Fic: Bring Me to Life

[nursedarry]

Hello, all! I know I've been quiet lately (not like me at all, is it?), but have been tres busy with RL things that I won't bore you with here, as I've bored most of you already about them on Twitter. The only non-boring thing that's happended in the last few weeks was a brilliant visit from softly_sweetly over Halloween weekend. Spectacular!

Anyhoo, I also come bearing fic as the hp_cross_fest reveals are now up:

Title: Bring Me to Life
Pairing: Harry Potter (aged 20)/Tom Riddle (aged 16), RW/HG (implied)
Rating: R
Word Count: 8,750
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction which means the characters ain't mine. No profit is made from this work.
Summary: Tom Riddle has suddenly reappeared at Hogwarts. But what are his intentions? And what are Harry's? AU. I PROMISE THIS WON'T SQICK YOU! Romance (ish), hurt/comfort, emo (ish)
Warning: Very ambiguous ending
Notes: The prompt was Three years after the war, Harry's scar begins to bother him once more. As you know, I usually write fluffybunnyhumour!fic but wanted to try my hand at something with a darker theme. This fic really needed to be closer to 20K for it to be more believable(!), but I think the fest mods might have come after me with the business end of a Dementor if I'd attempted that. Please just suspend your disbelief and pretend that decision-making in the wizarding world is a faster process than is truly canon :) As always, huge props to my three –yes, count 'em — three betas for their wonderful help and kind words ("WTF do you think you're doing?"). Title taken from Evanescence's eponymous song.







All the time he spoke, Riddle's eyes never left Harry's face. ~ JKR, Chamber of Secrets



***


Three years after the last body was laid to rest, Harry Potter laid his own down on his bed at 12 Grimmauld Place. He was exhausted; the final exams for his Auror training were taking their toll. (Harry wasn’t sure whether he was pressed harder to fulfil the theory-to-practice aspect of the post because of who he was, or because he was never the best student.) Conquering Voldemort – impressive though it was - didn’t in itself say anything about how adept an Auror he would be. And the training was definitely weeding out the men from the boys.

Only last year Ron had succumbed, realising (much to Hermione’s relief) that his talents lay elsewhere. He had finally come to terms with the fact that his personality was more suited to George’s or Percy’s profession rather than those of Bill or Charlie. Ron had summarily dropped out of Auror training and enrolled in the Wizard equivalent of business school.

Harry missed Ron, but he was pleased Ron had found a calling he truly enjoyed. Harry pondered his own. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to be an Auror, but he couldn’t think of anything else he’d want to be. Now that Voldemort was gone, Harry could confront all of the other dark forces that existed in the Wizarding world without fear that they were solely intent on killing him. Knowing that his fellow Aurors were also targets might seem like cold comfort to them, but to Harry, it was novel.

It was rather a shock, then, to find himself waking four hours later in rumpled, sweaty clothes, glasses askew and palm pressed to his scar which was burning just as it had in the days before the war.


*


Harry was prepared to believe this was a coincidence: a migraine that just happened to be centred on the part of his head under his scar. He was prepared to believe, had he ever had a migraine before in his life. But he hadn’t.

So, he chose to ignore the whole incident and instead spent the next day (Saturday) at the Burrow visiting the Weasley family who had come together to see the honeymoon photos Ginny and Dean had taken whilst in America. Harry drank a few shots of the duty-free bourbon which was on offer and decided to spend the night. He had no plans for the Sunday aside from revising Potions and he was hoping to put that off for as long as possible.

The unease he felt as he settled into Fred’s old bed was offset only by the blazing pain from his scar which had him jolting upright, sweaty and tangled in the duvet at half-two in the morning.

This wasn’t a migraine. This wasn’t a headache. This was trouble.


*


Harry confided in no one that morning, and when the very pregnant Hermione asked him about his weary expression, he was able to pass it off as a hangover and duly swallowed the Overindulgence potion she fetched for him.

Half an hour later, Harry made his excuses and Apparated home, where Kreacher was waiting to provide him with a small meal, freshly laundered robes, and much complaining.

Harry thought perhaps he ought to talk to someone, Kingsley maybe, although now that Kingsley was one of his instructors, their relationship had changed somewhat. But surely Kingsley would want to know about this disquieting development, the meaning of which Harry was too frightened to contemplate.

He was spared further anxious speculation by an insistent tap at the window. He let in the unfamiliar owl and untied the message from its leg, idly handing it the last scrap of his lunch. The missive was printed on Hogwarts stationery and signed by Headmistress McGonagall. She cryptically asked if he could visit her with all haste but did not allude to the nature of her request.

Harry wrote a quick reply saying he would be there the next day as he could not take any more time off from his revising. His last exam was in two days and he'd already spent more time away from the books than he should.

Trying to concentrate, he turned his attention to his Potions exam, succeeding in thinking no more about McGonagall’s request until he woke once again in the wee hours of the morning, his scar burning as though it was being branded upon his forehead.


*


"I don't understand," Harry said, cocking his head and peering at McGonagall. "She's asking to talk to me? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," the Hogwarts headmistress said, folding her hands in front of her and resting them on the heavy wooden desk. "She is not letting anyone…get on with anything. She’s terrifying the students, and generally making a nuisance of herself. She says she'll only talk to Harry Potter."

Harry was torn between apprehension and feeling slightly hysterical. It was an absurd situation, wasn't it? Or was it? Every time he'd encountered Myrtle, events had taken a rather ugly turn. He was not keen to have any more similar experiences. "But why would Moaning Myrtle need to talk to me? That's what I don't understand."

"Nor do I, Mr Potter," said the headmistress in the same tone in which she'd addressed Harry his entire career as a student. "But I'm asking that you discover why, or else the staff and student body will soon end up sharing Hagrid's toilet, seeing as it is so far, the only one she has yet to haunt."

Harry laughed despite himself. The image was too compelling: a queue of girls and boys, faculty and staff waiting impatiently outside the hut at the corner of the grounds in order to use its facilities. "I guess I'll see what she wants." Harry shrugged, rising from the chair.


*


Harry apprehensively entered Myrtle's bathroom. Surrounded by tiled walls, he slowly turned a circle, seeing no one and hearing nothing. "Hello?" he called tentatively.

WHHHOOOOSH! Splash!

"There you are, Harry!" Myrtle's disembodied voice called from a cubicle. "I've been waiting for positively ages!"

Harry took a small step in the direction of her voice, but before he could push the swinging door open she swooped out of her stall and hovered in front of him, eyes smiling through her glasses and a somewhat lovesick smile playing on her lips.

"Have you missed me? I hoped you'd come and visit me again, but you've been away sooo long." Myrtle sighed happily and flew around his head a couple of times with a high-pitched giggle. "I knew you'd come back, though." She settled again, this time hovering just above him, forcing Harry to crane his neck in order to look at her.

"Myrtle, I left Hogwarts four years ago. I was only back for a little while at the end of seventh year. I'm here because Headmistress McGonagall told me you've been… harassing the students and asking for me."

"And what have you been doing, Harry Potter, since you abandoned me?" Myrtle said — somewhat overly dramatically, in Harry's opinion.

He decided to indulge her. "I've been busy, Myrtle, getting on with my life."

"Your life…how nice. Something I can never get on with, can I?" she said bitterly.

Harry didn't rise to the bait. "I'm training to be an Auror, Myrtle. Now, what do you want?" He felt a small headache begin, just between his eyes.

"Oh, well, if you're going to be rude, I'll just have to tell you, but don’t expect my help, Harry Potter," Myrtle said petulantly. "It's the crying; he won't stop, and now he's calling out and I can't get one moment's peace. Not that I ever had any, you understand, being dead and all."

Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, hoping to alleviate his headache. "Myrtle, what are you talking about?" He turned in a circle to follow her as she slowly floated around him.

"The boy. That boy," she said as if that should have been explanation enough.

"Myrtle, the boy you saw crying in the toilets isn't here anymore; he's left Hogwarts, too. Who are you talking about?" Harry was trying very hard not to lose his patience, but his head was really starting to throb. And Myrtle's incessant circuitous hovering wasn't helping any.

"Not him!" Myrtle said, sounding exasperated that Harry hadn't easily understood her. "The other one. The one inside," she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Inside where?" Harry asked, confused.

"Inside there," Myrtle pointed to the central sinks, shuddered and then sprang over him and dove into her toilet with a messy splash.

Two things happened after that. Harry's heart pounded violently as he realised where Myrtle had indicated, and his scar began to burn. Painfully.


*


Voldemort was finally gone for good, the fragments of his soul shattered forever, and Harry had thought he was through with mysteries at Hogwarts.

Evidently not. Taking a deep breath, he turned and walked to the sink he remembered so clearly from his second year. He regarded the little snake on the copper tap. He'd not been able to speak to it the first time he'd tried this; the snake wasn't real.

Open up, he said in Parseltongue.

"Oooh, that's just what I heard before from the you and that other boy the last time," Myrtle informed him hollowly from inside the toilet. Even without her confirmation, Harry knew it had worked when the sink shifted and he once again saw the slide which led down to the Chamber of Secrets.


*


Harry heard it as he approached the entrance to the Chamber itself. Behind the stone snakes, which opened at his command, he heard a sound. Laughing? Crying? Harry couldn't tell. His heart beat heavily against his ribs and he willed himself to breathe more evenly. He was nearly an Auror now –why should he fear this place, one that was hardly unknown to him? Okay, he didn't have Fawkes or Ron, or even the Sword of Gryffindor, but he was the Chosen One, wasn’t he? He'd defeated the Death Eaters and Voldemort and lived.

He needn't be afraid of the sound of sobbing coming from just a few feet away in the darkness.

Harry drew his wand as he approached the opening of the Chamber. The crying echoed hollowly around the cavern over the stones and the ruined façade of the wall opposite. Other than the crumbling rock, there was no sign that a pitched battle had ever taken place here. No blood stains on the floor, no body of a Basilisk, nothing. Nothing but a boy dressed in Hogwarts' robes, his back to Harry, shoulders heaving in time with his sobbing which had covered the sound of Harry's footsteps.

Holy Merlin! Harry thought, raising his wand and completely dumbfounded. Tom Riddle — Voldemort — sat there in the Chamber of Secrets as though he’d never left, never faded into nothingness before Harry's eyes.

And six years later, Voldemort had been destroyed forever…or so Harry had thought. How could this boy, Voldemort’s younger self, be re-created here after his death? Did this mean he had returned, that Harry hadn’t conquered him as the Aurors had assured him he had? Was Harry destined to live this nightmare all over again?

And nightmares he had had in the last few days — terrible dreams from which he’d awoken with his hand pressed to his sweaty aching brow. Not the living nightmares of the past where he’d been forced to watch Voldemort’s terrible treatment of his enemies. No, Harry's recent nightmares were just feelings, images, emotions, a claustrophobic miasma made up of loneliness and despair.

"I'm here," Harry said simply to the figure who sat forlornly on the toppled marble. "The question is, why are you?"

The boy on the rock turned abruptly and faced Harry. His eyes were red-rimmed, tear-stained, wholly at odds with Harry's memory of the sixteen-year-old Riddle.

"I don't — I don't know," Riddle hiccoughed. "I see images in my head; I don't know if they're real," he continued. "A girl, a book and…Harry Potter, I'm calling to Harry Potter, but I can't remember why. And — and then, it's all gone and I'm here, alone. Every time I close my eyes I see the same thing, and I think – I think I'm going mad." He took a long shuddering breath and buried his face in his hands, muffling his next statement. "I just want to get back, I just want to get back to my house."

"Your house?" Harry asked warily, walking around the boy in a wide circle and finally stopping in front of him at what he felt to be a safe distance.

"My dorm, my common room, my friends," Riddle said, wrapping his arms around himself.

"I didn't know you had any friends," Harry said absently. "Do you know where you are?"

Riddle looked up and around. "It looks familiar, but…" he hung his head. "I can't remember."

Harry came a little closer, wand still pointed at the other boy. "Do you know who I am?"

Riddle looked up again with tear-stained eyes. It was an odd sight. "No, but I feel I should. You've been here, too. Are you a student?"

"No. I'm not a student anymore." He swallowed. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter," Riddle repeated. His eyes widened. "Where am I, Harry Potter? I am sure you can tell me. "

"You're in the Chamber of Secrets," Harry said, wand still trained on Riddle. "You and I have been here before. I killed the Basi —" He stopped, seeing the expression on Riddle's face.

"What did you kill, Harry Potter?"

I killed you, Harry thought, baffled. How was it that this image of Voldemort still lived? How was it that Tom Riddle had no more memory of his older self than he did of the events which had brought them together in this terrible place? "I killed a snake, here. I killed a big snake which was hurting the students. I killed your snake."

Riddle gave Harry a watery smile. "A snake? I don't have a snake. I have an owl,” he said.

The completely innocent tone made Harry even more wary. It was obvious now that Riddle didn’t remember the events of their encounter in the Chamber of Secrets. "Why are you still here, then? Why don't you go back?" Harry asked, lowering his wand but keeping it at the ready next to his side. Why would Riddle have been spat back into this world?

And why did he have no memory of his own past and seemingly no apparent ill-will toward Harry? He obviously knew who Harry was or he wouldn't have called for him. Some memories must still be present in Riddle's sixteen-year-old brain.

Memories, yes, thought Harry. But which ones? And what about intent? Riddle's whole character seemed changed. His soul felt somehow…different. It was like looking at an incomplete Pensieve memory.

Perhaps Riddle was just that. Harry remembered what he’d seen through Riddle’s diary — a soulless echo, caught in the flux of time. Harry wondered how long this Tom Riddle had been confined here. And that question spawned other disturbing questions. Were all of Riddle’s personas similarly trapped in the past? Was there a young boy sitting in an orphanage, frightened and lonely, calling out to a now-dead wizard who would never come to take him away from the confusion and sorrow?

"I don't know how to leave," Riddle said, his red-rimmed eyes staring into Harry's. "I thought you might know." His shoulders slumped even more and Harry pocketed his wand.

He half-expected his hand to pass through Riddle as he went to help him rise from the stone floor. But it didn't. Instead, he felt a solid arm beneath the old-fashioned robe. "Let's get you home," he said, trying to keep his tone casual but knowing he sounded exactly as he felt — suspicious and afraid.


*


“Mr Potter, I’m sure you can appreciate why I cannot accept Mr Riddle back into Hogwarts,” Headmistress McGonagall said to him in an appalled tone when he and Riddle — still corporeal — sat before her in her office twenty minutes later.

“Why not?” Harry asked. "He’s a sixth year who obviously attends this school. He has no real memory of his past and just wants to go back to his common room.” Harry didn’t like talking about Riddle as if he weren’t in the room, but he could think of no other way to argue his case, given Riddle's shell-shocked state.

“What do you remember, Mr Riddle?” McGonagall asked the boy carefully.

“I remember being in my common room. I was writing in my diary. Then I fell asleep in my bed, and woke up…er… crying and cold…in my school uniform and trapped all alone in that terrible place. All I knew was that I had to find Harry Potter. I didn’t know who he was or why he was important, but I knew I needed to find him. Have I been there long?”

“Mr Potter, Myrtle has been calling for you for the last three days,” McGonagall said. “As to how long you have been…er…away, Mr Riddle, that is more difficult to say." Harry remembered his scar had been burning for three nights. Could that be how long Riddle had been down there with no food, and no comfort? His short-term memories seemed to consist solely of desolation, death and the sound of dripping water.

There was a tap at the door. “Come in,” McGonagall said. The door opened and a young man about Riddle’s age entered. He wore Hufflepuff colours and a prefect's badge.

“Ah, Mr Pearce,” McGonagall said, scooting back her chair and standing, “Thank you for coming." The newcomer looked curiously at the two boys in the room and then back to the Headmistress. “I was wondering if you would mind staying here for a moment with…Thomas, whilst Mr Potter and I have a quick word next door.” A plate of shortbread and a pot of tea with two cups materialised on the large desk. “Why not tell him about your visit to America last Christmas? I'm sure Thomas would love to hear about that."

Riddle nodded a greeting at Pearce.

As Harry stood, Riddle turned to look at him and Harry nodded curtly. Reassured, Riddle pounced on the shortbread, stuffing it into his mouth as though he hadn't eaten in twenty years.

Pearce sat down in Harry's abandoned chair and McGonagall looked at him over her spectacles. "We won’t be long.” She motioned Harry to accompany her into the small anteroom adjacent to the office.


*


McGonagall cast a silencing spell around them and turned to face Harry. “Potter, what is going on? You must understand that I can’t let him stay here at the school. Yes, I appreciate that few people might recognise him at this age, but should they discover his identity, what then? And that’s assuming his memory doesn’t return. What might happen if it does? I do not want another,” she cringed just a little bit, “Voldemort attending this school.”

“Is there no way of monitoring him, Professor?” Harry asked. “Wouldn’t…I mean…wouldn’t my scar hurt…” he fingered it gingerly, “or my nightmares return if he were to…turn?”

“Does the concept of redemption intrigue you so much that you can’t see that this boy might very well turn out to be exactly like his…predecessor?”

“Yes! I mean, no!” Harry snapped, confused at his own feelings. "I just think we would be foolish to waste a chance to let this version of Tom Riddle slip away from us. I know we can't undo the past, but maybe we can undo his future…" Harry felt he was just babbling now, and wasn't sure he was making a very good argument. But something about this bizarre situation smacked of magic and prophecy, and Harry wasn't about to look away now that he knew how those things had shaped not only his life, but Tom Riddle's too.

"Harry," McGonagall said, her choice of address indicating a change of tenor in the conversation. "It's nearly the end of term. I cannot keep Mr Riddle here over the summer. But—" she looked at him sternly, "I will discuss this with the other headmasters, and will consider accepting him into school for his seventh year provided –” she held up a warning finger, pointing it at his chest, “provided you can assure me that this is a very different Tom Riddle. If you should find that he is reverting into his past…" she faltered for a moment, "self… then I warn you I shall do everything in my power to destroy him."

Harry could see she was in two minds about a decision that might have serious ramifications for their own and everyone else's future. And this Riddle’s future, it seemed, was just as ambiguous as Harry's had been.

Harry knew McGonagall was aware of his own terrible experiences growing up, perhaps even felt guilty for allowing it to happen — after all, his invitation had had an address that read "cupboard." Maybe this was her way of assuaging the guilt. And if Riddle could be shown a kindness…? But much of Riddle's future depended upon his past, and at the moment, he had no memory of one. That was something Harry would have to work on.

"Is there somewhere he can stay?" Harry asked abruptly, his thoughts turning to more practical concerns.

"Yes, Mr Potter, he can stay with you," McGonagall said bluntly. "Where else can I send him, but to the only wizard powerful enough to kill him?"

The words were harsh but true. There was no other place Riddle could stay where he could be observed and, if necessary, destroyed should he… Harry didn't want to contemplate the remainder of the thought.

The pair left the anteroom to find the two boys talking about Quodpot and finishing up the tea.


*


After a loud "Oh-Merlin-not-another-half-blood!" harangue, courtesy of Mrs Black's portrait, Harry showed Tom around the house. Not bothering with the grand tour, Harry pointed out the rooms Tom would need and left it at that.

Now, sitting across the table from one another eating a hastily thrown together omelette, Harry had time to consider his actions and this new responsibility. Once again, he'd rushed into something of which he was only now discovering the full consequences. First, here he was eating eggs, mushrooms and onions with someone who, last time they met, had wanted to kill him. Second, Harry had not had a houseguest since the Order had dispersed following the war, and the place was not in a fit state for visitors. Harry found himself in a shabby house and guardian of the boy who went on – would go on? had gone on? – to become the most dangerous wizard who ever lived.

All things considered, it didn't really seem so at odds with the rest of his life's experiences to date.


*


After dinner, Harry settled down to revise for his Potions exam as Tom studied the Black family tapestry. Harry was curious whether he would recognise any of the names. After an hour, Tom returned to the kitchen, where Harry had spread out his books. Harry looked up as Tom entered the room, idly picking up one of the books and examining its contents.

"Are you going to be a potions master?" he asked.

Harry snorted. "Hardly! It was my worst subject at school. But I need it for the course I'm doing. Are you any good at it?" He noticed a crease form between Tom's brows as the younger man read through the list of ingredients for Veritaserum.

"I don't think so," Tom said absently with a small smile. "At least not looking at this."

Harry smiled back despite himself. "Do you remember what your favourite subjects were? Did you get good grades?"

Tom's brow furrowed again as if recalling the memory was made easier by scowling. "I remember enjoying duelling, but I'm not sure that was a subject. I guess maybe the class it was in…"

"Defence Against the Dark Arts?" Harry prompted, toying with the corner of a piece of parchment.

"Maybe. Sounds like an exciting class," Tom said, finally sitting down across the table from Harry.

"It certainly was during my time at Hogwarts." Harry remembered the classes with their many and varied instructors. "We never had the same teacher for very long."

"Were they not any good?" Tom asked, intrigued.

"Well…not so much not any good as not suited to the job," Harry explained after some thought.

"It sounds like an important subject. It needs to be taught well, I should think," Tom said thoughtfully.

"Indeed," agreed Harry.


*


That night, Harry was awakened by the sound of crying from the room down the hall. He tip-toed to the door to Tom's room, wand at the ready and a cool sweat beginning to form under his pyjama top.

"Harry?" Tom called through the door, startling him.

Harry cautiously pushed the door open."Yes?"

Tom was sitting up in bed, the bedclothes wrapped around him in a jumbled mess, his hair dishevelled. He wiped his hand across his face and sniffled a bit. "I'm sorry if I woke you. I had a bad dream and I woke up not knowing where I was. I'm better now."

Harry didn't know what to say. He cleared his throat. "Would you like a Dreamless Sleep potion?"

Tom gave Harry a watery smile. "I don't know… Did you make it?"

Harry remembered his self-deprecating remarks about his potion-making ability from the night before. "No," he said with a short laugh. "I bought it at the Apothecary."

"Thanks," Tom said, trying to put on a brave face. Harry walked down the corridor to his room and retrieved his last vial of Dreamless Sleep. He returned and handed it to Tom who took it without pause.

"I've got my exam in the morning," Harry said. "But after that, we can go into town if you want."

"I'd like that, thanks," Tom replied, snuggling back down under the covers. "Goodnight, Harry."

"G'night, Tom," Harry said quietly.


*


The tea shop across the street from the Quibbler was busy but the three of them managed to get a table. Harry set down the plate of sticky buns as Luna poured him a cup of tea. "Tom was just telling me about your exams, Harry," she said as he sat down beside her. "How do you think you did today?"

"It was Potions," Harry said flatly. "I hope I passed." He grabbed a bun and took a bite as Luna smiled at him. "Actually," he said around the mouthful, "I may have done okay."

"I think it's good to be challenged once in awhile," Luna said, stirring another teaspoon of sugar into her already sweetened tea. "Keeps us from getting too comfortable."

"I don't know Luna," Harry said, brushing crumbs from his shirt. "I'd like a less challenging life for a change."

"And yet, here you are, befriending this nice young man with barely any past, an indeterminate future and no concept of himself. That must be something of a challenge, wouldn't you say?" She added another spoonful of sugar to her tea.

"That's different, Luna," Harry said. "This is…"

"Easier?" she suggested.

"I shouldn't think so!" Tom answered with a high-pitched laugh, wiping his mouth with a serviette. He was trying to keep the borrowed shirt as pristine as possible.

"No," agreed Harry, laughing with Tom. "Just more… heartening," he finished for lack of a more descriptive word.

"Well, it's about time something nice happened to you, Harry," Luna said, finally satisfied with the sweetness of her now-cold tea.


*


Tom was crying again. Harry could hear him from the front room where he was sprawled on the sofa in front of the fireplace reading a Quidditch magazine. Why is the sound of sobbing so difficult to ignore? he thought. There must be something ingrained in humans that compelled them to comfort a soul in pain. Or most souls, he reminded himself. This might be a young Voldemort, after all. Harry tried very hard to remember that some souls weren’t worth saving, but he could not reconcile the image of this vulnerable boy with his memories of that monster. Indeed, he could no longer even compare this version of Tom Riddle with the one he’d previously known.

Harry let himself wonder for the umpteenth time what his life and the life of Tom Riddle would have been like had this boy been the one to have grown up in place of the one Harry had fought all his life, who had killed his parents, his friends. Dumbledore. Fred Weasley. Sirius, he thought with a sudden fierce ache. Harry would never forgive that Tom. But this Tom couldn't explain his past, couldn't place any memories other than school (up to his sixth year) and the magic of a powerful, but mostly harmless nature. There were memories of friends and classes but none of family, none of Dark spells or giant snakes. Yet, there was no way to verify his story. Headmaster Dippet's portrait could not help; his only recollection of Tom Riddle was that of the boy who grew up to be Voldemort.

"Ha — Harry?" Tom said, breaking in on Harry's musings. He sat up. Tom wore a pair of Harry’s pyjamas, the shirt unbuttoned as if he'd hastily thrown it on over the trousers before coming downstairs. His hair was mussed and his eyes red-rimmed. He looked like any other sixteen-year-old boy with typical sixteen-year-old worries. Harry knew that neither of them had never had had that experience, but it was tantalising to think about nonetheless.

"Hello, Tom," Harry said, motioning the other boy to sit down. "Are you okay? I heard you crying again."

"I'm sorry," Tom said with an embarrassed sniffle.

“It's all right,” Harry said, making room for Tom on the sofa. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No,” Tom said, settling himself next to Harry. “I just don’t want to be alone. I keep having these terrible dreams.” He was quiet for a moment. “Do you think that means anything?”

Harry sighed heavily as he slumped down the sofa and let his eyes fall shut. He was tired and confused and his body language reflected it. “I don’t know. Do you remember what you dreamt about? Can you tell me?”

Tom was quiet for so long that Harry thought he might have fallen asleep. “It’s not a specific thing,” he said hesitantly, quietly, as if telling someone about his dreams might make them true. For all he knew, they were true. “It’s a feeling. Like I’m angry with everyone. Or they are with me. My friends shun me and I’m all alone.” He turned his head and looked at Harry. “Do you know what I mean?”

Harry turned to face the young man. “Yeah,” he said. “I know what you mean.”

“Can I stay down here with you? Just till I fall asleep? I’ll sleep on the sofa, I just don’t want to be alone in the room,” Tom said wearily.

Harry couldn’t blame him. The house was still quite spooky, despite Molly Weasley’s attempts of brightening it up at every visit.

“Sure.” Before he could say another word, Tom leaned over and stretched out, laying his head in Harry’s lap. “Er —" Harry lifted his arms to make way for Tom’s torso. "Um…"

Tom sighed and closed his eyes. Harry held up his arms, aimlessly looking around and wondering what to do with his hands; finally he gave in and just draped them over Tom's shoulders. He considered picking up his Quidditch magazine but the noise from turning the pages might keep Tom awake. So he just sat there, trying not to jiggle his leg or move his hands, feeling very uncomfortable though he was the one supposedly offering comfort. He closed his eyes, hoping to deepen his breathing to a more regular pace and to relax his tensed up muscles.

Tom fell asleep five minutes later. His vulnerability combined with his proximity made it even harder for Harry to settle down. He didn't want to wake Tom, but he couldn't sit like this forever. After twenty awkward minutes, Harry decided to lie down on the sofa as well. He reached into his sleeve for his wand, Engorgio-ed the sofa to twice its width, Accio-ed the duvet from his bed upstairs, and as carefully as he could shifted himself around, gently placing Tom's body flat along the cushions. Then, still fully clothed, he stretched out next to the young man, tugged off his glasses and pulled the duvet over both of them.

Harry awoke several hours later with that discomfited feeling one gets from sleeping in an unfamiliar place and odd position. He opened his eyes and let them slowly adjust to the soft shadows cast by the dying fire. He vaguely recalled drifting off next to Tom and now found himself turned around, face squashed into the back of the sofa. As Harry stretched out his legs and took a deep breath, he felt arms tighten around him and a soft sigh on the back of his neck.

Merlin, Harry thought. Was Tom awake? Was he conscious of what he was doing? Harry had half a mind to turn around to see if Tom was indeed asleep and had instinctively pulled Harry to him for warmth now that the fire was burned to embers. But Harry’s question was answered when he felt soft lips against his skin.

Harry’s temperature shot up without the benefit of the fire. He tensed and then relaxed, not sure how to feel. Did Tom think he was still asleep and was therefore taking the opportunity to kiss without fear of rejection? Or had he waited to feel Harry move — indeed, had Tom wrapped his arm around Harry in order to wake him? Would he have been that deliberate? It was difficult for Harry to gauge Tom’s state of mind when it came to concepts like intent and consent, what with Tom having so many gaps in his memory. Had this Tom’s upbringing been different or was this how Tom chose to behave naturally with no references upon which to guide his actions? Was he just being, living for the moment, doing what he would without the influences of experience to drive him? Would such a Tom Riddle be a regular human, then, free to lead a normal life?

Harry decided now was not the time to struggle with a nature-versus-nurture internal dialogue. He lay still, waiting to see where Tom would take them. Although it was difficult, Harry tried not to impose his feelings about the other Tom onto this one; as strong as the memories were, Harry didn’t want to let his negative experiences warp the innocence of this Tom's current memories. And so he continued to lie still –

"Harry…?"

— until he could lie still no longer.

"Yes, Tom?" Harry whispered into the deep red leather of the sofa back.

"Is…is this okay?"

Breath against his neck and a million questions between them. Is this okay? May I keep touching you? May I keep kissing you? Will you touch me? Will you kiss me back? Will you save me…?. Where will it end if this is how it starts, Harry wondered. How far would he allow this go? He’d been there once, he realised — new to a different world and alone amongst those who stared, who pointed, who offered venerable remarks but no solace. He couldn’t let it happen to another.

Harry took a deep breath and turned around in Tom’s arms.


*


It was the heat that Harry always remembered. He’d sweat like crazy — even the parts of him that weren’t under the covers. No one ever seemed to mind — or at least no one commented. And it had never bothered him until the afterglow had faded and he would find himself suddenly feeling so chilled he would wonder how high his temperature had gone.

He’d shared himself like this before of course, slow curious caresses with another boy at school, and once or twice with Ginny after the war. That was before they both realised she was looking for someone with more direction and less baggage.

So he had responded when Tom had pressed his lips to Harry's, had met Tom’s tongue with his own when it hesitantly probed between his lips. Tom seemed to know what he needed, what felt good. Harry didn’t ask Tom about his experience; he didn’t speak at all, unsure of what Tom would remember. Harry assumed that, like most students growing up at Hogwarts, Tom’s education in the bedroom had come – literally — at the hands of his classmates in the darkness of the dorms and deserted classrooms.

Clothes were pulled aside, shrugged off and finally abandoned, but kept nearby to wipe away sweat when it became too warm, and come when it spurted over bellies or dribbled down chins. Little was said. And what was said, sometimes in English and sometimes in Parseltongue, held no meaning. The whispered words were just extensions of gasps and moans, attempts to express feelings without the appropriate vocabulary.

Harry thought for a flickering moment that he should apologise, as though he had taken advantage of Tom, but Tom refused to let Harry feel guilty, insisted that this was comfort. Indeed, at sixteen, physical contact was a fair substitute for the words of reassurance Harry neither possessed nor felt he could utter convincingly. So he said them with his body, with his hands on Tom’s chest and his mouth around Tom’s cock. And Tom responded in kind, with teenaged enthusiasm and a desperation which nearly broke Harry’s heart even as he writhed in pleasure.

They slept again afterwards, Harry falling into short intense dreams in which he was surrounded by unsympathetic companions asking him questions he couldn't possibly answer. He awoke to the reality of Tom’s chest against his, a hand between them, Tom’s fingers once again bringing him to life.


*


Harry removed the note and the magazine from around the owl's leg and sat down at the kitchen table to read. Harry, I hope you like our little homage. I think you're wonderful to give him a second chance. Harry opened the Quibbler to see the headline article entitled The Salvation of the Severed Spirit. Although it didn't mention Tom or Harry by name, it was obviously their story — about a reluctant hero, the return of his aggressor and the forging of a new friendship. It spoke of rebirth and forgiveness, everything Harry had tried to put into words when he'd suggested to McGonagall that Tom should have a chance of living as a normal boy without prejudice or fear.

Unfortunately, it also spoke these things to everyone who happened upon the article, none of whom could be counted on to be as level-headed as Hogwarts' headmistress. Harry wondered how long it would be before the inevitable fallout arrived at his doorstep.


*


The sofa was now eschewed for Harry's bed. Sometimes they reached for one another in the darkness, sometimes they simply slept, but both felt better for awakening together in the morning. Tom's nightmares had fled, as had Harry's, and his scar troubled him no longer.

Intriguingly, Harry was occasionally reminded of Tom’s formidable magical power, equal to his own and seemingly as uncontrolled and unacknowledged as his had been at that age. (This was another way in which this Tom differed from the one whose history Harry had learned. The Tom Riddle who’d grown to become Voldemort had been extremely self-possessed of his magical abilities.) A bedside lamp had exploded the first time Tom had come in Harry’s bed, and twice he’d Scourgified them clean without using his wand and without realising he’d done so. Harry had trained in wandless magic as part of his Auror course — the first wizard ever to do so — but he’d never thought to test this skill at Tom’s age. Of what would Tom be capable as an adult with proper instruction now, at an earlier time of life?

One late July morning found Harry idly running his hand up and down Tom's bare back as the younger man slept. Harry's thoughts wandered to what he remembered of the other Tom Riddle's summer between 6th and 7th year. Would he have already killed his father? Would he have made yet another Horcrux, lost another part of his soul?

This Tom Riddle, his Tom Riddle, inhaled deeply, waking slowly to the early morning light which crept through the battered curtains. With a deep sigh, he turned and smiled sleepily at Harry, thoughts of patricide seemingly as far from his mind as they could possibly be.


*


Kingsley didn’t smile as he led Harry into his office. That alone gave Harry pause; something was up. And he had a pretty good idea what it was. Though many people treated the reports in the Quibbler as quaint yet harmless, the government was smart enough to know there was a truth, however bizarre, buried within the stories which featured in it.

During their conversation, Harry learned that he had indeed passed his exams. He also learned that the Aurors had a pretty fair idea that Harry had befriended someone important whose actions during the war were far from sterling.

Although they hadn’t gleaned anything more than that, Kingsley made it very clear that if Harry intended to have any future with the Aurors, he would need to turn over anyone who could possibly be considered a war-criminal.

All of the “But you don’t understand"s and “There’s something different about this case”s fell on deaf ears. Auror assignments were handed down by the Wizengamot and were non-negotiable. Kingsley could allow for mitigating circumstances, yes, but Harry was loath to disclose too many facts and Kingsley would not take anything on faith. Even from the Chosen One.

Two weeks later, after the ensuing but not-unexpected Auror investigations, Tom was unmasked. The circumstances of his appearance might still be shrouded in mystery, but his identity had been confirmed.

Kingsley gave Harry twenty-four hours to present him to the authorities. Harry knew that the general public would need far less time than that to try, convict and sentence Tom.


*


"Harry, he's going to have to go back," Hermione said quietly.

"But he can't!" Harry cried. "He was alone and couldn't get out. He could have died in there!" He paced his front room, clenching his fists, furious that once again he was being steered into a decision which he'd had no part in making. Once again fate, his birthright, his bloody persona was deemed more important. He'd had enough. "Hermione, for my entire life, I've been pushed from one crisis to another, always with Voldemort as a centrepiece. Now I have a chance to help him redeem his life, not take it away. Surely the Wizengamot can see how important this is. Even the press can see the symbolic significance!"

"Harry, the press don't care one way or the other. To them, he's a story, and regardless of his fate, they'll have their scoop. They're not interested in him beyond that. But the hundreds of people who lost loved ones in both wars are. And they have a voice. The Wizengamot is smart enough to know which way the wind is blowing and they'll act accordingly."

"Accordingly isn't always fair," Harry grumbled through the red haze still clouding his senses.

"You of all people don't need reminding that what is right isn't necessarily fair," Hermione said, taking his hand. "I understand how you feel, Harry. We've seen redemption in our struggle with evil, but there is no way you're going to convince people that there's any point in attempting the salvation of Voldemort's soul."

"But that's the point, Hermione," Harry argued. "He has no soul! Or at least, he doesn't have the one that he originally had, or grew to have or will have had, or… Gah! I don't know!" He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to stave off the desperation that threatened to engulf him. "No, it wouldn't change the course of history, no, it wouldn't bring anyone back – you know I want that as much as anyone else, we've all lost loved ones — but maybe he could show them that we need to think about how we treat people from the beginning of their lives, not just after it's too late! Look at me, Hermione! I'm living proof that you can lose everything as a child, be manipulated throughout your life, but with love and friendship, you can achieve amazing things! Who's to say Tom couldn't be the same?" His diatribe lost its force as it came to an end; Hermione's face showed Harry he was fighting a losing battle.

The government, the people, everyone he knew – with maybe the exception of Luna — wanted Tom in Azkaban for crimes he had yet to commit. Harry couldn't fight them all. He was tired of fighting.

But Harry could not let Tom face the Dementor's Kiss. He knew what would happen; he knew Tom wouldn't understand. Tom's soul didn't belong to anyone else. It was whole now; it belonged to him. He would either live with his soul intact or he would die that way.


*


Harry and Tom spent their remaining hours in a large northern Muggle city. Although Harry couldn’t be sure that he or Tom wouldn’t be recognised, it was more likely that the Auror team following them would lose them amidst the large and unfamiliar backdrop.

“I want us to go back to where I found you,” Harry said, not meeting Tom’s eyes, looking instead over his shoulder at the rain of a sharp summer storm pounding against the window. “I — I think the place may hold some answers for you as it did for me many years ago.”

Tom turned over in the bed and stretched, propped himself up on an elbow and wound his legs around Harry’s under the covers. “You’re thinking I should go back, aren’t you?”

“No,” Harry lied.

“You are.”

“Tom, it will be safer for you. You know you can’t return to school now.” Harry rubbed his nose, looking away from the young man’s face.

Tom sighed. “I know and I hate it. I’ve done nothing.” He reached for Harry’s hand, taking it in his.

“You might one day; that’s what people are afraid of,” Harry said, finally facing him.

“Not with you to keep me from it,” Tom said with a mischievous smile. He kissed Harry’s hand.

“You can’t ask that of me. I can’t — I can’t be responsible for your actions. I have a hard enough time being responsible for my own!”

Tom dropped Harry’s hand and rolled over onto his back. “I know that. I just – I didn’t want to hear it.” He ran his fingers through his dark hair. Harry knew that his revelations over the last few hours had been hard for Tom to hear. It isn’t everyday you find out you might grow up to be a mass-murderer.

“Tom, I have a life, a future now. I want you to have the same. You’ll never have that if you stay with me.” Harry reached for Tom’s hand and brought the slender fingers to his forehead. He gently ran Tom’s fingertips along his scar. “You gave me this. You, in a future where I had to destroy you. I can’t do that again.”

“You know I would never do anything to hurt you.” He turned to face Harry and leaned up, kissing him softly.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Harry said, after they broke apart. “But few others will understand that.” The rain pelted harder against the window as if accentuating the point Harry was trying to make.

“I have no past,” Tom said. “None that I can remember. Why does my future have to be taken away from me, too?” Tears formed in his eyes and Harry had to exercise all his self-control to stop himself from kissing them away. The comforting gesture would be the essence of hypocrisy.

“I wish I could tell you it won’t be, Tom,” Harry said. “But this is the best chance I can give you.” Harry knew he had no idea what would happen if he returned Tom to the Chamber, but like Tom, he found he needed to console himself with empty reassurances.


*


Harry’s owl reached Hogwarts four days before the start of the new term. McGonagall had told him that the wards were secure and any prying eyes of the press corps who might have tailed him there would be kept at bay.


*


"Harry, I’ve changed my mind. You can't leave me here. Please! This isn't where I belong!" Tom cried, reaching out to grasp Harry's coat.

"Yes, it is, Tom," Harry said gruffly in an attempt to hide the heartache he felt, his belief in the Wizarding world's spirit of harmony, destroyed by the same people who’d canonised him and who now vilified this innocent boy.

"Please Harry!" Tom begged, panicking now, watching Harry move toward the exit of the Chamber. "I thought you cared about me!"

"I do care about you, that's why I have to return you here," Harry said without turning around. He didn't think he could look into those eyes again without losing his resolve. "You belong in this place. You'll be safe here."

"I could die if I stay here!" Tom shouted at Harry's back. He tugged as hard as he could at Harry's clothes, his desperation making him violent.

Harry spun around and grabbed Tom by the arms. “I know you will die if you don’t stay here,” he cried into the younger man's face. "They'll kill you, don't you understand?" He bent his head and kissed him harshly, losing the tenuous control he’d held over himself. For a moment he allowed himself to relive the joy they had shared…

…then he pushed Tom away. Tom stumbled and fell backwards, tripping over the fallen stones. “I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. “I’m sorry I can’t be strong enough for both of us. I’m sorry I can’t give you the future you deserve. I hope that somehow…” Harry looked around at the dank walls and the toppled stones, “somewhere you will find it.”

As though his words had triggered it, the stones began to shake, smaller ones exploding at his feet. “Harry!” Tom cried out to him, fear and longing plain in his voice.

As quickly as the display of destruction started, it stopped. Harry, reacting to Tom's magical outburst, had been about to cast a dampening spell upon the room in order to prevent further destruction. But Tom had stopped it himself. He could not or would not maintain the violence which would have been second nature to his predecessor. Was this self-control a result of Harry’s influence? Harry wanted to think so. He wanted to believe there was a future for this Tom Riddle, one in which he grew up, lived a happy and useful life, part of a world which had never heard of Voldemort or the war which had shaped his own life so completely. As ironic as it was, Harry hoped that some part of himself would be taken to that world with Tom, if only to know he would have some peace there.

He left the Chamber to the same sound of sobbing he had heard when he’d arrived two months before.

Close, Harry whispered to the serpentine form on the great round door. He lost the fight with the tears he'd been holding back as the huge stone rumbled solidly into place over the Chamber's entrance.

He whispered Silencio and began to climb.


*


Kingsley was angry, of course. He’d had to answer both to the press and the Wizengamot. But Harry knew Kingsley wasn’t surprised. He’d made an official statement, an explanation referring to an elaborate hoax involving Polyjuice potion and Obliviation. Public opinion once again settled; people’s curiosity and outrage were saved for another day, another scandal.

But Harry now carried another scar, one on his heart to match the one on his forehead. And this one, he knew, would burn all his life.

The End