Okay so, first - I'm really sorry about the wait. I lost a lot of motivation for writing this one for a bit, so this took way longer than I anticipated.
Second - thank you for everyone who continued to support the story by leaving comments and kudos and who came by my tumblr to talk about the story and what they liked. Those kinds of comments really helped to get me back in the mood for this. I sincerely appreciate it!
Now, I'm still not 100% pleased with this chapter, but I am my own biggest critic and if I didn't post this today I'd never post it. Hopefully with this out of the way I'll get back into the swing of things and can get on to writing the upcoming chapters that I really am interested in.
(Also, just wanted to shout out to the people on tiktok that apparently made videos about ybtm! I don't use tiktok myself but I watched a few that were brought to my attention and it was delightful! Thanks for the support and for helping bring ybtm to the attention of a new bunch of readers!)
He was alone.
The realisation came slowly, rising up through the haze until it prised Harry from the hollow he had buried himself in. He lifted his head from the cradle of his arms and waited, burning with tension.
The silence stretched on, unbroken.
Trick, his mind hissed, but the space beyond his cupboard felt empty, that terrible cloak of predatory anticipation absent. Without that presence dominating everything his mind was clearer, his thoughts sharper, and Harry drew in what felt like his first full breath since he had awoken in this place.
There was no fear dripping down his spine now, no mocking voice or sweet, crooning threats clouding his senses.
Harry was alone, with only the unquantifiable passage of time filling his ears.
He unfurled in jagged twitches, his limbs frozen stiff from holding the position for so long; and darted his tongue over his bottom lip. His eyes roved sightlessly over the darkness surrounding him, tracing the outline of the door that he knew sat inches from him. Harry had spent an entire childhood mapping out the grooves of the wood and the cold plates of the grate; he knew it more intimately than he knew the shape of his friend's faces.
Unerringly, his hand found and hovered over where the latch was located. It was the only difference to his memories, the thin lock on the inside instead of the outside – the only thing that stood between him and the nightmare that lurked beyond.
Harry stopped just shy of it, the pads of his fingers not quite brushing against the smooth metal. He hesitated, fingers flexing inwards, before he bit his lip and slid the lock out of place.
The scrap of it was abrasive and Harry withdrew with a wince. He clenched his hand nervously, half-expecting to hear footsteps rushing towards him or to have the door ripped open and be hauled from his haven.
But everything remained still.
Swallowing thickly, he laid his hand flat against the wood. Every one of his nerves alight as he gently pushed out. The door popped open with hardly a squeak. Aunt Petunia had always hated the sound and had made Harry keep a small bottle under his mattress to ensure the hinges were well-oiled.
The door swayed back lightly, resting against his palm, and the thick blackness that was revealed to him through the crack made his eyes itch fiercely. It was so deep, so total, that the shadows in his cupboard seemed like daylight in comparison.
Harry sunk his teeth further into his bottom lip until he could taste a hint of iron.
Frigid air began to spill through the gap, curling around him, making his skin pebble. Harry clamped his eyes shut and took a steadying breath. Gathering the remnants of his courage, he pressed forward with a shuddering exhale. With his arm stretched out fully, he bowed his head under the low frame and stepped out.
His foot hit a hard floor instead of the plush carpet he expected, and from that point of contact a weak grey light began to expand. It skittered along the newly defined floor, giving the impression of polished tiles, until it reached an edge and began to climb, outlining a wall, and –
Harry blinked, because the first thing he saw was a shelf filled with little knick-knacks.
"–gured out that cooling spell. Did you want one?"
He turned at the voice, body stiff and cumbersome, and his heart felt like it was shattering when his gaze fell on Hermione.
OoO
The cup of tea was tepid, the delicate wisps of steam having long since dissipated in the cold air.
Albus stared down at the circuit of golden leaves painted on its polished surface. His nail traced the outline of one leaf, chasing its warm colouring around the smooth edge, before he looped his hand around the cup and clasped it loosely.
He sighed.
It was close to mid-morning now, the pale light filtering through his office window and giving everything a dim glow, and he would have to head down to breakfast soon to oversee the students that remained under their protection.
And what protection it is, Albus thought bitterly, his bone-deep faith shaken.
The initial report on the damages to Hogsmeade – the tally of injuries, of casualties – was burned into the back of his mind, and every time his thoughts drifted back to those damning figures it left him feeling weary beyond his years. So many innocents had been thrust into the middle of the war and now the children, his children, walked around with fear in their eyes; their little shoulders burdened by a weight they should not have to carry.
Albus rubbed his hand over his mouth, the furrow of his brows deepening with guilt.
None of this was supposed to happen. Hogwarts, and Hogsmeade by extension, was supposed to remain untouched.
His school. His home. His territory.
Albus closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as a rush of uncharacteristic anger enveloped him. Gellert knew that, so why –
A quiet chink snapped him back to the world, and his attention dropped instantly to his cup. A thin crack stretched up the ceramic, reaching to the lip but not quite cutting all the way through to the inside.
He relaxed his grip and his fingers, strained without him realising it, ached with sweet relief. Albus chastised himself for his lack of control as he vanished the crack with a brush of his fingertip, returning the cup to its former glory and erasing any sign of his mistake.
Laying his hand flat on the table to minimise the risk of a repeat, Albus cast his eyes over his office for a distraction and, magnetically, his gaze seemed to land on the opened letter from Cynthia Ciro – the one Horace had passed to him yesterday with a miserable look on his face.
Just glimpsing that thick expensive parchment pulled his thoughts in the unwelcome direction of the woman's son, and all the uncomfortable emotions he evoked.
Nathan, with his once shy smiles and carefully averted eyes, replaced with sharp distrust and all the viciousness of a hunted, wounded animal.
Yet another of Albus' failures, though one he was beginning to doubt he could have prevented. There was something profoundly different about that boy these days, after all; and even with their brief interactions since he had returned to Hogwarts it was obvious.
It was not Nathan that stared out from those steely grey eyes anymore and Albus…did not know what to do about it.
If he even should. If he even had the right.
The boy had made his opinion on Albus abundantly clear. His standoffish demeanour had shown how little he wanted to be around Albus and his voice when he had been questioned – both times, he thought with some shame – had held a thread of defensive nervousness. But rather than give Albus confidence it had had the skin on the back of his neck prickling.
Careful, careful, his instincts had whispered that day in his office. Don't push this one.
And truly, it was ludicrous to feel so cautious around a student, particularly one such as Nathan who had never so much as put a toe out of line, but…
But.
Hogwarts had felt strange lately, as if there was an indiscernible scent lingering in the air or a faint electric current blanketing the grounds, one that foretold a ferocious storm.
It had Albus out of sorts, trapped with a sense of expectation that had his magic writhing under his skin, and he could not help but think that everything that had happened – the ghosts hiding themselves away, the increased centaur movement, the unrest of the merpeople, the threatening stillness encroaching the castle late at night and the traces of inhuman magic that saturated the attack sight in Hogsmeade – was because of Nathan Ciro.
You're tired, he tried to reason. You're rattled, paranoid, upset at Gellert and the world. The excuses tumbled forth easily, justification after justification he could pin this all on, but the sickly churning in his stomach said otherwise.
Albus felt as if he were slowly, unwillingly, collecting the pieces of a puzzle that he did not want to put together.
He sat back then, shoulders slumping as he tore his gaze away from the letter. The past few nights of poor sleep were getting to him, he told himself, digging his fingers into his eyes as he tried to massage the burgeoning headache away. He smothered that train of thought, letting all his suspicions slip away for a blessed moment, and forced himself to his feet.
Getting out of his stuffy office suddenly sounded wonderful. To get away from the letters of concerned parents and auror reports and assignments he did not know if he was still expected to grade.
He slipped out into the hallway, locking the door behind him, and walked briskly past the transfiguration classroom and out into the courtyard. The fresh air was bracing but it soothed the knot that had been forming inside him, and Albus tilted his head slightly to look up at the cloudy sky. He buried his hands in his pockets, breathing deeply and watching the wisp of white escape his mouth when he exhaled.
His eyes fluttered shut, easing the sting that had been building.
High above him, the clocktower began to chime, the large bell there ringing out with the call for breakfast. It was an eerie, hollow sound that merely served to reflect the general lack of noise throughout the castle. With a good portion of the students away, and those that remained marred with sorrow and fear, the halls felt emptier than they ever did during the holidays.
Albus sighed again, shifting his weight, and dropping his gaze back down as he headed for the Great Hall. It only took a handful of minutes to get there, thankfully, and he met Ms. O'Broin at the door. The young woman was ushering in a small group of students, her smile strained but genuine as she glanced up at his approach.
"Professor Dumbledore," she greeted, eyes alert despite the dark bruises under them. "How are you this morning?"
"As well as can be, Cara," he said with a weak quirk of his lips. "And you?"
She gave a half-hearted shrug, eyes darting around to check they were relatively alone before answering. "Not the best, to be honest, sir. My cousin is still in the hospital wing and I…" she shrugged again, more helpless this time.
Albus reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder. "I understand. Why don't you go visit him after breakfast? I'll join our two groups together and watch over them this morning."
Her expression was uncertain but carefully optimistic. "Are you sure, sir? I can always go see him this afternoon, after curfew."
Albus' smile warmed. "I'm sure, my dear. You can take the day off, perhaps try and catch up on some sleep after your visit," he suggested tentatively.
Embarrassed, Cara wiped at her face, as if she could rub the signs of her fatigue away. "Sorry, Professor," she said meekly, "I know I must look a mess. This week's just been –"
"Yes," Albus agreed softly, patting her shoulder once before letting his hand fall. "But there's nothing to be embarrassed about. No one is expecting you to remain unaffected by this. I'm also struggling," he confessed, and knew it was the right decision when Cara brightened with relief.
"You don't look it, if you don't mind me saying so, sir."
He let out an airy, tired laugh. "I'm afraid I'm rather used to misfortune," he told her. "The worst thing about getting older is that eventually one tragedy looks much like another."
She tilted her head, mouth pulling down at the corners. The sympathy in her eyes was not what he wanted though, so he shook his melancholy away.
"Ah, don't listen to me," he said ruefully. "I ramble more and more with each year; you youngsters should just tune me out at this point. Wheel me off to St Mungo's so I can bother the mediwitches instead."
Cara's smile was small, still tinged with worry, but undoubtedly more relaxed. She looked away for a moment, her hands no longer twisting anxiously at the hem of her sweater and nodded to herself. "Thank you," she whispered, grateful and shy.
"Anytime, my dear," he said. "Now off you go."
She gave him one last grin before trotting off, heading in the direction of the hospital wing. Albus watched her go, his chest both heavy and light, then turned to greet the next wave of students that were scurrying through the doors.
And was it just not serendipitous that Tom Riddle was a part of it?
Albus did not let his expression waver, greeting them all with equal regard. Tom did nothing more than nod politely at him, none of the dislike Albus knew he felt visible, and made a beeline for the Ravenclaw table, two of the other muggleborn Slytherins trailing in his wake nervously.
Normally the sight of Houses mingling would bring him great joy, but there was something about watching Tom interact with non-Slytherins that had Albus tensing.
Perhaps it was just the unease he felt at seeing him not surrounded by his usual crowd of Housemates. Slytherins, through no fault of their own, were rather insular and tended to travel in groups. Seeing Tom Riddle surrounded by blues and yellows and spots of red was just odd due to its unfamiliarity.
There was nothing insidious there, he reprimanded himself. Nothing suspicious about conversation over toast or through passing someone a jug of juice.
Albus pinched the bridge of his nose hard.
He had to stop jumping at shadows.
OoO
She was looking at him, eyebrows raised, standing between the table and kitchen counter with two bottles of butterbeer in her hands. Dressed comfortably in a simple grey shirt that had ink stains along the sleeves and black leggings, she looked relaxed and soft and cosy.
Harry stared, bewildered but utterly arrested by the sight of her.
"I…what?" he mumbled, disorientated. His throat twinged and his hand fluttered up to his neck, caressing the skin there in confusion.
"Did you want one?" Hermione asked again, one bottle still raised towards him.
Harry glanced around, his heart pounding in his chest, and his next breath hitched.
He knew this place.
He knew the pale-yellow wallpaper and the patterns on the tiles beneath his feet. Knew the window to his right and the way the sheer curtain draped over it shimmered in the afternoon sun. Knew the pictures that lined every available space on the walls, a chaotic blend of familiar faces grinning out from the plain frames.
Hermione and Ron's apartment. But this…it could not –
"Did you want one?" Hermione asked a third time, and it was like something in the back of his mind clicked over.
His shoulders dropped, his tension unwinding as the warmth of the apartment began to seep into him.
"Yeah, sorry," he answered, shaking his head. He gave her a little smile, still uncertain, but his next words bubbled up without thought, "I just…zoned out for a minute. I'd love one."
Hermione appeared to jolt out of her own reverie. She smiled back, walking over and taking a seat at the table. Harry dithered in place for a few seconds before joining her.
The moment he was seated, he slumped. It felt like he had not slept in days.
Hermione pushed one of the bottles at him, the bottom of it scraping softly and leaving a thin trail of condensation behind. "You look tired," she said, cocking her head. Her brown eyes were kind even as they scrutinised him.
"I've just been having trouble sleeping, I guess," he told her clumsily. He rubbed his cheek, then the back of his neck, trying to get rid of the chill that seemed to live there. "It's been hard, and I've been…having some really weird dreams lately."
She hummed, a wave of understanding sweeping her features. "About the war."
"What?" Harry asked, shooting her a look. "Uh, no. No, it's way weirder," he paused, casting around for what he meant but the answer danced out of his reach. His hands clenched around the bottle, unnerved. "I – I can't remember them right now."
"Talking about it might help," Hermione offered, leaning forward.
"Won't do much good if I don't know what they were, will it?" he said, tight with frustration. A dull ache throbbed in his head, skirting the line between discomfort and true pain, and he kneaded at his forehead.
"Okay," Hermione replied quietly, "but you know that Ron and I are always here for you, Harry."
"That's right," Ron said, clapping him on the shoulder and squeezing. Harry startled at the touch, nearly jumping from his seat. His wide eyes flew to where Ron was walking by him.
The redhead took the third seat, completing their little circle around the table, and tipped a grin Harry's way. "You can tell us anything, mate."
"Ron?" Harry murmured, growing frazzled. "What…what the hell is…"
Ron's smile became small, a fond little curl of his lips, and slowly Harry settled once more. His apprehension eased, though did not quite disappear.
He was just tired.
Harry pressed a hand to his chest and dug the heel of his palm into his breastbone. He felt odd, as if a great load had been lifted from him but the sudden weightlessness left him unstable.
He looked at them and a burning rush of tears welled up, the thought of God I missed them so much whispering through his mind – and Harry frowned because he did not understand it.
He looked away, half-listening as Ron said something that made Hermione laugh.
His attention slid along the room, taking in the pictures and paintings and the one ornament Harry had given Hermione when she had graduated from Hogwarts and moved into this apartment. The oblique writing was stark against the wooden plank – have hope, be strong – and Harry remembered how they had snickered over the cliché phrase.
Unfocussed as they were, it took his eyes a second to move on, landing on the door that sat behind Ron's shoulder. Harry's eyes narrowed, his headache returning in a cresting wave.
His fingers drummed against his bottle. A drop of condensation hit his hand and dragged over his knuckles, the touch of it barely registering.
"Do you guys –"
"What about you, mate?" Ron asked, pulling Harry's focus back to them. The redhead leaned back in his chair, precariously balancing on the two back legs.
Hermione paused in taking a sip, giving her partner a baleful, flinty look. "Ronald, if you fall…" she warned, pointing at him threateningly.
Ron grinned, rocking in place, every inch of him a taunt. Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes with a level of humour that belayed her annoyance as she turned resolutely back to Harry. "But yes – how has work been? Is training going well?"
"Training?" Harry repeated dumbly.
"You should be almost done, right?" Ron asked, tilting his head back in thought. "Didn't you say you finished your last assignment? You'll be bumped to first grade in the next few weeks?"
"…Right," Harry agreed, looking between the two of them. Under the table his leg started to bounce. "I think so?"
Ron nodded gamely, unbothered by Harry's lacklustre response. "I know I can't wait to finish and get out. Tiffons is riding my arse hard. It's like she thinks there's a prize in it for her."
Hermione wrinkled her nose at that. She placed her foot on the bar between the two front legs of Ron's chair and shoved it down. Ron cursed, smacking his hands against the table to stop himself from crashing into it.
"Bloody hell," he hissed. Harry's mouth twitched in helpless amusement at their antics.
He let out a short breath and made himself relax, raising his bottle to drink. The taste was barely there. "How 'bout you, 'Moine?" he asked, and it felt right – nice, normal – to say the words. "How's work?"
She dropped her chin into her palm, shrugging. "I can't really complain. We're still combing through all the legislation that was shoved through when," she sent Harry a subtly probing look, "Voldemort was in power."
"Voldemort," Harry echoed, his fingers stilling where they had been drawing through the puddle of condensation on the table.
"You're a fool…"
Harry snapped upright, twisting around at the whisper. "Did you hear that?" he asked brusquely, the back of his neck prickling again.
"Sounds a right mess," Rom said as if he had not heard Harry speak. "But it'll pay off in the end. You'll get things sorted in no time, and then you'll be a shoo-in for the ministership." He jerked his head towards Harry as he continued, "And Harry here will be the head of the DMLE in five years. With you two in charge of things there'll be no more pesky Dark Lords crawling out of the woodworks for a good long while, I say."
"Guys," Harry tried again, tapping his hand on the table to get their attention. The throbbing in his head was distracting, like a steadily compressing band around his skill. "Guys, something's not right."
Hermione ignored him too, instead smiling at Ron. "And what will you be while Harry and I are running the country?" she asked with a chuckle.
"Liar."
Harry gripped his head, grimacing as a hum started in his ears. The shelf behind him began to rattle.
Ron stretched his arms above him, then interlocked his fingers behind his head and smirked. "Isn't it obvious?" he replied mischievously. "I'll be your –"
"Trophy husband," Harry whispered in time with Ron, his stomach dropping.
He stared down at the table, his mind stagnant as the cold realisation began to steal through him. Carefully, he lifted his head and let his hands fall to his lap.
Another spike of pain ricocheted through his head as he looked beyond his friends to the door behind them.
Ron and Hermione continued to banter in front of him, but Harry could no longer hear their words.
It was not like they were talking to him anyway.
He could see it now – the gaps, the pauses in their conversation where he knew he was supposed to say something; yet they carried on without a hitch when he failed to speak. Their eyes stared straight through him when they turned to him, and Harry knew that if he stood and walked their gazes would not follow.
It was just a scene from a play, everything already scripted, and Harry had let himself be swept up in it.
This was a goddamn memory, and with that initial cloud of relief and desperate longing now dissipating, the tacit knowledge dropped seamlessly into place.
This was two weeks before his graduation from the academy. He had been dead on his feet from back-to-back assessment and had badly needed a distraction. Ginny had been away for a training session, so he had come here.
Harry's throat closed up.
Around the edges of his vision, he could see the walls ripple. Small objects shook, skittering across the counter and shelves and table. The furthest corners of the room started to distort.
He leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands.
None of this was real. He was not with Ron and Hermione; he could not be – because they were dead. Everyone he had ever known or loved was.
This was nothing more than a pale imitation of his friends, something halfway to believable because he so desperately wanted to fool himself into thinking otherwise.
"Fuck," Harry rasped. "Fuck."
Something slammed against the wall then, loud enough to make the world around him tremble. Harry sprang to his feet, stumbling back from it.
Whatever it was came back again, colliding over and over in beat with the tension in his head. Sections of the wall warped, and Harry made the strategic choice to get the hell away. He kept his eyes on the buckling wall, stepping back faster until he knocked against something tall and firm.
He spun on his heels, finding the door he had been staring at earlier.
Splintering sounded behind him and Harry wrenched the door open, throwing himself into the swirling darkness beyond.
OoO
Tom closed the book he was reading and leaned forward, his forearms bracing on the table. His fingers tapped against the glossy surface of the book, letting his thoughts wander as he absently surveyed the Great Hall.
Clusters of students were sprinkled across the four tables – though they condensed primarily in the middle two – in a mismatch of coloured ties and ages. The lines that typically governed their social lives blurred more and more as the days passed until it hardly resembled the Hogwarts he knew.
For the first time in its history, muggleborns and halfbloods were the only students on the grounds.
Salazar Slytherin would be turning in his grave, but Tom found it horribly, hilariously ironic.
Lips still curved into a private smile; his eyes slid over to the High Table.
Only three professors, Dumbledore unfortunately included, were in attendance. The rest of the staff, Tom knew, were either patrolling or helping with the recovery efforts in Hogsmeade. They had been doing an admirable job, putting on brave faces since the attack and working to calm the fear now rampant amongst the students, but Tom could easily pluck out the worry that simmered in their eyes.
It was a sour victory for him – the fact that finally the professors and purebloods had tasted a sliver of the fear that he had lived with for years. That they could no longer hide behind the walls of the castle or their ancestral homes and could now see the terror that everyone in muggle Britain experienced every time they left the relative safety of the school grounds.
Maybe now the government would understand. Maybe they would finally do something.
He dropped his gaze back down to his book, mouth twisting with bitter, caustic amusement at the very thought of the wizarding world taking a stand and being proactive. "As if," he muttered, hiding the movement of his lips behind his glass of pineapple juice. It was sweet and biting, and cold enough to make his teeth ache.
"Did you say something, Tom?" Jenny Campbell asked, looking up from her eggs with a quizzical frown. Her tie was askew, the knot down at her second button rather than the collar, and her red hair was frizzing up despite the thick braid she had pulled it into.
He gave her a bland smile. "No, no, just thinking aloud."
Her brow smoothed out, and her returning smile was bright and brimming with warmth. "Did you know which group you're in today?" she asked, scooping up some more of her breakfast.
Of course she had taken it as an opening for a conversation. Tom withheld a sigh.
"I'm supposed to be in O'Broin's," he answered, "but I don't see her."
"Oh, that's because Professor Dumbledore sent her off," a Hufflepuff one place down from him – Saoirse Barnes, he identified after a moment, a seventh year muggleborn and one of the better witches of her age group – said with a lazy wave of her hand. "I saw her heading to the hospital wing on my way here – I think her cousin's still in there."
Barnes paused then, a brief miserable glint in her eyes, before she continued with a stubbornly positive set to her face. "I asked Professor Dumbledore when I came in and he said they'd be joining her group with his for today, so I guess you'll be with him, Riddle." She finished with a nod.
Tom clenched his fist underneath the table.
And his day had been going so well too.
There was no way Dumbledore would let him slip off to the library, as O'Broin did, to peruse the books at his leisure. Which meant he would have to endure hours of useless activities and boring conversations until they were allowed free time in the afternoon.
He could feel his patience already dwindling.
"Looks like we'll be spending the day together," Campbell said happily.
Tom forced himself to seem somewhat enthused. "Great," he replied, and though Campbell missed the flat note in his tone, Barnes shot him a terribly amused look. She nudged the person between them to shift forward and leaned over to him so she could reach his ear.
"Try not to completely shatter her when you let her down," she whispered, pulling back with a wink.
Tom grimaced, before covering his distaste with a smile. He detested people that were infatuated with him – especially the unremarkable ones. They were irritating and obnoxious and persistent in the worst ways, always wanting to talk to him or be around him and Tom, though a skilled actor when he wanted to be and understanding the advantages it gave him, still found it exhausting catering to their perceptions of him.
It was at least tolerable when his would-be admirers had some talent, some trait or unique aspect that made being in their presence not a completely tedious experience.
Campbell, conversely, was as interesting as dishwater and her attention was not unlike a rash.
She had been notably subdued the last few days, as most of the others were; but with the regular patrols the aurors performed some of the tension had begun to ebb and her usual personality had sadly made a reappearance.
Honestly, Tom did not know why she even bothered. He had never given her the impression that he enjoyed her company, and the number of times they had spoken could be counted on both hands. And it certainly did her no favours, a small part of him murmured, that she was competing for his attention against the likes of Ciro, who was so utterly fascinating without even trying.
The conversation moved on around him and Tom used the chance to open his book again – not because he wanted to read but to deter others from speaking to him for the moment. As he ran his eyes over the page, his hand unconsciously reached out and brushed against his upper pocket, crinkling the folded paper tucked away there.
The letter Orion had sent him yesterday informing him that there had been no change in Ciro's state, and of Orion's intention to visit their hospital-bound Housemate later today.
Tom could admit that he appreciated the update, but he would have much preferred to be there in person rather than rely on Orion for an unfiltered account. He just knew that the younger boy would leave details out purely to spite him.
Not that he could blame him for hoarding information – it was expected of people like them to obfuscate and lie to maintain the upper hand. No, Orion was well within his right to hold back details, and ordinarily it would not bother Tom if it was about literally anything else.
But it was not.
This was about Ciro, who had been a topic of interest since he returned but had become something far more than a mere curiosity after his showing in Hogsmeade. It had been over a week and still Tom was no closer to understanding what he had witnessed that day – and not for a lack of effort on his part.
Hogwarts' library was expansive and filled with every subject one might ever think to study, but the area that Tom assumed he might find his answers was necromancy and not even Hogwarts had that information readily available for their impressionable students.
Too difficult, too nebulous, too dark, but it was the only place Tom could think to start his research.
Ciro had been dead, after all. The amount of blood he had lost would have done it easily, and yet he had risen from the blood-soaked snow with only a grizzly scar as a reminder.
It had to be a type of necromancy, and Tom wanted it.
The very notion had his fingers twitching and heart pounding. If there was a way to come back to life, to anchor the soul to this plane if not one's own body, then he needed to know it.
And if that meant pulling the secret straight from Ciro himself, if it meant pinning the other boy down and peeling him apart layer by layer until he had the truth wrapped in his bloody hands, then so be it.
The truth, and Ciro's real name, he added with a flicker of grim anticipation.
Tom had never been shy about chasing the things he wanted, after all; though he was beginning to suspect that he would not find his answers at Hogwarts.
He picked up his glass and drained the last of his juice, rolling it between his fingers, mulling over the way the light blended through it.
Perhaps he should take Slughorn up on his offer for a reference, and Tom's lips quirked up because he even had the perfect family in mind.
Augustus owed him one anyway.
OoO
The world reformed around him in an instant, and Harry nearly went careening into a desk. He slid to a stop, clipping his hip on the corner of it, and had to grab it to steady himself.
He looked around wildly, trying to figure out where he was, when it hit him.
The auror department. This had to be another memory.
Harry looked down at the desk he was leaning over, finding the golden plate with Potter carved into it in neat little letters. He remembered this too. Tiffons had given it to him after he had finished his training with a wry smirk and a comment about legacy, and Harry had known from the barely noticeable scuff marks that it had belonged to his father before him.
He had not cried that day, but it had been a close thing.
He hesitated for a moment, hand reaching out to trace the black lettering with reverence – because this was gone too, he would never hold it again, never get to watch the sun play off the gold or use it to reflect light into Ron's eyes when they had some downtime and lose himself in laughter – but he jolted out of it when bodies and voices began to fill the space around him.
Harry backed away, gritting his teeth and ignoring the conversations that picked up. Ignored Ron and Tiffons heckling each other, and McCade complaining about his latest report, and Kline who was talking in Harry's direction but not to him.
It was hard, so hard to turn his back on them, to not let the fog he could already feel climbing inside him take him over completely, and just bask in the memory.
Not real, he told himself, they're not real. They're dead, they're gone, they're gone.
He clapped his hands over his ears to block out the siren-call of their voices and searched frantically for an exit. He had gotten here through a door, so surely…
Harry hurried across the room to the entrance to the office space, scrabbling to open the door and escape. He felt the crushing sense of awareness lock onto him just as he stepped through, sinking into the black once more as a high-pitched cackle rang out around him.
Bellatrix, he knew, a bright spark of anger flaring in his chest at the name, but instead of landing in the atrium, with its black stone and green fire and that woman on the ground before him, he stumbled into the Gryffindor common room on too-short legs.
"What…?" Harry said, stepping back and shoving some of his hair from his face. He turned in a slow circle, and the flood of confusion and hurt that had been driving him forward dropped away under the strength of his frustration when he looked down at his stick-thin arms. "What the hell is this?" he hissed, glaring at the crackling hearth.
Was it Death? Was It doing this to him, dragging him from memory to memory to just rub it all in? To make him face all the things, the people and places, that he would never get to have again? Or was this just his own demons tormenting him?
Harry pressed his hands into his mouth, letting out a tumultuous breath. He could feel his chin begin to shake, a rush of heat crawling up his cheeks and towards his eyes, and he slammed them shut in denial. "Not now," he said, voice reedy, "not now."
He jabbed his tongue into his cheek hard to starve it off just as the voices started up again.
Hermione, Ron and Neville this time, high with youth but still recognisable. He turned his back on them immediately, because if he saw them like this – young and vulnerable and so unprepared for the life ahead of them – he would break.
"There's got to be a way out of this," Harry muttered as the eleven-year-old versions of his friends squabbled in the background.
He moved to the opening that would take him to the dormitories, the sound of Neville's petrified form dropping to the ground and the deep thud of something knocking into the Fat Lady's portrait chasing after him. Harry raced up the stairs on his skinny legs, taking them two at a time, until he reached the first-year boy's dormitory.
The overwhelming sensation of a presence coming up behind him sent him through this door, slamming it closed behind him.
Harry leaned against the wood, hands pressed flat to it, hoping that this one would be enough to keep whatever that thing was out.
He just wanted a second to stop, to not be hunted.
A second of peace.
Harry knocked his forehead on the door. "Shit," he cursed, because it was that or drop to his knees and cry.
"Language," someone chided with a tinkling laugh.
Harry spun around with a harsh inhale and recoiled when he saw where he had been brought now.
A poorly rendered impression of his apartment's living room was forming around him, growing more vibrant and accurate as the seconds ticked on – including the lounge and the woman sitting on it, her arm braced along the back, chin resting on her forearm.
His eyes widened, lips parting in wonder.
"Ginny," he breathed rapturously.
Ginny smiled at him, silent laughter lighting up her features the longer he stared, until the colour of her eyes resembled liquid caramel – warm and absolutely lovely. With her hair bundled messily atop her head, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Hey Harry," she said, and just hearing her say his name had the tears he had been fighting pushing forward. His face was hot and itchy, as if the skin was pulled too tight over his cheeks.
The need to touch her came at him with the force of a hurricane, powerful enough to leave him quivering, and he wrapped his arms around himself to try and quell it. His knuckles turned white.
His eyes darted to the banner hanging up behind her, the one he had bought to celebrate her official acceptance onto the Holyhead Harpies. "This isn't real," he told himself, shaking his head. "This is just another memory. You're not her."
The disappointment was suffocating.
She tipped her head to the side, smile dimming but not disappearing, and compared to Ron and Hermione her eyes were damningly aware.
"This is all in my head," he continued, voice firming.
"You know that doesn't mean it's not real," Ginny replied quietly.
Harry stopped, his shoulders tensing, because he was sure that Ginny had never said those words to him.
He fixed his stare down between his boots, trying to strangle the unnamed emotion welling up inside him. But the pull was too much, and he inevitably looked at her, drinking her in.
Ginny stared back at him, and the fact that she did not say more, that she was not saying anything related to quidditch or her training schedule or the travelling she would have to do – the things he remembered her gushing about so excitedly that night before she had pinned him to the lounge and kissed him breathless – gave him a sick feeling of hope.
A lump formed in his throat, threatening to choke him when he tried to speak. "You're not It, are you?" he croaked, entire body tensing like he was preparing for a hit.
Because Ginny was dead and that meant that Death could wear her face. Harry did not know if he could survive having her used against him like that.
"No," Ginny said gently, kindly, and he wanted to believe her, but he felt like he was one wrong word away from unspooling.
"But you're not Ginny either, are you?"
She did not answer, just continued to watch him with the same careful measure of fondness she had always held towards him.
Harry pressed his lips together, fingers digging into his arms harshly. "What is this? What the hell is going on?"
"You're dreaming," Ginny told him plainly. "You're hurt and scared and so you burrowed deep down in an effort to hide because you can't handle what happened."
Harry stiffened, his jaw flexing at the implication. "I'm not hiding –"
"It wasn't an insult," she interrupted soothingly. "But it is the truth."
Harry scoffed, defensive, and was approaching her without thought. "I got my throat cut open," he spat, taking a tone he never normally would have with her. "I learned –" he swallowed.
"I know," she said, the steadiness in her voice grounding him, stalling his anger before it could bubble forth. "You lost everything. You're allowed to be upset. You're allowed to be angry."
"But?" Harry prompted, the word coming out unsteady. Ginny gestured for him to sit and against his better judgement, he did; sinking into the cushions close enough to feel the heat of her. His eyes slipped shut and he pressed the thumb of his left hand into his right palm until he could feel the bones shift.
Ginny moved, sliding closer, and her hand came up to cup his cheek. Harry froze at the touch, aching, as she dipped her fingers into his hair and drew her thumb tenderly along the skin beneath his eye. "It's not safe for you here, Harry," she said. "You need to wake up."
"I don't want to," he confessed, pushing into her touch. It was not even a lie. Better to deal with whatever horrors haunted him here than face a reality where she and all the others were gone.
"I know," she answered, tugging him until she could press their foreheads together. "But you're not meant to wallow away here. You need to go back."
Harry collapsed into her, head sliding to the junction of her neck and shoulder, lulled by her scent and soft touch. He felt muddled, on the verge of being sick and so very tired. His mind shied away from knowing what awaited him should he wake.
"I – can't I be selfish just this once?" he mumbled into her skin. "There's nothing there for me anymore. It's all gone. You're gone. How am I…how am I supposed to…"
Hands dragged up his back, one arm curling around his shoulder while the other buried itself in his hair again. "We're gone," she agreed sadly, "but you can make new bonds. New memories. This could be a gift."
A bruising bark of laughter left him. Harry wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into his lap. She folded into him, her weight on him the most natural thing in the world. "A gift?" he repeated, incredulous at the thought even if it was so painfully Ginny. To be hopeful when hope was dead. "Can I return to sender?"
He heard her huff in amusement, felt it ruffle his hair, and burrowed in closer.
He had always loved that sound, and he knew that this was not Ginny – he knew it – but everything from her perfume to the warmth of her in his arms to the way she scratched at his scalp was familiar and he could not remember the last time he had been touched like this.
It had been weeks and it had been eons.
His tears finally got the best of him. Harry crushed his face further into her neck. "I miss you so much," he breathed, voice tangled by his sorrow. "God, I miss you so much."
"I know, I know," Ginny said, holding him tightly and laying a kiss against his head. "Though we're not really gone, you can speak to us whenever you want."
But that just made him cry harder.
How cruel was life that being the Master of Death had done this to him, and yet those tools could give him a small sliver of his loved ones back?
"It won't be the same," he said wetly, pulling back to look at her. "It won't make things better, or easier. This…this is still eternity we're talking about. There's no end. Even if I do…" make new bonds, but he was not ready to say the words, "it'll still end up as just me and…It."
Ginny brushed some of his tears away, smiling sweetly at him, as if he was precious and wonderful. "You don't know that," she told him, and continued before he could question her. "Your life has never been your own. Dumbledore. Voldemort. The Ministry. People have been planning around you since you were born, but now you have the freedom to do whatever you want. To learn whatever you want, go wherever you want. Help others. Be good or, hell, be evil. Live how you want."
She kissed him, chaste, and Harry sighed into it. Tears still wet his cheeks and his mouth felt uncomfortably dry, but for just a moment he felt whole.
"You have all the time in the world," she said as she pulled away. "Don't deprive yourself of living, Harry."
His hand rose to cup the side of her neck as his eyes fluttered open. He stared at her, frowning in consideration, letting his fingers trail over her face. "Are you sure you're just a figment of my imagination?" he asked with a dim smile. "You can talk me around just like she could."
Ginny's lips curled impishly. She placed a hand flat against his chest.
"Find the stone and ask me yourself."
And then she was gone, and the room was gone, and Harry was alone in the infinite darkness once more.
Utterly alone – until a hand shoved him forward and then he was falling.
OoO
Waking was not kind.
The room was empty when Harry's eyes snapped open, thrust from the nothingness into a world filled with light and colour and magical signatures that scraped against his senses like blunt knives, cutting into his senses and gouging his flesh.
His throat was in agony.
Harry coughed, shoving himself up because he was about to gag. There was a loud ringing in his ears, shrill and obnoxious, and he hunched over to try and get away from it.
It was too much too much too much –
Someone burst into the room, their voice joining the cacophony of noise. Hands were on him, gently trying to rearrange him on the bed, and Harry twisted out from under them, leaning over the side of the bed and heaving. What splattered on the ground was more liquid than anything, and Harry did not stop until he was shivering.
He was pushed back, a wipe cleaning away the mess on his face and someone was speaking to him, low and urgent as cool, healing magic began to roll through him.
Harry blinked rapidly to clear the spots in his vision, squinting through the tears so he could make out the face of the man standing over him. There were other people in the background now, but they were moving too quickly for him to focus on.
"Can you hear me?" the man asked, not for the first time. Harry nodded weakly, coughing again when he tried to respond.
"Don't talk," he cautioned, keeping a hand on Harry's shoulder as he motioned to someone else. "Get Mr. Black out of here and get me another calming drought."
Sirius? Harry thought, head turning to look, but by the time he had managed the movement the door was already closing. Come back, he wanted to demand only to end up coughing once more.
The healer shushed him, magic rushing to Harry's chest and easing the burning pain. "Don't try to talk, Nathan. It's still healing, you have to let it rest."
Harry slumped back, staring up at the ceiling. He reached up to brush his fingers over his throat, though he was quickly intercepted. Harry squirmed, his confusion beginning to melt away bit by bit.
Hospital, he realised. The fight, Hogsmeade, his throat.
The wheeze he made sounded awful, a pathetic rasp of air that had even the healer wincing.
"You're safe," the man explained hurriedly, "you're at St Mungo's for treatment. No one will hurt you. You're safe."
But I'm not, Harry wanted to say. His other hand grabbed blindly at the man's robes, tugging on it insistently.
"We'll get you a potion," the healer said resolutely, covering Harry's hand with his own in some attempt at comfort. "We'll explain everything once you're calm."
Harry shook his head, ignoring the way it made his neck twinge.
The door was thrown open and a woman handed a vial to the healer. Harry almost smacked it out of his hand but he was still too sluggish to resist when they worked to tip it past his lips.
The artificial calm descended over him swiftly.
"I can't believe he's awake," the woman said in a hushed voice, helping to guide Harry back into his pillow. "That he survived – he's so lucky."
A few tears dripped down his numb cheeks, but the woman cooed and wiped them away.
I'm not, Harry thought. I'm really not.
So Harry didn't have a great time this chapter, but when does he ever, let's be real.
Like I said, I'm a bit iffy on certain things in this chapter, but I hit all the plot points I wanted to, so that has to count for something. There was supposed to be a scene with Orion, but I'll rework it and have it as the opening scene in the next chapter. I just couldn't cram him in without messing with the flow too much, so we'll get a glimpse of our boy next time!
Thanks again for all your patience and support - I really appreciate it! For interest, my tumblr is open if you want to come along to discover theories, scream at me, discuss new snippets or get some behind the scenes commentary!