Chapter 22. The 31st of October
The 31st of October dawned a dreadfully drizzly thing. From his spot in bed, Harry watched through a water-splattered window a slate grey sky that couldn't decide between rain or fog and so compromised with both. It felt awfully fitting.
"Harry."
He turned his head listlessly to the side. "What, Al?" he asked.
Al looked concerned. "Are you... getting up anytime soon? It's almost ten, we'll miss breakfast."
"Soon." Harry turned back to the window. "You go on ahead."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." Though he'd woken up far before the others and had been lying there for hours, Harry didn't want to move just yet. Didn't want to start Halloween just yet. Halloween couldn't start if he didn't get up, right?
Fucking Halloween.
"O-Okay then," Al said slowly, and Harry felt a pang of remorse at the worry in his voice. It mixed terribly with the dread. "I'll see you soon."
Harry hummed in agreement—he would have to get up soon, unfortunately—and Al left him to his staring. The sky was still spitting droplets onto the glass.
"Fucking Halloween," he muttered.
He'd never dreaded Halloween before; the 31st had always been just another day to him, albeit one with a rather fantastic feast once he'd started going to Hogwarts. For whatever reason, it had never really clicked that Halloween was the day his parents had been murdered. He knew that fact logically, but now... After researching Samhain?
His parents had been the first thing he'd thought of when he woke and the grief had been paralyzing.
But still, Harry thought, blinking slowly at the sky... That didn't explain the dread that had stolen his will to stand. No. The dread that clung to him, he was starting to realize, came in the form of a troll, a petrified cat, and a break-in. Nothing good, it seemed, ever happened on Halloween.
Reluctantly resigned, Harry sat up. It was true. Nothing good ever happened on the 31st of October. Which begged the question...
What cruelty was he fated for today?
"Tom Riddle."
Hands folded behind his back, the Slytherin nodded in acknowledgment as he approached the Gryffindor table. "Minerva McGonagall." He nodded to the others as well. "Longbottom. Fawley."
They nodded in greeting too as McGonagall asked, "To what do we owe the displeasure?"
"Amusing," Tom deadpanned, fighting the urge to roll his eyes as he smiled thinly. "But worry not, I won't take too much of your time. I daren't dream of pulling you away from your breakfast for long."
McGonagall did roll her eyes at that. "Well, get on with it then."
He didn't hesitate. "Where is Harry?"
"Not here," she replied flippantly, and Tom's left eye twitched.
Breathing in, he gave her a wooden smile. "I came to that conclusion myself, funnily enough."
"Why do you ask?" Longbottom asked unexpectedly. Tom appraised him, making note of the way he fidgeted with his fork. He sounded genuinely curious; he looked nervous.
"It's unlike him to miss breakfast," Tom evaded. It was true besides.
"Perhaps he's just having a lie-in," McGonagall said, no doubt to be difficult. Tom ignored it, too busy watching the odd expression flicker across Longbottom's face.
"What is it?" he asked immediately. Instead of answering, Longbottom exchanged a glance with McGonagall and Fawley. They both nodded grudgingly and he finally spoke.
"It's nothing really. Harry just seemed unusually tired this morning. Almost sad, honestly. Wouldn't stop staring out the window."
Oh. The small knot in Tom's stomach that had been growing the longer he'd waited melted in relief. Harry was alright. Sad yes, but that would pass once Tom asked him to go steady.
"You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you Riddle?" McGonagall accused before Tom could respond, and honestly. Could she be more jealous?
"I should hope not," Tom said stiffly. "I hold Harry with the highest regard."
"Good," the black-haired girl sniffed. "Maybe we won't have to threaten you, then."
Tom's eyebrows flew up in surprise at the sheer audacity. "Threaten me? Whatever for?"
"It's simple, Riddle," Fawley said lightly, finally speaking up. "You hurt Harry—" She picked up her butter knife and pointed it at him, "—we hurt you."
As if you could, Tom thought. "Why would I hurt Harry? I, as it so happens, actually enjoy his company." Their expressions remained stony and Tom knew it wasn't enough. Gryffindors. He sighed. "Fine." Gryffindors and their bloody sentiment. "I like him, okay? I don't want to hurt him."
"I knew it!" Fawley squealed, and Tom flinched, caught off guard for the second time that morning. "I fucking knew it!"
"Good Godric, Augusta, not so loud," Minnie complained, "My poor ears."
"Sorry," the blonde said, looking to Tom not the least bit sorry, "But I just—I fucking knew it!"
"To be fair," Longbottom chimed in, "It wasn't exactly a secret—No offense mate." The last words were directed at Tom who blinked.
"...Yes," he said slowly. "Mate. Well. Now that that's cleared up; Would you mind telling Harry I was looking for him when you see him next?"
"Oh, I definitely will," Fawley said with a gleam in her eyes. "You can count on me."
With those foreboding words, Tom decided to take his leave. And—as he said his thank yous and goodbyes—he made a note to find Harry before Augusta Fawley did.
The common room was blessedly quiet when Harry finally left his dorm, bag slung over his shoulder. There were only a few stragglers left this Saturday morning, either those who'd gotten up late—like Harry—or those who'd gotten up so early they were already back from breakfast. Either way, with so few people, Harry was able to snag a spot by his favorite stained glass window depicting a rearing, roaring lion affectionately named Stumpy for whatever reason. He was sure to run his finger along Stumpy's mane before he sat; the lion immediately curled into a ball and left Harry alone to begin his homework.
Homework on a Saturday morning... Hermione would be proud. Luckily it wasn't sunny out or Harry would have been tempted to nick a school broom and fly. He placed his favorite quill and a bottle of ink next to some parchment and all his books with grim resolve. Harry was determined to make this the most mundane Halloween ever. Nothing terrible could happen if he spent the day cooped up writing essays. Well, nothing worse than spending the day cooped up writing essays, that is.
With that, Harry dipped his quill into the ink and—
His journal from Tom pulsed with red light.
Tom. Irritation flared in his chest. Tom was the last person he wanted to talk to today. Harry ignored the journal and stiffly began writing his name on the left-hand corner of the parchment. Just below his name, he wrote, "Professor Beery," and below that "Fourth Year, Gryff—"
The journal pulsed again.
"Seriously, Tom?" he muttered to himself. His quill hovered over the parchment as he debated looking at the journal. He was admittedly curious and there was no saying he had to reply to—
The journal pulsed again and Harry abandoned his Herbology essay.
He opened the little black journal to find four sentences.
"Happy Samhain, Harry. I missed you at breakfast."
"Where are you?"
"I want to ask you something."
Harry frowned deeply, conflicted momentarily before he shook his head. No. He couldn't trust himself to be near Tom today without snapping.
"Are you okay?"
The words oozed out of the page and Harry's jaw clenched, all the more annoyed at the show of concern. He reacted without thinking, scrawling down, "I'm fine. I don't want to talk, Tom."
"I know you're in your common room," Tom wrote. "Don't make me beg Agatha, Harry dear."
"Leave me alone," Harry scribbled, underlining alone twice.
"Okay," Tom replied, surprising him. "After the feast?"
Harry's hand stalled. He wrote one word and snapped the book closed.
"Fine."
He hoped he wouldn't regret it, even as dread gnawed at his stomach.
On any other day, Augusta blurting out "Tom likes you!" would have been welcome. Welcome and exciting and scary-in-a-good-way. Today the words just made him nauseated.
"I can't," he said, shaking his head, and fuck this Herbology essay was never going to get written was it? "Thanks for telling me but I-I can't."
He stood, shoving his papers and books in his bag haphazardly as Augusta asked, "Wait what? I thought you liked—"
"Augusta, please." And then he fled.
Fled rather than face the reality of having a fucking crush on his parent's murderer.
The feast was as splendid in 1941 as it was in the 1990s, though the pumpkins weren't quite as massive as Hagrid's had been. Hagrid, who was sitting just over there. Hagrid, who had been the first to tell him what happened on the 31st of October, 1981. The first to tell him Voldemort's name.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
I am Lord Voldemort.
It kept coming back to that, didn't it? Tom Riddle wasn't Voldemort, but he was. He had the potential at least.
Wasn't that enough?
"Hey, what's up with you today?" Minnie asked quietly, shaking Harry out of his musings. "And don't say nothing 'cause we all know that's not true."
Harry shrugged, not quite able to meet her eyes. Luckily—or perhaps not, knowing Minnie—Al and Augusta were too busy to notice, locked in a debate with Septimus and Bilius. Minnie continued to wait expectantly and Harry finally caved. "The 31st—Samhain... Doesn't have the best memories associated with it."
Minnie asked quietly, "Do you want to talk about it?"
Stalling, Harry looked out at the hall only to lock eyes with—of course—Tom.
"No."
Just as he said he would, Tom pulled him aside after the feast.
"I have something to ask you."
He shouldn't have said yes. "Not now, Tom. Not today." Harry turned to leave.
"Harry wait!" Tom called out, and he faltered. "Please."
His voice was small and it was this more than anything that stopped him in his tracks. Grudgingly, Harry turned to face him.
"Just... Hear me out, will you?" Tom looked so earnest.
Against his better judgment, Harry spoke. "Go on."
"Samhain," Tom began, and Harry's eyes fluttered closed, suddenly so, so done, "is the day of the dead, yes, but also a day of Magic. A day on which time loses all meaning and the past, present, and future are one."
"I know—"
"Please let me finish."
Harry pursed his lips but gestured at him to continue. Something dark was beginning to bubble in his chest.
"Since we met, you have continually captured my attention, Harry. Caught it so wholly and completely that I almost want to resent you for it. But alas." Tom smiled, a crooked, endearing thing. "I can't. So instead, I chose today, this day of the dead, to ask you to begin anew something great with me. After all, what are endings without beginnings?"
Harry willed himself to breathe as that darkness threatened to boil over, threatened to clog his throat and coat his tongue with its bitterness. "What..." he whispered, "What are you saying, Tom?" Surely he wasn't... No. Not today.
"I'm asking, Harry," Tom said as he took a step closer, "if you'd like to go steady. With me."
He was. Of course, he was. Nothing, nothing good ever happened on the 31st of October. Harry began to laugh. To laugh and laugh and God why?!
"Why—" Tom asked, almost choking on the word, "Why are you laughing at me?"
Harry watched hurt twist Tom's face and though something deep down ached at the sight, he could only laugh at the irony, eyes burning. "Of course! Of fucking course you would choose today!"
"I don't... Stop it."
He laughed, sharp and biting. His cheeks… were wet?
He watched as hurt gave way to cold anger. "I said stop it!" Sparks flew from Tom's now-drawn wand.
Harry could only shake his head in his hysteria.
"I warned you," Tom spat.
He wasn't surprised when red spellfire hit his face.