Chapter Text
PART ONE:
“Sometimes human places create inhuman monsters.” – Stephen King
The door had barely closed when the portrait of Walburga Black began to scream. It started as a low shriek, steadily getting louder and louder, until the sound rattled through the house.
“Mudbloods! Blood-traitors! Oh, how the House of Black has gone to shame! That wretched son of mine - dead! And poor Regulus, the only one to maintain the family name —the only one —”
Eyes still on the front door, Harry stiffened. Slowly, barely aware of what he was doing, he turned from where he was rooted in the entrance hall and made his way past the ringing words. The last time he had been in the house it hadn’t smelt so strongly of mould. Now the air hung stale and heavy, and apart from the screams of Walburga Black, not a being stirred.
Without his wand, Harry couldn’t shut the portrait up. She would die down eventually (or so he hoped), and then he could think. Then it would all make sense.
The staircase, lined with a carpet so faded it was hard to make out the initial red, creaked under his feet. He ran his hand along the bannister, barely aware of the dust being uprooted. A light flickered overhead. The sound of Walburga dimmed.
Harry reached the drawing room and stopped.
As he slipped through the ajar door, his eyes adjusted to the light. Over the wall stretched the Black family tapestry, all branches and intricately written names. The heavy curtains —fluttering with some new form of infestation—were pulled shut.
Harry resisted the desire to open them and instead gazed at the writing desk, the cabinets, the emerald loveseat and sofas. He had sat there with Ron and Hermione once. Sat there with all the Weasleys, with Sirius, and the Order …
CRACK.
Harry spun around.
At the sight of Kreacher, his heart quickened - quickened so intensely that for a moment he wasn’t able to speak. The house-elf looked the same as he had when Harry had last seen him, though that had been several years ago, in the same cloth, just as wrinkled, just as dirty. He even wore the same scowl.
“Potter,” Kreacher croaked, saying the name as though he hadn’t uttered a syllable in a very long time. “What is Potter doing in the mistress’s drawing room?”
“Nothing,” Harry said. “I’m staying here now. For a while. I’m …”
The marks in the tapestry stood out like cigarette burns. Harry rubbed the back of his neck, trying to make his fingers stop trembling.
“What are you still doing here?” he said, before Kreacher could leave. “What…”
But he knew before he finished the question. Kreacher was bound to Grimmauld Place, even if the occupants had left two years ago. And the house - after being abandoned - had protested at its lack of a family; the dust, dirt and mould were evidence enough.
“Mudbloods and half-bloods,” Kreacher said. “Who else will soil the House of Black? Oh, if my mistress could see it now.”
“Mudbloods?” Harry said, but Kreacher was already trailing out of the room. “Hey, Kreacher - wait!”
Kreacher stopped. Like a puppet having his strings yanked, the elf turned back around.
For several seconds they gazed at each other. Then Harry said: “Did the Order tell you I was coming here? Did they say …”
“Was Kreacher told about this wretched surprise? No, Kreacher wasn’t informed until this morning. Kreacher thought no one was coming back to the House of Black. Kreacher thought that after Master Sirius left, Kreacher could finally get a worthy master —”
The ball in Harry’s chest deflated. “Go,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
With a final dirty look, Kreacher disappeared.
Eyes lingering on the tapestry, Harry backed from the room. The portraits lining the hall were silent. They stood in their dusty silver frames, watching him silently. Something about those blank, unnerving eyes made him glance away, a lump rising in his throat, his heart going fast.
He had to stay here. He had to stay here. He had to—
The elf heads mounting the stairs were drooping; tufts of grey fur and dull, glassy eyes jutted out from the peeling wallpaper. Harry imagined Kreacher joining them, stuffed, mounted, still with that scowling face, until his heart rate calmed down.
Another row of portraits watched him silently. This time Harry ignored the prickling sense of unease, the stirring feeling that something was wrong. He turned left, veered down another hall, basked in the pinkish light of a stained-glass window.
“Lost?”
Harry swung around. The voice came from behind him, wafting out of one of the spare bedrooms.
He reached into his pocket out of instinct, but there was no wand. Snatching up the first ornament in his line of sight — an antique clock, brass and heavy — he took a step forward.
It was Voldemort.
Somehow, Voldemort had found him.
A younger version of the Dark Lord stood in the doorway. He appeared no older than eighteen, tall, dark-haired, and watching Harry in amusement.
But how could Voldemort get into Grimmauld Place? And why would he stand there, with that old taunting smile, allowing Harry to wander the halls, to stay alive for even a fraction longer than necessary?
“A Boggart,” Harry said.
The face of Tom Riddle, identical to how it had appeared in the pensieve, peered back at him. “Is that right?” the Boggart said. It smiled. “Am I really your biggest fear?”
If it was a Boggart, there was nothing Harry could do without a wand. Panic was building in his chest, eroding the hot wave of anger. Not a Boggart then. An illusion. A trick.
Did it have a wand? And why did it look like the spitting image of Tom Riddle, even dressed in a pair of black Hogwarts robes?
Harry’s heart stopped.
“You’re a horcrux. You’re a — you’re the ring. The ring horcrux. How did you…”
Tom Riddle smiled. “Get a body? Come here?” It took a step forward. “Don’t you remember?”
Harry blanched. A dark spot bloomed before his eyes, flecking and darting away when he tried to press on it. A lurid blaze of spells. The whistle of wind. A pair of raised hands.
And — and —
Tom Riddle was watching him, his face alight with glee.
“You killed Dumbledore,” Harry said.
The horcrux raised its eyebrows. “Remember now?” it said. “Dumbledore was the fool who put the ring on and allowed me to take over. Who continued to wear it, for so long I thought he’d never take it off. Isn’t that funny?”
He caught Harry’s stricken expression.
“You can hardly blame me, can you?”
If only Harry had basilisk venom. If only Harry had the sword of Gryffindor, or even his wand.
He remembered that ugly black stone. How it had looked on Dumbledore’s spindly finger, the way he had kept the hand concealed for so long.
But the figure standing in front of him was as solid as Harry. More solid than the Tom Riddle that had appeared from the diary, more life-like than any horcrux Harry had ever met.
“You used Dumbledore’s magic to create a body,” Harry said. “Right. And what the — what the hell are you doing here?”
A look flashed across Riddle’s face, so quick that Harry couldn’t decipher it.
“The Order of the Phoenix know that I’m a horcrux. They’re keeping me here until they decide what to do with me, I presume.”
“Well, obviously they’re going to destroy you,” Harry said. “But why …”
There was only one explanation
The Order thought the horcrux was simply a ring. They had tossed it in the house for safe-keeping, until they figured out how to destroy it, not knowing that Riddle had taken on a corporal form.
“You’re here with me?”
Harry bit down hard on his cheek and turned around. Why was he talking to the horcrux? Treating it as if it was something more than a disgusting fragment of Voldemort’s soul?
He had made it four paces down the corridor when he stopped.
The horcrux — rather than stand in the doorway where he had left it — was following him.
“What are you doing?” Harry snapped, trying not to recoil.
Riddle tilted his head. He had the same face Harry had seen in the pensieve: that straight nose, those high, swooping cheekbones, those gleaming eyes. It was an intimidating face, haughty, handsome, but now Riddle looked flummoxed.
“We’re the only two people in this house,” he said. “Why are you here anyway?”
Harry’s mind was whirring with possibilities on how to contact the Order. Would a letter be safe? Could he order Kreacher to find them? If they knew that Riddle had a body—If they knew Harry wasn’t alone in Grimmauld Place—they would remove him immediately.
“The doors are locked,” Riddle continued. “We’re trapped here. So, what did you do?”
Finally, Harry’s mind stopped. He paused, leaving a metre of space between them, and tried not to think about how absurd the whole thing was.
Riddle didn’t have a wand and nor did Harry.
Could Harry take him in a fight?
Riddle was taller than him, but just as lanky. He stood with a sort of careful elegance, all straight-backed and reserved. Harry couldn’t imagine him with a hair out of place, lest lowering himself to something as physical as a fistfight.
“You don’t know who I am.”
“Should I?” Riddle’s nose wrinkled. “What’s your name then?”
Harry didn’t answer. What’s your name sounded very much like, do you want to be friends, and the last thing Harry wanted to do was continue engaging with the horcrux.
“Look,” he began, lowering his voice. “We’re not doing this. Don’t pretend to be nice, because I know exactly what you are. You killed Dumbledore. And I was put here by mistake. The Order are going to come and get me and until then, we stay on opposite sides of the house. Or else I’ll destroy you right now. Understood?”
Riddle didn’t respond for a moment. He was standing a metre away from Harry, out of place in his black Hogwarts robes, frowning in thought.
“The Order will come and get you?” he said, and the scepticism in his voice made Harry clench his fist. “Why’d they put you here then?”
“I will kill you,” Harry said, in such a convincing tone that Riddle paused.
A puzzled look shot across his face, replaced by something else, something amused.
“You really would, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Harry snapped. “You’re a horcrux. You’re Voldemort. I can’t believe I’m even—”
He moved down the corridor and this time Riddle didn’t follow. Harry could feel those dark eyes boring into his back; the way Riddle was standing perfectly still, a strange statue, perpetually frozen to gaze mockingly at him.
He hurried up the stairs.
Horcrux. Horcrux. Horcrux.
If Harry had his wand, this would be so much easier. But now —a sweat breaking out on his forehead, his stomach lurching—he was powerless.
Maybe you shouldn’t antagonise him, he thought. Avoid him until the Order realises what has happened, no matter how hard it is. Until it’s safe.
But this was Tom Riddle. This was Voldemort, the same age as Harry and already a murderer. Expecting him to play nice was as likely as Sirius strolling through the house doors, risen from the dead.
Riddle had killed Myrtle. Riddle had killed his entire family. Riddle had used Dumbledore, leeching off his life force, and draining him, and—
Harry pushed down that flood of anger and pulled open the doors of the library. A cloud of dust rose from above the shelves. A spider scuttled beneath the floorboards.
He gazed around at the empty shelves, the dark, curtain-drawn windows that didn’t stir, the ghostly armchairs, and hurried on.
There’s an infestation in the house. This one has become very powerful. I can actually touch it.
And you can never trust something that can think for itself - especially if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.
You’ll probably want to dispose of it soon. It will take more than a spell and it’s something that could cause problems in the future.
Did you get the jewellery I sent? I hope I chose the right ring.
When am I going to leave this place?
Help me.
Your friend, Barny Wazlib.
Harry folded the parchment in half and gave it to Kreacher. With no owl, no wand, and no way out of the house, the house-elf was his best shot. He hadn’t had much time to write it, nor to think of ways to keep it cryptic in case the letter was compromised. Kreacher - much to his chagrin - also hadn’t been able to apparate him out of Grimmauld Place or get him a wand.
“Replicate this and get it to Alastor Moody,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or the Order of the Phoenix.”
Kreacher bowed stiffly before him. “Kreacher will try. But the house may be unplottable just like the House of Black. Does the master know where the headquarters reside?”
Harry hesitated. “Try the Burrow. Try and catch one of them in Diagon Alley. And try the ministry too, Mr Weasley still works there, I think, if you see him …”
But the ministry was Voldemort’s now, and what was the chance of Kreacher getting in and out undetected?
“If you can’t find anyone, find out if Ginny Weasley still attends Hogwarts. There’s a shop in Diagon Alley, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes … but try, Kreacher … that’s an order…”
Kreacher listened carefully, his lips twisted in displeasure. He didn’t seem to like it when Harry mentioned that no one else was allowed to see the letter under any circumstances, or that Kreacher wasn’t allowed to communicate with any outside party.
“And come straight back here,” Harry said. “No funny business.”
“Kreacher understands,” the elf croaked, and disappeared with a final crack.
Harry stared around the empty library. The smell of must clogged his nose and the air seemed to hang with a finality that pressed in from every side. He collapsed into one of the leather armchairs and closed his eyes. A black spot rested against his lids. When he pressed on it the spot expanded —out, out, and he was dragged into a feeling of déjà vu, of shadowy fragments, of growing unease …
In the entrance hall, Harry descended the stairs. A headache was building behind his eyeballs with a pressure that rattled his whole skull. He reached the kitchen and turned left, squeezing into the dark pantry and leaving the door open a slant.
The ghostly light from the corridor lit the shelves. Rows of tinned fruit, tomato soup and broth; jars of marmalade and pickles; pasta, cereal, a half-opened bag of flour. Harry inspected it, along with a loaf of bread that was blackened with mould.
The knot in his chest loosened.
He wasn’t going to die here, not for a month at least. Even if the horcrux needed to eat food as well.
There was an empty spot on one of the shelves. Harry stared at it, marked out by a box of rice and a packet of raisins. Then he stepped out of the dark space and pulled the door closed. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the basement, smaller and smaller as he disappeared up the stairs.
In a bedroom on the third floor, Harry peered from behind a heavy curtain. The windowpane was thick with dust but still the street below was recognisable. A row of muggle houses, identical on all fronts to the one he resided in, loomed around him. An over-tipped rubbish bin spilt onto the street; a neatly trimmed hedge stirred in the faint breeze.
Harry leaned forward and eased the latch on the window. It resisted, and biting his lip, he prised the window open with all his strength.
Nothing.
It was magically sealed shut.
Harry tried every other window on the third floor. Just like the first one, none of them opened. A feeling was building in his chest, hot and undiluted. It was as though his organs were pressing in on themselves and his heart had decided to clench and compress. His rib cage was too tight. The room was impossibly small.
He was trapped.
He was trapped in a house with no way out. Trapped with no wand, no means of communication, and a horcrux that had taken on a physical form.
The next breath caught in his chest.
The horcrux, he thought, staring at those peeling yellow walls. He should never have left it alone.
Without fully realising what he was doing, Harry hurried down the stairs, past the drawing room, past the portraits, and to the bedroom he had found it standing in.
The room was a lot nicer than the one Harry had chosen: it had rose-patterned walls that were only slightly faded and a large, queen-sized bed with a carved headboard. Harry caught a glimpse of his reflection through an ornate mirror— deathly pale and standing rigid—and spun around.
The horcrux had gone. It was still in the house. And Harry had left it alone.
He cursed himself for this lack of foresight, stumbling down the stairs two at a time. Past the shrunken elf-heads, the silver picture-frames, the damp patches of mould on the blurry walls …
“Oh, there you are,” the horcrux said.
Harry stood in the doorway of the dining room, his breath coming out fast.
At the end of the table sat Riddle. He barely blinked at Harry’s arrival, though one of the lights overhead swung with the force by which Harry had opened the door.
Riddle was sitting in one of the straight-backed wooden chairs, a spoon dangling between his fingers. He had removed his Hogwarts tie, and his neck looked odd without it: the expense of skin seemed almost inappropriate in a way that Harry didn’t fully understand.
And Riddle — still observing Harry casually—was eating a bowl of cereal.
“What are you doing?” Harry managed to say.
Riddle’s lips quirked. “Eating,” he said, as if Harry was particularly dim. “What are you doing?”
“So, you” —Harry spluttered— “you found the pantry.”
Riddle took another spoonful of his cereal, swallowed it, and said, “does that bother you?”
Harry didn’t answer. It bothered him so much he felt like he was swallowing acid. He took a step into the dining room, and another, making his way down the side of the table.
“I was thinking about why you hate me so much,” Riddle continued, “and I presume it’s because of Voldemort. You’re on their side, aren’t you? The people that put us in the house?”
Harry’s pulse quickened. He crossed the room until they were facing each other. Riddle didn’t stand up from his seat but took another loud, obnoxious mouthful of cereal.
Crunch.
“You know nothing about me,” Harry said. “You don’t even know my name.”
“I know you hate me. I know you’re clueless about why you’re trapped here. I know you expected to be alone, but even then, you were walking around, looking hopelessly lost —”
“It’s for my safety,” Harry snapped. “From Voldemort.”
“And what would Voldemort want with you?”
At last, Riddle stood. He had a silver Head Boy badge pinned to his chest and it gleamed in the candlelight. “Let me get this straight,” he said, his eyebrows rising, “you’re here for safety.”
The words sounded horrible coming from that mouth. Harry clenched his fist hard.
“I know Voldemort’s ruling Britain,” Riddle continued. “The Order of the Phoenix wouldn’t need to be hiding if he wasn’t. And if you’re really important to Voldemort, which I doubt”—his voice dropped. A smile crossed his lips, as he paused to stare straight into Harry’s eyes. “—I bet you’re just the same as me. A piece of leverage.”
Harry’s fist collided with Riddle’s face.
At the impact, Riddle’s head jerked. He stumbled and Harry raised his fist again but Riddle was grabbing him, punching Harry straight in the jaw, his hands real and solid.
Harry shoved him. “You know nothing about them,” he snapped. “What’s your last memory? Being in charms class, fifty years ago?”
Riddle laughed. “It was Transfiguration, actually,” he said. “Kind of ironic when you think about it. My last memory in the past was of Dumbledore, and my first one here was too.”
Harry tried to punch him again. Riddle ducked and aimed one at Harry’s stomach, causing Harry to crumble forward.
He seized the front of Riddle’s robes and shoved him into the dresser behind them, sending the Black family china rattling.
Riddle wasn’t smiling anymore, but continued, nevertheless, in that mocking tone. “They abandoned you. Do you think it’s a coincidence that you’re locked in here? You’re in danger from Voldemort, and they put you here, with me, a version of him from the past? I am Lord Voldemort —”
Harry needed him to shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.
He punched Riddle again, punched him so hard his head flew back. He punched him right in the nose, right across his mocking smile. He aimed again, hand drawing back, and Riddle grabbed his wrist, smashing his head into Harry’s, and toppling them backwards.
A blur of fists and elbows ensued.
Harry’s glasses were knocked across the floor and Riddle’s nose was bleeding. Harry was barely aware of the sting in his knuckles or the blows Riddle had managed to land in return. Adrenaline was coursing through him, kickstarting his brain.
They had ended up on the floor. Harry had Riddle’s arms pinned beneath him, and Riddle twisted in his grip, trying to shove him off.
“They didn’t abandon me,” Harry snarled. “They didn’t even know you were here. You’re meant to be a ring.”
He punched him for emphasis, and Riddle’s leg jerked upwards, to kick Harry so hard that he swore. He let go of Riddle’s wrist out of reflex; Riddle tackled him backwards, and they rolled, crashing, across the tiles.
“A ring,” Riddle said. It took Harry a second to realise he was laughing.
It was a strange, horrible sound: less high than Harry had imagined, but just as cold and cutting.
“That’s what you think?” Riddle said, and with a final surge of hatred, Harry managed to hit him once more.
He pinned Riddle's wrists before he could respond and leaned over him, breathing heavily.
Riddle, his face bloody, was still laughing. It was so loud that the vibration of it went straight through Harry’s arms, straight into his marrow.
“Dumbledore’s dead,” Riddle breathed. Harry could feel his breath near his face, as warm as that of any human’s. Unlike the figure that had come from the diary, there was nothing blurry about Riddle’s form. He was as solid as anything, as alive as Harry.
Because he killed Dumbledore, Harry thought, and squeezed tightly over his arm.
“I bet you’re here because they don’t trust you either. They left you here with no way out. No wand. And you think they care about you –“
Harry gazed into that bloodied face. Riddle’s eyes were bright and wild. He was remarkably unfazed for someone who had been punched repeatedly, and despite Harry’s best efforts, Riddle was still smiling that twisted smile.
“I have no wand because it can be traced,” Harry said. “If I used magic—”
Riddle laughed. “You’re what— seventeen? Eighteen? You have no trace.”
“All wands can be traced now,” Harry said. “Not just the ones that belong to minors.”
Harry released his wrists in disgust. They both sat up and observed each other warily. Despite Riddle’s obnoxious smile, there was something calculating in his eyes.
Harry didn’t want to punch him anymore. He wanted to move to the opposite side of the house and never engage with him again – not until he found out how to destroy him. His head was reeling. Of course Riddle knew how to get a rise out of him. It was what he did.
It was as though someone had sunk fingers right into the soft tissue around his heart.
Riddle stood up awkwardly but he didn’t wince. There were pieces of china all over the drawing room floor. Pieces in his dark hair.
Sirius’ china, Harry thought. His heart sank.
“They don’t care about you,” Riddle said. “The Order of the Phoenix. You may have meant something to Dumbledore, but you’re nothing to them.”
And then—as if he was so certain of this statement that he didn’t bother to see Harry’s reaction—he strode out of the room.
Harry picked up one of the ornaments on the floor. It was a solid silver goblet, inscribed with the black family crest. He traced the smooth letters —Toujours Pur—and thought of Sirius.
They hadn’t abandoned him, he thought. What did Riddle know?
He lifted the goblet and set it back on the dresser. The dining room was silent. There was blood on his knuckles, Riddle’s blood, and his mouth was fat and swollen.
It had been a mistake. It had to be.
The chandelier overhead was flickering. Harry watched it, thick with cobwebs, and casting shadows along the wooden table.
Right?