Chapter o5
Harry carefully watched Riddle, as he stood looking out of the window, lost deep in thoughts, it seemed, for a long time. All color left Tom's face together with remnants of good mood even before that, when Harry accidentally admitted to know about his life at the orphanage. And now Riddle, though handsome as sin, were looking very much like a pale see-through ghost with black circles under deeply seated dark eyes and hollow pale cheeks, lips pressed to thin line, and even his nose in the greyish light of early morning looked more hooked, or crooked than anything, reminding Harry of some bird of prey, or vulture even, looking for the weakness of his future breakfast.
Harry shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, when Tom finally turned back to face the room —and Harry — again.
"Something on your mind?" Tom asked, and though his tone was polite enough, the look in his eyes was still predatory. He arched a brow to emphasize his half-question and half-demand, waiting for Harry's answer.
"Not in particular," Harry responded, sounding equally politely, but with aggressive glint of his own in the eyes. "Just wondering—" he trailed off, leaving it to Tom to finish the sentence, if he wished so.
"Either wonder in your own head or ask already," Riddle huffed in annoyance. "What is it you are so loudly thinking in your head? I think I even heard the gears screeching in there somewhere," Tom snorted, corners of pursed lips raising in pretense amusement, though, it was clear as day to Harry, that there was no even trace of humor behind those dark blue eyes and icy facade of his face.
"I was just wondering who were you seeing right now, when you turned around," Harry inquired carefully, examining the face in front of him, looking for a small twitch of mouth, pulse on the temple, any trace of humanity, which was worth saving, still being there.
Maybe, he was, indeed, too late. Or maybe, there was no one to save there from the start.
Harry turned away, not expecting his opponent to answer at all, even more so — answer truthfully.
"Your eyes reminded me of someone I met long ago," admitted Riddle quietly, surprising even himself. He wasn't going to answer, Harry saw it in his eyes, but still—
"A friend?" What was he expecting, honesty? Open heart? From Riddle? He was barking mad, surely! If Riddle would now decide to answer, Harry was going to firecall St. Mungo's to book a bed in the Ward for the Mentally Deranged for himself, while there is still some sanity left in him.
"If a friend is someone, who treats your wounds and gladly brings you the bucket when you need it, then yes, you could say so. A friend—" Tom's voice broke at the last syllable. "She had the same eyes of Avada Kedavra green, like you have," he added, for no apparent reason.
"A witch?" Now Harry was really interested.
Maybe that was his mother's ancestor? Maybe, there, too, were someone with magic in their veins, and those awful people he called his "relatives" are no relatives at all, but strangers, and on his mother's side there, too, were wizards?
"Hardly," Tom admitted, and, surprising Harry even further, elaborated: "I picked her child at the street and brought him to the shelter during the bombing that one time, got a nasty burn at my back in their stead and even nastier concussion, and was for three days in a coma because of this. If she was a witch, surely, she could have done all this without my help? And she returned me my wand, while never really understanding what it meant." Tom winced. "Why I should tell you this, again?" he asked with a grimace of distress on his face. "You already know some very private information about me — how did you learn it, by the way? — so I have no obligation to tell you anymore of my 'personal stuff', as you've politely put it." He pushed himself off from the windowsill and, going round Harry's stilled form, made it for the door.
"Wait—" Harry shut his mouth with an audible click. He had no obligation to warn Tom of the spell. And, if anything, Dumbledore had already elaborated some, at least, on that matter. Harry, too, was in the dark here, as he also didn't have a clue, how this spell should work, either in normal situation, or broken, like their seemed to be, if the reaction of the Headmaster was anything to go by, together with the unpleasant, to say the least, sensation during the spellwork.
Harry waited, and then waited some more. For a total of whole two minutes. When he decided, that the spell didn't work after all, he went for the door at his usual speed, not rushing or slowing on purpose.
Nothing.
He shrugged and opened the door.
The dark corridor was empty, the only light being a grayish tint of dawn pouring through the door he was standing in. Harry almost turned and went back to the room. It seemed, Riddle had gone and find himself an empty room to brood, when nothing happened with the broken spell, as Harry was absolutely sure that there were wards on the street-door preventing anyone and anything from both coming in and out of the house. If not wards, then Sirius' angry mother, or her portrait, to be accurate, was more than enough to stall everyone at the entrance or at least warn of their presence there —leaving or entering the premises. Mrs. Black's portrait was quiet, just random low murmuring from deranged woman occasionally reaching the second floor.
All was absolutely quiet. Harry turned on his heels—
A sigh. Shaky, on the brink of whimpering, but very light, still. The sound came from farthest and darkest corner of the second floor, across the stairs' opening, and on the opposite end of the corridor.
How Harry managed to catch the sound he didn't know. Even more so, he didn't have a clue how he determined the place, where the noise came from, as it was really dark here.
Harry squinted his eyes, trying to see in the dark, to catch a glimpse of what was it. He wasn't really eager to accidentally meet face to face with some of the Black house nasty surprises right now.
Another quite loud sigh from the far corner, and at this very moment something jerked his hand in the same direction. Next second it was as if something was pulling him by the wrist precisely to that dark breathing corner, ignoring the absence of the solid floor over the opening for the stairs. Harry didn't see what it was, as his wrist was pulled, it seemed, by empty air. One can never tell with all this magic, true, but Harry was sure, that breathing and this pull on his hand was related somehow—
Of course! The spell!
This was the same hand, which he got burnt during Dumbledore's spellwork. Then, that breathing in the corner, that should be Riddle, right?
What was it again, that the Headmaster said about this spell?
"This spell will bind Tom to you… mere physical proximity… on his side… remain within ten feet—" Harry recalled. None of this brought him even close to understanding of what was going on now. And what he should or could do to remedy the problem at his hands, as there definitely was a problem of some sort, he just knew it.
Meanwhile, more than five minutes had already passed from the moment, when Riddle left their room. Even if the spell activated only after some time, when Riddle crossed the invisible boundary of being "ten feet away" from Harry, than still more than enough time had passed afterwards.
Harry carefully closed the remaining distance between himself and breathing corner.
And there, indeed, was Tom Riddle. He sighed shakily, when Harry approached, his sigh being more of a sob, really. Riddle was bent over himself, clawing at his throat with tense hands, scratching it with his nails, white as sheet and, hardly even breathing, as Harry realized, because the earlier sighs, which he'd heard, were very shallow and very rare to be normal human breathing. His lips almost disappeared they were pursed so tight at the moment, and there was thin dark line on his chin — either from scratching, too, or maybe he bit through his lip and it was blood from the wound, Harry didn't know. Riddle swayed on his feet, as Harry came even more closer, but recoiled from his outstretched hand, stumbling in the process and landing ungracefully on his arse in order not to fall over the balustrade surrounding the stairs.
Ignoring Riddle's halfhearted protests in the form of recoiling and his tries to crawl away, while staying on his arse, Harry quickly sat on the floor beyond his back and put his hands around Riddle's shoulders, hugging him from behind. The last of half-voiced whimpers died at Riddle's lips almost instantly. He became quiet as a deadman, and, Harry noticed, just as cold. Riddle was still shaking like a leaf in the storm, and convulsion, wave after wave went through his body at irregular intervals.
"Sh-sh," almost not thinking, Harry drew slow circles with his hands on Riddle's shoulders, massaging the stone-like tension away from his muscles, then carefully moved to rub his backside with one hand, still holding his other hand around his shoulders. "It's okay—"
"Get off me!" Riddle barked. Or tried to, as he still hasn't regained his normal composure and hadn't found his usual voice after obvious suffocation earlier. So instead of fierce command he gave away little more then a shaky whimper and once again tried to hide in himself. As Harry was tightly holding him around the shoulders with one hand and had put another hand on his head at this very moment, Riddle couldn't do anything more than flinching and putting his elbow in Harry's stomach. Hard.
Harry, with a breathless sob of his own, sprang back from the offending elbow and bent over his injured middle, putting his free hand across his abdomen, clutching it and grunting from pain, but even then not removing the hand, with which he was hugging Riddle.
Young Voldemort hissed in annoyance, trying to break free from Harry's embrace and failing miserably, as he was still suffering from after-effects of the working, though broken, spell — involuntarily convulsing every now and then, biting on his lip in at least obvious discomfort from these, if not pain, shaking and absolutely freezing, still having problem with his breathing, as he instinctively tried to claw at his throat again several times, before Harry put a stop to it, catching Tom's hand in his own, and entwining their hands, almost like it was before, during the Headmaster's spellwork.
"Calm down already, will you!" Harry hissed, exhausted from struggling with Riddle, while trying to catch his own breath and soothing Riddle's aftershock at the same time. "I am not going to devour you, you know."
"Get off me!" Riddle responded fiercely, though almost voiceless after his strange suffocation, and again struggled to break free from Harry's hands.
"Bloody hell!" That was the proverbial last straw — Riddle had bitten Harry on the hand, still tightly wound around the elder boy's shoulders.
Harry pushed his again-opponent away, pressing his injured hand to his — also injured — midsection, and flinched away, immediately raising to his feet and angrily turning on his heals to return to his room. He hadn't managed to cover even half of the corridor — the spot in front of the upper step of the stairs — when he heard the same laboured and rare breathing behind him, followed after just three noisy intakes by a sob and a loud thud.
Even as angry as he was, Harry could not turn away from a human in pain.
He turned back— only to find Riddle, standing on his knees, already half-way through the distance separating them, supporting himself by one hand just shy of falling face-first to the floor and desperately clawing at his throat with another hand. All this — in dead silence. His blanched face again was looking very much like a ghost' in the darkness of the empty corridor, eyes bloodshot and darkened, pupils constricted with pain and lack of air and almost lost in the stormy black of his irises, which were slowly reddening even while Harry looked him in the eyes.
"Tom—" Harry hurried over to him, dodged his blind-aimed blow with ease, then another one, and finally caught his falling form in the last second, before Tom's unconscious body made it through the opening and onto the descending stairs. "Bloody Merlin's balls!" Harry hissed several more curses of choice, while trying to move Riddle's still form towards their room.
If what happened earlier was anything to go by, he needed more "physical proximity" with his nemesis to bring the latter back to his senses, and Harry wasn't fond of the idea at all. But if it was really necessary, he had been definitely not ready to explain how he ended up hugging Tom Riddle of all people, and in the middle of the corridor, at that matter, not to anyone, and surely not to Ron, in particular. And if he remembered correctly, his friend could be coming any minute after the sun rises, at least that was what Dumbledore had promised when retrieving him from the Dursleys the night before.
Finally, Harry had managed to half-drag and half-carry unconscious Riddle to where he needed him. Puffing from exhaustion and wiping sweat from the forehead, Harry thoroughly closed the door, regretting choosing this room, as lock on the door was broken. Alas, this should do for now, as he was not in the shape or mood to move to yet another stretch of corridor, especially, in the backwards direction — as the closest empty room was exactly there. As to why he stubbornly dragged Riddle back here, Harry was not very sure himself. Either that other room sported some trouble instead of offering of free beds, or he moved here out of habit, not registering the presence of another vacant room on his way, being in such a distressed state of mind.
After raising Riddle up to the bed from the floor, Harry proceeded with lying beside him himself and wrapping not only his arms, but legs, as well, around Riddle's slender form. Drawing soothing circles on his arms and back and humming absent-mindedly some tune which came to his mind, Harry had laid there for some time, not minding his surroundings. He couldn't say he was fully asleep then, as he continued moving his hands rhythmically and humming one tune after the other, but at some point in time he finally did fall asleep for real.
~*~*~*~
Harry woke with a start, hearing some unfamiliar voice, whispering something incoherently and very angrily right above his head. That other whispering voice was more recognizable, even in his slumber — Dumbledore. With whom the Headmaster was arguing, though, Harry couldn't catch. It sounded, as if he heard that voice before, but only briefly, not really registering it fully in his memory yet. Harry tried to open his eyes, only to find his vision totally blocked by someone's nape, and his mouth full of stranger's hair. Spitting it out furiously, Harry tried to back away and ended up on the floor, hitting it with a loud thud, while the stranger landed on top of him. The other's hand accidentally hit him in the midsection, precisely at the already swollen spot, making him hiss in pain, and Harry at last remembered everything which had transpired the night before and the morning after that same night.
A person — Tom Riddle — hurriedly raised to his feet and continued to argue with the Professor, in full volume now, though his voice was still raspy from sleep.
"I would really appreciate, if you kindly elaborate more on the nature of the spell you put on me — us —the night before, as it had definitely gone wrong somewhere during spellcasting or afterwards," Riddle hissed rather furiously. Though Harry could hardly blame him, not after everything that Riddle went through earlier because of this spell, which should definitely be broken. Harry sent a silent plea, looking Dumbledore in the eye, but not bothered getting up yet, as his back and legs were still sore — from the fall and from uncomfortable position he had been sleeping in.
The Headmaster glared at him silently, but immediately returned to his argument with Riddle.
"You are in no position to make demands, Mr. Riddle. I have no obligation to anyone, least of all you, to explain myself — or my spellwork. I will elaborate on this matter, when I see fit, and not a second earlier. Should you require anything — food or clothes — go through Harry first. He will require necessary items from the house-elves, as they are, too, not obliged to listen to your commands, or requests. In rare cases, requiring my interference, you again go through Harry here, first."
Dumbledore's manner of communication reminded Harry of Snape at his worst, for some reason.
"I need to give my full attention to the matter of returning you to your home," the Headmaster continued, "so I don't have time to respond to your every whim. Also I should remind you that you should at all times stay within ten feet of Harry, as the consequences could be unpredictable. You noticed yourself that the spell hadn't worked as intended."
"And how it was intended to work, may I ask?" barely containing his anger, Riddle spat out.
"You may ask, " Dumbledore agreed, smiling humorlessly, "but don't expect an answer to your every question, I am not an encyclopedia," he finished grimly. Then Dumbledore's eyes fell on Harry and his features softened, "Harry, you alright, ma'boy? That was some very loud fall," his smile was genuine this time, even with his famous twinkle in the eye.
"I'm okay, Professor. It's just—"
"Well, that's good then. I am truly sorry, Mr. Potter, but I really should be going — time-travel research is very — ahem — time-consuming, I must confess," yawning in the middle of his little speech, admitted the Headmaster. "See you later, gentlemen," and with this words Dumbledore, like the night before, was gone.
After this small spectacle, not only Riddle, but Harry as well was fuming with anger. That was really uncharacteristic of the old Headmaster to behave this way, openly dismissing one of the students and favoring another in front of him. Surely, the old Professor was biased, but before he used to at least pretend, to hide behind the facade of kind and loving grandfather to all children of Hogwarts, instead of sporting open favoritism.
"Need a hand there?" Riddle's attitude abruptly changed, he was looking down at Harry from the bed, where he was lying on his stomach, holding out a hand to Harry.
Harry's brows raised in disbelief.
"What happened with 'get off me, Potter'? Forgot that already?" he asked suspiciously.
"No. Just being polite," Riddle shrugged, smiling sweetly, but his smile quickly turned to grimace, as small wound on his lip reopened, some blood dripping on his chin.
"That must hurt," Harry winced in sympathy. He knew all too well how stingy the broken lip could be, as it was one of his most often and usual injuries — both from an accidental slap on the face from one of the Dursley males or from biting through his lip during a particularly bad nightmare.
Riddle snorted dismissively and hopped off the bed. "Are you getting up? When the Old Fart first came in, he said something about your friends not coming today. I suppose, because of me, for which I should apologize."
Once again Harry's brows raised in surprise.
"Apologize?" he repeated.
"I recon, the end of your holidays is ruined because of my appearance here, in this time. So I apologize for not traveling somewhere else instead. Though, that's not entirely my fault, as it was your precious "Dumbles", who brought you here to keep me company," Riddle added with vicious glint in his eyes. Harry noticed that now they were of rather normal color, if just a bit dark. Maybe during the morning accident he simply imagined those red eyes, subconsciously anticipating their appearance at some point?
He blinked, averting his gaze from Riddle's, abruptly remembering that Voldemort was very skilled at Legilimency, and for it to work one needed to look you in the eye.
Riddle snorted derisively and rolled his eyes at him.
"I know what you're thinking," he sneered. "Not literally. Yet. But that could be remedied, don't you worry. I've long since acquired the necessary knowledge, which assists those with such a special talent as required for reading one's mind."
Harry wanted to shook Riddle's rather overburdened sentences out of his head. Or, preferably, out of Riddle's head directly, sidestepping Harry's poor overloaded ears.
"Listen, Riddle, can you speak less in riddles, may be? My head is going to explode as it is, without additional help from a bigmounth like yourself."
"Was it intentional?" Riddle drawled, dangerously narrowing his eyes. "I hope, not, as I do not tolerate when someone's making fun of my father's name, even being as Muggle and low-life as he was," he sneered, "he was still my father, and only I am allowed to insult him, and even that should transpire beyond the metaphorical closed doors."
Harry sighed heavily.
"It was not my intention and, rest assured, it will never be. I apologize. And now could you maybe, please, stop speaking in such overloaded sentences and low yourself a little closer to my humble ground level? After so little sleep it's hard to simply keep one's eyes open, let alone decipher your enigmatic, though brilliant (of this I am sure), speeches."
Riddle's chuckle turned to open snickering in a matter of seconds during Harry's heated speech.
"Alright, I get it, oh humble grounded one," still chuckling, Riddle threw his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. Then abruptly turned serious. "But you just try to insult my family, and you won't live for another minute to tell anyone about it," he hissed venomously.
"Okay," Harry simply nodded and finally got up from the floor where he had been sitting all this time. A little surprised to find out his shirt lying in the corner far from the bed as if thrown with some force — while he clearly remembered going to sleep with his shirt on — Harry picked it up, blinking at the only remaining button in disbelief, and stepped up to the wardrobe. He was not sure, that there should be any clothes in it left from the previous summer and, anyway, that was Sirius' room at that time—
Slowly opening the door, he found the almost offending wardrobe absolutely empty and sighed with the obvious relief. He wasn't sure what he could have done if he found some of Sirius' clothes in here. Yes, he was still grieving, his heart's wounds hadn't closed yet. But one should move on, especially in such dire circumstances, as he found himself in. Battlefield was not the place to mourn your fallen. Firstly, it was necessary to save the living, and only after — to bury the dead.
Harry shook his head, banishing these thoughts. Now was not the time for brooding either. He had had a handful on his plate as it was, and now there was a special treat in the form of his nemesis' younger self, so Harry tried with all his might to wake up, shake himself from unnecessary thoughts and move on.
As he was not sure, where to look for a fresh clothes, all he could do was to call a house-elf. Except for Dobby, who was surely at Hogwarts right now, the only other elf Harry knew well was Kreacher. So he called Kreacher, asked for two sets of fresh clothes (for himself and for Riddle), and required to bring him the elf, who was responsible for kitchen, as Harry hadn't trusted Kreacher not to "accidentally" poison him and Riddle, just for good measure.
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