"ꜰᴜɴɴʏ, ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ɪᴛ? ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀᴍᴀɢᴇ ᴀ ꜱɪʟʟʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ… ᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟʟʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜱɪʟʟʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ɢɪʀʟ."
Chapter Twelve: Blood Moon
Boredom. Ennui. Tedium.
Why bother, when time itself was not material? When he himself was intangible?
The girl was right. She would need his help to overcome this curse, this whitewashed prison of his own construction.
If only he could remember who he was.
Later on, he suggested what he thought a brilliant idea to Ruby.
I've just thought of something, he said, as if it had only just occurred to him.
What?
I know how you can help me. Or, to be more exact, how I can help you to help me. So that I can help you, of course.
I... I don't follow. Sorry.
What I mean to suggest, is that I can lend you my magical ability and expertise.
Why didn't you mention that you could do that earlier?
She sounded somewhat suspicious, Tee noted. He had better phrase the next few sentences delicately.
Well, you may experience a momentary sense of depersonalization and temporary dissociation. Some people find it to be an unpleasant experience.
Find what to be an unpleasant experience?
He could sense her annoyance, but also, a touch of curiosity, which he fully extended to exploit, and so, held his (metaphorical) tongue.
Tee?
What experience?
Possession is the common name.
So you really are a djinn, not a human.
I am not a creature which can be won over with an iron needle. You have not summoned me and forced me to perform orders. I am, or was, flesh and blood like you, thanks very much.
But to possess someone, you must be...
A Legilimens, correct.
So you read minds?
It's not that simple.
Well, what are you planning to do to me, then?
Exactly as I said. I will help you to fool Flamel. We will need to practice. I'm not sure whether it's possible.
When were you planning to try?
Now, she paused.
Walpurgis Night.
Look, I have to go find Harry. I think something's wrong.
But do you agree?
She did not answer. She must have left.
After a particularly-irritating lesson with Lockhart, after which Hermione had roped a terror-struck Ron into a conversation with the professor after class, Harry slipped out, with the intention of disappearing up in the Owlery until dinnertime.
Clearly, it was not meant to be.
"Harry!"
He looked up at the source of the voice; Ruby was standing on the staircase above him.
"Come up here, quick!"
Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets and sighed, then trudged dutifully up the stairs.
"What now?"
"This!"
It took him a while to recognise what item Ruby had just shoved into his hands; a long golden chain, with a single, intricate pendant; a tiny golden hourglass, filled with pearlescent sand and swinging between two golden rings.
"Read them," Ruby prompted. "The meridians; they've only left me a message once before."
Sometimes, a coincidence is in fact the truth of the matter. So make sure you consider all possibilities. L.E.
"What coincidence?" asked Harry. Their mother's gift had always been mysterious, and, to be honest, not something Harry had ever really thought about.
Yes, it had known that Quirrell was a threat, but not until Harry was already in the Underground Chambers.
"Well, if it's anything like last time, it's something that's already happening," Ruby pointed out, taking the necklace back from Harry and fastening the clip once more. "Now, what's a coincidence that's happened recently?"
Oh, he knew what it was...
"It's me," he said with a shudder. "Parseltongue... all the stuff that's happened recently. Maybe I am evil."
"B-But Harry, why now?" asked Ruby, fiddling with the necklace. "Who's in danger? Shouldn't it have spun earlier, when you collapsed?"
What if I'm not the one in danger.
Oh, no...
Let me, the shadows whispered. Let me burn, let me rip... let me out, Harry, you know you want me to!
NO! he all but shouted aloud, gripping the bannister.
You can't control me, Harry... you can't escape me! I possess you... Control you... this is the way it must be!
"No, don't, Harry!"
Let me out... let me kill.
He gritted his teeth, furious... no, not anger, please not anger. That would make it worse.
Force it down... he must think of things worth fighting for.
The next he knew was the hard embrace of the stone steps.
Thud.
Scream, not his.
Thud.
Here again.
Harry opened his eyes to the familiar surroundings of the Hospital Wing at night, the full moon hanging over the starlit sky, casting eerie, silvery shadows across the room. The crisp sheets crinkled as he sat up and reached for his glasses.
Was this a dream, or reality? The wind moved the diaphanous curtains; but yet, the windows were closed.
Perhaps they were open just a crack.
He got up to investigate, making slow, unsteady steps across the slippery, cold floor.
"Harry."
He turned.
"You!"
The mysterious boy in the opposite bed from the end of last year stood behind him; but now, he looked slightly older. He was wearing the same faded pyjamas, but there was a red glint to his eyes, and he moved half-like a ghost, half-like a human.
He... he can't be the Obscurus, can he?
Harry studied him; but they had absolutely nothing in common except for their hair colour.
"Who are you?" asked Harry, reaching for his wand, but it was in the boy's grasp instead, twirling the wooden stick between long, ghostly fingers. Sickly. Spindly. Spidery.
The boy had been pale before, but this time, he looked ill, corpse-like, his cracked lips grey-white and his skin ashen and waxy in the moonlight.
Perhaps he's dead.
"What are you?"
Still, no response.
He held out his hand, somewhat unsteadily. "Give it back."
But the boy looked fierce; eyes narrowed and mouth tight in a cruel expression. He clutched at his chest as if to tear out his heart.
Not quite cruel, Harry realised. Scared.
"It's killing me," the wraith rasped, his voice dry as a late autumn leaf. Harry looked into his eyes; they were haunted and desperate.
"What?"
He watched, rooted to the floor, as the wraith smiled slowly, his grey-lipped mouth moving without his eyes seeming to notice the muscle and skin around it, grin stretching too far across his face. Then, without flinching, the wraith reached up to his face with the hand that was not holding Harry's wand, fingers held like claws.
Stop! Harry wanted to scream, but his mouth would not move. He thought desperately of lunging forward and pinning the boy's arm to his side, but his limbs were leaden with strange sleep.
The wraith's fingers met his own left eye, scrabbling into position, sinking around the socket with a stomach-turning squish-squish, and pulling out his eye with a blood-curdling scream.
Instinctively, Harry clapped his hands over his ears to muffle it, looking at anything but the bloody sight before him.
He looked steadily at Harry with his remaining eye, letting the other one drop to the floor in a small pool of crimson blood.
"Look," he hissed, licking the blood that had splashed onto his lips. "Look what it's done to me."
Then, without hesitation, he spread open the empty socket. Harry felt like retching, but still, he lifted his gaze to the already-blackened flesh and saw the Obscurus inside, moaning and churning.
"I took the monster into my body to keep us both alive for the time being," said the wraith with disgust. "First the parasite, now the host. Poetic, I suppose."
"Who are you?" whispered Harry, just barely finding his voice.
The wraith opened his mouth, then shut it. "I am not allowed to say. But know this; I am as wretched an abomination as this monster from whom I shield you from."
As if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, the wraith turned on his heel and climbed back into bed, pulling the sheets over his head.
Harry turned, intending to go back to bed too, when he was interrupted by a musical chirrup.
Fawkes sat perched on the headboard of Anthony's bed, his flaming plumage an antithesis to the anemic moonlight.
The inhabitant of the bed lay unmoving, the blackened stump of his arm visible.
He might be sleeping, thought Harry, if not for the arm.
The moon had disappeared.
"Cry," he ordered Fawkes, but the phoenix only chirruped solemnly. "CRY!" Harry screamed, not understanding where this strange, burning rage came from... why he felt like he was falling... why everything was...
Red. Red red red.
The color... red.
So evocative.
Monstrous. Disgustingly alive. Feral.
Like teeth sinking into flesh, a metallic taste dancing up the predator's stone.
It brought to mind all sorts of things; the curtains of a theater, blood welling up from a cut, a vicious smile outlined in lipstick…
The moon was no longer pale, but instead the ruddy colour of the eclipse. An omen. A bad one.
The monkey's blood? Raspberry cordial? Molten stone? trickled down the grey tiles. Mingled with the mangled soul that lay there.
Then, it breathed. It saw. It stood.
The floor was cold against its bare feet, yet it did not feel it.
"I am pleased," it said, and Harry started at the fact that this adult's voice seemed to emanate from his own mouth (there was something strangely terror-inducing about this dream), that his long, new-born legs tottered towards the spotted mirror in the long, empty marble hall. His fingers explored alabaster skin flushed with rosy health, the elegant bridge of the nose. Pulled at a black curl, then decided it looked altogether too Just William for its taste. Something must be done about the hair.
"Most pleased. Yet, the eyes remain disconcerting…"
A fist shot forward, and next, pain arced down its arm, crimson blood staining skin as it left behind a kaleidoscope of glass splinters, sparkling in the moonlight spilling through the floor-length mirror. Harry felt the sting of glass in open flesh as if the arm was only half his.
Corporeal, for certain.
"I wonder," it continued, bending down to retrieve some of the red liquid, staining near-ivory fingers, then consuming the remainder.
The same metallic taste. Like blood, but not quite.
It opened its eyes, then shut them.
"Still scarlet," said the thing, turning its head side-to-side in a critical manner... the thing that saw through Harry's eyes, or perhaps Harry saw through its. "I suppose it cannot be helped."
From then on, Harry caught flashes of things. Black hair. Pale fingers. Dark robes. Scarlet eyes.
Until the left hand was thrust into the sky, head thrown back, crying: "Morsmordre!"
Harry had no idea what that meant... it had to be some sort of spell. But what kind of crazy dream was this? Drinking blood, casting spells... one strange dream-like experience after another couldn't be mere coincidence, could it?
Harry thought of pinching himself; but alas, he was not in control of his, well, its limbs.
The thing felt annoyed. Had the spell not worked, whatever it was meant to do?
He heard the door at the end of the hall creak open, the sound echoing through the stone room.
"You," said it, half-amused, without even the faintest twitch of the head towards the door.
"My Lord," murmured the person who entered the room with timid, shuffling steps; here, Harry caught glimpses of rheumy eyes, unkempt hair, and dusty robes. Everything in this strange dream came in a clash of blur and detail, nothing complete.
My Lord? Was he seeing into the past, perhaps? Was he in the body of some... some ancestral Potter?
The left hand flicked out before Harry could ponder this further. A plain wooden chair popped into existence, and he was reminded inexplicably of Not-Quirrell.
"Sit, Wormtail," it said tersely. "And what of the others?"
Yes, he must be right. 'Wormtail' sounded King Arthur enough.
"T-They think you dead, My Lord," said Wormtail, trembling as he shuffled into his seat. "But I-I am faithful! I alone! I have even, My Lord, kept your wand concealed upon my person these past eleven years!"
"Did you attempt to use it? Come, do not lie to me. I know all."
"Yes, My Lord. I hoped, I hoped to summon you back to life with it! But the wand disobeys all but its illustrious owner!"
"Lies, Wormtail, lies!" And Harry did not miss the sibilant hiss underlying the speaker's sudden fury, nor the sounds of shattering glass accompanying the clenched fist. The warm and wet sensation of blood sliding down the back of his hands told Harry that some of the shards had hit him.
Harry felt his attention drawn to the wand now grasped between his fingers, admiring the smooth, caramel-toned wood. He had seen a few wands like this in Ollivander's shop, held a few, even... but who, who did it belong to? The familiarity was strange. He had switched wands with Ruby for a few days during the summer out of curiosity, and the experience had been something between catastrophic and unpleasant.
Perhaps he really was seeing through the eyes of a long-lost family member in this strangely lucid dream.
But that didn't explain the wand. He had taken Ollivander's comments to mean that his wand was new. How could it have had a previous owner? How could two wands be so similar?
The glimmer of an explanation floated through his brain, but he pushed it away.
"I see." Harry noticed the displeasure, but it was not his. All he felt was confusion. Where was this place? Who were these people?
Why couldn't he wake up? Was he going to be stuck like this forever?
"Shall I call them, My Lord? Tell them?"
"No, not yet. I have one question for you, Wormtail," said it, all ice. "My downfall at Godric's Hollow was based almost entirely on your misinformation."
"M-My Lord! I would never dream―"
"Yes, you were always unimaginative," it drawled. "Your betrayal must have been the very precipice of your pathetic existence... So tell me this. The spell that your dear friend's wife cast upon her own sacrifice between the boy and I only bound us two..."
Harry, who was beginning to feel more and more separate from 'Wormtail' and the other man standing in the hall, felt his stomach begin to sink.
"...tell me, Wormtail," the pale man continued. "Why did you not kill Harry Potter?"
What little warmth was left in Harry turned to ice.
Wormtail, despite his age (at least thirty) began to wail as if he were a toddler who had gotten separated from his parents in a crowd.
"I had not the courage, My Lord! Dumbledore was arriving, and Black, and the werewolf! I could not face the three of them as you could, My Lord! I had not the courage of the ones you killed! Have mercy, I beg you! Mercy!"
His panic was not entirely understood.
The pale man... Voldemort, Harry realised with cold horror as all the confusing puzzle pieces felt into place, stood firm, even as Wormtail wailed over his foot.
"What would your dear friend James have wanted? You, coward who would stand in the shadow of the strongest wizard... is it the child Potter, the little princeling, you hoped to serve? Is that what you hoped your proximity would enable?"
What proximity?
"He would have spared me, My Lord! Mercy! Mercy!" Wormtail panted; shivering, trembling, sweating. Harry could smell the dirty, animal stink of fear.
Who... this strange human monster with his angelic smile, black hair curling over his eye, long wisps of smoke trailing from the cheap cigarette balanced between his fingers, wand (killing instrument) grasped lightly in another, posture nonchalant as he all but ignored Wormtail crouched in front of him, dusty robes sweeping the stained floor, the scent of camphor and rot stinging his nostrils. The remains of the red liquid were the freshest things in the room.
"I... find myself disappointed to have arrived in such ignominous circumstances," he murmured, quiet as a church mouse that had crept into the organ pipes. Now, Harry could hear his voice clearly; there was a soft, empathetic quality to it that seemed more suited for reading picture books to children than pronouncing the Killing Curse. There was something almost affable about Voldemort.
"But I am certain we will make the best of surprise, you and I. Foolish though you are, you were right to come to me tonight... the others who disobeyed my call will face the consequences. If it's pity and mercy you want as a repayment for your unsatisfactory service, Wormtail... then you shall receive."
He grimaced in the mirror, baring two rows of pearly-white teeth, bright enough to rival a vampire's. Smiling. His smile had been so very charming as a young man. He should work on his smile.
Voldemort.
"Yes, me, Harry Potter. I, Lord Voldemort. I lured you here; I knew you would go sneaking around in my office, and I knew you would come to find me alone. Of course, I do not fault you for it. You are a mere child, and I am poor, stuttering Professor Quirrell. How could you not trust me? How could you not feel so terribly betrayed?"
He stared into the scarlet eyes reflected in the mirror, and saw Not-Quirrell's intelligent, predatory gaze. The same gaze that had stared down that strangely familiar wand, into his eyes.
Voldemort, alive. This isn't a dream.
Had this man stood over his father's, and his mother's bodies, and countless others? Had he stared into those scarlet eyes as a baby, frightened but unknowing of the danger?
"Be quiet!" snapped Voldemort. "We are not alone!"
His hand clutched his head, in a gesture that Harry recognised; the same as when his hand went to his scar.
"I feel him... Potter... in my head... tell me everything you know about the boy!"
And then, everything went dark once more; the darkness was the darkness of his eyelids, and then he was awake in the Hospital Wing.
"He's back!" Harry managed to pant out, shuddering, trying to warn someone, anyone. The sheets around him were soaked with sweat, and his scar throbbed with searing, stabbing pain. "He's back!"
All of a sudden, there was a warm, comforting arm resting around his shoulders.
"Oh, dear, you had a nightmare," said Madam Pomfrey, frowning and mopping the sweat from his forehead. "You're safe, Harry."
"None of us are safe," he muttered. "He's back, Voldemort's back. I saw him. I saw him."
She stopped, handkerchief frozen mid-dab, and then began to look in her apron for a potion, her eyes wide and scared.
"I'm not crazy!" yelped Harry. "I saw him! It wasn't a dream. It's really him, he's really back!"
Both he and the school nurse sat up straight as the doors were flung open; in strode Dumbledore, followed by a frightened-looking Ruby, dressed in pyjamas and wearing mismatched socks. Harry glanced at the windows, and realised it was still night. The moon was pale once more.
Sometimes, a coincidence is in fact the truth of the matter. So make sure you consider all possibilities.
"It was spinning again," she said sheepishly, clutching the 'Time-Turner.' "I thought... I thought something might have happened. But you're alright, so..."
"Something did," Harry insisted. "Do you believe me now?"
Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon glasses, looking apprehensively from Harry to Madam Pomfrey, and back to Harry. Finally, he drew up a chair and sat down heavily.
"Why don't you explain what happened, Harry?"
He nodded.
"I was dreaming... it was a weird dream, but first I was dreaming, and then... I was in Voldemort's body. He-he drank something red, like blood, and then he was moving around, and-and―" The words seemed to be getting backed up in his throat as he rushed to get them out.
"Why don't you describe him to me, Harry?"
That seemed... that sounded sensible.
"He was pale... tall... he had black hair," Just like my nightmares. "A quiet voice. And scarlet eyes."
Someone inhaled sharply.
"And there was someone else with him. His servant, something like that. All dusty-looking, like a rat who'd just taken a dirt bath. Wormtail, I think Voldemort called him."
"Wormtail?" Dumbledore repeated, expression grim. An inexplicable expression of surprise flashed across his face. "His servant? What did they speak of? Do you remember, Harry? If this is no dream, this information is incredibly useful to us. Try your best to remember."
"Nothing much. They just argued. He- Wormtail said he'd been waiting eleven years, and then Voldemort asked why he gave him misinformation that night. And then, Wormtail said he was too scared to try killing me when he arrived, because you and Black and some wolf were coming. And then Voldemort realised I was in his head... then he pushed me out."
Dumbledore frowned, then turned to Ruby.
"Is your brother a Legilimens?"
She sat up, looking confused.
"A what, sir?"
"Has he been particularly adept at guessing other's secrets? Games of oppositional strategy, such as chess or battleships? Are you ever surprised at the extent of his knowledge of other's states of mind?"
"No, sir," said Ruby slowly. "I don't think Harry's a mind-reader."
"I thought as much. Natural ability with Legilimency is rare... it is a rather obscure branch of magic after all. I must confess, the more we seem to learn about your... unique connection with Voldemort, the more confused I grow. But I do fear that if you can see into Voldemort's mind..."
"He might be able to see into Harry's?" asked Ruby.
"Precisely."
Madam Pomfrey laid a comforting hand on Harry's arm.
"Professor Dumbledore, it might only be a nightmare!"
Dumbledore sighed, looking weary, the creases in his face more prominent than ever.
"And how would Harry know the name Wormtail, Poppy?"
She ducked her head, frowning. "I hadn't thought of that. But Peter Pettigrew is dead. Who is to say this vision is not a false one, if T- if You-Know-Who is aware of Harry's connection with him?"
Peter Pettigrew. Harry repeated the name softly, under his breath. Why did that sound familiar? Black must mean Sirius Black, who betrayed their parents... but he could not place the other name.
Dumbledore looked particularly grim. "I have my sources, and I will confirm it."
"And the red liquid?" asked Ruby, fiddling with the ends of her hair.
Dumbledore opened his mouth to answer, but the realisation hit Harry before Dumbledore spoke, and the thought made his stomach sink to the soles of his feet.
"The Elixir of Life. Extracted, of course, from the Philosopher's Stone. Most, of course, could not do it, but Voldemort was ingenious even in his youth, as you well know."
"And what will he do next?" asked Madam Pomfrey.
"Azkaban, surely," said Dumbledore. "He will not move before recruiting his allies."
Harry, whose dread had been mounting steadily, turned to Dumbledore.
"No, it'll be me. He told me. It's me next."
Dumbledore made a noise of faint displeasure.
"He may try, but he will fail as long as he insists on carrying out the job himself."
Madam Pomfrey looked particularly distressed.
"The children―"
"―will be safe as long as they call Hogwarts their home."
"With all due respect, Professor Dumbledore, we are relying on an unknown magic cast by Lily Evans, of all people! We all loved her, but even her colleagues at the Department of Mysteries thought she was a little... you know..." Here, Madam Pomfrey cast a guilty look at Harry and Ruby, lingering on the false Time-Turner, "...odd."
"Odd saved Harry," snapped Ruby, startling them all. "It might have even saved you, Madam Pomfrey. Who knows how many more would have died if Voldemort hadn't been defeated that night."
Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore both turned to stare at Ruby.
Sometimes Harry wished the shadow of his dad (that nasty Potter boy) and mum (smart, pretty, precious Lily) didn't loom so heavy over them.
"Lily's unpredictable nature continues to be one of our greatest assets; Voldemort fears what he cannot predict," said Dumbledore quietly, and that was that.
He turned sharply around once more, seeming to see something moving in the corner of the room. Harry squinted into the darkness, but only saw a fuzzy sort of shimmer against the wall.
"I had better inform the staff," said Dumbledore, standing up. "I expect Severus will be asking questions."
I have questions, thought Harry. Just then, he saw Ruby get up, shivering, and walk over to Madam Pomfrey, whispering something about blood.
"...here, I have some things set away in the back," he heard Madam Pomfrey murmur. "Come back if you need anything else... but what a coincidence, so strange..."
Harry didn't know what they were talking about. But it wouldn't have anything to do with that big creepy moon in the sky, would it?
He glanced over at Anthony, but he had not moved.
"He's so cold," said Ruby. She had been holding the hand that had been spared; paler than Harry remembered, and perhaps vaguely purplish at the tips.
His slumber no longer appeared peaceful; he was withering slowly away before their very eyes. A Living Death, to be sure.
Ruby sniffled. "Anthony's going to die, isn't he? Fawkes won't cry for him."
"Snape's going to try bloodletting," said Harry. "I heard him talking to the Goldsteins about it; they'd try anything at this point to bring him back."
"Leeches might kill him, Harry!"
"I know." He pushed himself into a sitting position, and patted the spot next to him on the bed. Ruby sat down, tucking her feet under her.
"We should do something for him," she rambled on. "We can't just let him die."
He was dead the second the basilisk laid eyes on him, thought Harry, but he said nothing, because she knew it too.
Instead, he said: "He was closer to you than me."
He hadn't meant to say the was. Since when had he decided Anthony was dead, anyway?
"Who's Peter Pettigrew?" he asked instead.
Ruby shook her head. "James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter."
"Who?" asked Harry, flabbergasted.
"They were all friends. With James, I mean, Dad. His friends from school. Sirius Black was, and so this Peter Pettigrew must be Peter."
Harry counted off on his fingers. "Sirius Black's in Azkaban, Peter Pettigrew's with Voldemort... what about the other one?"
"Maybe he's dead," said Ruby quietly, with a glance at Anthony.
Dumbledore was arriving, and Black, and the werewolf. The werewolf.
But Harry kept that thought to himself, tucking the blackening, wispy tips of his fingers into his sweaty palms and safely out of sight.
A/N:
Okay so *full disclosure* my depiction of adult Tom/Lord Voldemort is very much aesthetically inspired by Lucifer from the webcomic 'The Devil is a Handsome Man.'
Who's lurking in the corner? Can you guess?