“And here you are,” Riddle states with an unreadable expression on his face, leaning on the doorframe a few steps from the chair occupied by Harry. “Again.”
“Actually, it’s you who’s standing in the middle of my living room right now,” Potter snaps mechanically, looking blankly at the wall.
“Come on, we both know what I meant,” Riddle says, walking slowly along the dark carpet, smiling charmingly. When he elegantly sits down in the chair opposite, glaring at Harry, his smile begins to resemble a grin.
Potter turns his half-closed eyes to the main cause of his troubles. One look at this contented and teeth-grindingly perfect face evokes an almost irresistible desire to kill: either him or himself. But they have already passed this stage. Now Harry can simply let his heavy eyelids close completely, in the hope that this will help at least slightly relieve the headache that no potion can cope with. And so, in the twilight of the already not particularly bright living room of the Grimmauld place, slumped in a dark leather chair with carved legs, Harry can finally allow himself to relax. Listening to the measured crackling of the fireplace, which had long since been disconnected from the Floo network as unnecessary, and Riddle’s quiet, on the verge of audibility, breathing.
If someone had said something like that to him a year ago, he would have personally taken the poor guy to Mungo's on the mental health floor. And two years ago, immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts, he would have cursed him with something especially unpleasant from his meagre arsenal of spells.
And now he is ready to give a lot so that the night comes faster, so that he wants to sleep more often, so that sleeping potions last longer.
Harry involuntarily grins, and Tom raises an eyebrow questioningly. Without even opening his eyes, Potter can be sure of this. They are in his head, after all.
***
This began a few months after the defeat of Voldemort. The nightmares that had become familiar during this time began to gradually change. Become scarier, longer, more real. The first bell was a dream in which he, Harry, was in the place of some unfamiliar Deaths Eater. Watching Voldemort torture another unfortunate man, periodically interrupting himself with inspiring monologues about the importance of blood purity, old traditions and other, as it seemed then, rubbish. He himself was "honoured" to use the Cruciatus on a victim. And when Harry, unable to resist, pointed his wand at the trembling mam, he, as if sensing his reluctance to carry out the order, twisted, slamming Potter's back into the uneven surface of the stone walls of the dungeon. The next morning, he woke up covered in bruises and with a graze on his elbow that definitely wasn’t there the previous evening.
It was worth starting to panic even then, but Harry, too tired from endless battles and problems, only convinced himself of what he imagined. You never know, maybe he hit something at Quidditch, anything can happen, right?
The next stage in the evolution of dreams, after a couple of months, was their smooth transformation from a cycle of images, events and phrases, seasoned with horror, but still felt like visions, into Riddle’s memories. About his school years, working at Borgin and Burkes, traveling around the world, gathering followers. In general, everything that Harry Potter, by definition, could not know. The question “where did all these pictures come from?”, that seemed extremely plausible, remained without an exhaustive answer. According to the already emerging trends, attributed by the Boy-Who-is-so-Tired to external factors. Like overwork, studying, too frequent mentions of Voldemort, well, and the now destroyed Horcrux that existed side by side with him own soul almost all his life.
It was no longer a bell, but a fucking emergency alarm, although still ignored, that was the change in Harry’s own behaviour. The irritability that is standard in chronic lack of sleep eventually gave way to detachment. People no longer seemed interesting, long-term communication caused discomfort. Even his friends did not evoke the same positive emotions, let alone the girl he had already lost interest in after the battle. Ginny was starting to get irritating.
Stupid, weak, useless blood traitor.
Ron and Hermione, who until the last moment tried to stir up their friend who had closed himself off from everyone, one day almost received a curse in the forehead from him that Harry himself had never known. Granger still did not lose hope, but noticeably reduced her ardour, constantly bumping into contemptuous or distantly cold glances from eyes the colour of the third Unforgivable.
Why his friends, seeing this, did not turn to anyone, still remains a mystery. Maybe they also preferred to justify everything with the war consequences and a difficult childhood. However, this is not so important. Weasley and Granger disappeared from his life immediately after graduating from Hogwarts. Like all other people, in general. Returning to Grimmauld, Harry first closed the floo, and then set about restoring the family nest of the most ancient and noble House of Black to its former majestic appearance.
And that night he spoke for the first time with the main reason for all this - Tom Marvolo Riddle.
***
Falling asleep for the first time in the master bedroom at Grimmauld, Harry tried to guess what episode from the life of the Dark Lord he could witness today. Frankly, seeing his path to power, albeit in fragments, was terrifyingly interesting. And just terrifying at first. He was perfectly aware that what was happening to him was abnormal. Even a destroyed Horcrux can’t have that effect on him. What can we say about the “too difficult Potions test”, with which he pitifully tried to justify a dream, no, Riddle’s memory of preparing some particularly complex experimental potion, where Snape assisted him.
But over time he got used to it. He was even imbued with some of the events he saw. He began to become interested, understanding the goals, and sometimes ways to achieve them.
Still, Riddle was a genius. A sick, fucked in the head bastard, but a genius.
And now, closing his eyes, he was in anticipation of a new round of events and another demonstration of the capabilities of magic and the mind of He-Whom-He-Was-Never-Afraid-To-Name.
Falling asleep, Potter managed to feel a barely noticeable, but all too familiar sensation from his fifth year, of someone sneaking into his mind.
Moments later, opening his eyes beyond the edge of reality, Harry stared in shock at Tom fucking Riddle, sitting cross-legged on a snow-white bench in the ghostly King's Cross Station. Exactly where Potter himself ended up after his death at the hands of Lord Voldemort.
And this same Lord, now looking at most about forty years old, and without snake features, managed to look regal even just sitting on a bench and piercing Harry with the gaze of his still scarlet eyes.
“I’m either dead, or my sanity just left me without saying goodbye.” Potter muttered under his breath, still staring at goddam Riddle who somehow had crawled out of the world of dead, again.
“I can’t say anything about your psychological state, but I can assure you with confidence that, for now, you are still alive.” Voldemort responded calmly, patting the bench next to him invitingly.
Harry didn't really appreciate this manifestation of hospitality in his own mind, giving Riddle a sceptical look. He had almost no doubt that it was his consciousness. Riddle's afterlife seemed something akin to a stereotypical Muggle vision of hell, with devils in the face of the Death Eaters and a huge boiling cauldron, in the manner of the one from which Voldemort crawled at the cemetery.
“I don’t particularly like your “for now” And how did you...” Potter hesitated, once again looking at Riddle “survived? If you're even alive, which I'm not entirely sure of, given the situation.”
“You are surprisingly calm.”
“And you still haven’t tried to avada kedavra me. Death changes people, I guess. So? Did we miss some kind of Horcrux?”
“Do you really think that if I had another anchor, the first thing I would do when I was reborn would be to come to you in your dreams to talk about life?” Riddle asks venomously, arching an ironic eyebrow.
“Who can tell you Dark Lords,” Harry chuckles, and then raises his head from a sudden realization. “You’re the Horcrux that was inside me, right? All these dreams, memories, thoughts - it was all you. And you are still in my head, but you can neither get out nor take control of my body!”
Riddle jumps up sharply, in a matter of moments he is next to Potter and pins him by the neck to the column.
“Be careful with your words, boy! I myself decided not to kill you. Practice shows that you are more useful alive, but I can always change my mind and... drive you crazy, for example.” Voldemort hisses on the verge of Parseltongue and human speech, vividly reminding Harry of his past ugly and insane version.
“But you’re wrong about one thing, Potter. I have never influenced your thoughts while you are awake. All your actions, words and decisions are truly yours.” Riddle says confidentially, almost whispering the last words in the ear of his victim. And with flashing scarlet eyes he walks away, leaving Harry in shock rubbing his injured neck and trying to catch his breath. There will definitely be bruises there in the morning.
“Er... aren't you supposed to look like, I don't know, a grey-green, covered in scales, noseless baby?” Potter finally answers, clearing his throat. After what seemed like an eternity, the information received had more or less sunk into his head.
“Well, this is, for the most part, your merit, Harry,” Riddle almost purrs, breaking into a crooked smile.
“My?” The new data does not fit into the newly formed picture of the world, leaving Harry blink his eyes in shock.
“Who would have thought that the death of my main body would affect you so much.” Voldemort begins from afar, looking around the station. "Although, on the other hand, this was to be expected. From the age of eleven you were convinced that defeating me was your main purpose in life. They gave meaning to a hitherto empty existence. Made me your meaning. It is not surprising that after the destruction of Lord Voldemort, you fully felt like a Divination textbook that was thrown into the trash after you completed the course. Unnecessary, useless, used. An abandoned and forgotten Hero. I believe that, according to the great plan of the no less great light wizard of all Magical Britain, you should not have survived the final battle.”
“Nonsense. No... this can't be!” Harry mutters in a suddenly hoarse voice, backing away.
“Oh, of course it can, my dear abandoned Hero.”
“Nobody abandoned me!..” Potter instantly flares up, but encountering the burning gaze of bloody red eyes, he chokes on an accusatory speech.
“Really? Why then did your “friends” give up so quickly, stopping communicating with you, because of a banal bad mood? Why did the teachers allow you to close yourself off so much and withdraw from society? Why didn't anyone care about your mental health, despite the fact that it was thanks to you that they were still alive? Even reporters did not bother you for a long time.”
With each new phrase, Harry took a step back until his back was again against the ill-fated column and pressed his whole body to it, under the yoke of bone-chilling intonations, a scarlet gaze and a dark enveloping aura. “And do you know why that is? You are their past. War, suffering, loss. Britain wants to build a new, happy future on top of blood and bones. And to do so, they need to abstract themself from the past. Forget. After all, it is common for people to erase traumatic events from their memory. That’s what they did, taking you along as well, as the main symbol, association, obstacle.”
“Why should I believe you?” Potter protests very weakly, finding confirmation in his memories of every word Riddle says.
“You shouldn’t, but you already believe.”
A crooked grin cuts through the Voldemort’s handsome face, and the surroundings float and blur. Time is up, it's time to wake up.
***
And now, every night, closing his eyes, Harry would certainly find himself at the snow-white King's Cross station in the company of an overly pleased Dark Lord.
At first, only Riddle spoke, softly and not really, opening his eyes to the truth. Pushing him to the conclusions he needs. Around this moment, Potter usually got angry, screaming, spitting venom and refuting everything said by his interlocutor, but invariably running into a searing gaze, he shuts up. And Voldemort continued. Again and again. Like to a small child, chewing on and hammering the information into his head.
When ideological differences were more or less resolved — compromises were found somewhere, but otherwise, Riddle’s point of view was accepted — they moved on to training.
Tom turned out to be a surprisingly good teacher. Demanding, unable to tolerate disobedience, but good. It was with his help that the Grimmauld place was finally fully restored, the title of Lord Potter-Black was adopted, numerous conditionally permitted spells were studied - Harry still tried to stay away from dark magic - and the basics of politics were comprehended.
And so, they sit by the fireplace in the Blacks’ living room, which Potter decided to transform his consciousness into today - the blinding white of the King's Cross station was already getting boring after the second week - and are silent, each thinking about his own.
“What will happen next?” Harry interrupts the comfortable silence.
“It depends on what you mean by “next””
“You understand perfectly well what I mean. What do you need me for? Just don’t say that you decided to teach me out of the kindness.”
“Maybe I have a soft spot for abandoned stray kittens?” Riddle chuckles, sipping the tea that came out of nowhere.
“I'm serious. You haven't answered this question in a damn year, Tom.”
“Do you remember what topic we started our communication with?” After a long pause, Voldemort begins. And, having received a quick nod from Harry, he continues. “The attitude of the people of Magical Britain towards their saviour and, subsequently, my politics and views on the future of this very Britain.”
“Yes, I remember. But how is this even connected?” Potter interjects when Tom falls silent again. As if he himself should have guessed everything after these words.
“Without going into too much detail, I want you to become a new opinion leader and lead our country to a bright future, not overshadowed by the prospect of the merger of the magical world with the Muggle one.”
“What? Wait, you want me to become the new Dark Lord, or what? And how did you even manage to connect this into a logical chain with the previous phrase?”
“No, you don’t need to become the Dark Lord, and it’s unlikely that you will be capable of this in the near future. Changes made by force are often not accepted by society, and as a result of recent events - my actions in past wars, to be more precise - will be completely rejected. A softer and more diplomatic approach is what needed here.” Tom explains patiently, in a tone as if they were talking about some everyday things. At the same time, he completely ignored the second question, apparently considering it beneath his dignity to explain to someone how his brilliant brain works.
“So, I should become the Minister of Magic then?”
“This, to my great regret, will also not be possible for the next twenty years or so. It will be enough for you to simply declare yourself a little later, when you learn everything and stop asking such stupid questions. You will return to society as a young and gaining influence Lord of two ancient families. It's time to leave the boy-who-lived behind.”
“And... that's it? Should I just show up at the Ministry somewhere and tell them what I think about their current policies?”
“Of course not. Everything will happen gradually. And this is one of the reasons why I did not choose this path when I was young. But they will quickly start listening to you. You can’t imagine how much a famous surname gives. In your case, even two.”
Young Lord Potter-Black thinks deeply, trying to say something a couple of times, but changes his mind, remaining not at all aristocratically sitting with his mouth half open. Voldemort watches this silent scene with unusual tenderness. He is confident that this boy will be able to do what he himself could not achieve. Under his constant control, of course. And Riddle himself will fully repay his little Hero, continuing to be the only factor turning his empty existence into life.
Will continue to be his meaning.