EDIT: Officially Beta'd by Sarra-Bearra. A lot changed, sorry. Mostly 'cause I'm not the HP fanfiction expert... she is. LOL. (I'm more of an anime-fanfic writer.)
Chapter II: Land of Memory
Plummeting, faster and faster, into papery, eerily cool, dusty mist. Grey, everywhere grey, and shrouded in greenish light, almost glowing within.
The boy takes a step forward, having somehow been grounded. He missed the time between falling and landing, but he doesn't care, so long as his feet are planted firmly once more.
He shivers, and shuts his eyes, trying to remember. His mind feels fuzzy, and he blinks open his eyes to glance at his hands, pat his chest, touch his hair.
How old am I?
He can't remember.
What is my name?
He can't remember.
Where is this place?
He can't remember.
"I'm glad that you could visit me, Harry," comes an alluring voice, rich and deep and oddly calming.
Harry. That's what my name is, the boy suddenly recalls, the name ringing in his skull. Harry Potter. And I'm… a wizard. Right. And muggle-raised. And I'm twelve, he relays quickly, the memories coming back. He glances up at Tom's face, trying to ignore the passing thought that the teenager is quite handsome, with perfectly plump lips on the bottom, and perfectly thin, curved lips on top, and striking eyes that seem to peer into Harry's very soul.
The young wizard blinks up at the lightly grinning face of his one companion, trying to place their relation. How does he know this other boy? He must know him, because the other boy spoke his name and what's more, he feels a slightly pull from the back of his mind leading him to this other boy.
This must be… who? An old journal comes to mind. Why? Did I have a journal? Hmm, no, I don't think I did. I think… I found one. Yes, that must be right; I found a journal, and was writing in it, and… Now I remember! It wrote back! So this person is…
"Tom," Harry murmurs unsurely. He frowns at his own memory. "Why can't I remember much? My mind is hazy."
"Sorry," the older boy apologizes with a slight smile, "I forgot to warn you about this spell's side effects. They should be wearing off soon, though. All I did was convert your physical body to a spiritual one, to match mine in this place. But the process is… complicated. And slow."
"Oh," the green-eyed boy replies distantly, trying to piece things together. It makes sense, from what he can tell. His suspicions dissipate. "I'm glad the spelled worked and I can see you in person." Glancing around, Harry notices the nature of this world within the journal: it's very vacant; nothing but a void of foggy grey with hardly a solid surface to stand upon. The ground itself is like that of a stack of paper, which, come to think of it, is all a journal is. Harry tilts his head to the left and wonders aloud, "Do you ever get lonely here, Tom? This place is... well, rather bleak."
The older wizard nods politely, not giving way to any single hints as to his emotions on the subject. "Sometimes. But I do have the company of my memories, because I have the option of reliving them."
"Is that so?" Harry remarks, intrigued by such advanced type of magic. "Can you show me?"
Tom grows tense for a moment, hesitation flickering in his eyes.
More observant than others give him credit for at times, Harry notices the hesitation in Tom's usually masked face. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to pry; I know how it can be to have memories you would rather not share." He glances down at his shoes with a vaguely distraught expression.
Regaining his composure, the older wizard relents to show Harry at least a few memories, if only to play on Harry's heartstrings and further gain his trust. He shrugs one shoulder, turns on his heel, and gestures with one long-digited hand for Harry to follow him. "Sure, Harry. I'll show you part of my past. I suppose it would be easier for us to get to know each other that way."
Harry thinks nothing of the strange, almost snake-like whispers seeming to speak to Tom, warning the older boy not to give too much away. With Harry's mind so far glazed by the lingering transfer spell to determine danger from innocence, he waits patiently for Tom to show him the mysterious memories.
"Wait. Watch," Tom commands, waving his hand over the unmoving, misty air around them.
And so Harry does. He steps over to Tom's side and waits, watching for whatever is to arrive.
'Arrive' ends up being precisely the correct word to use. As Harry watches, what transpires is the arrival of ghosts: shapes, figures, dulled colors, and blurs of people in miscellaneous places, and moments suspended in time. Harry stares in awe as entire scenes unfold all around him, and practically inside him, as he feels each and every emotion Tom must have felt as each event presents itself.
Classrooms at Hogwarts full of nearly faceless students, more detailed professors, and the occasional owl; they all come and go, muttering echoed phrases Harry doesn't always catch. One man, whom Tom refers to in the vision as Slughorn, smiles knowingly at Tom, treating him like some sort of teacher's pet. Then, a younger Dumbledore speaking to Tom in a hallway, and a seemingly dead body being whisked away.
Harry shudders, and he feels Tom lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don't be intimidated by what you're feeling, Harry; they are merely my past emotions linked to my memories, regrettable and unavoidable. Simply let them pass through you; think nothing of them."
Numbly, Harry nods. The visions continue: dinners in the Great Hall, glimpses of children at an orphanage, and outbursts of screams, shouts, curses from wands, and swears from mouths.
Bits and pieces of a preteen lifetime, and then, without so much as a warning, it all evaporates into a wisp of inky black smoke.
To himself, The Boy Who Lived puzzles over some of the content of the brief images and phrases he saw and heard. Feeling a scrap of pity for Tom near the end of the wave of memories, Harry remarks, "I know this might not mean much, Tom, but I think I can relate to you. My past hasn't been that grand either." He offers a small, reassuring smile, as if to say, 'you're not alone in that respect.'
"Thank you, I've needed to hear that from someone for a while now," Tom replies as gently as he's capable, in order to manipulate Harry into believe that they are getting along well. But as he gazes at Harry, he notices the boy beginning to fluctuate in solidity, fading in and out like his ghosts of memory.
The green-eyed boy sees this as well, and starts to panic. He asks in a rush, "What's happening to me?"
"The spell I used to bring you here to my realm is wearing thin, I'm afraid," Tom says with a faked note of sorrow on his otherwise deadpan expression. "Due to the power needed to manifest your spiritual body into the diary, it will be a little while until I can use it again." He pauses, then adds, "But remember that you can always write to me."
Harry feels himself drifting apart again, becoming sand-like once more. He tries to grip Tom's cloak. Slytherin, he notices. Normally a symbol of the enemy to Harry, but not this time. He feels… connected to this person. He doesn't want to leave yet. "No, wait – Tom, I want to –" have more of my questions answered, he had been about to say, but he's cut off as he crumbles and soars upwards in a flurry of glimmering golden dust, zooming out of the crevasse of the journal and back into his dorm room.
Head reeling in a manner that remind him of smoothie ingredients in a blender, Harry can remember everything on this return trip, unlike his initial entrance. He exhales slowly, trying to prevent the nausea threatening to rise in the pit of his belly.
"Tom Riddle…" Harry murmurs softly to himself, "Why do you feel so familiar to me? I feel like I already know you.…"
He shakes his head, feeling foolish. He stands, dusts himself, and feels the need to take a nice, steamy shower to clear his head.
"Bah. I've got to stop thinking for a while. I'm becoming some bloody obsessive dolt, and it's not a pleasant feeling." He laughs at himself a little on the inside, and heads for the showers.
Next chapter:
Chapter III: On Another Level Entirely