Chapter 121:
"What does it mean?" he questioned, too numb and exhausted to play anymore. Dumbledore surveyed him with sad eyes. "It says…it says that neither can live while the other survives…sir…?"
"It meant," Dumbledore said quietly, "that the person who has the only chance of defeating Lord Voldemort for good was born at the end of July, nearly sixteen years ago. This boy, you, would be born to parents who had already defied Voldemort three times."
Harry couldn't breathe. This wasn't true. His head was swimming. Suddenly everything seemed to have closed in on him, claustrophobic.
Voldemort had only heard the first few lines, if he'd known more…would his parent's deaths have been avoided? How much would be different, and how much would be the same?
"The power the Dark Lord knows not…?" his voice sounded helpless and strangled to even his own ears, and he abruptly composed himself, his features sliding expressionless. "You better not freaking say love again."
"I do hope you, like Tom, do not underestimate the terrible and wonderful powers of that emotion," Dumbledore stated. "Miss Weasley certainly paid a heavy price for hers, and you've experienced yourself the protectiveness of a mother's love."
He choked back his automatic guilt at the thought of Ginny.
Poor, poor Ginny.
It was the second reference that cut deeper. Had his parents known? Or had Dumbledore simply told them that they must go into hiding? Had his mum protected him as the prophecy child or as her child?
Harry felt sick to the stomach.
Dumbledore thought him and Tom were lovers…
"You think if I hug him enough or something that he'll suddenly turn into a cuddly, nice hippy?" he scoffed, incredulous, despairing.
This was worse than he thought, and he didn't have the capacity to think all that much. Shock drowned his rationality, fire burned in his belly like some devil waiting to strike out at anyone who came close. He felt like his skin was jumping around, itchy. He felt oddly hollow too.
"I think you can resist him and do what you have to do, for love of your friends and family," Dumbledore replied softly. "I've seen him interact with many people during the seven years he was my student, and none of them have…kept their own sense of will like you have."
He ground his teeth.
"Probably should have mentioned this before I gave a Wizard's oath not to betray in exchange for the safety of my friends and family," he said, taking a vicious delight in watching the colour drain out of the Headmaster's face. "How could you have kept this from me?" he near whispered.
"My dear boy, I wanted to give you a child-"
"A childhood?" his voice was reaching louder, less controlled levels, and he seized a spindly instrument, chucking it across the room. "I never had a childhood for you to take!" he hissed, barely staying in English. "You should have trained me. You should have bloody trained me, because now I have about fifty years of magical experience to catch up on. Thanks, really. I appreciate it."
His words dripped with sarcasm.
Dumbledore flinched, incredibly, moisture pooling just slightly in his eyes.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, but I did what I thought was best and I will not regret that. You say you are not a child, then I'm sure you will understand that war and the greater good requires some hard but necessary sacrifices-"
"Don't talk to me about sacrifices!" he snarled, his face twisting, before falling back into neutrality he tried so hard to achieve, as he clung desperately to his control. Maybe once upon a time he would have openly raged, but he knew now how costly a single lapse could be. "The odd thing, old man," he continued softly, dangerously, "is that my problem is not with your asking this sacrifice, on some level I've always felt it…you know what really bugs me? It's the fact you would not even give me the chance to offer it willingly."
Neither can live while the other survives…Voldemort would always hunt him, so he would always be limited to bare survival and not truly living. So Voldemort either killed him or he killed Voldemort first? He didn't know. He couldn't…he couldn't do this. Not now.
This was the final straw.
He slammed the door shut behind him.
Though he'd left Dumbledore's office over an hour ago, he was only now finding the dregs of courage he needed to consider making his way back to the Slytherin Common - even if only to collect his things to move into the Room of Requirement, or even Gryffindor Tower again.
His thoughts still wouldn't stop spinning, his emotions buffeting him to the extent that he envied any non-sentient being because they wouldn't have to deal with such feelings. Nausea rolled in his stomach, over and over again, a toxic washing machine.
For neither can live while the other survives…
He had to kill Tom, according to the Prophecy, or at least Voldemort. He didn't know.
Did the Dark Lord refer to Tom or Voldemort? He prayed for the latter.
He couldn't think straight. He just couldn't.
All he could gather were flustered, jagged snatches that made his mind flinch back away from them as if they were shards of glass.
Maybe if he could logically analyse this he could try and find a way around it, to work out the precise meaning…but his thoughts were too quick and emotional, too tumbling and messy, more impressions than anything of any value to him.
Perhaps under the stress of Fate Tom would be able to switch off any emotional response for cold rationality, but that had never been his way. His instincts sharpened impeccably under pressure, and he could think fast out of danger, but this was different.
This was a bloody Prophecy, and since when were there even prophecies? The biggest kick was that this stupid, pathetic, horrible, unwanted destiny was what his parents had died for.
It was all so meaningless.
He tugged fingers through his hair, wondering if he should go flying despite the near pitch black of evening outside…crashing into the whomping willow seemed preferable to continuingly crashing into his own mentality.
For what had to be the fiftieth time, he sucked in a deep, shaky breath, struggling to calm himself. This was ridiculous. He shouldn't be so panicked…because that was one of the most unsettling things here, wasn't he?
He'd almost expected the raging fury, the exhaustion, the desperation and the hopelessness….what he couldn't stand was the fear.
Once upon a time, this wouldn't have scared him so much, he would have been - dare he say it? - more of a Gryffindor about the whole situation. But he was scared. He was terrified.
But not of Voldemort…the other had been trying to kill him anyway, this just confirmed it really.
No, what froze his blood was the 'Fate' of the whole thing, the pre-conceived element of a prophecy.
Fate and Luck.
A war between Fate and Luck.
A slap from Fate.
If this was Fate, and there really was at least a notion of Fate, be it just an interpersonal force or the more anthropomorphised view that Luna seemed to take, then it suggested a certain inevitability.
It meant Tom would become Voldemort. That it wasn't even about whether he had to kill Voldemort or Tom, because they were the same thing…and they were going to kill each other.
Nothing. Everything for nothing. Pointless.
And Tom…how would Tom take this? If he knew…if he ever knew…would he try and kill Harry too? He swallowed. It was possible.
It was why he felt the overwhelming urge to stay out of Slytherin wasn't it? Except that wasn't quite it, however easier such an explanation would be.
He'd never really been the Boy who Lived with Tom, that had been the initial allure of the weird and somewhat forbidden comradeship he'd entered into…and he didn't want that to change.
Perhaps it was irrational, it probably was, he felt irrational, but he couldn't help it! The whole thing made little difference to his plans, ultimately, but…it changed everything else.
Maybe it was Fate, but if it was then he was going to go down fighting against the bitch.
He hated Fate, and it had already been established that Fate hated him with mutual fervour.
At least Luck was on his side.
He had the urge to burst into hysterical, crazed laughter at the thought. Maybe he was crazy…normal, sane people didn't lead lives like his.
Salazar.
"I hate my life," he muttered.
"You know, statements like that don't really give weight to your claim that you're not suicidal," a voice said dryly.
Harry whipped around, wand in hand. Tom.
"How long have you been there?" he demanded, backing up a few steps automatically.
Tom leaned against the door of the Astronomy Tower (it was the closest Harry could get to the sky without flying) with his wand gripped in his hand, not raised, but down at his side. For now.
"Long enough to know you're falling to pieces," the Slytherin Heir replied, studying him. Harry's eyes narrowed, warily.
"I'm not falling to pieces," he lied, stiffly, not even able to convince himself of any truth in those words. Tom's brows arched.
"Point one, I can feel your emotions, which with your new mind art skills means you're projecting and thus, doing the mental equivalent of screaming. Point two, you look terrible, and point three, you didn't notice that I've been standing behind you for about three minutes while you stared gormlessly out the window," Tom said. "It doesn't take intelligence to slot the evidence together into the obvious conclusion and I have an IQ of 210."
Harry looked away, though kept the other in the corner of his periphery vision.
"I'd rather be alone right now," he stated pointedly, wishing fervently that Tom would accept that. The young Dark Lord stepped closer, and before he was even aware of what he was doing he had stepped back.
They both froze in their movements, and the piercing intentness in Tom's gaze seemed to sharpen to a laser-like quality.
"That must have been some prophecy, golden boy. Should I be concerned?"
Harry almost choked on air.
"You know about the prophecy?" he questioned, his chest tight. He was feeling oddly claustrophobic again. "Since when?"
"Since about the same time Dumbledore told you," Tom replied, his head tilting. "Though I dare say it would be of some aid to my assessment if you'd share the other half."
"Voldemort told you," he stated, not needing to question. Voldemort knew half. Tom knew Voldemort. "You two have a nice tea party together?"
"The conversation was interesting enough," Tom said. "You're avoiding the question."
"And did you plan to ask that question when you, or Voldemort, figured my barriers will be down due to falling to pieces?"
"Don't be bitter, it doesn't suit you, and yes, I did," Tom replied, easily enough. "Is it working? Or should I switch tactics?"
Harry was silent, not sure why the thought of Tom and Voldemort meeting recreationally or whatever made him feel so…betrayed.
Damn it, he shouldn't be dealing with this right now. They both knew it, it was why Tom was pushing it now, before he could process.
Blitz attack.
"Why are you being so open?" he asked, suspiciously.
"Because any subtleties are clearly going over your head," Tom snapped, the first hint of his own emotions in his tone. "Salazar, Harry, relax a little and stop acting like a Hufflepuff - use the brain I know you possess. I was standing behind you without your notice, if I was going to take the same uninformed approach as Voldemort that would have been an opportune moment to act."
Harry blinked.
For the first time, his panic receded slightly. He felt stupid. Tom met his gaze with a challenge, and something about the familiarity of the situation had him grow less unnerved, enough to think through haze.
"Good," Tom murmured, encouragingly.
"How can you be so calm?" Harry demanded.
"I'm not," Tom smirked, dangerously. "You may be more emotional than me, but you're normally perfectly capable of thinking under pressure and not freaking out. I'm just currently bouncing my emotions at you through the link, because while you initially rage and then withdraw to process when things overwhelm you, I destroy everything around me and act carelessly to get rid of threats. You've done raging, now you are clearly withdrawing, and so my emotions are safer with you."
Harry opened his mouth, feeling a surge of annoyance.
"Considering evidence suggests the threat is you," Tom continued, "I wouldn't get too pissed off about that."
"And you want to have this conversation now?" Harry questioned incredulously.
"Well, after the withdrawal stage you clam up, so it was the only convenient slot," Tom drawled. Harry appraised the other cautiously.
"So…on a scale of one to ten how mentally stable are you? One being stable…"
"Seven," Tom said, his tone clipped. "So tell me and then I can start analysing the full extent of the scenario and not half…and before you ask, no, I'm not going to report straight back to Voldemort. I took an oath to keep your secrets after the Roger-potions-memory charm debacle, remember?"
He couldn't believe he'd forgotten about that.
"Um," his throat felt dry. He didn't think 'Dumbledore says I shouldn't tell you' would go over well.
"I will find out whether you tell me or not," Tom stated, absolute certainty in his tone. "So for once in your life, you might as well just speak. I have a right to know, and you know that."
Yes. But his self-preservation disagreed with his conscience. Damn.
He took a step to edge around the other, only for Tom to move in his way, his hold on yew and phoenix feather becoming firmer. Harry surveyed him.
"I will cheat if you try and duel me," the Slytherin Heir warned, softly, casting an glance at his left arm.
"Well, holding me here won't do you any good, as I won't tell you," he growled. "So you might as well let me leave without my having to duel you in attempt."
"Is it really that bad that you can't tell me? Are we supposed to kill each other or something?"
Harry 's features felt stiff with the effort it took not to react to that, but Tom's expression immediately shuttered. He knew.
Not caring for the consequences this time, he sent a parseltongue exploding hex at the other, knowing Tom would be able to block it, but also knowing that doing so might give him the distraction he needed.
He was proved wrong when a force slammed into him, sending them both to the floor and the exploding hex veering in the direction of the door behind them…bringing a large chunk of the wall down.
Harry went pale, but maintained a tight hold on his wand,preventing it from being summoned. They were in silence for a second, coughing.
The stairs were completely blocked, and they stared at each other.
He was going to be in so much trouble!
Tom whistled.
"I think there may have been an overkill of power there, sunshine."
Harry shot him a scathing look, before remembering the conversation they were in the middle of. Which he now couldn't leave.
At least not without clearing a bunch of rubble from the door, and while there was a spell to aid the process, but considering the other had admitted his instability levels were a bit too much on the psychotic, unstable side he didn't want to remove his attention for that long.
"It's your fault," he snapped. "If you weren't so - pushy! - we wouldn't be stuck here."
"And what a shame that would be," Tom drawled. "I guess you'll have to suffer my conversation until Hogwarts fixes herself or someone comes and finds us."
"Or we could shift the rock and actually find beds to sleep in tonight," Harry returned.
"We could," Tom agreed, dark eyes cutting into his skin, "but then again, I have you where I want you so letting you do so would no doubt be utterly counterproductive."
"I already said I won't tell you."
"Because we're destined to kill each other?" all humour had vanished from the Slytherin Heir's voice now.
When he didn't respond, Tom lunged forwards, fingers like steel bands upon his shoulders, the grip constricting further as he moved backwards in anticipation of the move.
"Answer me!"
"Or what?" Harry dared, tensed. "You're such a hypocrite - you would never tell me anything if you thought you could get away with it. If our roles were reversed you'd never even mention that there was a prophecy," he accused.
Tom smiled coldly.
"Our roles aren't reversed, and you cannot get away with evasion this time, so don't think you can, making both your objections invalid."
They glared at each other, and on some level Harry was aware that he was just being stubborn now. Inexplicably, Tom's features softened fractionally.
"Control issues."
"What?"
"You seek control whenever you feel vulnerable, and this knowledge has left you vulnerable, that's established, its why I'm forcing this topic now instead of giving you the time you want to analyse it yourself," Tom explained.
Confusion and uncertainty joined the war inside him. When Tom was being domineering, forceful and Dark-Lordy it was always so much easier to fight him then when he started acting like this…a friend 'of a sort.' It made the prophecy that much more painful.
"You never give me what I want," Harry muttered.
"No," Tom said. "But neither have I ever denied you what you truly need. So I'd thank you to return the favour…tell me, please. You know I have no desire to kill you…well, no serious desire that outweighs my desire to keep you alive…and I need the specific wording."
Harry blinked, that rare please catching on a hook in his chest.
"Specific?"
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…vanquish does not necessitate murder for example, it just means to defeat in battle or to prove convincingly superior to somebody in a contest, competition, or argument…so I'm curious as to where you're drawing your seeming 'killing' idea. Prophecies are often rather vague, and can be twisted by individuals to mean their own interpretation."
Harry stared, fascinated despite himself, but not allowing himself to hope.
Tom returned his gaze with equal intentness.
Harry bit his lip, torn. He could research semantics on his own…and regardless, Tom never told him anything, but…
Tom studied the boy in front of him with intrigue.
Harry was rigid beneath his fingers, and any lesser man might have been wincing from his hold, though the other seemed hardly aware of it in the face of the emotional turmoil he was facing.
Curiosity and fear warred for dominance in his mind, and he barely resisted the temptation to throw those emotions at Harry too, so then he would have to deal with it. He refrained; Harry seemed uncharacteristically fearful, so he wasn't going to add to that if he could help it.
Golden boy was clearly hesitating on the brink of decision, and that, in itself, was incredible. Things had changed a lot between them since they'd first met.
Harry looked uncertain, and he bet the blasted Headmaster was the cause of it. Harry was always more…impressionable when he felt lost, or vulnerable, though the boy would deny the truth of that statement to the end of the earth.
It wasn't that Harry was easily led, you wouldn't be able to force him into doing anything he didn't want to do just because he was exhausted from the weight of life, but if you phrased the words you were using carefully enough they were more likely to settle in his head.
Especially if he'd already had some element of the idea, or insecurity, in his mind. Harry was remarkable in that he was insecure, confident and defiant all at the same time.
One person really shouldn't have so many conflicting personality traits - especially not in that both traits were strong on either side, rather than being the grey mixture in most people.
With anyone else, he would have opted for legilimency by now. With anyone else. He just needed something to tip the balance now, coax Harry into telling him.
"You'd want to know if you were in my position," he wheedled, keeping his voice low and serene despite the violent impatience that brewed inside him.
Who said his self-control wasn't impeccable? Yes, he lost his temper, but you needed the control of a saint with Harry - he was far too good at knowing which buttons to press - and it probably did the boy good to be reminded of the dangers of keeping company around him.
Things would be boring if they got too…domestic…considering they both thrived on the power plays and adrenaline.
"And I'm only imagining worse the longer you stay silent."
"Do you promise you won't think differently of me?" Harry mumbled, appearing incredibly embarrassed about the question, despite the severity of the issue.
He didn't really understand why Harry would be embarrassed…was it the social expectations again or something?
"Why would I think differently of you? Because you have the ability to 'vanquish' the Dark Lord, be that referring to me or my counterpart?"
That revelation really wasn't as surprising to him as it seemed to be to Harry - he'd always been perfectly aware that Harry was different. There was silence.
"Alright," he said. "To the best of my ability, I won't allow this to change of my opinion of you too much."
Harry fingers curled tighter around his wand.
"Come on," he urged, softly. "Take a leap of faith, sweetheart."
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…"
Harry finished relating the Prophecy, hyper-vigilant to every nuance of expression or reaction Tom gave. His shoulders burned as the grip on them loosened, before releasing him entirely.
Tom's gaze didn't leave his face for a second. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
"It would be great if you'd say something," he prompted, desperate to keep his tone even, and largely succeeding in doing so.
"And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives," Tom's voice was lethally quiet, dangerously calm. His wand shifted defensively, but Tom didn't spare his own a glance. "I can see why you'd want to keep that to yourself."
"I can obliviate you if you'd prefer," he offered, unthinkingly, on the impulse of repartee. Tom's face was like stone.
"And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives," Tom repeated again, but almost musingly this time, and his eyes had grown distant. "Correct me I'm wrong," and Harry felt a jolt of shock that he was actually being included in Tom's no doubt speeding thought process. "But that means you or the "Dark Lord" must kill each other, as you will never truly live while you are fighting…if one takes the premise that Voldemort would not stop hunting you, while you will not yield to him and so must kill him if you want to continue any form of pleasant existence."
"That's what I thought," he admitted quietly, eyeing Tom's wand. The Slytherin Heir shifted abruptly.
"Then by that reckoning I should murder you right here right now, I'm fully capable of rendering this an unfair fight. I could kill you easily. Prophecy done. Would you still agree with the prophecy then?"
"I think we should ignore the prophecy…" Harry said, heart pounding. "Screw Fate. It's what we've been doing anyway right…and you said you'd try not to think differently."
He refused to die here, on this Astronomy tower. Not now.
"Prophecy," Tom stated, in his dictionary-definition voice. "a prediction of a future event that is believed to reveal the will of a deity or a prediction: a prediction that something will occur in the future."
He lapsed into silence, eyes blazing.
"And yet…prophecies can be twisted by the interpretation put on them. The other…the other… and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives….either can mean both or one of the other…what if neither you or Voldemort are the other? Other can mean the remaining, in which it would be you or Voldemort, but it can also refer to a further to what has already been mentioned. You and Voldemort have, presumably, been mentioned…so the other could be me."
"In which case," Harry said quietly, his eyes widening. "And either must die at the hands of the other, of you, for neither can live while the other survives…neither me nor Voldemort can live while you survive because of the-"
"Paradox." Tom finished, eyes lit up. "If I survive Voldemort dies and thus you. I can cause Voldemort to die by not becoming him, while continuing with my plan so you live. Or I can kill you and become Voldemort, in which case he survives and I 'die.'"
Harry felt numb. Dumbledore had made him so sure, the prophecy had seemed so final.
For once, he appreciated Tom's ability to find loopholes in everything that seemed airtight.
Maybe he could get Tom to be a lawyer instead of a Dark Lord? He felt giddy with the tiny bit of hope swelling in his chest.
He glanced over at the other, not relaxed, but not so despairing.
"Prophecies are vague," he said, reminding himself of the fact, safe in that validity of that statement.
Tom's lips twisted.
"Well, I did tell you that I always get what I want, darling."
The end.
A/N: Well, it's been a long road. Hoping you guys enjoyed it as much as I did. :) Thanks for the reviews, one final effort for feedback, eh?
A/N#2: Whoa. Mega chapter. I blame the fact I needed writing therapy after how terrible my exam was and went. Urgh. It was horrible, I tell you, HORRIBLE.
Maybe I should have explained the prophecy in another chapter, I was initially going to leave it where Tom found out, but like I said, writing therapy…what did you guys think of my take on the Prophecy?
Thanks for the reviews.
PS: In case you hadn't gathered, I'm kidding, it's not really the end ;)