Arbor Vitae (arbor_vitae) wrote in parsel_fest, @ 2008-09-25 20:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2008_fic, 2008_round |
Happy Parsel Fest, Dea Caelesti!
Recipient: dea_caelesti
Author: kaycee
Title: The Room
Pairing: Tom Riddle/Harry Potter
Rating: R
Word Count: 7,940
Warnings: Reference to canon character deaths and one non-canon character death, some AU elements, minor angst, a bit of strong language and one sexual scene (the people involved are of age).
Summary: The war is won and Harry Potter is still haunted by dreams of Tom Riddle, but are dreams really all that’s going on?
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. Written for fun, not profit.
Author's/artist's notes: This story was a lot of fun to write, dea_caelesti. I hope you’ll enjoy reading it, too.
It has been seven months, three days and sixteen hours since Voldemort’s defeat, and Harry Potter might just be the only one still keeping count.
The world around him is slowly recovering, rising up from the ashes and beginning to rebuild itself, because life, as the tired old saying goes, must go on.
His own is no exception, so he does what’s expected of him and bravely soldiers on, even if that means having to remind himself on a daily basis that things are different now.
They don’t feel particularly different, though. Not really. Not yet.
But the circumstances must have changed.
Everyone acts like they have.
So he follows their example, and no longer tries to hide his recurring nightmares from his friends.
After all, dreams about Voldemort, no matter how horrifying and upsetting they might be, are entirely harmless now, from a rational point of view.
They’re also a conveniently plausible explanation for why he’s been feeling so… beside himself lately.
It’s easy to blame his absent-mindedness on war trauma. No one dares to question that, not even Hermione. Perhaps, Harry decides wryly, he would have made a decent Slytherin, after all.
Only he, himself, knows that those nightmares aren’t the real cause of his anguish.
Their impact fades into nothingness compared to those other dreams, the ones that assault him even during the daytime and have become unsettling frequent in recent weeks.
Ron and Hermione definitely mustn’t know about those.
No one can find out about them, not ever, because those dreams… They’re wrong, twisted and—Hermione would certainly attest to this if she had a clue—completely illogical.
In the clear light of day, they also make Harry’s skin crawl. Is someone purposely messing with his mind again?
Yes. That must be it.
What else could possibly explain those visions of dark hair and vivid green eyes, so like Harry’s own, and a handsome face he remembers from that night so many years ago?
A terrible night with a tragic outcome…
Harry tried everything within his power to save Ginny, but he was too young, too weak and nowhere near fast enough.
He’ll never forget that image of Fawkes soaring into the room and filling him with hope, but one well-calculated spell from Riddle and in an instant, despair took over.
The bird dropped to the floor. Blood and feathers mingled with murky water.
In his blind desperation, Harry leapt towards the diary and it was pure chance not skill that enabled him to destroy it.
Riddle vanished in a green mist.
The phoenix healed shortly thereafter, but for poor Ginny, all help came too late.
She never opened her eyes again.
No one blamed Harry for what had happened; not even Molly Weasley in the deepest depths of her grief. Harry was just a child, they said; hardly a match for the monster that had reappeared.
No kind of reassurance made him feel any less responsible, though.
Even today, he feels guilty about Ginny, Cedric, Sirius, and all of the others—so many other victims—that followed.
Perhaps he always will.
The road to victory was paved with corpses, and Harry was supposed to be the great hero. He could have done better. He should have saved them all.
Is he the only one who still thinks about that, looks at things from that angle? He doesn’t know, and asking someone would feel inappropriate, possibly even suspicious, especially now.
The people around him are getting on with their lives; moving forward.
Harry should, too.
Everyone keeps telling him as much, reminding him that his whole life lies ahead.
And he does try.
Well, he goes through the motions.
More to appease Hermione than of his own volition, he has been looking into his future career. As far as he’s concerned, it will involve playing Quidditch, not spending the rest of his days hunting Dark wizards, thank you very much.
So it’s not that he doesn’t have any plans.
It’s just…
Those blasted dreams; they’re always there, unrelenting.
It’s the same story every time.
Tonight is no exception.
His head has barely hit the pillow when the dreadful journey commences.
It always starts in the Forbidden Forest.
In a moonlit clearing, men in masks and dark robes inform him that this is far from over.
”He’ll find you, Harry Potter, and when he does, he’ll kill you and everyone you’ve ever cared about.”
“He already has,” Harry yells back. This dialogue is getting repetitive, trite and tedious, but he can’t stop the words as they slip past his lips. He’s more spectator than participant. Powerless, no matter what they say.
Some things never change.
The Death Eater lets out a sarcastic laugh and his companions join in until they fast fade out of sight and their surroundings fold into another scene in that surreal way only dreams can.
After the vague threats, the real terror comes, though it’s never frightening at the time.
On the contrary; it’s rather… thrilling.
Harry is standing in a corridor. The wan light from dripping candles, the bare stone floor and the green tapestries adorning the walls suggest he’s in the Slytherin section, though not in a part of it he remembers ever having seen before.
As if out of nowhere, Tom Riddle suddenly saunters toward him, his aura oozing confidence. He’s wearing his Slytherin uniform and a Prefect badge and has an enigmatic smile plastered on his face.
All Harry can think, as he does each time this happens, is that Tom seems… harmless, approachable, normal.
Nothing like the monster he became or will become or well, whichever rules of time apply here.
Harry doesn’t know what to say or how he even feels; it’s a bizarre combination of scared and curious.
Intrigued.
Tom Riddle has always fascinated him; even more so since Harry saw Dumbledore’s Pensieve.
Visions of a lonely boy in an orphanage; a misunderstood gifted child, a genius gone bad, or had he always been that way?
Harry will never know, not for certain, and yet he can’t help but wonder…
Would a nicer childhood have made any difference in the long run? Would loving parents have changed the outcome?
Tom finally opens his mouth to speak and that’s when Harry panics.
Every single time.
He doesn’t want to listen to what Riddle has to say. He’d rather not know.
This part of his life is over.
And besides, he’s not as brave as he used to be. He has very little courage left.
So he runs, as fast as he can…
He wakes up, bolting upright in bed, shaking, and breathing like he just ran a marathon.
The very idea that Riddle could still be alive chills Harry to the bone, though not nearly as much as the realisation that he may want to see that boy again.
Not Voldemort, but the person he was before; a lonely, mysterious boy.
Harry lies back down and swallows thickly.
Perhaps his claims about suffering some kind of war trauma aren’t a complete lie. Either that, or he has finally lost his mind.