk to. All he really wanted to do anyway was go to their little park and play on the swings (and to Harry it was their park because no one else was ever there anyway).
Mr. Tom had agreed, though Harry got the feeling he would have agreed to take him anywhere had he been able to think of it. It made him feel special, knowing that someone was willing to do what he wanted.
The park was about nine blocks away from the tea shop, and Harry knew they weren't very good nine blocks either. As they turned onto Gorgon's road Harry inched his way closer to Mr. Tom, getting as close as he could without actually grabbing onto the man's shirt. Harry held his new ball in front of himself protectively and let his eyes search around, watching all of the dark corners for other people. No one had approached them before, but Harry had sometimes seen people watching them, women and men alike, and Harry knew that someday one of them would finally decide to attack them.
This street was the main reason that none of the orphans, including Harry, ever dared to go this way alone. Most of the businesses had gone out of business ages ago and were boarded up and condemned. Those that were still open sold things that Harry had been told he was either too young to know about or that he should never mess with unless he wanted to go to jail. There were also a large number of small back alleyways that connected to the road, they were dark and musky and often smelled like the bathrooms at Wool's when they got backed up. All these factors worked together to make it one of the most dangerous places in London, no matter the time of day.
Mr. Tom didn't seem to ever notice this though, or if he did he never seemed to care. This worried Harry a bit because he had heard that people like Mr. Tom who dressed nicely and had money tended to die on this road. He knew Mr. Tom had magic but he wasn't sure if magic was able to protect you from a gun, or if Mr. Tom would even be fast enough to cast a spell if someone decided to shoot him from one of the alleys. He didn't want Mr. Tom to die, Mr. Tom was the only person in the world that was ever really nice to him and he didn't want to lose that.
They were about half way down the long stretch of road when a voice cut through the air just a little ways in front of them. "Hey handsome," it said, and a women made an appearance in a small gap between two buildings. The woman was stick thin and had on a really short dress and really high heels. Her face was painted in an almost rainbow of colors, though her bright red lips stood out the most, and she smelled like Anna did that one time she had stolen her teacher's perfume and had put on way too much. Harry had seen women like her before, he had been told they were called something like 'prostitutes' though he didn't really know what that meant. "Why don't you ditch the kid and come- oh, it's you." The women's flirtatious look vanished like smoke, her bright red lips turning from a teasing smile to a deep sneer of disgust.
"I've heard of you, the insane man whose been watching out for the freak kid." Harry looked down at the ground and tried to ignore the women. He had hoped that they could just walk by her, but she had moved far enough into the sidewalk to be blocking their path. Mr. Tom came to a slow stop a few feet from the women and Harry looked around fearfully, worried that she might not be alone. He didn't see anyone else, but that didn't mean they weren't hiding somewhere. He moved himself closer to Mr. Tom, hoping to pull him to the other side of the road so that they could just walk by her that way, but Mr. Tom seemed to be frozen in place.
"Everyone knows the boys already off, demon kid they say. But now they're all say there's something wrong with you too, up here," she said, indicating with her fake nails to her head, "though if you ask me n' the girls, well we think there might be something wrong with ya' a little further down. What cha think,ya?" she smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. Mr. Tom's hands balled into fists and Harry was suddenly very worried about what was going to happen next.
"Come on Mr. Tom," Harry said quietly, wanting only to get away from the mean lady and her even meaner words "let's just go on the other side of the –" he started, but quickly lost his voice as he finally noticed to look on his guardians face.
He had seen Mr. Tom agitated and angry before, but it had never been like this. His eyes, which Harry was sure had been blue before were a bright mean looking red, almost like the women's too shiny lipstick, and his face was murderous. His teeth were clenched tight and lips were pulled back in a snarl. His hands which were clenched into fists at his sides shook with hatred.
Harry took a step back in fear, clasping his ball tight in front of him. He had never been scared of Mr. Tom before, had never really thought that Mr. Tom was someone to be afraid of, but now he was terrified. The man in front of him now looked less like a man and more like a monster.
Harry realized that it wasn't Mr. Tom that needed to fear when walking down Gorgon's road; it was the people on Gorgon's road that needed to fear Mr. Tom.
Harry just wasn't sure if he should fear him too.
Voldemort, by this point, was no longer paying attention to Harry. Instead every ounce of his concentration was dedicated to the vial women in front of him.
He was so tired of this, he thought as more and more idiotic words fell from the woman's useless mouth. He was so fed up with muggles talking to him, lecturing him, thinking that they were worth being listened to. He was tired of their voices, of their faces, of every single little insignificant thing about them. He was tired of it all.
And he was tired of this woman, who was spewing filth from her red painted lips; who had the audacity to confront him while Harry was around. Who had the Gaul to speak about both him and the boy in such a manner, as if, she, a mere muggle sex worker was somehow above them!
He was the Dark Lord Voldemort! He held power that these vermin couldn't even begin to comprehend. Power, He realized now, that he had given up when he had become Mr. Tom. It was that power that he needed to reclaim if he ever wanted to feel himself again, if he ever wanted to be respected again. And he wanted to; he wanted to be feared, to have people terrified to speak out against him, to make it so that they wouldn't dare to ever say such things against him ever again. He wanted to be able to kill without a second thought, he was tired of pretending he didn't, he was tired of being someone else, and he was tired of holding back.
He wanted to stain that woman's blood red lips with real blood, to see it boil up from the depths of her throat and pour down her mouth as she chocked on her own disgusting and filthy blood. To show her, in the seconds just before she died, just how worthless she was.
Then his magic took over and it was happening, starting first with a couple of drops of blood flying from her mouth as she continued to spew hate, only for them to splatter upon the ground. Then bigger drops began to appear, moving to stain her teeth and her blood red lips. Finally, finally, she stopped talking, her voice cut off by a heavy gurgling sound, and her manicured hands flew up to her throat as she choked on her own blood. It was boiling up thick and black in the back of her throat until it finally oozed out of her mouth like tar.
She fell to her knees and convulsed before dropping to the ground dead. The blood continued to pour from her mouth staining her blond hair pink and coating the ground in what would soon become a sticky coagulated mess.
Harry took a fearful step back and clutched his head where his scar was burning. His hand came away with blood and for a second he thought it was the women's before a steady stream started to pour down his own face.
The doubled over and vomited, his ball falling to the ground beside him and bouncing a distance away, its colors flashing red and blue, like a parody of a police car's sirens.
The sound brought the Dark Lord back to the present and he quickly turned to see Harry on the ground, vomit dripping down his chin and blood splashing into the pavement beneath him. For one terrifying moment he thought he had hurt the child. A thought that quickly brought his anger welling up again. He should not care if he had hurt the child, it shouldn't matter, but, somehow, despite everything he had done, everything he had told himself, it did. It was that blasted 'Mr. Tom' persona again; He could almost feel his thought process shifting over, like a mask slamming back into place. He tried to resist the change, but just looking at the boy's wretched state seemed make it impossible.
He needed to fix this, he needed to figure out what was wrong with his broken mind, he just didn't know how.
The ground had disappeared from under him and he knew now that he was falling, that he had been for a long time.
Harry pushed himself shakily onto his knees, doing his best to not look at the dead women on the ground. He forced himself to swallow a few times, his mouth burning with the taste of acid, before he seemed to finally find his voice "You-you killed her" he rasped out, keeping his eyes on the ground beside him. He wondered if there had been anyone else around that had seen it, he wondered if they would even care if they had, he didn't think they would, not here.
"She was out of line she-" Voldemort tried to explain, pushing down the thought that he shouldn't feel like he needed to explain his actions to the boy. "She needed to learn why you don't-"
"They were just words!" Harry screamed at him, his head lashing up so quickly that Voldemort thought he had to have hurt his neck. The boy's eyes were watery, though if it was from actual sadness or just a side effect from the vomiting he couldn't be sure, "they were just stupid unimportant words! They didn't matter!" The anger and betrayal leaked into Harry's voice and Voldemort's own anger came back with a vengeance. What did the boy have to feel betrayed about! He hadn't been trying to kill him, even though by every right he should be. Instead he had actually stood there and essentially defended not only himself but the boy too!
How did the child not see that?!
"If you allow vermin like this to walk all over you then they will always walk all over you! How many people say things like this to you!? How many of them do you let get away with it when you know you have the power to stop them!? You can tell me all you like that you can ignore their words, their hate, that you can tune them out. You may have even convinced yourself that you don't hear them, that they don't hurt. But I see the way you look when they speak like that around you, when you talk about the other kids at the orphanage and at your school. You can try to pretend all you like, but we both know that those words hurt more than any of their blows ever could." Because that was the truth of it, because everyone always said 'sticks and stones' but no one ever truly mentioned the devastating effects of words, how they followed you throughout your life, haunting you, giving you reason to doubt yourself constantly. Every failure punctuated by the hurtful saying of your peers, always wondering if they had been right.
Voldemort had found that power was the only way of shutting those voices up, because power allowed you to prove them wrong, allowed you to show the world that you were better than them, that you were above them and there stupid little words. No one dared to speak against you when they knew you could kill them with little more than a thought.
Which was why he hated 'Mr. Tom', because 'Mr. Tom' was everything he had tried to move above. 'Mr. Tom' was powerless, was stuck living in a place he hated, was stuck living among muggles. 'Mr. Tom' was forced, day in and day out to sit idly by as things were said about him to him and knowing that he couldn't, wouldn't, stop them.
'Mr. Tom' was a powerless nobody, and Voldemort would no longer permit him to clog up his thoughts.
He looked down at Harry, who looked like his anger had shifted into pure despair, though maybe it had been his words that had triggered that. Tears rolled down the child's cheeks as he kept his eyes on the ground in front of him.
Voldemort understood, very suddenly, that he needed to leave. If he ever wanted to get his head on straight again he needed to get away from this situation, from this stupid twice damned corner of London and, most importantly, away from this boy who made him into someone he was not.
If he ever wanted to be himself again, if he ever wanted to be the Dark Lord Voldemort again, he needed to escape.
He turned to the dead woman's body laying half way out of the alleyway and cast a burning hex, turning her into just a pile of ash. The smell of burning flash and bone filled the air, a small that helped to center him, remind him who he was: he was The Dark Lord Voldemort; he wouldn't let some child change that.
With a deep breath, one that he refused to admit was shaky, he apparited away, leaving Harry alone on the ground with a pile of dust and a ball.
There are some chapters that demand to be written, and this was one of them. Because of this it ended up being much longer then the others, I had thought of dividing it into two chapters, but then I didn't think it flowed as well. so instead you all get this monster.
I will be moving across country soon so i likely will not update for a while, I apologize in advance.
Thank you again to all of you who reviewed and i hope you enjoy this chapter too.
TheSeaAtNight