If you recognise it, I'm quoting HBP…therefore, it is not mine. If it was, I wouldn't be writing fan fiction. Actually, scratch that…I probably would fanfic my own novel just to see if I get comments like "oh my god you write so like X" or "no way, you're writing it completely wrong. The characterisations completely off." Heh. Anyway…[[HBP]]
Chapter 107:
A month or so passed, January slipping into a colourless February that was characterised by the grey sheets of rain which sucked the colour out of everything around it like a Dementor's Kiss.
It had been a month painted hazy with lack of sleep, whole pitchers of coffee and a frantic searching for anything that might help him rewrite history.
Harry barely saw the sun, except for Quidditch and Herbology, and before tan skin was growing pale. The second match was in about a weeks time - against Ravenclaw.
Dumbledore had been working too, but so far appeared to have had no leads, but apparently something had come up. He had, true to his words, avoided any power plays and been a very diligent aid. Harry wasn't sure whether to be grateful for that, or incredibly suspicious. He supposed the Headmaster didn't honestly have a choice, with the Unbreakable Vow.
He knew Tom was getting slightly irritated with him, but had so far not made any moves to try and stop him outside of occasionally forcing him to take a break.
Still, Tom wasn't a tolerant person by nature, and Harry wasn't stupid enough to kid himself that Tom wasn't perfectly aware of what exactly he was trying to research and do. Nonetheless, he took it as a positive fact that the Slytherin Heir had yet to stage an interference.
It was late evening, and he was once more leaving the common room to meet Dumbledore.
He rose to his feet, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He had Occlumency most nights, and was slowly making progress. He could now keep Tom out for about a minute, which he considered a pretty damn impressive achievement even if Tom, the sodding perfectionist, wasn't as complimentary.
He arrived at the circular office, petting Fawkes, declining a lemon drop and moving towards the pensieve that was sitting on the table with a heart torn between excitement, dread and wariness.
As rude as it was, he wasn't there to make small talk with Dumbledore about the nuances of his week.
He dove into the memory.
Harry didn't recognise the place, but it was indescribably filthy. [[The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floar coated in grime; mouldy and rotting food lay upon the table admist a mass of crushed pots.
The only light came from a single guttering candle place at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown Harry could see neither eyes nor mouth.
He was slumped in an armchair by the fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he was dead.]]
There was a ring on his finger, gold and heavy, with a black stone with markings on it that he couldn't quite make out from his vantage point.
A knock sounded on the door, [[and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his right hand, and a short knife in his left.]]
Harry started at the boy that stepped through the threshold, and old-fashioned lamp in hand.
Tall, pale, dark-haired and handsome - Tom.
He glanced at Dumbledore, about to protest that he was breaking the rules of their engagement, before frowning…because the Headmaster couldn't be, or he would be dead. This wasn't a jab. This was, it seemed, completely and totally relevant.
He repressed a shudder.
For a few seconds Tom and the, as of yet, nameless man looked at each other, then the man staggered to his feet.
"YOU!" he roared, "YOU!" He hurtled drunkenly towards Tom, wand and knife held high, and Harry's hands flinched automatically to his own Holly and Phoenix feather before his mind had completely comprehended his actions.
This was a memory.
He couldn't do anything, and Tom wouldn't die…and this wasn't Tom, he didn't think. Not his Tom at any rate, close, but not quite.
This had to be soon after he returned to his own time period…or whatever equivalent. He wouldn't let Tom become Voldemort. He refused.
"Stop."
Parseltongue? Why did Tom use that in the presence of the man, to scare him? It certainly had some effect, for the man skidded into the table in shock, before a long silence descended.
"You speak it?"
"Yes, I speak it," Tom hissed.
They both spoke Parseltongue, that meant…Salazar. This was Tom's family. The Gaunts. He'd gone and found them, after all. Harry suddenly felt very, very uneasy, his gut twisting.
He shouldn't be seeing this when Tom hadn't lived through it.
It was wrong on so many levels, but…he had to, didn't he?
There was the even more uncomfortable truth. As Tom himself had said, he wouldn't hide his soul in something without meaning; mediocre, common-place. It would be grand, and so very special and linked to Tom in a way that ensnared him enough.
A trophy.
And that meant, that meant he had to dig, or he wouldn't find them.
Well, this was just adding to a long history of doing stuff without approval or permission, wasn't it?
"Where is Marvolo?" Tom questioned, and Harry jolted at the name. This was too weird.
"Dead," the man replied. "Died years ago, didn't he?"
"Who are you then?" Tom frowned.
"I'm Morfin, ain't I?"
"Marvolo's son?"
"Course I am, then…" So he was Tom's uncle. Mother's side of the family presumably, for the Diary Tom had stated that his father was a 'filthy muggle.' "I thought you was that Muggle," Morfin whispered. "You look mighty like that Muggle."
"What Muggle?" Tom asked sharply.
Did Tom not know at this point? He had to know, he knew now…so Tom was trying to root for more information on his father…and this had to be…Harry's insides suddenly doused with ice.
Tom had said he planned on killing his family, his father, on the summer that he came to the future instead. It was this…it was…it was going to be that summer at the end of the year for Tom.
This was Tom in a couple of months if everything went to hell. Wrong. If 'Fate' won.
His throat suddenly felt very tight, choking him. Dumbledore was disappearing, his vision tunnelling on the scene before him, nothing else computing.
"…You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, I'n 'e? He's older than you, now I think on it."
Morfin looked dazed, swaying on the spot as if he were about to collapse.
He said something else, but Harry was watching Tom's face now, he could scarcely look away from that oh so familiar face…but not the Tom he knew. An almost-Tom.
The young Dark Lord was regarding Morfin with a scrutinising intentness, and Harry recognised that particular nuance instantly.
Tom was thinking possibilities. Life, death…everything in between, the fate of the man before him.
Morfin didn't even seem to realise, and had continued ranting, ignoring those dark eyes as if anyone ever truly could. They were piercing.
"…Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?"
Harry's fingers itched to fly to his throat, where said locket rested against his heart beneath his clothes, warm and alive. Marvolo.
The man continued ranting, and Harry closed his eyes, seeing the resolve in Tom's eyes.
The Slytherin Heir moved forwards, and the lights went out.
He was back in the office a moment later.
"Slytherin's locket is a Horcrux," Harry said, softly, trying resolutely to ignore the sheer irony of his pretended realisation when the Horcrux suddenly seemed a dead weight upon his skin. "Why did it go black…what did Tom do?" Harry's mind whirred, his brow furrowing. "Morfin can't remember?"
Dumbledore looked surprised, but nodded. Harry thought once again, bitterly, on how everyone assumed he was stupid.
Of course, that was his own fault, he'd the one who'd never tried in classes because he didn't want the added pressure and attention, amongst other reasons.
He'd been fine with it before going back to the past…but there was something about Tom that made you want to be the best possible. Maybe because it was the only way of having a chance at keeping up.
Dumbledore continued relating the story of the scandalous marriage and affair of Merope Gaunt and Tom Riddle sr.
In the back of his mind, he heard the story of how Tom had murdered his father, and his father's new family.
That was what unsettled him.
He couldn't relate this to Voldemort.
This was…Tom.
Except, was this Tom because it was Tom, or Tom because he knew this happened and was ensuring the present? He didn't want to think about it.
Harry nodded his acknowledgement, spoke a few words, before walking out, his mind spinning.
That ring…
It was past midnight when he arrived back at the Common Room, so Harry hadn't really expected anyone to be up - particularly as it was a school night, a Wednesday.
Tom was still there, by the fire, staring into it as the flames illuminated the lines of his face into something far older, and Tom had never looked young for his age.
The rest of the common room was empty, and Harry wasn't completely sure if that was through coincidence and choice, or by Tom's design.
He walked over, but the other didn't look up, though Harry knew Tom was aware of his presence.
"Bit late for you to still be up, isn't it?" Harry questioned, finally, arms folded casually as he dropped to the other end of the sofa.
"Apologies, I must have missed out on the moment when I was assigned a bed time, by one younger than myself I might add," Tom returned with a drawl.
Harry's lip twitched.
"I'm not that much younger than you," he said.
Tom looked over at him, studying. Harry's mind flashed between the memories.
"Any particular reason you're still awake?"
"How was your meeting with the old man?" Tom questioned, in response.
"Mildly informative," Harry said, neutrally, appraising the other in turn. Tom's head tilted with curiosity.
"You don't seem as happy about that as one might think…bad news? Or are you another rung along the ladder of acceptance?"
"You know," Harry replied, slowly, calmly. "I think the acceptance thing would work better, be more convincing, if you actually believed it yourself."
It was a complete bluff on his part, but to not respond would be a greater failure, though he knew at some point it might come back to haunt him.
Tom's gaze grew sharper, his body angling to face more towards Harry than the fire.
"Oh?" Tom raised his eyebrows, a hint of danger in his tone.
"If you'd accepted it, you'd have gone and faced your fate by now, or would at least be making more an effort to stop me."
"It's fascinating how you suddenly appear to know so much about my motives, sweetheart," Tom returned, with a soft undertone of menace. "And rather presumptuous. Maybe I'm not stopping you because I don't think you'll get anywhere and will exhaust your efforts in pointless searching, thus ending with acceptance. Do you realise that your statement suggests that I have something I should be stopping you from doing?" Tom questioned, delicately.
Harry didn't flinch, but inwardly acknowledged that in whatever their game was, that Tom had just scored a point, pinning him with his own words. Still.
"You know me, I'm always up to something," Harry said lightly, with a smirk.
"Indeed," Tom murmured, darker now. "I'm just hoping it's not what I think it is."
"Charming you to speak in nothing but quotes for a week? Muggle ones?" Harry pulled a face. "Damn, I really thought you wouldn't get that one!"
Tom's eyes gleamed with amusement, and something else entirely. Threat. A warning ever present.
"I could read your mind," Tom stated.
"You won't," Harry said confidently. "You're in a good mood, relatively speaking." His confidence faltered for a moment, to worry. "You haven't tortured anyone, have you?"
Tom merely blinked in response, clearly not dignifying that with a reply.
"Then for the sake of your plans I would suggest you make an effort to keep me in a good mood," Tom suggested, with a small smirk.
Harry rolled his eyes.
"Sure, I'll hire you a clown to entertain you."
"But you'd make such a good jester yourself. I could just keep you," Tom replied, smirk broadening. Harry sneered.
The thoughts were still whirring inside his head, and the vague sense of guilt.
Tom's smirk vanished after a moment.
"You're troubled. Now I'm really curious about what you and Dumbledore chatted about this time."
"Curiosity killed the cat," Harry deadpanned.
"Satisfaction brought it back," Tom leaned forwards slightly.
Harry looked away, rising to his feet.
"Goodnight Tom, try not to fall asleep out here. You'd be terrible company in the morning."
Tom's legs shifted to block his path, and Harry paused, knowing the other could probably find another way to keep him there if he especially desired to.
"If you're hunting Horcruxes, I'm coming with you."
Harry suddenly lost all want to escape conversation.
A/N: So….onwards. Oh I can't wait to write my ending, it's all in my head! Not that I'm going to rush through the rest of the story (intentionally) never fear…don't particularly like this chapter though :/ it seems off.
Thank you for all the reviews. I hope you liked the update. Don't know when my next one will be, I have a ton of work, slight writer's block and a growing tetris addiction. =) I'll try not to keep it too long though.