Alchemy
“All things are subject to interpretation, whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.”- Friedriche Nietzsche
“Tell me, Harry. What is it that you know of the world?”
The question came unbidden, the darkness swallowing the faint light trickling from the open entrance-way. It was like a gun-shot in absolute silence.The voice disrupting the little peace Harry had found while dozing off in the small living room.
Harry had not expected it, for this presence to slip through his senses and bleed into the crevices of his mind. Not since he had mastered (though it was arguable if it would ever had satisfied Snape’s standards) the art of Occlumency weeks prior at the camp. It had diluted the heat that came with the strange whispers in his head, with the seductive utterances promising things Harry knew the monster could not achieve.
It had been a mercy to silence that voice, but Harry knew that he would not have the luxury of his mental walls to save him now. Not when Tom Riddle was here, and not some figment of his imagination. Not some ghost, a sad memory of what he had lost because of a broken soul’s cruelty.
Harry lifted his gaze from his lap, slowly drinking in the sight of dark polished shoes and finely tailored slacks. Tom Riddle’s legs looked thicker than he remembered them looking in the clearing, the outline of cut calves and toned thighs drawing in Harry’s vision despite himself. Similar to how they had looked standing in the clearing over the bodies of his–
Stop it.
Harry shook himself from the reverie before casting a tired glance at the man. Harry felt his neck protest from how sharply an angle he had to incline his head, but there was no helping this. Harry had been sitting on the chair for some time now, lost in thought before Riddle had come in.
And then Harry looked at him, focused his bespectacled eyes on a face he’d hoped he would never see again. At least, not in the flesh. Because there was no mistaking that Tom Riddle was standing in the middle of his living room, immaculate and pristine as if he’d come straight from a fancy party.
Here was the man rather than the fiction. A piece of the monster, Harry recalled, rather than the whole, watching him with a pleased twist to his lips.
He was no longer a disembodied voice that murmured sweet threats into his head, but solid flesh. He was no longer the ghost that had made Hermione fade like smoke in a windy afternoon or the monster that had murdered Ron in cold blood. He was no longer the locket that had lain between his chest and shirt, its heat pulsing strangely like a beating heart.
Harry slowly raised his hand to clasp around the locket wrapped around his throat, his fingers digging into the metal as if it would relieve him of the danger he was in.
What could he possibly say? What words could he string together to answer such a blithe question as that?
What do you know of the world?
Harry knew loneliness. He knew what life was like without his two best friends at his side, to give him strength when he was unsure of his own. He knew of hatred, and the lengths a demon would take to ensure that his plans came through.
Harry knew of monsters and angels. He knew more than he should about the cruelty the world was capable of, that Tom Riddlewas capable of. And he knew that any answer he could think of would never be good enough.
The world was black and white, with hints of red between the curling edges of reality. He knew the birth of Tom Riddle and of the rise of Lord Voldemort. He knew the weight of Tom Riddle’s soul against his chest, of how the weak thing writhed against his ribs through dense metal.
He knew it all and more. But still, he remained silent.
“I can see the words dancing behind your eyes, can taste the sound of it on my tongue. Speak, Harry. What is it that you wish to say?” Tom Riddle said, his rigid posture completely at odds with the almost gentle sound of his voice. Harry felt his mouth go dry, the shock of it enough to make him stand from where he’d been sitting for Merlin knows how long.
I know loneliness. I know grief. I know loss.
Harry wanted to say, but the words refused to come. He couldn’t admit just how much pain he felt, could not find the courage to voice just how alone he felt. He couldn’t tell the man that he missed even the company of a dirty soul against his chest, of how he’d rather have shite company than suffer through another moment of the pitying glances from everyone in the camp.
It was, in the end, all he had left now.
And he hated himself for it. He wished he could begrudge everyone that looked pityingly at him. Wished that he could shout and scream at them, show them that he didn’t need that when all he wanted was company. He wanted to hate them for ignoring him, for isolating him in his tent when what he really needed was a firm pat on the back or a shoulder to cry on.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t blame them when everyone that grew too close to him died. When associating with Harry James Potter was but a death sentence. It was the natural fate of those cherished by the Boy Who Lived. It was the reality.
Though, that didn’t change the fact that he was lonely. It did not erase the agony that flared between his ribs at the memory of those lost, of his godfather’s face as he fell through the veil, of Ron’s blue eyes flickering out, and of Hermione’s cries as she vanished like an errant thought. No, it didn’t defeat the reality that Harry wanted even unwanted company to relieve him of this misery.
But still, Harry bit his tongue until iron burned on the flesh. The bitter taste as oppressive as the cloak of grief and apathy in his heart.
He would rather die than say the words swirling in his head. He would rather fall over than give the man the satisfaction. He was Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and Gryffindor by birth. He was the chosen one, and prophesied to save Britain from the reign of a mad man.
He couldn’t afford to let himself crumble. He was all the resistance had. He couldn’t just roll over and die, even when he wanted nothing more than to just walk to his death and let it be the end of it.
It was his purpose. It was why Dumbledore had sent him and his friends off on this mission. It was why Voldemort wanted to kill him. He had no other choice. Because he just couldn’t just be selfish and give up when so many were counting on him. Not when Ron and Hermione had died in order to defeat the Dark Lord. He couldn’t let their memory be tarnished in this way.
No, Harry knew his fate.
And now, in the presence of the devil himself, he had to make a choice. Even if the desire to just lay on his back and give in was all too tempting. He could not allow the darkness percolating in his heart to swallow him as easily as Tom Riddle’s presence overshadowed the moonlight in his tent. As easily as Tom Riddle had likely found him in the tent, following perhaps, the connection that flowed between them. Even when this was a Horcrux and not the shell of the person the real Voldemort was.
It was funny, in a way. To see the monster he had hidden from for so long in this dingy tent. Riddle looked so completely out of place, with his dark hair and vibrant red eyes. If someone had told him that Tom Riddle would live once more, that another piece of his soul would come to life and chase after Harry as well, he would have thought that stranger mad.
He would have laughed in their face, would have stared them in the eyes as he determined just what to do with that awful joke.
But this was his reality. This was what Harry had to deal with after the Horcrux had overtaken Ron’s mind. Harry had hoped then that his friend would have been able to overcome the sibilant lies, would have been able to resist the allure of a fictitious Hermione beneath the shadows.
And it had certainly looked like Ron would. The vibrant blue of his eyes so intense that Harry had been convinced then that Ron would pull through and smash the sword into the misty locket.
But that never came to pass, and now, all Harry had was his own loneliness and guilt to contend to.
Harry was drawn away from his thoughts by the sound of the man clearing his throat, by the slow twist of pale lips forming into a soft grin. It was an expression Harry had not thought the Dark Lord capable of, accustomed to the leer of Tom Riddle’s more…snake-like counterpart.
But this man was not Voldemort. Well. He wasn’t the same Voldemort. This was someone entirely new. This was a man that had yet to shed his skin. He was still pretty, resembling the pleasant boy Harry had seen what felt like years ago in the Pensieve in Dumbledore’s office.
“Are you not going to answer? How…rude.” The man said, the smile growing more sharp and unpleasant on his face. “Is this how you treat your guests?”
“No,” Harry replied without thought. It came unbidden, the word sharp on his tongue despite weeks of disuse. He couldn’t remember when was the last time he had spoken to another. The memory of Hermione’s pained cries and Ron’s unseeing eyes robbing him of his ability to speak.
People at the camp thought him broken. That he was a mere shell of who he was.
But Harry knew that he was still himself. He was still Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The boy who killed without ever having to lift his wand or utter a spell.
He was still the precursor of death. He was still the same boy that had placed his hands on Quirrel’s face and watched the man burn.
Harry had not changed. He certainly didn’t feel like he had.
“No, you are not going to answer or no, this is not how you treat your guests?”
Harry paused for a moment, mulling over whether he should entertain the man at all. What did it matter if he answered? What could Tom Riddle possibly want at all? He had a body now, had slipped away from his prison after ripping Ron’s soul straight from his body.
There was no need for him to chase after Harry. No need at all to linger in his thoughts like an infection rotting him from the inside.
“…why are you here? Was it not enough that you got a body of your own? There is nothing more than you could take.” Harry said, watching the way Tom Riddle’s lips grew wider and his eyes brightened. Harry could see the amusement there, could see the way the man struggled to keep himself composed despite all the aloof masks the man had worn as a teenage boy.
“You still don’t know?” Riddle purred, stepping further into the tent without sparring the entrance a glance. Harry watched him prowl like a cat, his steps fluid and his hair like liquid tar as the moonlight shone on the brilliant strands.
He looked angelic beneath the faint glow, his skin more luminous and his lips more pink. His eyes were a wildfire and Harry felt a sharp pain cut him to the bone.
Red like Ron’s hair. Red like Ron’s blood.
Red, red, red.
Harry felt his breath suddenly leave him, his hands shaking as he remained perfectly still in the middle of the meager living room. He tried not to flinch when Riddle closed the space with three fluid strides, his presence a force that threatened the little sanity Harry had gathered into his palms.
“…you and I are more than simple enemies. There is more that binds us, Harry. More than the magic that electrifies air, more than a wand in the hands of a powerful witch. What we have, what you are, is something which transcends the laws of time and space. You should never have been, and yet, here you are. Breathing the same air as I, your eyes burning with the same power as I.”
Harry did not move when Riddle lifted his hand to press a light touch to Harry’s cheek, a thumb caressing his cheek bone like a riveted child. Voldemort’s eyes were stormy, the swirl of emotion similar to the burning insanity in Voldemort’s eyes when he had risen from the grave. But this was a different sort of insanity, Harry knew.
This was pleasure and delight. Riddle was pleased. The locket, now reborn, was delighted by something as innocuous as this.
Harry did not understand. He could not understand.
“What are you–”
“Hush, just feel. You will miss it if you ignore the call writhing in your blood, twisting inside for a chance to escape…” Riddle interrupted, his voice low and whispy. Harry clicked his mouth shut, and debated fighting him on this. He felt the familiar burn of his tenacity and strong-will surge to life, the emotion foreign as it danced along the back of his tongue.
…but it was not the only thing Harry felt. There was something thrumming in the back of his eyes. A something that Harry could not see even though his glasses sat perfectly atop the bridge of his nose. It was a something Harry had often felt right before bed, a twinge of emotion before he’d smother it through the will of his mind.
Harry felt the initial stirrings of panic, his resignation and apathy breaking apart as the strange magic stirred within him.
Harry did not want it. He did not want to feel anything at all. He did not want to face the reality of what this connection could mean, of what it did mean. It wasn’t normal. It shouldn’t be possible.
But it was, and Harry was certain it would be a mistake to ignore this. To pretend that Riddle’s touch pressing along his flesh did not make his stomach flutter strangely.
“D-don’t touch me,” Harry whispered, the words nearly breaking at the end when Riddle did not listen. His touch was insistent, the pull against his belly sharper and more intense the longer Riddle prolonged the simple contact.
And yet, in spite of this. In spite of the freedom in his limbs, against all rational thought, Harry did not move away. He felt as though his legs had been glued to the ground below. Like a veil had been cast over his senses, defeating the fear and anxiety screaming for him to move.
“But I must, this is your destiny. To live endlessly with my touch and my voice transforming you to fit the purpose you were born to follow. You, Harry James Potter, were made for me.”
Harry shook his head, watching Riddle’s fingers fall away from his cheek before finding the will to move back, and step away. He felt the chair he’d been sitting on earlier bump against the back of his knees, but he paid it no mind. All that mattered in that instant was getting away. He couldn’t permit this. He shouldn’t let Riddle do as he pleased.
Not after he had–
“No, I am my own person. I-I don’t know what this strange connection is, but I am definitely not made for you. Hell, I guess in a sense I was born to defeat you. To watch you fall from that high horse you’re sitting on. Though…I don’t think that really needs much work from my end, right?. You’re a downright mess. Your snake-faced self has certainly done a fine job of making himself into a complete wan–”
“I know what you’re doing, and it will not work, Harry,” Riddle interrupted, eyes flashing with something predatory. It was the only warning Harry had before Riddle was on him. Riddle’s hand slipped around his waist, his fingers snatching his wand from his pocket before crushing him to Riddle’s chest.
Harry felt all his air leave him, felt the connection flare to life at the same time as Riddle dug his fingers into his hair to pull him closer. Much too close to Riddle’s smiling face.
“You want to provoke me, you want to see me blind with rage so that I not show you the reality of you. Of us.”
Harry grit his teeth and struggled within the man’s arms almost instinctively. He pushed his knees, slipped his hands around the man’s chest to dig his fingers into Riddle’s ribs. The violence was heady, the fear was nauseating as Harry watched Riddle’s gaze flicker downward to eye the promise of violence in Harry’s hands before turning back to Harry’s own, verdant eyes.
Harry glared, and Riddle laughed. The sound dark and deep, melodic and jarring in the otherwise silent room.
“Yes, go on. Hurt me. Show me just how much I’ve changed you. Show me just how mine you are.”
And then Harry saw red, toxic anger rushing from up his spine before he attacked. He tugged harshly on Riddle’s shirt, he kicked at the man’s knees, punched at the man’s gut.
Harry saw the red of Ron’s hair in his mind’s eye. He saw the red pools of blood dripping from the open wound in his best friend’s chest. He could practically taste the metal on his tongue, could almost reach out and touch the substance between his palms.
Harry leaned forward, unable to erase the anguish and the memory of Ron’s brutal death from his mind, before biting down on Tom’s shoulder. There was a rush of something, a heat more suffocating than the anger welling in his chest, but Harry was too far gone now.
He didn’t care when something coppery exploded in his mouth, didn’t care that his fingers were wet and that his toes ached from kicking as hard as he could. It didn’t matter that his teeth twinged with pain, and that he was gnawing on skin with more force than he thought able. Nothing mattered but the anger, the oppressive heat and the rage.
The delicious, blinding rage.
“Yess, that’s it…” Harry heard Riddle croon into his head, and it was like cold water had been poured over his head.
Harry moved so quickly he was surprised the world around him had not tilted on its axis, that he had not slipped from his shaking legs in his haste to get away. He shot his gaze to the entrance way, unable and unwilling to look at the man he’d practically mauled like some…animal.
Merlin, what have I done?
Harry wanted to be sick. He could feel the viscous fluid between his fingernails, could feel them between his fingers and on his chin. He could taste the metal on his tongue, and Harry felt his throat burn with his desire to upchuck the little sustenance he had eaten for lunch earlier that day.
Harry chanced a glance to his hands, and flinched at the bright red. It was jarring, the sticky substance like the screams of the dying in a silent hall.
Harry closed his eyes immediately, and ignored the sound of soft laughter a short distance in front of him. If he just pretended Riddle was not there then perhaps he could–
“Oh, Harry. You are like raw metal, waiting to be beaten and melted into the perfect blade. Look at how easily you gave in to the call for violence…such potential, such callousness when in the face of an enemy…”
“No, I am nothing like you. Nothing!” Harry shouted, eyes shooting open to shoot the monster a glare.
And the sight that met him was something Harry was sure would haunt him for the rest of his days. It was something out off a horror film. It was the second most horrible thing he had ever seen in his life, nearly as awful as Ron’s dead body.
“We are more alike than you think. And with time, I am sure I can transform you from blackened coal to gold…” Riddle murmured, but Harry barely heard him over the sound of blood rushing through his ears.
Riddle’s neck was red, the skin torn and ripped like a rubber band pulled too tightly. The skin was frayed, and Harry felt his stomach heave when Riddle lifted one hand to press into the wound and pull a tuft of skin that had broken from his throat.
“It’s fascinating, really. I have learned that the Philosopher’s stone is not the only thing that could be created through alchemy…” Riddle said, casting his gaze to the mound of flesh from his neck before turning his attention back to Harry.
Harry felt acid burn his throat, his stomach churning when Riddle began to move, his steps inaudible as he skirted around the wooden chair propped against Harry’s meager dining table. Harry slipped his fingers to his pocket, noticing then that Riddle had returned his wand. He quickly wrapped his fingers around its comforting weight and pointed it at Riddle’s approaching form, unable to think of when and how Riddle had found the chance to slip it into his trousers.
Riddle’s gaze did not falter, boring so deeply into Harry’s own panicked gaze that Harry was certain he could feel his mental walls crack.
“With proper equipment and patience, people can also be made into something new. Into something better.”
“I’d rather die.” Harry declared instantly, ignoring for the moment the metal in his mouth, the stickiness in his fingers, to speak. He would worry about that later, he would think about his actions later, but for now…
Now, Harry had to act.
“In a manner of speaking, you will. To be reborn, you must die. But do not fret, it will only be temporary. What use are you to me permanently broken?”
“You’re absolutely mad if you think I’ll just let you do as you please. If you think for one second that I’ll t-turn into whatever it is that you want me to become. My name is Harry Potter, and there is nothing you could do. Nothing you could say, that will ever change that.”
“Even rock collapses after constant pressure from the ocean.”
Harry raised his wand higher, and Riddle smirked at him. Pleasure and amusement swimming within the crimson pools as he stopped just centimeters from Harry’s wand. His chest brushing along the wood, seemingly uncaring of the fact that Harry was threatening to curse him to oblivion.
“You will collapse, my Horcrux. And when you do, I will be there. Ready to catch you as you fall.”