Tom Riddle & Death
Harry sends off his letter to Blaise. Tom sits beside him on the ground of the Hufflepuff common room. He tries not to bristle in jealousy. After all, thinks Tom, petty, I’m the one with him, here. Blaise cannot say that, can he?
“What did you write him about, Harry? The upcoming trip? Gringotts is expecting us.” And, Tom thinks, smug, Blaise can't come to that, either--”
“No,” says Harry, shuffling his papers into place. “But, as it turns out, he’ll be able to accompany me to that.”
“What?” Oh, isn’t that just great? A cockroach who refuses to die; a boy who always, every time, circles back to his love. It’s just Christmas break -- and Blaise cannot stay away even for that long?
It’s ridiculous. But Tom loves Harry, so he clears his throat and says, in a much lighter tone, “That’s wonderful, Harry.”
If Harry notices Tom’s buried resentment, he makes no note of it. “It is. He’s talking to me again, which is nice. I don’t know what got him so ruffled up days back.”
“Me either.” Though it is meant to be a lie -- a duel; information supposed to be sacred, trusted, strewn across the table -- it is unwittingly the truth.
“I was writing him about something that… that happened to me. During my first Divination class. It’s probably nothing…” Harry huffs. “But, if anyone’d know differently, it’d be him. Not that I’m worried either way.”
“Is it something to be worried about?” Is there something I can do? But I’m already trying, you must know. To do things. Likely more so than your lovebug future boy.
I can do so much for you, Harry. I was able to beat him, one on one. And I did it for you.
I am better.
I need you to see it.
Harry is silent for a long moment. Then he asks, “Tom, what do you think of death?”
Tom tries not to flinch. “Was that what happened in Divination? Something to do with your death?” He’s going to have to pick up his research, put some plans into motion quicker -- he wants to live forever -- refuses to die -- but he needs Harry there, too. He needs Harry to live forever. He is stronger, must be made stronger, than his flesh.
(He will not have another Affair incident on his hands.)
Harry shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not bothered.” He says it so casual. Like it is the truth -- and it must be, this admission. Harry Potter does not tend to lie and he is not good at it. “Are you?”
“Am I what?” Bothered by the prospect of Harry’s death?... It seems he is more than Harry himself is.
(He will not have another Nagini incident on his hands.)
“Bothered,” says Harry. “Of the idea of dying.” He looks away from Tom and into the fireplace. The light paints highlights his canvas of skin. What did Harry do, to be blessed with such beauty? How had Tom not noticed him before this year? “It’s okay if you are. I’m just curious.”
“I…” am terrified. I am beyond bothered; I am petrified. I must live. Death is weakness and I am not weak, Harry. And although you are, I will not let that forsake you. I will be your strength and you will be my equal… or something like it. “... I find it an unattractive concept.”
“Why’s that?”
“I have things to do,” says Tom after a moment. It’s partially the truth. “My bucket list is ever growing. I don’t suppose I could live with myself if I died with it unfinished.”
“Well, that’s sort of a given, isn’t it? With dying? That you don’t have to live with yourself.”
Stop speaking like this -- like death is impossible to avoid. Even the fastest of enemies can be outran, if you sneak and strategize enough. And I will. I am. “You’re right,” says Tom. “I have no intention of it ending like that, my bucket list, unfinished.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” A laugh bubbles up in his chest. “I have plans.”
“I have plans, he says,” mutters Harry, shaking his head a little. “That’s funny.”
“Why?” What about this is a laughing matter?
You’ve seen death, too. Your parents were murdered. Your first love’ friend was slaughtered -- what don’t you get about that? -- and they took the blame falsely -- why are you not scared?
I have seen death, too. I have caused it.
We are the same.
Why aren’t you acting like it?
“I guess I just don’t get it,” says Harry. “Working so hard to avoid it.”
“I don’t want to die,” Tom says, earnestly. “I really, really don’t want to die.”
“I know,” says Harry. “Hardly many people do, do they? But it’s natural. It happens.” And then, in an odd sense of deja vu, “Only when the lily dies and turns to soil can new life rise from it. Life and death, that’s how this works. That’s how it always has.”
Oh. Oh, Harry. I see now.
We are the same -- but you share the mindset my younger self did. Like life is fickle. Like life is impermanent and, god forbid, necessary. I have grown up. Learned. Made plans.
You’ll get me, one day. I am sure you will grow old enough to, if I have anything to say about it. (And I do.)
“I think it’s going to happen soon, anyway.”
Tom’s blood runs cold. “What is, Harry?”
Harry’s eyes slide over to him. He says, blankly, matter of factly, “My death, of course.”
“Don’t say that.”
“All the signs point to it,” continues Harry, counting the things off his fingers, “The memory loss, the confusion, the inability so sleep--”
“You can’t sleep?”
“And the prophecy,” finishes Harry. “Pretty soon. That’s what she said, how long it was until I’d die. It’s possible she’s a phony -- why I’m asking Blaise -- but I’m okay, I think, if she isn’t.” Harry holds his hands out in front of him. “One year more. Maybe two. That’s all I need.”
“What…” Tom pushes on. “What will happen in a year?”
“I will have ensured Blaise’s safety, and he’ll be able to ensure all of yours. I need one year. One year, and I’ll be happy.” Harry laughs, lightly. “I have my own bucket list. Things to do,” he mocks, “Plans made and in motion, and all. I want to incite change. It’d be nice if I could, if I did.”
“But you’d be okay if you didn’t?”
“Not okay,” says Harry. “Just unable of caring anymore.”
Tom’s tongue sits, dry in his mouth. There are some parts of Harry -- who is just like him -- that… that Tom just can’t comprehend. His love for Blaise. His tolerance of Neville. And this, too.
“Why?” begs Tom. “Why would you be okay with that?”
“I think,” says Harry. His tone takes on a dreamy quality. It is not his own. But it is close. “That I have been thinking about death for a long, long time. Thinking about dying. Some part of me has, at least. Sooner rather than later, it’ll happen, and I have to do everything I can in the time I have.”
“I’ll save you,” Tom says, more fiercely than he meant to.
Harry looks amused. “Really? You’re not god, Tom. You’re no Merlin. I’m afraid even he couldn’t escape death.”
Tom resists the urge to argue. He could and he did -- and he came back. In a way, he’s still here. There are ghosts. Portraits. Elixirs -- so many people, Harry, have dodged the scythe’s bullet in some form or another. I plan to avoid it being fired entirely. It is not as far-fetched as you’d think. Instead, he says, “Vampires are immortal.”
Harry laughs. “That’s your genius plan? To get bit? I heard their rights are nearly nonexistent. Blood doesn’t seem like it’d taste all that good, either--”
“It’s something.”
“It’s also silly,” says Harry, much gentler than before. “You realize that, don’t you? They’re immortal. But hardly are they invincible. It is a weak plan, Tom, a silly one.”
It’s something. It’s all I have. “The study of ghosts is a deeply complex and fascinating--”
“They eat garbage.”
“It’s almost like you want to die,” snaps Tom. He’s being mean. He knows he is being mean but he can’t stand it. He stand this, this conversation, this tone, this silliness. “Harry Potter, the living ghost of Hogwarts, head of the Dismantilist movement, a martyr. That’s what you are, aren’t you? A martyr. Willing to die for a cause but not to live for it, is that right? Your people need you alive. And yet you refuse to stay that way. You are selfish--”
“You don’t know what you are talking about, Tom.” He says it patiently, calmly, but Tom can hear the edge of anger creeping into his voice. Harry Potter is not a patient man.
“And you do? Why are you so intent on dying?”
“I’m not.”
“But you are fine with it? Able to handle it, if it should so happen?”
“A Seer told me I might die and your response is to mock me?”
Tom takes a deep breath. “I,” he says, slowly, “do not understand your position.”
“And you don’t have to.”
I do. I have to know everything about you -- I have a right to that. What’s yours is mine. “I want to.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you refuse to,” says Harry. “Because you do not want to.”
“I want to,” says Tom again.
“Okay. Then listen. And you can’t interrupt. And you can’t get angry. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to die. The idea that I will is… is close. It is worrying, and upsetting, and not something that has been at the forefront of my mind for more than a week. A Seer -- not trusted, or recognized, perhaps for the good of her -- told me I might die. That I would, and soon. And I am a lot of things. But I am not,” Harry says, tone intense, “my father. I am not friend to denial. I am prepared for the worst. I am acting, swiftly, with that in mind.”
“Let me save you.”
“I will let you try,” Harry relents, softly. “For it is not like I can stop you. It is,” he adds, “important to you, as well, I can see. It is touching. I am glad you want me alive.” Harry smiles. “I’d be pretty upset if you were to die, too, if it is worth anything.”
And it is. It is worth the world. Tom will never stop falling in love with him, over and over again. He feels like his heart is tied, attached, at Harry. He would do anything for himself -- lie, steal, kill… For Harry, he will also protect.
I love you.
Do you love me too?
I hope so. I think it would kill me if you didn’t. What is a soul without its other half?
“I’m going to try,” says Tom. “Really hard.”
“Okay,” says Harry. “Don’t be mad at me for not doing the same, alright?”
“Alright.” You will not need to try. I will do it for you. I will do anything.
(Everything except tell the truth. He is all grown up. Tells himself that, all arrogant, with all the confidence of Tom fucking Riddle. But he is childish. There are some things time does not kill.)
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
Bertha coils warmly around Nagini. She is a sappy girl and although Bertha was averse to receptive at first…. Bertha soon finds that the Chamber is no longer as damp, or cold, when she is not alone. It is good. She is good. She might even say… a friend. That’s weird, too. Having friends. But Bertha finds it is not the bad kind of weird.
No, thinks Bertha, gazing at the snake lying beside her. Not the bad kind of weird at all.
“I have an idea,” hisses Nagini. She shifts herself so she is looking Bertha in the eye. “You might not like it.”
“So is the way of most of your ideas. And, likewise, with them, I will warm up to them. Do tell.”
“What if we learned to write?”
Bertha is equal parts surprised and confused. “Parseltongue, as a written language? I haven’t heard of such a thing before, and I was familiar of Salazar Slytherin himself. Developing a written version of Parseltnogue from the ground up would be time-consuming, if not completely impossible on our own.”
“You think too much.”
“And you, too little.”
“I was talking about writing English.”
This does nothing to lessen Bertha’s confusion. “... The British humans’ language? I am not sure we could learn it.”
“I know,” says Nagini. “But don’t we have a lot of time to try?”
Unbeknownst to them, Blase had sat, on bended knees, watching a string of foreboding void surround the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. At that very moment.