Chapter Fifty-Four: Black & White
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It hurt. In a distant way he couldn't explain. Like he could feel where the sword had sliced through him, but it felt like it had happened in a dream. Through water. To someone else.
He wasn't sure what to make of the blue light. Or of the way his chest felt piercingly empty — an aching hollow. He was already slipping ahead, his soul stepping into the light before his teary eyes. Fading away. Wasn't it odd, he thought vaguely, as the blue glow paled and his vision darkened, that there wasn't any blood?
The world grew black and empty. He was falling, though he couldn't say where. Or how. The black around him was complete. Impenetrable. Familiar.
He had been here before.
He lifted a hand, staring at this pale skin. His fingers were clearly visible in the blackness. It shouldn't be a surprise. After all, this wasn't the first time he had died. Not really. It shouldn't be odd that Limbo looked just like it had before, even though Ella had told him—
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, pushing that thought away.
No, he couldn't think of Ella. Not yet. It was too raw. Too painful.
He sat up, staring into the darkness. Wiping the wetness from his cheeks. Last time he had gotten up, walked. But what was the point? Last time, he'd had a purpose. Kill the horcrux. Come back. It had been a temporary trip.
But this? This was the rest of his life. Or death. Or whatever it was that came after. He wasn't really sure. All that time clinging on to life, and then brazenly throwing it away, and he never bothered to imagine what could be next.
And maybe there was nothing. Simply that.
So he sat, and stared into the black. And waited.
It happened slowly. So slowly that he wasn't even sure, at first, that anything had changed. It was the weight of the darkness that shifted, solidifying beneath him. Until the ground felt more substantial. More there. A subtle warmth, rather than nothing. A texture beneath his fingers as he traced it. Some type of wood, he reckoned. Vaguely reminiscent of the floorboards he had loosened and pried up in the smallest bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive. He looked up, watching shapes loom in the darkness. So slowly. As if they were carving themselves into being; the black blowing away like smoke.
It was a room. One he didn't recognize.
It was dark; a nighttime sort of darkness. Stars glowed slowly into being outside the ornate windows as he squinted to make them out. Furniture rose around him, stretching up to a ceiling lost somewhere in the pale light. He got up, and the floor creaked beneath him. The sound dispersed, fading quickly into the thick rugs scattered around the room. Losing itself in the heavy armchairs that framed a marble fireplace, which held only embers. There was a large bookshelf behind him, stuffed with tomes. He spied carved wooden tables, knick knacks atop them. Tapestries lined the walls.
It was a strange house. Old. Grand. He couldn't tell who lived here; wizard or muggle? Or were the house and its occupants, too, dead and lost to time?
It was quiet. When he listened long enough, he could make out the gentle crackling of the dying fire. He stole through the room, ghostlike. His footsteps muffled as he stepped from hardwood to rug. Past the armchairs. Walking softly toward the embers.
It felt warm. He wondered dully if it burnt — if it were real. Was he real? He reached out, letting his hand hover over the coals. Would it hurt? Or did death only hurt on the inside?
There was a laugh. Short and jarring, and he whirled, startled into surprise.
A man sat in the armchair. And old man, with short silver hair and dark eyes that glinted in the firelight. Harry hadn't noticed him when he'd stepped past. Wasn't sure if he had just imagined him into being.
"Who are you?" he said, and his voice sounded strangled. Still thick with the tears he hadn't fully wiped away.
The stranger cocked his head, appraising him. Letting the moment stretch before he finally spoke. "You really don't know, do you?"
And Harry did at that moment. In that voice, weathered by age, but still familiar.
He gasped, stepping back abruptly. Feeling the heat of the fire behind him.
"Did you expect somebody else?" Riddle glanced away, his eyes fading into darkness. "Really, Potter…"
The silence resettled. Harry stepped away from the embers again, letting the heat subside. There was no need to shy away, not anymore. Voldmort could hardly kill him in Limbo. He sighed, taking in the man before him. He reckoned it wasn't really a surprise. He couldn't seem to escape Voldemort. Not even in death. At least this time, there would be no going back. For either of them.
"Well, you've got a nose, don't you?" he said at last, attempting the joke, though it fell rather flat.
Riddle laughed again, the sound short and humorless.
"Keen observation."
"I s'pose they feel bad for you when you get offed," Harry offered, seemingly unable to stop himself. "Give you a nose and everything."
Riddle turned to Harry again, gave him a look that would have sent him running if he were still alive, and said nothing.
"You've even got hair," Harry added helpfully, and he realized he was doing it; the thing Ella had always done. Turning to humor in her darkest moments. His chest clenched as the smile slipped from his face.
Did she know yet? Had they told her what he'd done?
Would she make some awful joke about it all while breaking apart inside? Or would this pain be too heavy for even that?
"Are you quite done?" Riddle's voice was ice cold.
Harry didn't reply. The wisps of humor had soured as quickly as they'd appeared. What was he doing? He had nothing to say to Voldemort. Nothing.
"Where is this?" he said instead, glancing again at the room. At the coffered ceiling, nearly ten feet high. The elegant furniture. The rolling tapestries.
"The Riddle house," Riddle said, and there was an odd quality to his tone that Harry couldn't place. And didn't care to examine.
Harry considered that, taking in the room again. A drawing room, he reckoned. If it was the Riddle house, it looked nothing like the decrepit old mansion he had seen during his brief visit. This Riddle house was in fine shape. It looked fit to host a royal delegation. Though he would pay galleons to not stay here. He couldn't imagine why he should be forced into it again in Limbo, but surely it had something to do with Voldemort, who seemed to steer the entirety of his life. And now his death, too.
He'd had enough.
"Well, see you, then," Harry said, turning to go. Riddle could play out whatever childhood fantasy he desired in his family home. But there was no way in hell that Harry was spending eternity in the Riddle house. "Have a nice death, or whatever."
He would leave, go find the King's Cross that had been promised him. Let Dumbledore lead him into whatever waited ahead. He wanted no part of this place— of this house, this entire village —which had haunted his nightmares and waking moments. Which had solidly cemented itself in his mind as the beginning of the end. He was bloody done with Voldemort.
"There's no way out," Riddle said, his voice flat and cold.
Harry ignored him, reaching the door. He pulled at the crystal knob. It didn't budge. He wrapped both hands around it, twisting it roughly in both directions. The cool glass slipped beneath his fingers. And still, the door loomed, solid and unyielding.
He whirled, his eyes meeting Riddle's from across the room.
"Are you keeping me here?"
"You believe I have that much power over Limbo?" Riddle sounded almost amused. "I'm flattered, Harry."
Harry stepped away from the door, pacing across the room. He pressed his palms against the windows, pushing at the glass. Trying fruitlessly to lift the panes. Finally, he turned to Riddle again.
"Why are we here?"
"Here?" Riddle seemed amused again, as if fueled by Harry's discomfort. "You tell me, Harry Potter. You're the one who stabbed the Sword of Gryffindor into—"
"Why are we in the Riddle house?" Harry clarified, biting off the words.
Riddle appraised him in silence, then shrugged. "You're awfully clever, aren't you, Harry? Why do you think that is?"
"Well I can't reckon why I'd end up here," Harry said, his voice scathing. He shrugged. "So all this must be for you. Are you happy, then?"
"Happy?" Riddle scoffed at that. "How fitting. To die and end up in the house of my pathetic excuse for a father. A true hell. But that is what you believe I deserve, isn't it, Harry?"
And for the first time, there was something in Riddle's tone that caught Harry off guard. This disgust and disappointment; he recognized it. Had felt it, coming back to Privet Drive every summer. Over and over again.
So what, he told himself. Riddle was evil. Past redemption. It was exactly what he deserved. But impossibly, some of his anger was slipping away.
"It's supposed to be—" he began.
"A crossing? You think you can take a train? Maybe try the floo?" Riddle met his gaze, and his eyes narrowed in the dark. "Don't be a fool. Ella sold you a fairy tale and you were naive enough to believe it. There will be no crossing here."
And Harry caught it at last, the undertone. Fear. And a flash of pity stole through him.
"You don't believe you'll cross?"
Of course he was afraid. Hadn't Dumbledore himself said that death was the only thing Riddle had been afraid of? Riddle, who'd ripped his soul apart to stave it off.
Riddle, who'd told him to go ahead and do it.
"You don't know that," Harry said softly as his mind swirled. He thought about the things that Voldemort had done. The Voldemort who'd killed Harry's parents. Tortured Daniyel. Tried to kill Harry in Limbo on their first meeting.
The same Voldemort who'd given Harry Rookwood's location.
Was it the same Voldemort?
"You've changed." Was he really standing here, rooting for Voldemort's soul?
Riddle laughed softly, jarring Harry out of his thoughts. "No one is crossing here."
And suddenly Harry felt very, very cold.
"What do you mean?" he breathed, losing track of his thoughts.
"The great Harry Potter," Riddle said, and his eyes glittered "Are you afraid you've trapped yourself here with me? In this house?"
"No…" Harry whispered, shaking his head. Fear sliced through him. That couldn't be. Riddle was lying. He had to be lying.
"Regretting your—" Riddle's face twisted —"'kind words' now? Empty words, Harry Potter. Remember that, before you throw around your so-called kindness."
Harry stepped back, his body trembling. No. He couldn't stay here forever, in this room, with Riddle. He would lose his mind. Go mad.
Riddle regarded him coldly for a long moment, then he shrugged. As if tired of the game. "Don't worry. I will not suffer through eternity with you. You won't be crossing. You aren't dead. Not yet, at least."
"What are you— What are you talking about?" Harry's head spun, and he staggered, steadying himself against the cool glass.
"Why don't you work on that in that great mind of yours, Harry Potter?" Riddle said coldly and turned away, seemingly losing himself to the glow of the fire.
"We're dead." Harry's hand shook as he gripped the windowpane.
"I am dead," Riddle agreed, his voice emotionless.
"Because I killed you."
"Debatable, but yes." Riddle kept staring into the fire.
"Because I stabbed myself." The words hurt as he spoke them. The memories stung near as much as the wound they had caused. "With the sword. I…"
And then he froze, the scene replaying before him with painful clarity. The blue light, surging from the blade, which had burnt as he turned it on himself. As he gripped the hilt, and pushed, and… the shadow, stepping in front of him.
He had been so sure that it was his soul.
"Have you sorted it out yet, Harry?" Riddle's voice was soft; a near whisper.
"Sacrificing myself; it was an act of valor." Harry's voice trembled. He pushed himself away from the window and stared at his hands. He pressed them to his chest, which felt solid. "The sword chose me. It killed you, but it didn't hurt me. Because it's mine."
He managed a step toward Riddle, who said nothing.
"You," Harry gasped, struggling to formulate words as he stared at the man before him."You knew. You realized what would happen."
He took another step, his head spinning.
"You encouraged me." His voice was shaking. "Why?"
And still, Riddle said nothing.
"Damnit, say something. Damnit, Tom."
"Don't call me that," Riddle said, and his eyes glinted.
"But you…" Harry was lost for words. "You…"
"What do you want me to say, Harry Potter?" Riddle snapped. "I was tired. Trapped in your insufferable mind. Watching you chip away at my safeguards, one by one. My following? Reduced to that girl." He scoffed. "She is nothing. My body, running amok. controlled by madness. Destroying the magical strongholds. Our cornerstones. And for what?" He turned away, his voice bitter. "I was tired of waiting for the inevitable. Of your inaction."
"So you saved me," Harry breathed.
"No." Riddle's voice was utterly flat.
"I dunno if I would have— If you hadn't goaded me. If you hadn't…"
Riddle's eyes narrowed. "Are you really such a fool? You believe you would have won the allegiance of the sword if that were true?" He shook his head, scoffing softly. "You believe that, in the end, I would deign to destroy myself? The greatest wizard who ever lived?"
And Harry could do nothing but stare in the silence, his thoughts stumbling. Crashing in on themselves.
Had Riddle helped him? Had Riddle—
"You won, Harry Potter," Riddle breathed, as if the words hurt him. "Go back to your little wife and your little friends. This will be your legacy. Do not dare make it mine."
Harry didn't budge. "But," he began.
And Riddle's eyes gleamed with a sudden light, so bright they sent Harry stumbling. "Go, Potter," he hissed. "GET OUT!"
The shout echoed, a sort of force behind it. Magically charged, though the magic was hardly anything he'd ever felt before. It pushed at Harry, like a Ventus gone off-kilter, until he was stumbling back. Losing his footing. He raised his hands, shielding his face from the onslaught of magical energy as the glass window shattered behind him. And he was falling, weightless, the shout still echoing in his ears. He caught one last glimpse of Riddle, hunched before the fire, and then everything faded to white.
It had no shape, this whiteness. No direction, nor depth. He did not lay in it but stood, surrounded by it. Swathed within it. It took him a while to find the courage to walk.
At first, the whiteness remained complete. Dense, and foggy, and unchanging as he gazed into the distance. A solid, unbroken white, unsettling in its quietness. After what felt like miles, which felt like nothing at all, he spotted the bricks forming beneath his feet. A path that seemed to lead on and on. It was a direction as good as any other, and Merlin knew, he had no inkling of where to go.
It seemed to stretch on forever; this white brick road. The path formed beneath his feet, step by step. There was whiteness ahead, and whiteness behind. If he weren't dead, then where ought he go?
Go back.
That was what Riddle had said. But how? He couldn't fathom how to leave this place. Would he wake up, find himself in the tunnels again? Or was he trapped here; doomed to walk along these bricks forever.
He paused, and the bricks paused with him. Frozen in semi formation. He turned, staring out into the white.
"Hello," he said, and his voice was quiet. It cracked around the edges. He fought to mold it into something stronger. "Is anyone there?"
He had done the hardest thing already. Whatever came after, he would face it standing. Boldly.
Unafraid.
And there was a chuckle. It echoed around him, directionless. "My dear boy," a weathered and painfully familiar voice said. "I was only waiting for you to ask."
And then a shape emerged from the whiteness, as if the white there had simply withered away. He saw a flash of blue robes, gold stars scattered upon them. He didn't need to spend the time to remember why it felt familiar.
"Profesor," he said, and his voice cracked.
"Harry." Dumbledore smiled, and his eyes twinkled beneath familiar half moon spectacles. He took a step, until they stood together on the white brick road.
"I'm not dead," Harry said, a bit tentatively.
"No." Dumbledore's smile grew wider, and he stepped forward, clapping a warm hand on Harry's shoulder. He cocked his head. "But you know that already."
"Then why am I here?" Harry asked, meeting Dumbledore's twinkling eyes. Dumbledore held his gaze.
"I suspect you know that, too."
"I don't, really." Harry glanced away. Stared again into the white.
"No?"
He paused. Closed his eyes, and let his mind drift. "It's Voldemort, isn't it? It always comes back to Voldemort."
"Of course it does, Harry. Your souls have been together so long."
"But not anymore?" Harry asked, turning to Dumbledore again.
"I think not, no."
"So I killed him." The words made him feel nothing.
"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. " I would say so."
"But not me?" Harry clarified.
"No," Dumbledore said patiently.
"Because of the sword," Harry whispered. "Because what I did, it…"
Dumbledore smiled again. "You're a true Gryffindor, Harry. Through and through."
Harry didn't feel like a true Gryffindor. Not then. But he nodded, and stared into the white. And, for the first time since leaving Riddle, allowed his mind to drift to Ella. "Not that I'm unhappy to see you, Professor. But if I'm alive, then I'd like to go home."
"I quite understand." Dumbledore waved away his unspoken apologies, his long sleeves trailing through the endless white. "I believe you will, soon. You just need to wait for the right moment."
"How will I know?" Harry asked.
"Oh, I think that will be quite clear," Dumbledore said, his voice rather cheerful. "Walk with me, Harry."
He set off along the white brick road, and Harry hurried to fall into step beside him. They strolled in silence for a while, through white mountains, and white fog, and white, and white, and white.
"Is this Limbo then?" Harry asked, scrutinizing the unchanging landscape. "Real Limbo, I mean."
"It is all real Limbo, my boy."
"Then why does it look so different?" Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who was watching him. "It was all black before, the last time. And I was in the Riddle house. With him. And now this… it looks like what Ella told me about. That time that I…" He trailed off, feeling a bit silly.
"Died?" Dumbledore finished gently. "In the books, you mean."
"Yes…" Harry said, contemplating it. If there was another Harry who had died and found himself in Limbo in King's Cross…. was that the same Limbo as this one? "But I'm not dead?"
"No," Dumbledore agreed.
Harry stopped, and the bricks paused under his feet. Dumbledore also paused beside him. "I don't understand," Harry admitted. "Why am I here? How do I go home?
Dumbledore considered Harry for what felt like a very long moment. "Your souls have been bonded for a very long time," he said finally.
"Yes, you've said," Harry began, but Dumbledore continued and he fell silent.
"It is not so simple to unbind them. You killed Riddle, yes. But not yourself. Yet he still brought you to Limbo. The connection still exists between you." Dumbledore paused, meeting Harry's eyes. "This is the place Between," he said, his voice rather serious. "It is tethered to the world below, and the world beyond. And so are you, Harry, tethered to the world below, and he to the world beyond. Now he remains in Limbo, and so do you."
And at those words, Harry felt very cold. "Are you saying I'll be here forever? As long as we're connected?"
"No." Dumbledore smiled again. "The Between is the only place where this bond could be undone. And it is, undone. The darkness of the Riddle house that you found your way out of was his darkness. This, Harry, is your light."
"So we aren't bonded anymore?" Harry said, just to confirm.
Dumbledore nodded.
"So then I'm free to go?"
"You are." Dumbledore smiled again. "But you are still here. That is your question, is it not, Harry?"
Harry nodded, and Dumbeldore considered him again. "Can you not think of the reason?"
"No," Harry said, quite strongly.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, and he set off along the path once again. Harry hurried to keep up. They strolled a while in silence.
"I wasn't quite honest with you," Dumbledore said conversationally, as they walked. "Or rather, I may have omitted something important."
Harry glanced at him but said nothing.
"Ah," Dumbledore said, nodding. "That is not news to you, is it, Harry? I am, after all, the master of withholding, imparting key information at key moments." He glanced away, the twinkle slipping from his eye. "One might even call it manipulative. I have sent you into danger multiple times. I'm afraid I do have quite a lot to apologize for."
It's all right, Professor. He almost said it. The words slipped to the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite get them out. Was it really all right? Maybe it wasn't. It was all true, after all. But now Voldemort was dead, again, and Dumbledore was dead too, and he, Harry, was alive. And what was the point now anyway?
Why couldn't he say it was all right?
Dumbledore looked sad when their eyes met. "I quite understand, Harry, if you can't forgive me. I am not quite sure that the things I have done are forgivable. Even if they were for the greater good. Please, do not beat yourself up." And with that, he smiled again. "What I have not said before: Riddle is tethered to the world below as well. At least for a short time yet."
"The last horcrux." Harry cleared his throat, until his voice felt stronger. "The one in his body."
Dumbledore looked rather pleased that Harry had figured it out. "Of course, yes."
"So once he's killed, he…"
"Yes," Dumbledore agreed gravely. "Once his last horcrux is gone, Riddle's connection to the world below will be severed."
"So he'll stay?" Harry asked. "Here in Limbo?
"Yes, Harry."
Harry glanced away, out into the white. It stretched everywhere, far behind and far ahead. And yet somewhere in the distance was a patch of darkness. The Riddle house stood there, grand and silent.
"And then what?" he asked.
Dumbledore met his gaze, and said nothing. There was no twinkle in his eye just then.
"Do you think… that he'll cross?" Harry asked, and the question sent a shiver down his spine.
Dumbledore considered him. "Do you?"
Did he?
"I reckon…" Harry drew in a breath, which felt ragged. It felt a hard thing to admit, even to himself. But was he really surprised after all? The Riddle he had left in that empty house felt much different from the Riddle who'd attempted to murder him in Limbo all those months ago. "I would like it if he did."
Dumbeldore smiled, watching Harry for a long moment. "I believe a wise man once said that perhaps it is Voldemort who is infected, having lived all this time with your capacity for love."
Harry let out a soft breath, the tension slipping from his shoulders. "Are you patting yourself on the back, Professor?"
"Of course not, Harry. Merely appreciating humanity's vast potential for change. Of course"— Dumbeldore turned serious again —"there are souls that are irredeemable. But perhaps not this one. Let it never be said, my boy, that no help is possible."
And then, as Harry opened his mouth to reply, a gong sounded in the distance, loud and booming. The sound seemed to tremble though his very soul, and goosebumps flared across his arms.
"Aaahhh," Dumbledore said, adjusting his spectacles as he peered into the white abyss.
"What is it?" Harry asked, drawing his arms around himself.
"I believe…" Dumbledore paused, squinting at something Harry couldn't make out. "Well, we shall see."
Harry followed Dumbledore's gaze, staring out into the distance. And as he watched, slowly, the white began to thin. When before it had been everything, now it felt like fog. Obscuring his surroundings rather than unamaking them. And there, in the distance, he could see the fine shape of the Riddle house, buried in shadow. Not nearly so far away as he had imagined. And as he watched, a light split the sky (was it sky?) above it, piercing through the fog, until the entire house was encased in it like a spotlight. For a moment, it seemed to glow. The windowpanes sparkled. It stayed like that for a breath, and then another. And then, as the light began to fade, Harry felt a lightness. In the air. In his very soul.
"Yes," Dumbledore said into the silence, as Harry drew in a breath of air. A breath that felt fuller and easier than any he'd taken before. "I believe it is done."
"You mean… he's crossed?" Harry asked, though he reckoned he didn't really need to hear the answer.
"Oh yes," Dumbledore said, nodding sagely. "I believe so."
Harry drew in another breath. Marveled at how sweet the air felt. At the lightness in his chest. "What will happen to him?"
That, Harry, is between Tom and whichever force you believe governs the world above."
Harry opened his mouth to reply, and a wisp of white blew between him and Dumbledore. And then another. Until it seemed like he were standing in fog.
"Aaaahh," Dumbledore said again, glancing around. "I suppose you just wanted to see it through, did you not? You have always cared far too much. And that, my boy, is where your true strength lies."
"Professor…" Harry gasped. The white was starting to fade; to grey around the edges. Dumbledore was barely visible now. He took a step forward, but the distance between them remained the same.
Dumbledore smiled as a final wisp of grey fog obscured his face. "It really was good to see you, Harry." His voice had taken on an echoing quality. "Please, do tell Ella hello. She has nothing to regret with what she has done. She has my utmost pride, always."
"Were you ever really here?" Harry whispered, turning around. Everything was grey endless fog now. And fading.
"Was I?" Dumbledore's voice echoed, and Harry could hear the smile within his words.
And then, abruptly, everything was gone, Black again. Harry whirled, squinting into the dark. And then he felt them: aches and pains everywhere. His cut up fingers. The throbbing in his head. All the forgotten wounds of battle. He reached up, but his hand refused to move. As if someone had Petrified it into place. He had a moment to feel a cold flash of fear, and then something red blinked across his vision.
Or was it him? Was he blinking?
"Harry!" A familiar voice floated to him. "Bloody hell. Thank Merlin you're alive."
And he opened his eyes and focused on Ron's dirt-spattered face.
"Oh, bloody hell," Ron said again, relief dripping from every word. There was a rustling of robes and Ron's face vanished from his periphery, leaving only the dimness of the cave. With great effort, Harry turned his head and found Ron sitting beside him in the dirt.
"When Dan did him in, I was sure you were a goner," Ron choked out.
"Are you—" Harry began, and then coughed. He licked his lips and tried again. "Are you crying for me?"
"Yeah, mate," Ron said, meeting Harry's eyes with his blue ones. "I bloody am. And don't mention it."
"No can do," Harry said, and then he coughed again, the sound wrecking through him. Bits of blood splattered from his lips. Ron pulled him up gently and propped him against a rock wall, until the fit subsided. He saw Hermione lying a few feet away.
"Mediwizards are on their way," Ron said, his hand grasping Harry's shoulder. "He's gone, Harry. He's really dead this time; he's gotta be. Dan stabbed him with an icicle. There's a body. He is dead, isn't he?"
"I reckon so," Harry said weakly, wiping at his mouth. He glanced down, searching for the blood on his robes. But there wasn't any.
"Where's the sword," he asked, turning to look at Ron.
Ron frowned in slight confusion. "Which sword? Gryffindor's? Oh hell, Harry. What did you do?"
Harry laughed very softly, then coughed again. Then smiled at Ron. "Have I got a story for you."