Chapter 2
Chapter Two:
Harry mechanically prepares tea, his thoughts drifting. It has been two days since he last encountered Tom. The boredom has become suffocating, reaching a point where he feels like he might burst out of his own skin. This sentiment is amplified by the fact that Death itself is present in Harry's modest flat, observing Evan in the crib with a puzzled expression as the infant babbles softly.
With a sigh, Harry sinks into the sofa with his tea. The spoon in his cup twirls autonomously through the liquid as he impatiently taps his foot against the hardwood floor.
"Master," Death intones. It pivots to confront Harry, its bones audibly shifting and creaking beneath the dark shroud of its robes. "Is this prudent?"
"Prudent?" Harry arches an eyebrow, meeting the hollow gaze of Death's eye sockets. No, nothing Harry does could ever be considered wise. The spoon in his cup halts its motion and levitates, coming to rest on the coffee table. Harry takes a deliberate sip of his hot tea, hoping the scalding heat might render him speechless. Alas, his wish goes unfulfilled. Instead, he cradles the cup in his hands, peering into the swirling steam, seeking answers he knows won't materialize.
"I'm simply bored," Harry remarks with a shrug.
Death hums softly, a sound reminiscent of a breeze slipping in through a crevice. Extending its elongated limbs, it delicately lifts Evan from the crib, its smooth bone fingers curling around the infant's waist. "Even as a mere babe, you show no fear of me," Death remarks, allowing Evan to curiously touch his skeletal visage.
“Well,” Harry smiles. “We are old friends. What did you expect?”
"I didn't expect to find you here," Death responds. "If I recall correctly, Fate informed me that you would be happily married, raising three children with that Weasley girl."
Harry exhales sharply, dispersing the steam rising from his tea. Ginny is pleasant, of course, but Harry has hardly paid her any attention. He has no desire to marry her; he resists the idea of being tamed like a wild creature brought into a cozy home. Surely, there must be more to his eternal existence than this hollow restlessness he can't seem to shake off?
“I’m not interested in Ginny,” Harry says, gulping down the rest of his tea. Placing the empty cup on the coffee table, he rises without bothering to smooth out the wrinkles in his t-shirt. Jittery, he grabs his coat, slipping it on.
"Master," Death follows Harry, holding Evan against its chest. "Where are you off to?"
"Nowhere," Harry replies, wrapping a scarf around his neck. Tired of waiting for Tom to make a move, Harry decides to take matters into his own hands. "Look after Evan until I return."
Death recoils, taken aback. "I am not a babysitter—"
Harry apparates away before Death can finish protesting. He lands just outside of Knockturn Alley and swiftly ducks inside. Passing by the shops adorned with giant spiders, shrunken heads, and poisonous candles, Harry observes that Knockturn Alley has not yet acquired the ominous shadows it will in the future. The few wizards and witches visible in the narrow street are impeccably dressed and immaculate, a stark contrast to the beggars and hags he knows from his own era. Soon, Harry locates Borgin and Burkes and slips inside, the soft chime of the bell above the door announcing his entry.
The shop, spacious yet dimly lit, is filled with an eerie ambiance emanating from a large stone fireplace on the far left. Creepy masks gaze down from the walls, rusty instruments dangle from the ceiling, and an array of human bones rests on the counter, where Tom Riddle is engrossed in writing something in a thick tome.
Harry feels a distinctive pull in his sternum. He absentmindedly runs his fingers over a deck of playing cards spilled over a wooden display, before he approaches the counter, coming to a stop in front of Tom.
"Hello," Harry greets softly.
"Hello," Tom responds, lifting his eyes from the tome. He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Are you planning to flee from me once more?”
A spark of excitement ignites within Harry. He wets his lips, suppressing a smile as Tom follows the movement with his keen gaze. Were Harry in a more charitable mood, he might have answered Tom’s question, but being who he is, he turns, walking deliberately down the dusty aisle to inspect the items showcased. Despite encountering numerous cursed objects, none captivate his interest. Harry selects a silver bracelet to occupy his hands. Noticing an inscription inside, he narrows his eyes. Could these be hieroglyphics? Running his thumb over the markings, he freezes as a warm breath grazes the nape of his neck, startling him like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Would you be so kind as to tell me your name?” Tom's low voice, uncomfortably close, startles Harry from behind. When did he sneak up? Harry wonders. Forcing his tense shoulders to relax, he returns the bracelet to its place. Turning to face Tom, Harry leans against the display, and bites the inside of his cheek as Tom studies him intently.
"It's Harry," he says. “Just Harry."
“Just Harry,” Tom echoes quizzically. Extending his hand for a handshake, he introduces himself. "I'm Tom Riddle."
The words ‘I know’ stay lodged in the back of Harry’s throat. He gazes at Tom's hand, contemplating whether to let them touch. History has shown that nothing positive arises when their hands meet. Yet, feeling bored, Harry clasps Tom's hand. A strange, tingling sensation begins to crackle beneath his skin, spreading heat through his body, prompting a soft, involuntary noise to escape his lips.
Harry’s eyelashes flutter as Tom’s breathing turns heavy. His long, elegant fingers flex around Harry’s hand, gripping tight enough to bruise. Harry wonders if Tom is experiencing the same severity of emotions as he is.
It seems likely, for Tom crowds Harry against the display, dipping his head as if compelled to initiate a kiss. What's unsettling is that Harry would permit it, if only to quell his restlessness. They are both tainted souls. Murderers. Two sides of a coin stained with blood. Perhaps, at this juncture, they deserve each other, no?
Harry tilts his head upward, offering himself up on a silver platter. His heart races, attempting to break free from his chest as Tom's gaze smolders with intensity, hints of red mingling with the grey of his eyes.
Abruptly, the shop’s bell chimes softly, signaling another customer's arrival, yet Tom remains unmoved. Rooted in place, he gasps for breath, his chest rising and falling heavily. Harry decides to put Tom out of his misery. He leans up and brushes his mouth against Tom’s, a feather light touch. It’s enough to send fire coursing through Harry’s veins. As he retreats, Tom's expression shifts to one of hurt, resembling a stray animal being shunned from a doorstep.
Perhaps Harry shouldn't have taken that step. Grave errors have been committed, but this act feels weighty.
“Tom,” Harry whispers. “I have to go.”
It takes Tom a full five seconds to release Harry's hand, followed by another three before he steps back, allowing Harry to slip out of Borgin and Burkes and into the cold outside. Peering through the shop window, Harry observes Hepzibah Smith engaging Tom in conversation.
With a swift apparition, Harry materializes in his flat. Unwinding his scarf, he furrows his brow at the sight of Death seated on the sofa with Evan, the babbling infant withholding a teddy bear from the ancient being.
"Did you have fun?" Harry inquires, tossing his scarf and coat over the sofa. Making his way to the kitchenette, he leaves damp snowy footprints in his wake.
"Did you enjoy your time with Tom Riddle?" Death counters, prompting Harry to halt in his tracks. Of course, Death is aware. It knows all. Harry rolls his eyes and prepares tea.
"I had a pleasant outing, yes," he answers.
Death remains silent as Harry settles beside him on the sofa. Placing his cup on the coffee table, Harry lifts Evan, settling the child onto his lap.
"Mama," Evan snuggles into Harry's chest, his small arms wrapping around Harry's neck. The tender moment tugs at Harry's heart. He nuzzles gently at Evan's tousled hair, comforting him with a hand gliding down his back, drawing him nearer.
"Perhaps it's time to consider finding someone more suitable for babysitting," Death remarks, getting up. Its smooth, bone fingers run reassuringly through Harry's hair. "Don't you think so?"
"Nope," Harry replies with a smile. "There's no one else I trust as much as you."
"Of course," Death sighs. Without another word, it fades away, disappearing into thin air as if it had never been there in the first place.
Harry shuts his eyes and slumps against the couch. He contemplates abandoning his tea in favour of a bottle of fire whiskey.
1495 words//unedited.