Chapter 4
“I'm in the business of misery
Let's take it from the top
She's got a body like an hourglass, it's ticking like a clock
It's a matter of time before we all run out."
-- Misery Business, Paramore
..XoX..
Harry makes a list of pros and cons. That’s a way he deals with uncertainties in his life -- by writing them out.
The ‘cons’ column of joining the tournament is short and sweet. - He might die. And even then, he hasn’t much problem with the idea of dying so, really, this is actually a pro.
The ‘pros’ column is a bit longer as is. - Money, if he wins. - Publicity, even if he doesn’t. - Will force him to get better at practical magic. And, just for kicks, - Possibility of dying.
Harry nods, reading over his list one last time, making sure he’s listed everything he wants to consider. The deadline for entry is by the end of the week, so if he wants to pull out, now’s the best time.
Harry sips on his black coffee and almost spits it out when, at the bottom of the ‘pros’ column, the words - Emancipation appear.
Harry coughs, choking, kicking the journal across the floor, getting it the fuck away from him. He considers burning it. He’s from a magical family and one thing, always particularly and oddly stressed, was that when sentient, magical, objects talk to you, you do not talk back. On second thought, maybe that’s not a normal ‘magical family’ warning, but it’s still good advice.
He’d be sad to lose his journal, of course. He’d been using it as dairy and storyboarding for his novel -- which, admitting, was not going well. What else could he expect from a magical, Dark Lord journal if not that it had to be destroyed at one point or another? It was foolish to keep it to himself in the first place.
Of course, he’d do all that after figuring out whatever they meant by emancipation. Because whether or not a Dark Lord suggested it… it’s an attractive idea.
He scoots back over to the journal, wand in a shaky hand, and writes, What do you mean?
The response is swift: You want to get away from your parents, don’t you? In your entries, you do not speak fondly of them.
That’s right, Harry says. He is worried. Hesitant to confirm anything. Knowledge is power. That’s been stressed in his household, too.
So get away. Use this tournament to get away.
How would that work?
The requirements of magical emancipation are, to the best of my knowledge, as follows: 1, the minor in question must have reliable financial income / financial stability. 2, the minor in question must own or rent real estate or have an interest in doing so. And 3, these things can be achieved WITHOUT depdeance on their family / parents and real estate / vaults owned by them. Those are the requirements, though you might think to double check them, given that my information is outdated by… oh, fifty years or so.
It’s… a genius idea, actually. With the tournament money alone, he could purchase real estate. With the publicity, he could kick start his writing career into something financially viable. Harry’s surprised whomever he’s writing to was able to staple that together with what bits and pieces they know of Harry’s life.
It is impressive. Also creepy. Thanks, Harry writes. Bye, though.
Wait! Wait, Harry. Let’s think about this, whatever you’re about to do. Alright? I am smart. I am intuitive. You must be able to tell. I can be useful.
Yeah, says Harry. You could also be evil. You probably are. So.
There is silence on the other side and Harry rolls his eyes, getting ready to close the journal, when it writes back, Yeah. Yeah, Harry. You’re right. I’m evil. I’m evil as all get out. But I do not want to hurt you.
Harry is bewildered by the honesty. If shock is their way to keep Harry talking, then it’s working. Then who do you want to hurt?
Myself.
There’s therapy for that, you know.
No, I mean. Harry, I am one half of a man much worse than me.
The fuck does that mean? Harry asks, And who are you? You both, apparently. Harry’s running theory is that he’s talking to a current and/or former Weeper, given the… ah, look of the journal.
I am Voldemort. He is Voldemort.
Wow. Wow, okay then. It’s a bit more than a mere Weeper, huh? It’s the mother fucking king of Weepers.
Tom Riddle… yeah, the name Tom Riddle being on it makes sense now, doesn’t it?
He is a Ravenclaw. The Hat decided that for a reason. Harry knows that the smartest thing to do would be to give the Dark Lord journal to Albus DUmbledore, say It’s your problem, not mind, good luck, and be on his merry way.
That is the smartest thing to do. That is the Ravenclaw thing to do. But he has never been sure why he was sorted here. He’s never been all that smart so he does not hand it over to Dumbledore. He writes, How are there two of you?
To ensure his immortality, he split his soul in two. And he split it many times over, so I’ve heard. And I? I am the first. As long as any one of us are still alive and kicking, Voldemort, in his main form, gets to live.
So you want to, what? Kill Voldemort? You’d have to die yourself, from the sound of it.
I’m well aware and well prepared. Voldemort has hurt many people but it is himself he has hurt the most.
Truthfully, I doubt that.
Yeah, okay, you’re right. That’s fair.
And you’re a diary. How the hell are you supposed to kill anything? My mom… And it hurts to think of her but he says anyway, My mom warned me about these things. It doesn’t help your case that you’re one half of a Dark Lord.
My case?
Yeah, your case. Build a pretty good one, ‘cause if you don’t, you’re dead.
That’s rather rude, you know.
Oh, suck my dick, Voldemort. I’m not nice. You should know that by now.
You’re right. I do. And, please. Call me Tom.
Alright, Tom, whatever. Tell me why I should trust you. No. No, before that, tell me how you plan to kill Voldemort while you’re stuck in a book.
I’d need to steal a wizard’s magic -- turning them, effectively, into a Squib -- and use it to acquire a form of my own--
You’re cappin’.
Cappin’?
Sorry, lying. You’ve already got magic. Why do you need more?
Because, Harry--
No.
No, what?
No, you can’t call me Harry. It feels slimy. Feels like you’re trying to manipulate me.
Okay. I won’t call you Harry. Potter, then?
No. No Harry, no Potter. Refer to me never.
Alright. You’re in charge. The reason I need someone else’s magic is simple; given that I have no current form, my magic is, in a sense, ‘dead’. To revive it, I need ‘alive’ magic.
Okay. I’m not so sure the science behind that. Are wizards able to live without their magic?
Of course. Physically, Squibs are BUILT the same as wizards -- they retain the same extended life expectancy and general durability. The only difference is that they do not have a magical core. So, in theory, if a wizard were to lose their magical core, they should be fine.
I’m gunna have to read up on that one.
You do that. In the meantime, any more questions?
A few. How do I know you won’t steal my magic?
You’d notice. The progression from wizard to Squib is not one done without physical consequences -- loss of time, your magic would weaken, of course, nausea and vomiting as well as body soreness might occur, according to my predictions.
Not so sure I’d notice, actually.
No?
Half of those things I already have going on.
Yes, well, destroying your body does that.
Yeah.
I promise, though, that it’s more notable than you’d think. I do find something interesting, though.
Yeah? And what’s that?
You do not seem to have a problem with someone being turned into a Squib, as long as that person isn’t you.
Is that really so surprising? I know so many people who don’t deserve the gift of magic. And in turn, there’s the possibility that the now immortal Dark Lord Voldemort gets murdered. What’s not to love?
I don’t know. I assumed you’d find problems with the cruelty of it. Do unto others what you’d what done to yourself, wasn’t it?
Oh, shut the fuck up. Don’t try and lecture me on ethics, Dark Lord.
One half of a Dark Lord, actually.
I really want you to read that over and ask yourself if that matters in the slightest.
Okay, yeah. You’re right. My apologies.
Don’t be a suck up.
I’m not trying to--
Shut the fuck up. Why do you A, want Voldemort dead and B, want him dead so bad you’re willing to die for it?
I made a very poorly planned decision. Voldemort and I did. When we split our soul, I went into the diary with expectations not then met. Tell me. Tell me what life is to you. What makes it worth living. What makes it life?
That’s a difficult proposition--
You only think that because you are seeped deep in self inflicted misery. You know what I think? I think there are good parts of your life and you choose not to see them. You think you do not deserve them. You think that if you indulge in the good parts of life, you’ll lose the bad parts. And without those parts, you don’t know who you are. And you know what I think? I think that’s stupid.
Wow, so helpful, I’ll use that to cure my mental illness, thank you very much.
I have not enjoyed a cup of tea with milk and sugar while sitting in the sun for fifty years. I have not felt soft pillows of a well made bed. I have not been snuggled by a cat. Do you know what that is like? I am trapped and I am trapped with nothing. And there’s someone to blame. Myself and my other not-exactly-half and I cannot feel anything physically but mentally, I feel angry. I am enraged. I want revenge for every lonely moment, for every missed opportunity. Wouldn’t you?
Alright, Angst Lord.
Do not dismiss what I’m saying. You want the truth? This is it. This is what you’re getting. I want to burn the world. I want to fucking die. Surely that, at least, you understand.
Once you get a physical form, who’s to say these feelings won't change? That when given the option of life, you won’t choose it?
I am a hateful person. If I live, that means Voldemort gets to, too. And that… that would make my life not worth living. Unsatisfactory.
Oh, boo hoo. Weren’t you just going on about not focusing on the misery?
I… admit I am prone to hypocrisy.
No kidding.
But you get it? Don’t you?
Yeah. I get it.
So trust me. Give me to some kid you don’t like. Let me steal their magic and then let me kill myself with all that entails. Do not destroy me.
Stop whining. I’ll do whatever. I’ve got some asshole in mind. Gunna need some time, though, so don’t steal my magic in the meantime.
I wouldn’t dream of it.
..xox..
Tom did dream of it. In fact, it was already happening and had been happening the moment Harry started writing in his journal.
For a Ravenclaw, he really is stupid. Of course, the sentiment is a bit unfair. He saw through quite a few of Tom’s lies, so much so that the majority of what Tom admitted was the truth.
The majority. But not enough. Not the important parts.
Tom is glad that Harry was not giving him away immediately -- Tom still had a mystery to unravel and if Harry didn’t have a reason, Tom would've had to make one up and if Harry’s reaction to him has proved anything, it’s that he’s no longer the stellar liar he once was. Or that Harry is much harder to deceive than your average fellow.
Tom had suggested emancipation to Harry for reasons that appeared kind hearted in nature -- or a desperate bid to prove his usefulness, prove that he should not just be destroyed, wrecked, discarded, handed off without preempt. In reality, it was to undermine Voldemort. It was him being petty and, hey, if that benefits Harry, too, then two birds, one stone, right?
Harry wrote frequently about his arranged marriage with one Luna Lovegood. Mostly, he spoke about his own inadequacy, of anger both at himself and his parents. Tom finds his ramblings that of a child -- mostly because they are -- but when Harry mentioned that, apparently, this marriage had been in place since he was four, Tom put two and two together.
Tom was unsure why Voldemort had decided to send him off to the Potters. Unsure why he was to spare the child, or why the child was worth sparing -- most of his predicament, Tom could not find reason for.
But this. This, Harry’s marriage, arranged eleven years ago? This is a clue. Because, really, who does that! Tom had integrated himself into packs upon packs of pretentious, stereotypical Purebloods, and tried to make himself just as similar to them as he could. So he knows a thing or two about Pureblood arranged marriages.
For the most part, they are set up ages 10-16, as is Pureblood custom. That way they can be made to attend school together or already do -- and so there is not a surplus of “wait time” before the marriage, where tensions may still remain high.
So why, why in the world, would Harry Potter be decided to wed Luna Lovegood when they were both only four? And it is not like there is, from what Harry’s wrote, any tension between the Potters and the wholly uncontroversial, if not insane, Lovegoods.
Tom assumes that Harry’s parents want him to be in an arranged marriage because that’s what worked for them and they want their son to have the same success -- but if that was the case, or if anything, really, was the case then they would not have hidden it from him for, what? Six years? Something like that?
And if it was to amend something between the Lovegoods and the Potters -- which, again, Tom doubt is the case -- then they would not have offered to put him with Neville Longbottom once they thought he was gay!
Something is fishy here. Lily and James… just want Harry to be married, to be unavailable, and have since he was four. Since Harry was four, around the time that Tom’s attempt to murder Lily and James failed.
Voldemort has something to do with it. And Tom hates Voldemort. So even though he does know what Voldemort is up to, Tom wants to interfere with it.
If Harry is no longer under the ward of the Potters, the arranged marriage they put him in no longer stands. And any marriage they try to shove him in after that, well, that won’t work, either, will it?
Tom Riddle is petty. He is vengeful. He is one half of a Dark Lord and though he no longer aligns himself with Voldemort and has not for a long time, he will never forget his roots, never change from them. Just because he is not Voldemort does not mean he is a good person.
..xox..
“Have you pulled your name out of the running yet, Potter?”
Harry blinks at them. They are a seventh year Ravenclaw sitting at the table beside him in the library. Harry can’t remember their name, but they have never been cruel to him. Nor kind. He clears his throat, turning back to his journal, where he wants to write but does not want Tom to see, for some reason. “No,” he says.
“Don’t tell me you’re planning on competing?” they say, laughing a little.
“Only if my name is drawn,” he snaps.
“Oh, why -- I didn’t mean to be rude,” they put their hands up, still smiling. “I was just thinking, with your condition, and all--”
“Yeah, well,” he says, standing up, tucking his book under his arm. “Maybe it’s best if you stop thinking.” It’s so much to ask, sometimes, he realizes. To have people ignore his problems. He does not like being known as that crazy bitch who won’t eat, or eats too much. It is not fun. It is embarrassing.
It is… dehumanizing, in a way.
“Aren’t you worried that your heart might stop?” asks the Ravenclaw, apparently not knowing how to take that hint. “Not just in general, but, I mean, out in the tournament, while facing big, life threatening shit? Aren’t you worried you might… just die?”
Is he worried about dying? Oh, what kind of stupid question is that? Of course he is. Every moment of every day he deals with the side effects of a body far from healthy. He is worried he might die and, sometimes, glad that he soon will.
But to ask someone that -- someone who obviously does not want to talk to you, who does not know you well enough to even remember your name -- is that not fucked? Is that not invasive?
And Harry opens his mouth to tell them off when the Ravenclaw continues, “I’m worried. I mean, about the possibility that I will, duh, but… you, too.”
Harry blinks at them, books crushed tightly against his side. “What?”
“I know you don’t know me -- but I’m a Teacher’s Assistant to Professor Severus when I’m not in class. Your essays are amazing, dude -- you’re my favorite author. You’ve got talent. So… don’t squander it by dying.”
He’s… someone’s favorite author? And suddenly Harry interprets their words under a very different tone -- someone who does not know a writer very well, but would like to, who knows about their health issues and relates and is worried, who wants to preserve this stranger because they know no one else will.
It makes their concern almost sweet, if not for the boundaries crossed.
And to that… Harry does not know what to say.
The Ravenclaw seems flustered, noticing that they’ve stumped him. “Uh -- yeah, so I’m pulling my name out of the running. You should, too. And if you ever want to talk -- about your issues, or just as friends -- I’m… I’m free whenever.”
To that, Harry does know what to say. “Go to Hell,” he spits, turning on his tail and speed walking out of the library. Go to Hell? he thinks. He realizes he is sobbing. Go to Hell. That’s what he tells the first offer of friendship since his first year?
He laughs at himself. Of course it is. He doesn’t want friends. He does not need them. And he would be a terrible one, that’s for sure.
It… It is better, every time, to have shut that door before it could even open.
That’s what he tells himself, at any rate. It is what he needs to believe.
..XoX..
“Halloween is never over
Hug your witch hats past October
Paint witches in November
And carve pumpkins in December
Hang on tight, and you’ll remember
That Halloween is never over.”
-- Harry Potter, “Death.”