Chapter Summary: But between one second and thirty years, there's a longing that is and isn't his own and he blinks. Tom wakes amongst a grove of yew trees, but he is not… he is not the same. His soul is whole once more— a quiet yearning, for something he doesn't understand— but his body is no longer physical. He has a moment of panic— I'm not a wraith, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not— but it settles quickly when he can make out features of his body. But he sees through his hands and feet and he feels— he can't feel his hands on his face.
Ghost. His mind is quick to come to the conclusion. He's come back as a ghost.
Notes: I just want to thank everyone that's read, kudosed, bookmarked, subscribed, and/or commented! I was hella nervous posting the first chapter and receiving all the love y'all gave was heartening.
I put off writing this chapter for two weeks because I was absolutely terrified of trying to write from Tom's perspective lmao, but I made a promise to at least get a second chapter posted by Halloween. Which I did, but only over on AO3. Meant to get it posted here too but with the election stuff going on, it honestly slipped my mind.
Just a minor warning, there's a heavy sense of unsettlement, or existentialism, throughout. Don't really know how else to explain it, but I liked how it came out.
Chapter Two
When Tom finally returned to being, he didn't know where he was at first.
The last thing he remembered was— golden flames, a sound like a cannon blast, the Elder Wand flying towards Potter, and green, green, green as his spell rebounded onto him for the last time. Then shades of white and gray and black mixing and melting into nothingness, for he was nothing. Thoughts were meaningless, and he was meaningless. The laws of physics held no meaning and the things he saw were incomprehensible for his mortal mind— for he had no mind. And he was waiting, but for what, what was he waiting on— but this does not concern him because he must wait regardless. But time is an illusion and does not exist. He may have been there for a second or he could have been there for thirty years— there is no way to tell.
Until.
Unimaginable pain as his essence is ripped and torn and shredded— he doesn't know how long it lasts but eventually he begs, "Please, please, I'm sorry, please, stop!" — and then new— old, decades old, where have they been, ripped from his being; how could he have forgotten how it feels to be whole— essence pulled from the far ends of the Nothing and returned to him. Fixed, prodded, surgically sewn back up into One. Whole. Singular.
The pain ends— was it a second? Or thirty years? — and he settles as much as any being can when they are Nothing.
Peace. It is grudgingly given, like a stingy child being forced to share their toys.
He is given the vague impression— what was that in the corner of his eye? A being incomprehensible to his mortal mind, that strikes a primal fear within him, allows him to witness them, but he blinks and again there is Nothing; nothing but the deep-seated, gut-churning Fear— that he is meant to be grateful. That if he were a physical being in this moment he should worship at the feet of the one who granted this peace to his soul— has he ever known such a peace?
But between one second and thirty years, there's a longing that is and isn't his own and he blinks.
Tom wakes amongst a grove of yew trees, but he is not… he is not the same. His soul is whole once more— a quiet yearning, for something he doesn't understand— but his body is no longer physical. He has a moment of panic— I'm not a wraith, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not— but it settles quickly when he can make out features of his body. But he sees through his hands and feet and he feels— he can't feel his hands on his face.
Ghost. His mind is quick to come to the conclusion. He's come back as a ghost.
Tom has never been in touch with non-violent emotions, except perhaps when he was a child, and so the sorrow he feels is unexpected. There's longing for a physical, flesh and blood, body— more than a decade as a wraith has left him furious and petrified of being without.
But between his fear of Death— the incomprehensible Being and State that blinks in and out of the corner of his eye and leaves his mind cowering with fear— and a sense of unfinished business and a longing that isn't but is his own; well, it leaves him as a ghost.
He floats amongst the trees and comes across a slab of stone that is made of shades of green and gray and black. It's a headstone. It's slanted and elegant and—
Tom blinks as he reads the engraving.
Who would—
Why would—
He takes a deep breath that does nothing for him for he no longer has lungs, but it's a habit when you're a living person that is hard to forget when you're no longer living.
Who would go to the trouble of conjuring Tom Marvolo Riddle and Lord Voldemort a headstone?
Then his eyes land of the epitaph and—
At first, Tom's thoughts go like this— with sentimentality like that, I'd say Dumbledore but I saw his corpse with my own two eyes, he's dead. So who— one of my followers, perhaps? Bellatrix? No. No, she died too. Then who? Who would—
Then he remembers the longing that was and wasn't his own; he still feels it whining inside of him. As if he could ever forget it or quiet it. He remembers the peace his soul felt for the first time when he was and wasn't Nothing— the sense that he should be grateful, or else.
May His Soul Be Whole and Find Peace
Says the epitaph and Tom is sure if he had functioning lungs he wouldn't be breathing in that moment.
Whoever conjured this headstone— whoever buried him here— is likely the reason his soul is whole and why he felt peace for that brief— or did it last for thirty years— moment.
If not Dumbledore and his sentimentality, then who?
"Potter." Tom said immediately, his eyebrows raised and furrowed, his jaw slacked.
But, why, why would Potter bother?
Why would he take such care of his enemy's body, of his enemy's resting place?
It makes no sense to him.
He never would have done the same for Potter, to be frank. A small part of his being— the same part where the longing and yearning that is and isn't his own resides— clenches at the thought of what he would have done, the violence of what he would have allowed. But he was never given the chance so he doesn't need to dwell on the thought.
Tom turns his back to the slanted headstone. Even as a ghost he can sense the strength of the wards put on the grove, his headstone, and the coffin in the ground that holds his corpse. The magic of the wards is distinctly— Potter.
No mistaking it now— but why?!
No matter. The question he should be asking is can he even leave the grove?
A minute— an hour? A day? Thirty years? — of exploring the grove, of testing boundaries, leads him to the conclusion that, no. He can't leave.
He's a ghost.
And he's bloody stuck here amongst the grove of yew trees in the cemetery of Little Hangleton.
He doesn't know exactly how long he's been on this plane, what with time being an illusion and thus not real, but it must have been months for there is now snow on the ground and within the branches of the trees. Tom is floating up in the yew tree closest to his headstone, sitting against the trunk, lost in his thoughts when he senses a presence approaching the grove.
Potter.
Tom masks himself as much as he can— utilizing a form of energy, perhaps magic, he's discovered he can manipulate in this form if he concentrates— and watches the young man approach his headstone, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. His cheeks and nose were pink from the cold, his lips were downturned, his black hair wild as ever, and there were dark circles under his green eyes which were somewhat hidden by the rim of his round glasses.
Potter pulled his wand— must be new— and conjured a memorial vase before using a permanent sticking charm so it could sit on the base of the headstone without being moved or knocked over. He cleared his throat once, twice, before slowly putting the bouquet in the vase.
He brought flowers— he's visiting— he, why, what is he doing here—
"You're probably furious with me for basically killing you, but I can also see you laughing, scoffing at me for doing all of this." Potter gives a short, seemingly pained chuckle as he gestures wildly to the headstone and then around to the grove. "I shouldn't have come here, I know this, but earlier tonight when I realized it was your birthday... I thought about that little boy in the orphanage. I thought about how he likely... he likely never had someone there to treat him kindly, and so…" He pauses, takes a deep breath, then says, "Happy Birthday, Tom."
Shocked. Incredulous. Baffled. Touched.
That small part of him that had gotten louder as the months passed by, with it's longing and it's yearning that was and wasn't his own, was screaming at him now— really, it started as soon as he could sense Potter in the grove— and it urged him to make his presence known. But he refused. He couldn't. Not yet.
Potter sighed, dragged a hand through his wild, black locks before stilling for a brief moment. In the next, he plopped down in front of the headstone, casting a warming charm on his robes before putting his wand away.
"It's been seven months since the war ended and I still haven't settled." He begins, sat casually cross-legged like he was sitting with a friend. "Ending the war only increased everyone's expectations of me. They make it difficult to be able to be my own person. Kingsley— he became Minister by the way— and his advisors guilt and obligate me into going to public events that I hate with my entire being. I couldn't bring myself to return to Hogwarts, or become an Auror," Potter pauses, then mutters quietly, "Couldn't bring myself to continue dating Ginny either— nothing feels right anymore."
Tom floated down from the tree, careful to remain hidden from Potter's sight. The young man now leaned his face against his fist, his arm leaning on his knee. An indent was forming between his brows as they furrowed, his lips were pinched.
"Ever since I lost… lost the piece of you, the Horcrux... and after your spell rebounded back onto you, I've felt—" He groans and buries his face in his hands. "I've felt bloody empty. You carved out a space inside of me. Our souls touched for years, and I… Merlin, this is so stupid, but I miss you, I miss the piece of you that was with me, part of me, made a home in me."
Tom is sure that his eyes have never been this wide, his jaw never been so slack. What in the world is he hearing? He inches closer to Potter without realizing it. His words strike a chord within Tom— if they were true, would it explain that small part of him that seems to long for the young man in front of him? And that's what it is, he sees this now. It longs for Potter, longs to be back in the home it carved into the young man. Or at the very least, to be near him. Close, and closer still. It defies all logic— why would he ever long for Potter? But tell that to his soul. He's certain he's going into shock— the disparity between his mind and soul is jarring, of what he knows and what he knows.
"With you and it both gone, I feel untethered. What am I supposed to do now? Am I supposed to pretend everything is fine? That the end of the war was the best thing ever?" Potter scoffs as he drags his hands down his face before folding his arms against his chest. "Am I glad there's no longer a war? Yes, of course. Too many witches, wizards, creatures, and beings have died already. Too many families were broken apart and wiped out. We're a small population already— we can't afford to lose anyone else to war. So, yes, I'm relieved the war is over."
The older man copies Potter's actions and drags a hand down his face in soul-deep exhaustion. He has a point. With his soul whole, his mind is clearer than it's been since he was sixteen and ripped his soul, and he does feel remorse for the innocent magical lives lost needlessly. The remorse is faint— unfamiliar— but it's there. The fact that he can even feel it... leaves him stumped because he's never felt remorse for his actions before. Not even as a child when he hung Billy's rabbit from the rafters or traumatized Dennis and Amy or stole from the other children in the orphanage.
"But… But more than relieved, I can't help the overwhelming, gnawing, soul-deep emptiness inside me. Nothing fills it, nothing puts it off. It is always present, always screaming for my attention, always, always yearning for what's been ripped away."
Inching closer still to Potter, his presence masked for as long as he concentrates, Tom can't help but be drawn to his words, to the feelings the words invoke. His soul is begging him to reach out— his mind is still partly in shock, partly yelling that This Is Not Normal, This Is Not Right, This Has Never Happened Before, Why Is This Happening.
"So. It's your birthday. I've, uh, come with flowers… Had to do some research on flower meanings so I wouldn't get it wrong…" He muttered, the pink on his cheeks deepening from embarrassment. "Don't bloody laugh, alright, wherever you are. I wanted to do a kind thing, so... so just accept them."
He clears his throat once before gesturing at the different flowers in the vase. "King's spear, or yellow asphodel, for regret; pink camellias for, uh, longing; purple verbena for I pray for you— because I do, maybe not in the religious sense, but I hope you're whole and at peace; harebells for grief; rosemary for remembrance; and there's a couple of yew twigs in there too which have several meanings, but mostly I thought it apt since it was the wood of your wand and, well, because I also buried you amongst a grove of yew trees… but, um, they can mean sorrow, reincarnation, penitence, amongst others…" Potter at this point is wringing his hands nervously as if he really is seated in front of Tom and waiting for his reaction. He fidgets with the sleeve of the heavy winter robe he wears for a moment before sighing.
"I should go… But… But I'll probably visit again…"
Tom watches as Potter stands and he knows he's about to leave— wait, don't—
"Don't… Don't leave yet, Potter."
The young man freezes like he's been hit with a glacius charm, before he mechanically turns his head towards Tom where he's floating a few feet away from Potter's side, finally letting go of the energy that was masking his presence.
Potter's breath hitches as he lays eyes on Tom's ghostly form. He croaks out a weak, "T… Tom?"