Harriet's dead, but she doesn't know it yet.
She floats on nothing, comforting gray haze all she can perceive.
How did she get here?
Memories stir, but slowly, like they're being dredged from a viscous, vicious part of her brain.
But there is no such thing. No such part. She is nothing. She is the haze.
Her first true thought finally surfaces with the sensation of being wrenched bodily from a whirlpool.
Tommie—
The name summons an image: a tall, statuesque, dark-haired woman dressed sharply in a charcoal-gray pantsuit and patent leather heels, her hand held out in invitation. Harriet had taken her hand, had shaken it eagerly. Her long, slender fingers wrapped easily about Harriet's wrist.
"It's a pleasure, Harriet Potter," Tommie Riddle said, smiling in that cool, inscrutable way of hers.
"L-Likewise," Harriet stammered, instantly enchanted by the cascade of her ebony hair and the tiny dimple in her left cheek.
"Your resume is quite impressive for someone your age. I've also looked over the writing samples you sent along with it, and I'd like nothing more than to give you any assistance I can," Tommie went on. "Your work is really quite lovely. Any candidate or officeholder would be privileged to have you." Her voice was rich. Her consonants were crisp, her words deliberate.
Harriet blushed. "Thank you," she muttered, trying to meet Tommie's eyes, then losing the nerve and examining a spot just over her shoulder.
"You are very welcome indeed, Miss Potter."
Things went quickly after that. Harriet was contacted and hired almost immediately by the Lucius Malfoy campaign to assist the haggard, overworked director of communications with whatever he needed.
She couldn't have hoped for better if she'd tried (she hadn't tried). Sure, she would never have voted for the guy, but the pay wasn't bad, and the atmosphere was no worse than anywhere else she'd worked. Malfoy was well-known in the community and largely self-funded. His positions had a broad appeal. He had no prominent challengers. His victory was practically guaranteed.
And she and Tommie kept meeting, under the guise of "keeping up with your progress," as Tommie put it. Their camaraderie should not have been as easy as it was—Tommie was 33 and Harriet 22—and yet...
They spent time at coffee shops. "The atmosphere leaves much to be desired, but their lavender lattés are works of art." Harriet tried a sip and wished she'd stuck with a mocha, then wondered if she'd like it better, tasted on Tommie's tongue.
They took walks in the park. "I came here to hide from my cousin and all his friends," Harriet said. "They were never very nice to me."
Tommie looked at her sympathetically. "I came here to hide from others, too, and tore the wings off a butterfly... just there." She pointed at a spot under a tree, no different than any other. Harriet wasn't really sure she was joking.
They watched old movies and documentaries with glasses of wine on Tommie's couch. The wine often left Harriet relaxed and content, and she would slump bonelessly against Tommie's side. Tommie would throw an arm over her shoulders, and they remained that way, long after the movie ended. Harriet sometimes blearily observed Tommie gazing fondly down at her. Her stomach clenched. The memory of these episodes barely remained when she sobered.
"Hell, Harriet," Hermione—her best friend since middle school—said one day when Harriet had spent a good five minutes gushing in her excitement. "She helped you find a job, and now you're dating her? Are you sure she hasn't got some ulterior motives here?"
"Like what?" Harriet protested. "All we've done is spend time together and talk about books and history and... just about everything, really. Does that sound suspicious to you?"
Hermione frowned. "I don't know, but please be careful. Find out something more personal about her. That would make me feel much better."
"Seriously, Harry," Ron—her other best friend—agreed with an emphatic nod. "You don't want to end up like Ginny—" At this, he stopped, turned away, and refused to say anything more. Ginny was his lively, spontaneous younger sister. She'd disappeared without a trace, months prior. Her loss was, unsurprisingly, still raw for all three of them.
"I promise I'll be careful," Harriet assured them both.
So, with a supreme amount of awkwardness, Harriet asked Tommie about her family.
"There isn't much to tell," Tommie replied easily. "I have none." She patted Harriet's hand with an expression somewhere between bitter and comforting. "I am quite alone."
"My parents are dead," Harriet blurted.
"Oh, you poor girl," Tommie hummed, drawing her close. One of her hands played gently with Harriet's hair. She smelled faintly of lilacs and... a biology lab.
Harriet felt terribly young, then.
It was a night like any other when they kissed for the first time. Tommie drove Harriet home as per usual. Before Harriet got out of the car, Tommie leaned across the seat and brushed her lips against hers so quickly that Harriet almost thought she'd imagined it.
"Lovely," Tommie murmured, her eyes glinting. "Good night, darling girl."
"G-Good night," Harriet stuttered, heart thrumming against her ribs.
*
Harriet still floats.
Where is she?
Is she?
She's alone here in the gray. But wait—
A ripple, there... Someone is here with her, but who? And why?
Whoever it is sparks a fresh cascade of memories, and Harriet is caught up in them once more.
"Tommie kissed me!" Harriet told Hermione, the phone pressed painfully against her ear.
"Congratulations," Hermione replied, not sounding even a bit sincere.
"Tommie kissed me," Harriet told Barty, the even-more-haggard-than-ever comms director.
"Great," he replied unenthusiastically. "Keep your eyes on the prize, Potter. They've dug up some potentially lethal dirt on Malfoy, and I need everything you can give... and then some, probably."
She blinked, coming down from her high with a dizzying sinking feeling. "What's the dirt?"
"Rita Skeeter—you know the one: amazing, rabid reporter that latches onto a lead and doesn't let the fuck go—claims Malfoy hired his sister-in-law's murderer as the general consultant."
"The— What?" Harriet understood the words—knew their definitions, even, but their meaning escaped her.
Barty ran a hand through his sandy hair, which was as worn down as the rest of him. "Riddle dated Bellatrix Black—that's Malfoy's sister-in-law—a few years ago. They went camping one weekend. Black apparently ended up dead. All they found was bits of her. Riddle was in shock. There's no proof she had anything to do with her disappearance, but it's definitely caught people's attention."
"So, now we've got to talk about this bullshit." Harriet shuddered when she imagined the interviews and press releases. "This is obviously completely false. Why would anyone accuse, well, anyone of something like this?"
Barty laughed a little maniacally. "Why not? But, um, you're sure Riddle's innocent, right? You've got to know her well enough by now."
Harriet remembered that odd comment in the park and the gleam of Tommie's eyes after she kissed her. "Absolutely certain," she said firmly.
"Oh, thank god." Barty looked relieved enough to hug her. To her relief, he did not.
The story was naturally put to rest without a hitch. Malfoy gave an interview, delivering the denials Barty and Harriet painstakingly composed for him with great aplomb. His golden hair and dignified air made every word he spoke truth. So successful was he that no one bothered to interview Tommie.
Harriet and Tommie never discussed the campaign in the evenings. Harriet preferred it this way. Thus, she didn't ask Tommie about Bellatrix. The less she knew, the better, she assured herself.
A week or so after the averted disaster found the two of them tangled together on Tommie's couch, sharing warmth and open-mouthed kisses with desperate abandon.
"I want to have sex," Harriet croaked, feeling her cheeks flame as she laboriously got the words out.
"Oh? Are you sure?" Tommie drew back, considering her thoughtfully.
"Yes," Harriet said more strongly. Next to Tommie, she felt scrawny and childish... so she needed to try being assertive about something in their relationship. Hermione would approve, wouldn't she?
"All right, then." Tommie got to her feet and gestured for Harriet to follow her.
The hallway down which they walked had several doors, one opening onto a bathroom, one onto what had to be a guest room, and one nestled in a corner that was closed. A key hung on a hook next to this door. "What's in there?" Harriet wondered.
"Oh, nothing of importance," Tommie replied evasively, ushering her quickly across the threshold of the room at the very end.
Tommie's bedroom was everything Harriet expected it to be. The furnishings were finished in a rich chestnut. The bed was large with deep blue sheets, generously laid with pillows. A closet stood open, displaying a row of starched collared shirts—ranging from white to deep purple—and several pairs of dark pants. Two nearly-identical blazers hung side by side.
"My wardrobe is boring but effective, wouldn't you say?" Tommie said, noticing the direction of Harriet's attention. Truth be told, it was the sort of wardrobe she wished she had. ... Yet another reason to feel terribly out of place here.
Tommie didn't seem to mind the careworn state of Harriet's clothes. She undressed her slowly, her hands lingering on the skin she uncovered. "Beautiful," she murmured, pressing a kiss at the hollow of Harriet's throat and gently sucking the skin there. "Absolutely beautiful." She unhooked her bra and tossed it aside. "Exquisite," she purred, cupping Harriet's breasts.
Harriet lay back and relaxed to Tommie's gentle ministrations. She wondered vaguely if she should be doing something in return, seeing as she'd been the one to ask for this. "Do you want me to—?” she began.
"Soon enough," Tommie assured her. She began to remove her own clothing, allowing Harriet to see her lithe figure, unencumbered.
Tommie's skillful fingers ultimately brought Harriet to overwhelming orgasm, far better than anything she'd experienced during a number of fumbling encounters in college—each made enjoyable only after several screwdriver cocktails. Panting and flushed, Tommie collapsed atop her, her face nestled in the crook of Harriet's neck. They lay like that for several peaceful moments. "Wow," Harriet sighed.
"I am the best, you know," Tommie replied matter-of-factly. Harriet didn't doubt it.
Tinny classical music (Mahler's Resurrection Symphony, which Tommie had made certain she remembered) suddenly filled the room. "I'd better answer that," Tommie said ruefully, rolling off Harriet to reach her phone where it lay vibrating on the nightstand.
"Malfoy?" Harriet guessed.
"Who else would disturb me on a Friday night like this?" Tommie retorted. She picked up the phone and swept out to the sitting room, leaving Harriet alone.
With nothing left to occupy her mind, Harriet returned to wondering what was behind the locked bedroom door. It would only take her a moment, she thought. Tiptoe down the hall, unlock the door, peak inside, close and re-lock the door, and come back here—all within a minute or two. Tommie would still be at Malfoy's mercy by the time she was done and wouldn't suspect a thing.
Her decision made, Harriet quickly pulled on her shirt and pants—not bothering to locate her wayward bra—and approached her destination on silent feet. Tommie's conversation was heated; Harriet's confidence grew.
The key fit smoothly into the lock. The door swung inward. Harriet flicked on the light—
—and blinked.
The first thing she saw, inexplicably, were two open shoe boxes, each containing a pile of hair. One was black, not unlike Tommie's. The other was a foxlike ginger. A lot like Ron's... and thus Ginny's color...
Her heart in her throat, Harriet stepped further into the room. It was set up like a laboratory, with long counters covered in an array of tools. There were scalpels and carving knives and a stand of syringes.
And then there were the two glass boxes. They were long and rectangular, large enough to fit a woman of Harriet’s size inside. She edged closer.
A pallid, hairless figure floated in each of the boxes. Their features were obscured by the cloud of preservative, but both struck chords of familiarity within her memory.
One was tall, her eyes heavy-lidded, missing fingers and patches of skin and part of her left hipbone.
Yes, she'd seen the pictures Skeeter published when she leveled her accusations... accusations that could be nothing but true, now. Yes, she'd read the news reports describing in vivid detail the parts they'd recovered. For this corpse was indeed Bellatrix Black.
The other took far less time to identify. She was whole, no parts missing, her face one Harriet had seen almost daily for years. Yes, the other corpse was Ginny Weasley.
They lay in repose in their glass coffins. There was no poison apple to remove. They would never wake.
The door edged open behind her. "Harriet?" Tommie murmured. "Why did you come in here?" Harriet started, spinning around.
Tommie was fully-clothed and precisely groomed once more, as if their dalliance had never occurred. Her expression was inscrutable. She stepped purposefully into the room, inevitable, inexorable.
"Tommie," Harriet whispered. "What is all this? What is going on?"
"Harriet, darling," Tommie said, grasping her by the shoulders and turning her to face her directly. "I wish you hadn't come here. It wasn't time yet for you to know."
"And when were you planning to tell me?" Harriet spluttered, twisting out of her grip.
"Perhaps never," Tommie said lightly. "Perhaps years from now." She stretched out a hand to her, maybe to comfort, maybe to restrain. Harriet didn't know.
"Why?" Harriet cried.
Tommie tilted her head. "Why not?" she said flippantly. Harriet recalled Barty's identical response with a shiver.
"I'm going to join them now, aren't I?" There had to be a way out of here... But Tommie was blocking the only exit.
"You leave me no choice," Tommie said with an expression of true regret. "If you are left alive, you will leave me."
"I'll do a hell of a lot more than that," Harriet said mulishly, before she could stop herself.
"I would expect nothing less, my brilliant girl." Tommie plunged a knife into her chest and dragged it downward.
Harriet felt no pain, only cold... and rage. She staggered, the edges of her vision sliding out of focus. Her hand impossibly steady, she grasped Tommie's arm and rammed her entire weight against her, sending them both careening onto the floor. The knife with which Tommie stabbed Harriet, still in her hand, was twisted about by their fall and pressed into Tommie's throat.
Months of insecurity turned to disdain in that moment. "Dearest," Harriet croaked: her first term of endearment, her last, derisive word.
"Dar-ling," Tommie coughed, barely understandable.
The laboratory faded.
*
The memories cease.
The other presence is still here. It is terribly familiar.
Tommie floats beside her. So, she did die, then. For that is what Harriet is: dead. And if Tommie is also here, then their fates have aligned.
Tommie is aware of her, for she seems to reach out in desperation. Please don't leave me!
I won't, Harriet replies. It is not because she wishes to remain with her. She knows she can never leave.