Chapter 8:
Mysteries of the Soul


Diagon Alley, 1938:

Tom walked through the loud, crowded streets of Diagon Alley feeling as utterly alone as if he were stuck in that cave again. The sight of other children his age, and some even younger, brought to mind those things that altar had dug out of May and Dennis' little minds and projected onto the cave walls, and he knew that the happiness these people exuded couldn't be real. How could it, when things like that were done to children?

He kept catching himself crying at times, even in public like this, and quickly remembering to wipe his face before anybody could see. That old wizard doctor, professor Bumble-Or-Something, was perceptive and would have made uncomfortable inquiries when he noticed.

Fortunately, there was only one store left to go to; the most important one. He had been careful in getting the cheapest, secondhand products for all of his potions supplies, books and note-taking implements to ensure he had enough money at the end of the day to buy a proper wand. After-all, unlike the rest of his equipment, this would have to last him his entire school career, and likely his life thereafter.

Ollivander's was staffed by a single man who stood about the counter appearing to the world as if he'd been expecting Tom specifically. He zeroed in on that as the reason for his instant dislike of the man. Before they exchanged a single word, he seemed to already have known him for years. To a private person like Tom, there was no worse possible first impression.

They didn't speak save for when the old man told him the wood and core of each wand he handed Tom. Oddly enough this amplified Tom's impression that the old man could read him, which made him dislike him even more. The old man would hand him a wand, the wand would react violently, Ollivander would make a note, and they narrowed it down to what would hopefully be the perfect match. If Tom were to guess, he would say that he was testing how different core ingredients and different types of wood reacted to him, and from there guess the proper combination, and then find the right match from wands made up of that combination.

"Curious." Ollivander eventually said as he finished his notes. "If my arithmancy is correct, then this would be very curious indeed."

Tom didn't comment on the man's rumblings, as they were clearly more for Ollivander's benefit than for his. He left and returned with two boxes, openinfg them both.

"Holly, 11 inches. Core of a phoenix feather." He indicated the one. "Yew, 13 inches, tail feather of the same phoenix. Twin wands. If my calculations are correct, both should be a match. It will be down to fine-tuning to see which one matches you ever so slightly more than the other."

Tom picked up the first wand and felt warmth course up his arm as red and gold sparks erupted from the wand's tip. All sense of loneliness disappeared as he held what was, in a way he couldn't explain, the most empathetic and trustworthy companion he'd ever beheld.

He waved it in a high arc over his head to create what amounted to a rainbow of gold and red fireworks.

"Whoa." Tom couldn't help but sigh.

"Indeed," said Ollivander. "Let us see if the other wand has a similar reaction to you."

Tom reached for the other wand only to be stopped by Ollivander's staying hand.

"Let's not have you holding both at once, hmm?"

Tom placed the holly wand back into its box and withdrew the yew wand from the other. The reaction was similar to the other wand, but instead of warmth it a pleasant chill which filled him, like putting ice on aching muscles. It also spouted a small amount of silver sparks in addition to the red and gold.

He gave it a swing, as if slashing with a knife, and it made a satisfying swishing sound. This one was much longer than the first, and thinner to boot. It felt good in its movement, but lacked that same sense of companionship the Holly wand had.

He placed it back into its box.

"So which one is for me?" asked Tom.

"That depends on you. Which do you prefer?"

Tom considered his answer for ten seconds before deciding he couldn't come up with one. He needed more information.

"What are the differences between them?" he asked.

Ollivander answered as if reciting a textbook.

"Holly wands are considered protective. They are most happy with wielders who need help overcoming a tendency for anger or impetuousness. They choose owners who are engaged in dangerous and often spiritual quests, and are very rare, as few core samples resonate with it. Yew wands, on the other hand, are reputed for their violence. The more superstitious among lovers of wand lore believe them to have power over life and death. Peculiar to have a sample matched with a phoenix feather."

That last part caught Tom's attention.

"Does the individual tree the wood came from, and the experiences thereof, effect what type of core material it matches with?" Tom asked. "And is the same true of the creatures the core materials come from?"

Ollivander's smile suddenly turned from the polite, plastic smile of a shopkeeper to one genuinely pleased to have met someone.

"Yes indeed. The yew tree your wand was born from was found in the ashes of "The Big Burn" back in 1910." Ollivander explained. "It was a series of terrorist arsons in the American northwest, one covered up by the authorities. Very nasty business. To have lived through such a tragedy and recover? It is not surprising that it matched with a phoenix feather."

Tom had to wonder at the stories of the trees the other wands in this shop had to tell. He suddenly had many more superfluous questions on his mind. Were there other tree samples from that fire used for wands? Would trees whom survived or regrew from wildfires be particularly suited to phoenix feathers as a result? What circumstances made a trees wood more suited to unicorn hair instead of dragon heartstring and so forth?

First day in the wizarding world and Tom may have already found his calling. Maybe it's better to wait until he had a few years of proper training before making that kind of decision? Either way, a more important decision lay before him. And it was a difficult one.

If Tom was a more superstitious sort, he would think fate was testing him, Giving him the choice of two diverging destinies.

Choose the Holly wand and heal, heal from all the shit this world has thrown at him and maybe come to be a healer of others as well. Or wield the yew wand and take revenge against those who had wronged him, and more importantly, wronged others.

He wanted the Holly. He really did. Not for any of the reasons Ollivander gave, but because it was, apparently, one of the rarest wand types. And it felt good. This alone made it special and made him want it. But the look Bumble-something-or-other had given him, a look of disappointment when he had gone on about how he always knew he was special, stayed his hand.

Feeling good and feeling special hadn't done him much good before. And now? Now he was entering a world of people like him. Brilliant people with powers of magic and the mind just like him. If Bumble-What's-his-face and Ollivander were mere schoolteachers and shopkeepers, then what were cutting-edge researchers like? Soldiers? Artists? Criminal investigators? They must be godlike!

So, he chose the more difficult wand. He chose the wand that would give him challenge in a world with great and powerful wizards. He chose a wand that made him feel normal, and would do away with his need to fight, steal and connive just to survive He chose the yew wand.

Lo, how disappointing the wizarding world would turn out to be.


Headmasters office, Hogwarts School of Witchraft and Wizardry, Present:

It was unsurprising that Ginevra's wand had changed allegiance to him. He had, after all, murdered her. It was the Holly and phoenix feather wand that concerned him. He had initially been confused at how well it bonded to him when he first picked it up down in the chamber, but now he knew why. He hadn't recognized it then, but he did now.
The wand who wanted him had chosen to bond with Harry Potter. Did it choose him because it could feel the piece of Tom's soul attached to the boy? Did it hope that doing so would lead to it coming into Voldemort's possession or as a simple means of rivalry with a twin who was favored over it? Did it choose Harry to get revenge on Tom or to rejoin him?

More likely, the wand chose Harry because no other wand could choose him. With the piece of Tom's soul latched to him any other wand would have difficulty feeling out the person picking them. They would be suited to one but not the other, or suited to neither, and end up confused. The holly wand, at least, recognized him and chose to be wielded by what it thought was Tom. That, or the less likely case, it accepted both of them.

Tom knew the truth though. Harry Potter was never this wand's owner. He was just the delivery boy, one to be sacrificed at the alter of the wand's true master.
"You're a sick man Ollivander." Tom ground out, still holding the Holly wand.

Ollivander had paid him no mind as he packed up his entire stock, and made a noncommittal noise.

"I am a mere merchant of magical ancilla." He said with a straight face. "And if this bothers you, my only other option was to dig up the wand of one of your murder victims through grave robbing. This was more palatable to me."

Ouch! Need some salted lemon juice to pour into that wound while you're at it?

Ollivander finished packing up and retook Ginny's wand.

"Mr Potter had no magical relatives to inherit his wand. It is effectively school property. The same is not true for Ginevra's. " He explained. "I've been invited to the funeral to return it to her."

And with that he left through the floo, just as he'd come. Tom and Dumbledore remained in silence. It was left to the headmaster to end it.

"What have you managed to figure out during your isolated meditations?" He asked.

Tom made his own noncommittal noise but sobered up quickly. He knew why he was really being isolated in the medical wing, and it wasn't because he was a danger to himself and others(which he was), but because Dumbledore wanted Tom to think, and boy had he been thinking.

"It's not Harry Potter's memories that I've inherited." He concluded.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, leaning into his hands on his desk.

"And how did you come to that conclusion?"

"Because Harry Potter did not remember most anything before the age of five, like most people. But I do." He explained. "I don't exactly have photographic memory, but I do have memories of Harry's life before he was developed enough to start forming any. I remember his first birthday at the Dursleys."

He sighed.

"In fact, I remember everything. All the way back to the moment I cast the killing curse on his face." Tom concluded. "It was the Horcrux in his head, experiencing Harry's life as if peaking through the keyhole of his prison cell, searching for any kind of distraction for the burning heat of Lily Potter's sacrificial protection which kept it there."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully.

"Fascinating!" He concluded. "And have you figured out why you don't have your memories from before that night?"

Tom shook his head.

"No. And it would kill me to remember murdering the Potters, to say nothing of the many more crimes people refuse to talk about." said Tom. "My best guess is that it's like what happened to Quirrell."

Dumbledore looked at him for some time.

"Elaborate."

"Well. When Harry touched Quirrell, Lily's sacrifice recognized him as Voldemort from the soul fragment of me attached to him. And it destroyed him." Tom explained. "So surely the piece of Voldemort's soul trapped inside of Harry would receive the same treatment?"

Dumbledore nodded for him to continue.

"So surely the soul fragment inside of Harry would have been cleansed of any real personality or memories by that hellish fire of Lily's love. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, for ten years." Tom finished. "Even lord Voldemort couldn't retain a sense of self or sanity suffering that kind of onslaught."

Dumbledore clapped, not at all in a mocking way either. Tom lost his fight against the small sense of pride he got from the praise.

"And I suppose you've also figured out how or why the horcrux inside of Harry fused with you?"

"Oh that one's easy," said Tom. "It eventually regained some semblance of individuality from Harry and figured out its own nature. And it did the one thing shy of divine grace able to restore a soul. It felt remorse."

"And likely for some time before you encountered it. It was only as Harry died that it was able to forcibly reattach to you and begin the process of healing your soul. With Harry's memories helping it along." Dumbledore finished for him.

There were tears in his eyes as he said all of this, and Tom knew it must ache the old man to see such a beautiful miracle come from this tragedy. And Tom hated himself for agreeing with the unspoken sentiment. Those memories, a life so much like his, but with a completely different path. There wasn't a single other thing on this earth more able to heal Tom's soul and turn him to the light from the monster he was just a week ago.

"I'm scared sir," Tom admitted. "Not just of the changes I'm experiencing. The emotions I'm feeling, the changes in my personality. I can't tell if I'm more Harry or me."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and made to respond but Tom beat him to it.

"Yeah, I guess my use of pronouns there probably does tell me what's true." Tom said. "But more importantly, I'm worried I'll start to remember things from before the soul was attached to little Harry."

"I'm all but certain they will." Dumbledore confirmed his fear, and like that Tom's mood soured even further.

"But," Dumbledore continued. "You now have twenty-eight years of your own and Harry's memories. And if you are wise in discovering who you are and who you want to be, those memories will become like unto trials for you."

His words only made Tom feel worse.

"What am I supposed to do, sir?"

"Explore these memories properly. Take strength from the ones you have. Think, feel and craft your new self into somebody capable of withstanding your dark past once you remember it." Dumbledore explained with conviction. "And when it happens, use your and Harry's memories as an anchor against the dark storm."

Tom wanted to scream at the man. He made it sound like it was the easiest thing in the world. As if it were inconceivable that Tom wouldn't know how to do any of those things. But he didn't, he really didn't. So instead of screaming he placed Harry's wand on the headmaster's desk.

"What are you doing?" The old man asked as if in genuine confusion.

"Returning the wand and going back to the infirmary?" Tom said uncertainly.

"You can do the latter if you wish, but the wand is yours now. Keep it onyou at all times," Dumedlore said. "After all, a wand is a wizards life.

Tom looked at him as if he had gone insane.

"You're trusting me?" Tom asked incredulously. "With a wand? What's to stop me from sneaking down to the funeral?"

"The basic decency of not sneaking into a place you're perfectly welcome at." Dumbledore answered. "You still have minders watching your every move, of course. But you are more than invited to join me in my walk down to the funeral now and join us in our mourning."

Tom took him up on his offer and followed him all the way onto Hogwarts grounds, but chickened out at the last minute. The sight of so many people there mourning him, er, Harry was too much for him. He knew too much of the boy would bubble up and make an emotional scene in front of people who didn't recognize him. Not just from the trauma of attending what felt like his own funeral, but Ginevra's as well.

And with that revelation he discovered he was far more ashamed, and guilty, about Ginny than he was Harry. He couldn't really dissect that mind-twister right now so he settled for lapping the black lake, watching the crowd from a distance in the cool night air.

He watched as they held candle-lit vigils. Many of the students who knew him personally all had lengthy turns at his grave. All of the Quidditch teams paid serious respect to him as a competitor and his teammates all got speaking roles. The closest of his friends, Ron and Hermione, were allowed to make a scene as they broke down on his grave. what was strange was that Draco did the same. He would need to look into what that was about.

He didn't have the strength to pay much mind to Ginny's wake some distant away from Harry's. The entire Weasley family was there, half of whom he didn't recognize in the slightest. He wasn't welcome there, but would wait until everyone was gone to visit the graves.

To be buried on Hogwarts grounds? Tom couldn't think of a higher honor.

It was such a beautiful evening too. No clouds. A full moon shining light onto the grounds so that they barely needed all of those torches and candles.

Yes. Waiting for his turn was no trouble at all.


Sirius paced his cell impatiently.

An entire week and change had come and gone and yet he still wasn't thin enough to fit through the bars as Padfoot. The plan was simple, yet eloquent. Abstain from food and pace to burn calories until his already anorexic frame slimmed even further. Then as the even more lithe Padfoot, who also had a smaller head, he could squeeze through the bars and flee.

From there it was just a matter of swimming back to the mainland, getting to Grimmauld place as quickly as possible and connecting with Kreacher, nd maybe Andy or Remus if they were willing to listen. Then return with equipment to break out Regulus and figure things out from there. Regulus had seemed certain that the ministry would send a large contingent of dementors to search for him with the Aurors, which would leave the prison less guarded. Less guards meant easier to break into and out of again, right? And they would never expect him to return so quickly.

But his body, so accustomed to being malnourished, refused to lose weight as quickly as their mental caloric calculations suggested. It could be a whole nother week, and yet tonight would have been perfect. Tonight the werewolves were making their usual ruckus upon a full moon. The cells at Azkaban were more than capable of containing them, but not their howling. What made this perfect for escaping was the fact that, in their wild glee, Fenrir and his lackeys would attract all of the dementors to their specially reinforced cell blocks.

Most months this amounted to an extra evening free from reliving nightmares for the denizens of this hell. Tonight it made for a perfect distraction for his escape, which made it all the more infuriating!

It was then that, all too suddenly, the howling stopped.

Sirius stopped in his pacing as an inexplicable shiver went down his spine. He tried to place why, but it didn't take a genius to figure out. The prison was utterly silent. Clear night, light wind, prisoners sound asleep as they enjoyed a night free of dementors. It would have been nice if it wasn't so wrong. Had the warden decided to put up silencing wards on the werewolf cells? Had the few Auror guards had enough and decided to leave the cell doors unlocked so the dementors could have a little snack? These were the more pleasant possibilities floating through his mind at the moment.

Sirius walked to his cell door and peeked through the bars to see if Regulus was up and worried too. He saw his brother's face across the hall and they shared a nod. They both felt it. They both knew something was coming. And yet the explosion of what must have been a missile barreling into Azkaban prison still surprised them enough to send them both vaulting to the floor.

The sirens that followed came as less of a surprise. The resumed howling even less so than that.

He locked eyes with his brother again and he was sure they both came to the same conclusion.

"It looks like our timeline just got bumped up a bit." Regulus said, proving his penchant for understatements hadn't dulled with time.

Sirius only hoped the same held true for their dumb luck.


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