Entry tags:

fic, harry/tom, slash

Happy Springsmut, fourth_rose!
Author: piratesword
Recipient: fourth_rose
Title: Greyscale (A Tragedy in Thirteen Acts)
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Harry/Tom
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: He doesn't remember when Voldemort became Riddle became Tom, he doesn't remember when the nightmares turned to dreams, and he doesn't remember when he began to look forward to them.
Warnings: Angst, character death (mentioned, not shown), darkfic, dystopia, dub-con, EWE, mentions of canon character death, mindfuck, non-linear narrative (sort of), postwar, general not-nice themes.
Word Count: 3,100
Author's Notes: written for fourth_rose, who's request can be found here. I tried to incorporate as much of that into this as I could, and while I'm not quite sure if this is exactly what you had in mind, I hope that you still enjoy it! Many thanks to A, K, E and P for all of their encouragement and support, to B and L for all of their advice and encouragement, and to B for stepping in whip this thing into shape, and to keep me from losing it at the last minute. This would never have been finished without all of their help. ♥!

What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.

- Pericles (Attributed)





act the first. (paying our repects)
There's a crack in the stone, stretching and weaving its way in a downward path until it strikes directly through the middle of the name carefully carved into the surface.

"Fuck," breathes Harry, something ugly and uncomfortable twisting at his gut as he reaches out to trace it, his fingers sliding lightly across the smooth surface of the headstone. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Are you all right?" asks Teddy as he walks up behind his godfather, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. "You look sort of ill."

"I'm fine," Harry says after a long moment, his eyes never leaving the crack. "Are you almost ready to leave?"

"Yeah," Teddy replies, shifting his weight and frowning down at his dark suit in blatant dislike. "I bloody hate this thing," he mutters, "I always feel ridiculous dressing like this."

The familiar sound of Teddy complaining is enough to snap Harry out of his trance, and he turns away from the headstone and gives the brown-haired man an amused look. "You look less ridiculous in that suit than you usually do," he remarks, throwing a wink in his godson's direction to show that he's only joking.

Teddy scowls and opens his mouth to reply, but whatever he was about to say dies on the tip of his tongue as he looks past him. "Oh no," he murmurs, moving around him and wandering over to the headstone. Tracing his fingers across the surface he frowns and says to no one in particular, "How did that happen?"

"How did what happen?" asks Hermione, walking over towards them.

"Something cracked my Dad's headstone," Teddy says, poking at the crack none too gently with his wand. "You can barely read his name," he continues, looking extremely displeased at the large crack running through Remus and making it read more like Rus. "Is there any way to fix it?"

Hermione frowns thoughtfully at the question. Pulling her wand out and motioning for Teddy to move out of the way, she raises it and mutters something under her breath. A bright pink light shoots out from the tip and hits the stone and Hermione says, "This should fix it right up."

The stone is suddenly as smooth as it was fifteen years ago, not a crack to be seen. Teddy smiles and says, "Thanks, Aunt Hermione."

"Not a problem," she replies, giving him a small smile in return. Turning around, the smile slips into a frown. "Harry?"

Teddy follows her gaze, a confused look on his face. "Dad?"

When they look back, Harry is gone.



act the second. (take a walk with me)
Harry dreams in shades of grey, of a world cast deep in darkness and shadow, of a world not unlike his own.

He clenches his fingers tightly at the coarse fabric of the sheets, his lips twisting into something that resembles a grimace as he wanders aimlessly along one of the dirt paths. He pulls his jacket tight, trying desperately to keep the cold at bay as his eyes search the sky for stars that are not there.

The world stretches out for what seems like forever, and he surveys it with a cool sort of detachment, all the while wondering where the time has gone.

Tom watches him from the ruins of an old, run-down cottage, his dark eyes studying Harry with amusement, a slight smile twisting at the corner of his lips. "You're late," he says finally, his tone pleasant.

"Go away," Harry snaps, his steps faltering just slightly as the heel of his foot scrapes unevenly across the ground.

"You're always late," Tom continues without pausing. "You should really try to be more punctual, you know."

"How am I possibly late?" asks Harry, walking over towards him. "I didn't know that I was supposed to meet anyone here tonight."

"Oh?" Tom says quietly.

"Oh?" Harry replies, his fingers clenching the sheets tightly, pulling and twisting them into an ugly mess.

"Well, now you do."

Harry stares at the other man, sputtering. "You are such a bastard," he says after a moment, turning his head and studying the ground with interest.

"Mmm," Tom murmurs, ignoring it. Reaching out towards the dark sky, he catches a firefly in his fingers and pulls his arm back in, fingers tightening into a fist. They turn an ugly shade of white, and Harry thinks that it must be painful. When Tom opens his fist, the firefly is nothing more than a crumpled speck. "Lovely night, don't you think?" he asks cheerfully, dropping the firefly into the dirt.

"Why are you here?" says Harry finally, gaze still fixed on Tom's hand. "You know that you're dead, right?"

Tom tilts his head to the side and gives him a curious look. "Are you quite sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure," Harry snaps, pulling his jacket tighter at a sudden burst of cold.

He is.



act the third. (when reality and dreams collide)
Harry doesn't remember when the dreams started.

Sometimes he tries to sit down to think, to remember, but all that he can recall is that it was sometime between when Ron died and when Teddy left for school. The specifics elude him entirely, but he finds that for some reason, he can't bring himself to really care.

The only thing that he does remember, though, is what he doesn't remember: He doesn't remember when Voldemort became Riddle became Tom, he doesn't remember when the nightmares turned to dreams, and he doesn't remember when he began to look forward to them.

It's disturbing, he reminds himself when he wakes to the sun shining brightly outside his window. Curling his fingers around his eyes in an attempt to block out the light, he thinks, Tom Riddle ruined my life. Tom Riddle killed my parents. The thoughts are comforting for a moment, but then suddenly they change to Voldemort ruined my life. Voldemort killed my parents, and somehow the two become separate entities in his mind.

He doesn't like to think about what that means.



act the fourth. (in the real world, we can't fly)
Harry spends his days wandering aimlessly throughout the house, his fingers curled around a cup of steaming coffee, trying to think of something to do with his time. He hates this, he hates being here alone, but with Teddy at school, there isn't much else for him to do.

Sometimes, when the days are long and the sun is bright, he will curl up on the stairs outside and watch the clouds roll by, all the while wondering when his grand plan fell to pieces. Sometimes, Harry thinks that perhaps he should have gone into the Ministry after all, because at least then he would be spending his days doing something instead of spending them moping around the house.

He probably would have, too, he thinks, if Andromeda hadn't died so suddenly. He had only been eighteen, still a child in so many ways and only just starting to live his life. Then suddenly, he had found himself with a child and not a clue as to what to do with him. It had been hard, Harry remembers, trying to figure out how to raise Teddy - but then, his golden rule had always been 'if the Dursley's did it, do the exact opposite'.

For the most part, he likes to think that it worked, and that Teddy has turned out pretty well. It was hard, he thinks again as he studies the curve of his wrist, but despite his boredom and his grumblings, he wouldn't have traded it for anything.

He wouldn't.



act the fifth. (a moment in the life)
"You really should try to be more prompt," Tom says by way of greeting. He's standing by the lake this time, bare feet leaving imprints in the sand as he crosses over to Harry. "I've been waiting for a rather long time, you know."

"Don't you ever sleep?" Harry says tiredly, his voice just a tad bit grumpy as he sits down on one of the large rocks beside the lake.

Tom grins broadly, and although the sunglasses he wears obscure any view of his eyes, Harry doesn't have to look to know that he's observing him with a cold, empty sort of detachment. "Only when you do," he says.

"Only when I do?" repeats Harry, looking mildly confused. "I don't understand."

"You always were rather slow," says Tom, shaking his head. "I'm sure it will be far too late before you begin to understand."

Twisting his head, Harry gives him a long look and says, "Until I understand what?"

Tom simply tosses a stone into the dark water and chuckles, an empty, hollow sound.



act the sixth. (going, going, gone)
There's a loose thread on the sofa and Harry picks at it, his fingers twisting and pulling at the dark-purple string in amusement. He wonders, if he could unravel it, how long it would stretch. "Yes, Minerva?" he says after a long moment of silence, shifting his gaze reluctantly from the thread to the older woman. "I'm afraid I missed that last bit."

"Harry," Minerva repeats, staring at him intently, "have you considered coming to Hogwarts?"

"Coming to Hogwarts?"

"To teach," she continues, looking slightly bemused. "Professor Flitwick is retiring this next term, and we're going to need someone to teach Charms. I think that you are more than qualified and, to be honest, I think the students would love to have you as a Professor."

Harry frowns and looks down at the sofa again, his eyes studying the piece of thread intently. "I'm not sure if teaching is what I want to do," he admits, looking up.

Minerva tilts her head, her eyes searching his. "What do you want to do, then, Harry?" she says, her voice quiet but reprimanding. "You can't stay inside that house of yours forever."

Harry thinks that maybe he can.



act the seventh. (a song for a boy)
Tonight, the sun is shining brightly in the sky and the stars are sparkling. Harry finds himself studying the sky with a vague, detached sort of interest, his eyes searching for clouds that do not float. "I like it here," he says finally, tilting his head towards the other man.

"Mmm," Tom says, "I'm glad."

Harry looks surprised at that. "Oh?" he says, sitting up. "Why does that make you happy?"

Tom gives him a long look, "You still don't know?"

Harry frowns, then rolls his eyes. Not this again, he thinks, twisting a blade of grass between his fingers. "I won't understand until it's too late," he recites, giving Tom an unamused look.

Tom chuckles and rolls over until he's next to Harry. "You can be taught," he says, smiling. A shiver runs up Harry's spine at the sight, but he pushes it back and smiles back wryly.

They lay there in silence for a moment, and when Tom brushes his fingers across Harry's back, he breaks it. "What are you doing?" he says, shifting away just slightly.

"Nothing you won't like," Tom says, his voice calm and reassuring as he leans over and trails his fingers down along the length of Harry's arm. "I promise."

Harry squirms, trying unsuccessfully to roll out from under the other man. "I don't think we should be here," he says unconvincingly. "I'll have to go home soon."

"You are home," says Tom softly, leaning down and pressing his lips against Harry's. Harry wants to argue with him, has to argue with him, but the moment that he opens his mouth the other man takes advantage of it and deepens this kiss. Harry can't help but moan, his fingers digging tightly into Tom's shoulders as the other man presses him down further into the grass.

Tom tastes slightly of lemon and vinegar, and the taste is strange, but Harry doesn't dwell on it, not when there are so many other things to feel - Tom's mouth sliding across his, Tom's fingers curling tightly around his wrist, Tom's weight pressing down onto him. It's strange and it's awkward and it's wonderful, and Harry thinks that he hasn't felt this alive in years. He wants everything that the other man has to give him, wants to give him everything.

Tom chuckles against the curve of Harry's throat, then, his hand sliding down into Harry's trousers and pulling. "You still don't get it, do you?" he says quietly, his fingers tightening just slightly and pulling up.

Harry gasps, his fingers digging and scratching into the flesh of Tom's shoulder. A moment later he can feel the imprint of his fingers digging into Tom’s shoulders and it’s painful, he thinks hazily, not pausing to wonder why he would feel it at all. Tom leans down and kisses him again, lazy but firm, and Harry stops thinking all together.



act the eighth. (a place of sanctuary)
The attic is old and dusty, but Harry likes it there nonetheless. It's calming, he tells himself, to be able to separate himself from the rest of the world for even a small amount of time. It's days like this, when the rain is falling and the sky is dark, that he curls up beside the small, circular window and stares out into the distance.

He doesn't have to think about them, here. Leaning back against the old boards, his fingers wrapped tightly around his wand, he doesn't have to think about anything. Thoughts about Dumbledore, Remus, Sirius, his Mum and his Dad, about him - they all seem far away.

He doesn't have to think about anything, nothing but the steady beat of the rain and the voices that parrot it inside his head.



act the ninth. (if i should falter)
"I tried to kill you," acknowledges Tom one evening, his gaze fixated firmly on the dark, empty sky.

"You didn't do a very good job," Harry replies lazily, sitting up and hooking his arms around his knees.

"No," Tom says after a long moment, propping himself up on his elbows and plucking up a handful of grass and tossing it into the wind. "I don't suppose I did."

"Hmmm," Harry hums cheerfully, watching the trees. "Why did you bring that up?"

Tom shifts and tangles his fingers with Harry's, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. "You've got blood on your hands, did you know?" he says, grinning broadly.

Harry looks down and suddenly the green grass shifts into dark-blue sheets and there's something dark spreading across them and Harry doesn't think to scream.



act the tenth. (if i speak, will you listen?)
The bandage on his arm feels constricting and itchy, and Harry can't help but pull at it in a fruitless attempt to loosen it. "Can I take this off?" he says after a moment, glancing across the room. "I think the bleeding has stopped."

"Are you mad?" Hermione snaps, shaking her head and reaching up to the cabinet in search of some sort of healing salve. "You could have died, Harry."

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he says suddenly, pushing back the sheets and heaving himself up and off of the bed.

A strange expression appears across her face, but she pushes it away and stares at him unflinchingly. "What do you mean?"

"You think I'm mad!" accuses Harry, his lips twisting at the corners. "You think that I cut my own arm!"

Hermione shakes her head, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You've been taking a sleeping potion, haven't you?"

"Yeah," he says, "why?"

"Have you been feeling strange lately?" she persists, the glint her eyes a familiar one and, for a moment, it's as though they're in school again and searching for something in a book in the library.

"What does that have to do with anything?" he snaps, brushing past her and pulling the bandages off of his arm. "I'm fine, Hermione. I'm perfectly fine."

"Harry -"

"I'm fine!" he shouts, slamming the door and storming down the hall. "I'm fine!"

He isn't.



act the eleventh. (meetings by chance)
"I want to stay here," he tells Tom later that morning as they stand together, watching the sunset. The sky above them bleeds with colour, but all that Harry can see is grey.

Tom studies him and says, "You can't."

"I can," Harry says stubbornly.

"Oh?" Tom says. "You still don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" Harry snarls, finally fed up with the other man and his riddles. "What don't I get?"

"You can stay if you want," Tom finally concedes, a twist of his lips the only indication that he's feeling anything at all.

Harry brightens a bit at that, and grins, but then the feeling dulls just a bit. "I still don't understand what you meant before, about me not, well, understanding."

Tom smiles brightly then, his fingers twisting and tangling with Harry's as he leans forward. Brushing a light kiss to his forehead, he trails his lips down until they rest against the curve of the smaller man's ear and whispers, "You do know that I'm dead, don't you?"



act the twelfth. (if you know me, tell me who i am)
He dreams. He lives.

He lives in his dreams.



act the final. (and they say that you become what you fear the most)
"Can I leave yet?" he says that morning (every morning), his eyes cold and unflinching as he stares out through the barred windows. He knows every shadow, every curve of metal. This is his home now, but it won't be for long. It can't be.

It won't be.

The blue-haired man studies him for a moment, a strange look on his face. "I miss you," he says after a long moment, and runs a hand through hair that is suddenly black. "I wish you would come back."

He scoffs. "I'm right here, you know."

The man looks as though he wants to argue, but whatever he was about to say seems to die on the tip of his tongue as a portly, mousy-haired woman brushes past him. "Good day, Mr. Lupin!" she says briskly.

"Matron Long," Lupin says, giving her a small smile in return. "How's he doing?"

"I'm right here," he snaps, fingers reaching out to curl around the cold metal.

The two outside ignore him, and Long simply says, "Not much better, I'm afraid, my dear boy. We're hopeful, though! Mrs. Weasley told us the other day that she may have found a potion that could help Mr. Potter recover his sanit-"

"Don't bloody call me that!" he screams, his fingers reaching out blindly and curling around a glass. There's silence when it shatters against the bars, and Lupin and Long stare at him - Lupin with something akin to horror in his eyes, Long with pity.

"My name is Riddle!" he snarls, his eyes wild and angry. Then, panting, he whispers, "It's Riddle, it's Riddle, it's Riddle."

It is.