Harry sat in Grimuald Place, looking ahead, but never really seeing. The wards of the house had promptly kicked everyone out, much to Harry’s pleasure. With a sigh he turned to his side and stared straight at the ornate fireplace in the living room.
Oh, Harry had considered using the floo to go see his Tom, his sweet serial killer, but thought better. After all, currently Tom was busy being the Dark Lord, busy trying to kill him, busy, busy, busy. There also was the matter of wards and passwords on the Dark Lord’s floo. Surely it wouldn’t simply be open to him.
Harry looked away from the fireplace, and allowed his gaze to wander over to the bodies of his “friends”. The house wards hadn’t kicked them out; why should it kick out the dead? The bodies had been there for about a day, they looked like ice. It made Harry weakly smile. Then a broken chuckle escaped his lips.
He had killed the two people he had ever really considered friends. Tom didn’t count, Tom was more, Tom was better. He killed them with less than a thought. For the only thought that came to his mind as the bodies hit the floor was ‘What else has this world done? Who else deserves to die? Who else has tried to hurt my Tom?’
And of course he was at the top of that list.
He had hurt his Tom. He had forced him to become a simple wraith. He had been the one to murder his vessel, to deny him the stone that could have completely resurrected him and made him immortal, as he so strived to be. He had been the one to make sure his precious basilisk didn’t hurt the filthy mudbloods in the school, he had killed Tom’s favorite pet, his only company prior to Harry.
God, Harry had cause such hurt to befall what belonged to him.
Another weak chuckle broke free.
He was the one hurting Tom the most.
How could he ever make it up to the man who could have anything he wanted on a silver platter? What could he do to make Tom see him as Hadrian Porter, and not the trice-damned Boy-Who-Lived?
Harry’s magic lashed out and hit an expensive vase.
He couldn’t. Simple as that. There was a snowball’s chance in hell that he could make it up to Tom.
Harry stood from the couch and wobbled a bit. When he straightened his back he made his way to the library. Maybe there he could find some half useful information on how he could make it up to Tom.
While Harry was busying himself with his task, the Dark Lord sat in his quarters.
His life had been amazingly dull since that fated day many years ago.
The day he had decided to forget all weakness.
The day he had decided to forget… Someone he once knew.
Of course, he has had his bout of fun as the Dark Lord. The drunken feeling of too much power was one example of his fun. Another was the endless pleasure of pure torture of others. The feeling of simple bliss that came with stealing the life from another’s short reach.
But still, something was missing. But the Dark Lord hadn’t the slightest clue as to what the gaping hole in his mind was of.
It was almost like someone had obliviated him.
Oh, yes, he had obliviated himself. It was something he had to do. He distinctly remembered that moment, the moment he decided to delete that entire year from his mind. He wanted those memories back; he wanted to know what he was forgetting.
He had left the memory of the obliviation so he could find the memories if it came to a dire situation where he needed them. He thought back on the pain that the vile of memories had brought him when he disposed of the recollections.
An eighteen year old Tom Marvolo Riddle sat on the dusty floor of the uninhabited Riddle manor.
“Love is a weakness, love is a horrid weakness,” he chanted to himself. The notion that he would forget such an amazing person hurt. “It will all be better if you forget, it’ll hurt less, and you can do as you please. You can become the person he would have wanted you to be.” The wand clutched in his hands shook. His eyes seemed to pour small rivers across the dips and curves of his alluring face.
“Just remove the memories, put them into a vile, and dispose of them.” The wand pressed against his temple. He slowly removed the silvery-red memories from his head, and he placed all of them into a single vile. He had taken them out, but his mind could still recall the face of his little killer. The young man took a deep breath to calm himself.
“O-Obliviate!” he shouted. He was knocked back from the pressure of forgetting. The tears fell but he didn’t know why.
At the age of twenty one, Tom Riddle was looking at a vile that hadn’t left his person for three years. He remembered the pain of forgetfulness, he could recall the hardship of looking at the seemingly smallest thing and forcing his eyes to retain the tears that wanted to spill, he could look at the sky and name too many things about something he knows nothing about. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to know. Tom Riddle hates not knowing.
He knew that the silvery-red liquid in the container would have all those answers. He wanted those answers. Yet, he knew that if he was the one to erase them from his mind they must have been worthless.
Then why hadn’t he disposed of the bottle?
It hurt when he tried to throw it; so much that he would hold it to his chest and apologize to the goddamned bottle. Being rid of the substance would be like willingly holding a flame in your hand.
He just couldn’t do it.
And he didn’t know why!
It was truly the bane of his existence.
So he hid it.
Hid it when even he wouldn’t be able to find it.
Well, he didn’t do the hiding, Abarax Malfoy did. He had strict instructions to put the vile where no one would find it, to put it somewhere even his heirs would have difficulty getting into.
Abarax had said that he would leave his heir with some sort of code to find the vile, and that was it.
Tom had agreed.
Voldemort sighed as he thought back on the unfulfilled memories. A hand ran over his head, oh how he wished he could have his youthful looks back. With firm determination, he decided that he would retrieve the forbidden substance from Lucius tomorrow after the Death Eater meeting. He simply had to know what it was his mind was lacking. Surely it would be useless after fifty years. If it wasn’t, even better.
A knock was harshly placed upon his majestic mahogany door. A brief wave of his hand made the wood swing open. There was Harry Potter and Lucius Malfoy, Harry Potter with his hands bound, and Lucius holding the boy’s wand.
The strangest part was the unprotected joy on Harry’s face when he laid eyes on Voldemort’s own bloody orbs. The boy looked like his parents had just been yanked back from beyond the veil. It was… odd, to say the least.
“Hello, Voldemort. You look well, how’s the torture been going? Killed any mudbloods recently?” Harry asked, rocking on his heels in excitement. Excitement that shouldn’t have been there considering the subject and who this was. Lucius looked unimpressed, like the entire way here had been filled with chatter like this. Voldemort stared at Lucius.
“Lucius, why have you brought me a Potter look-a-like?” Voldemort questioned.
“My lord… I went through a simple blood test when I saw him acting like this. He claims to be Harry Potter and the test came back positive. I’m afraid that this is indeed the brat you’ve been looking to dispose of for some time now.” Harry gave a confused look to Lucius’ statement.
“Why would Tom want to hurt me? I’ve known him longer than you have. He trusts me more. And he really shouldn’t kill me for reasons I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to hear,” Harry said, ticking off his reasons on his fingers.
“I’m certain you’ve gone insane Potter, I can fix that,” Voldemort said with his wand raised. “Any last words, boy?”
“Being a horcrux gives me an advantage; don’t even think about killing me, Tom.” Voldemort froze.
“Lucius, you were given a slip of paper from your father about a vile of memories, go fetch it,” Voldemort ordered. When the blond man slipped from the room cold red eyes fell back onto Potter. The boy looked as he always had; his hair was longer than he had remembered it, longer than it would have been within the past two months. Strangely enough, his appearance struck a delicate chord in his chest, but the kid always had. He had always put it off as rage, but with closer inspection, it was a different, alien feeling.
He didn’t like it.
“What do you know about my horcruxes, Potter?” the Dark Lord questioned. Harry smiled.
“I know that I, foolishly, destroyed you diary. Your ring was destroyed by Dumbledore, and although I don’t know where a few of them were hidden, I do know where the locket was supposed to be, where the diadem is, and I doubt the cup is where it used to be. I’m here as is. I’m sorry about the diary, had I seen what you were trying to do… had I not been so stupidly naïve I… I’m so sorry, Tom,” Harry apologized. He jumped when a familiarly harsh knock was heard against Voldemort’s door. The door swung open under Voldemort’s command. Lucius strode in calmly and handed Voldemort a slip of aged crumpled paper. On it read:
‘I am where the repulcive howl as the repulsve become slightly more worthy of a Malfoy’s presence. I am behind where the tisgusting relax. Nw I must be off to fix my hair, for I fear that the morning sun might not catch on it perfectly as it always should.’
Voldemort sighed. Did it really need to be that easy? How dull.
“Well, come along Potter. I’m taking you with me to Barking.”
They were apparated to Barking in East London.
When they got there, Harry noted the Hair salon they were next to, the sign said SIDO in large letters. That was where Voldemort was dragging him. They went behind the building, into an alleyway seemingly forgotten in time. It was dark, spiders scuttled along the floor, being chased by fat rats. Lazy cats basked on top of hardly-used, rusty rubbish bins.
“Point Me Memory Vile!” Voldemort shouted, his wand spun in his hand before pointing at one of the extremely disgusting rubbish bins. The particular bin had a nasty looking tabby with a scar on its eye and half of its right ear missing. The Dark Lord rolled his eyes.
Had his subordinate even been trying?
“Avada Kedavra,” he hissed, the cat fell off the lid limply. Using his wand he removed the lid and took a peek inside.
There it was!
The silvery-red liquid churned inside of the preserved bottle containing it. Voldemort reached in the bin with a hard frown, and retrieved the vile. When he turned to tell Harry that it was time to get back, he noticed that the boy was much too close.
“Tom… Tom, I’ve missed you so much… May I kiss you? Please, Tom…” Harry begged, the older of the two twitched.
What had happened to the Boy-Who-Lived? He took the boy’s arm brutally and forced the smaller body to move away. Then he apparated them back to his home, Malfoy Manor.
The memories were poured into a pensive; the liquid was shimmering as it fell into the bowl, shimmering and churning the whole way in. The head of the Dark Lord gracefully dipped into the pensive, and the memories came flooding back like a broken dam.
little killer sat next to him as he tortured his latest victim. They were both
laughing over something that the young girl screamed, it sounded very similar
to “Mother!” Tom took hold of Harry’s hand, catching the boy’s attention.
“Harry, I plan to travel to Albania, will you come with me?” Tom asked gently. His seventeen year old face was filled with nervousness.
“Yes, Tom. I will follow you anywhere.”
The scene swirled into something new.
Voldemort watched as a black snake with a white lightning bolt patch moved with grace and then struck a fleeing target.
The snake was deadly, but beautiful; with bright green slit eyes, a white lightning bolt shaped marking, a beautiful slender black body, and an amazing look of joy.
He had no clue how a snake could look so happy.
Then a hand came out and stroked the scales.
“I’m proud of you, Harry.” The snake seemed to light up even more.
The snake faded from view and was replaced by a more gentle scene that Voldemort almost didn’t want to witness.
Tom was holding Harry’s hand in his, his arm was settled on Harry’s waist, Harry’s hand was resting on his shoulder while the younger’s head rested on the other. The music in the background was soft and slow, perfect for their calm dance.
“I love you Tom. I always will, no matter the day, time, or place. You are my sweet serial killer. Do you understand, Tom?” Harry asked in a quiet voice, his words even more muffled by Tom’s shoulder.
“I understand, my little killer. And I shall always be yours, just as you will be mine. I love you,” Tom responded, placing a delicate kiss on top of Harry’s head.
The gentle scene was once again morphed into something else.
Tom yawned and stretched his back, his body arching up slightly; the blankets fell down to around his waist. Beside him was Harry Potter, it could be no other, but to the Tom Riddle of the memory it was Harrison Porter, his fated, his bonded, his. Always his.
The black hair fanned out around his head like a halo, his eyelids shuddered when Tom moved even a bit, and he curled up tighter when Tom moved to get up. With a sigh, Tom settled back into their bed, he could get up later when Harry was awake.
Life was always better when Harry was awake.
Life was better with Harry by his side.
He couldn’t live without his Harry, just as a normal person couldn’t survive without breathing.
Surely he would die, should his Harry disappear.
Or maybe Harry would take his sanity with him.
Swirls of color and shades of black engulfed the area shifting once again. Voldemort was becoming sick from all the change.
“Where is he?!” Tom shouted; his posture was one of rage, his tone would scare even the bravest of men.
His Harry was gone. His little killer, gone. Just up and disappeared. Or so his Death Eaters said. They had said that the moment they had gotten inside the male was gone like the wind. Nothing of him had been left behind but memories.
“Get out,” Tom growled to his death Eaters. When they slowly began to stand and walk out, he made his frustration known.
“I said get out, you insolent fools!” he screamed. Everyone ran, even Malfoy. He leaned back against his throne and allowed the tears to fall. Then an idea came to his mind.
“Point Me Harrison Porter!” His wand didn’t respond at all. “Point Me Harrison Porter,” he tried again. Still nothing. Another scream ripped its way out of his throat.
Where had his little killer gone?
Voldemort turned to look at Harry Potter. The boy resembled the man from the pensive. God, resembled didn’t even begin to describe it. Maybe that was because he really was that man after all. But no, that couldn’t be right. It was so glaringly obvious that his little killer had to have died.
Being the bane of his existence wasn’t an option.
He would still kill him.
Love was still a weakness.
“Tom… do you remember me now?” the boy asked hopefully, his hands wringing in nervousness. Voldemort’s hand came out and his pale fingers wrapped around Harry’s throat.
“I don’t care. If you really are who you say you are. If you were then that would mean that you came from this time. And I know you Potter, you would have come back to kill me or 'make me better'. No matter how much you look like him, there is no way you could ever be my little killer,” Voldemort told him with a firm scowl. The hand tightened around the pale column of flesh.
“I should have seen this coming when I got here… I-I have proof… proof that I belong with you, Voldemort,” Harry confessed. He stared into the ruby eyes of the man in front of him, and then his body began to become smaller, it slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. Skin turned to scales, eyes became slits, tongue split in two, becoming forked.
Harry’s slit eyes looked up to Voldemort almost shyly. The beautiful body of a black mamba was stretched out before the Dark Lord. The only colors on the snake’s body that wasn’t black were the white lightning bolt shaped scar on its head, and the stunning emerald green eyes that were infected with red flecks. It curled up to Tom, rubbing against his leg. There as no difference from the one from the memory, and it only add fuel to the raging fire of rage.
“You remember this don’t you? You complemented me in that letter, the one that you gave me when you wanted me to go to Hogsmead with you. You told me that I always seem to do the impossible, that I had done something you couldn’t. You told me that you loved murdering because of the rush… Voldemort, I’ve become addicted to.” The hisses Harry released made Voldemort finally understand, forced the feeling of rage back into nothing but a dying pile of embers.
His little killer had been found.
Tom was dozing off in his chair when his door was pounded on brutally. He motioned for the door to open on its own.
By doing so he got an angry swarm of Bellatrix Lestrange.
“My lord! I just heard from Lucius that you have been given Harry Potter. What are your plans, my lord?” she asked with sadistic glee. Tom turned his head to his armchair in front of the fire where Harry lie sleeping.
“I plan to keep my little killer. He shan’t leave my side unless he wants to. Even then I won’t allow him to leave.” Tom said, his face remained as emotionless as his voice, but his inner emotions were soft like pillows.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I don’t understand,” Bellatrix said with a befuddled expression. Surely he didn’t mean that he was going to keep the little shit alive.
“He is my bonded. As has been fated since the day I met him. He shall not be harmed, and with him we will win this war. Love is the greatest strength some say, surely together we will be stronger than anyone.”
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