Beyond This Point Lie Monsters

At the edge of the mariner's
Map is written: 'Beyond
This point lie Monsters.'
(Rita Dove, Primer to the Nuclear Age)

Part 1 ~ Dark Chamber

You should have seen it coming.

When he came to Hogwarts, ostensibly to visit his son, you wondered.

When he sat on his guest seat at the Slytherin table, looking for all the world like the uncrowned King of Serpents, you felt a stab of anger.

When he caught you staring, and your eyes clashed across the vast hall, anger blossomed into quiet fury.

When you lingered in the hall, shrouded in the shadows - just to make sure - uneasiness pooled in your stomach like nausea. But you ignored it. Ignoring danger - it's what you do best.

You were not at all surprised when he strode into the deserted hall, a shadow himself in dark robes and slate-grey cloak, purposefully moving towards the dungeons instead of the castle exit. By then, you just knew.

You followed, as if you were a ghost bound by an Ariadne thread. Downstairs. And further down, creeping behind in the dark. Followed the harsh sound of boots on stone like a drumbeat leading into a deadly dance. Into Slyterhin territory. Through Slytherin territory. And further down.

The final staircase was but a narrow spiral, as un-Hogwarts as could be. Wire mesh. Muggle. You watched the cloak flow downwards, resembling the outstretched wings of a bird of prey.

You waited until it disappeared far below. Then, you sneaked after. The narrow circles never seemed to end. At the bottom, a heavy metal door sporting a neon-yellow sign: AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. Someone had a weird sense of humour here.

You pushed the door open a little and recoiled. But of course you should have seen that coming, too. Too far down to be any other place. The vast chamber, floor covered in ankle-deep water, the dead monster curled like a moribund lapdog behind the stone-carved statue of its master.

An old battleground.

Suddenly, the stairs and sign made sense. The young, arrogant, Muggle-born Heir of Slytherin would not have sneaked into the Chamber of Secrets through a girls' toilet - he would have fashioned his own entrance.

But no sign of the one you had followed. No shape stood out in the circles of eerie light that wove in and out between the stone columns, no movement disturbed the quiet pools of water that lapped around your feet.

But you had to know. So you took out your wand and stepped through the door, walked out of hiding and into the Chamber.

You heard the voice before your eyes pried his shadow apart from Slytherin's statue. A grey shape, leaning gracefully against the stone-hewn legs of his master's master. Reading? Reading. From a book. A quiet murmur, whose actual words escaped you.

And so you stood there, in the open, wand drawn, and listened to the hypnotic voice until he looked up. Smiled at you with the same invitation - the same challenge - as during dinner. So he had wanted you to come, all along. You should have realised. But perhaps you did.

He closed the book, lovingly putting it down onto Salazar's granite toes, and drew his own wand. A sudden shiver gripped you, made you dig nails into the palm of your hands to force back the panic. Perhaps it was a surreal dream. Perhaps not.

He inclined his head, wand held out straight, showing you more respect than had his son, years ago. Invited you to strike the first blow, as if it would make no difference. As, of course, it did not.

"Stupefy!"

He ducked away under it, and the spell scraped over the feet of the statue with a rustling noise, as if the Ancient was cackling at you.

"Crucio!"

Agony splashed over you like a bucket of acid, scorching your skin and searing deep into flesh, bone, and mind. For a split second, the shock alone kept you upright. You didn't even feel the second spell on the heel of the first which ripped your wand out of your hand, only saw it land several feet away with an audible splash.

Then you fell, every muscle spasming in pain, and almost choked when you gasped for air and inhaled water instead. You coughed, thrashed and whimpered in claustrophobic panic, and in those hellish seconds you realised that Crouch had been wrong about the Killing Curse being the one Unforgivable against which there was no defence. The defence against the Killing Curse was death. Against Cruciatus there was none, except the presence - or absence - of mercy in the caster.

You did not beg for mercy when he came to stand over you, but it was a close call, and would have been even closer if you had air instead of water in your lungs. But you knew your eyes were pleading. The strength that had carried you through encounter after encounter with Voldemort failed you here. You had survived, had become the Boy Who Lived predestined to battle the Dark Lord. Against him, you were merely human.

Another spell enveloped you, paralysing your writhing body and throwing you back, face down, into the water. For a second, your terror spiralled as you were locked into the pain without even being able to move. Then he stopped the Cruciatus, and the little fragment of your mind that was not babbling in helpless relief wondered why.

He hooked the tip of his boot under your shoulder and flipped you onto your back so your face came free from the water. Just that. He could have left you under the spell until your nerve endings and your brain had burned themselves out with agony, could have left you to drown in an inch-deep, murky puddle. But he didn't. He just walked away.

Moments later, the reading took up again. You lay there with the cold gradually seeping through robes and skin, too paralysed to even shiver. And yet, this time you caught a handful of scattered words. Hogwarts. Chamber. Dippet. Monster. And Tom.

Tom.

Yes, you definitely should have seen that coming.

The air of the Chamber changed very gradually, from hollow, water-dripping emptiness to... presence. When the voice finally stopped and the book was snapped softly shut, a vague motion disturbed the air behind you, followed by sounds which with a little more substance might have been footsteps. The closer, the more distinct. Yes, footsteps.

Somewhere behind you, an object was picked up from the ground. Your wand. The thought almost froze your spine, but you resisted the urge to close your eyes against it. No, not it.

Him.

Tom.

Some things wouldn't go away just because you were afraid to face them. So you looked.

A face as familiar as your own in the mirror, despite the years that had passed since your single, dramatic encounter. Intense, sardonic, with a secretive smile creeping through dark eyes. Perhaps it was not real. Perhaps you were Ginny, having a nightmare?

"Welcome back, Harry." Cold, cold smile, which sharpened the still-not-quite-real features.

Welcome back. You stared, because you had nowhere else to look. Railed against the sheer injustice of it! You had won this battle, fought it and won, how could the present just saunter in and erase the past like this? It was not fair!

Tom's gaze moved away to focus on the one behind you. This time, the smile reached up to infuse the frost-glittering eyes with a trace of warmth.

"Lucius. You came back for me."

"I promised." The voice was very close, and then his hands grabbed your shoulders, pulling you up like a puppet until the counter-spell was whispered into your ear and at last you could stand. Barely. His hands closed around your arms to keep you upright.

Tom reached up and moved slightly insubstantial fingers over your forehead, brushing away water and wet tendrils of hair. Trailing your scar. It didn't hurt, but something inside your head, and up and down your spine, began to hum in response.

"Are you ready?" Lucius' voice again.

"Yes." Tom was addressing Lucius, but spoke to you, eyes burning into yours with cold enmity and equally cool determination. "I don't have questions for him any more."

This was the moment for a miracle. For someone - Dumbledore, Fawkes, Ron, Hermione - to interfere on your behalf. The moment crystalised in time, and shattered.

Tom took your glasses and slipped them into his robe pocket. Then, without warning, he cupped your face with both hands and kissed you. You recoiled, more in shocked surprise than horror, struggled. Lucius' hands locked around your neck and shoulders and forced you into place.

Tom didn't kiss you so much as call up a prickling rush of warmth from a place so deep inside you, so... natural, that you'd never been aware of it's existence before. It surged up and answered his call, so intense, so right that you sighed softly, relaxed into Lucius' arms, and just let the sensation run its course.

No, it really wasn't a kiss. Tom drank the power from your mouth like he would have emptied a tall glass of water, and in those eerie seconds you almost wanted to forgive him for everything - the Basilisk, the petrifications, Ginny, yourself. Watching the delight on his face, solely derived from touching you, made holding on to hatred almost impossible. If vampire victims felt like this, you understood now why they sometimes left the window askew and kicked the garlic under the bed, even if it meant a fate worse than death.

At last Tom pulled away, running his tongue over your lips one last time, sharp fingernails trailing down your neck. His outline had gained a focus that hadn't been there before, an intensity that almost burned through the murky surroundings.

He hissed at you. Even as your brows furrowed, you understood because you couldn't understand. He had taken back what Voldemort had left inside you that fateful night sixteen years ago - Parseltongue.

"Not only that," Tom elucidated, reading your face with no effort at all. "You assimilated the gifts my future self left you so completely, Harry, that it left you open. Open to draw away all your magic. Everything."

Everything.

The thought should have made you quake in terror, but it didn't. Everything you had no right to. Everything you could never escape from. He took away everything, and left you with Harry. An almost giddy Harry. Not the worst of final gifts, and final it was, certainly. He had reduced you to a Muggle, and you knew, altogether too well, what he - what they - did with Muggles.

"Welcome back, Tom," Lucius greeted him with the same words Tom had used to you, a touch of amusement colouring his voice.

"It has been a very long time."

"It took a long time to restore the Diary's magic." You felt Lucius' shrug against your back. Explanation. Very much not apology. "And we owe it all to Mr. Potter here. He bought your freedom for the price of a house-elf."

"Surely I'm worth more than that."

Another soft chuckle. "To me, infinitely more. Do you want it?"

He nodded at the book, and Tom flinched.

"No. Burn it."

"Incendio!"

The hiss of a flame later, a shower of ashes sprinkled down and dissolved in the water. Tom let out his breath.

"Voldemort has returned, in your absence," Lucius said.

"Tell me later," Tom replied, eyes sliding back to your face. "Just let me take care of something before we leave."

He turned away purposefully and walked over to Salazar's statue, to the remains of his creature. It almost surprised you that you could still feel fear. The dance, almost over.

"Do you believe the Dark Lord will approve of bringing him back?" you asked quietly, for the first time addressing the one who had played the tune and led the steps.

"I believe he'd be very unhappy if he were to find out."

You smiled, almost against your will. Being able to lean against someone, even that one, was disturbingly comfortable.

"You want to use him against Voldemort."

"No more than he plans to use me. The Dark Lord is... damaged, in many ways. Tom will be a fresh start. All the power - yours included, dear Harry - and little yet of the madness."

"The word you're looking for is 'malleable'."

This time the chuckle rang with delight, and his arms sneaked around your chest. An embrace rather than a restraint. The feeling of his breath on your skin made the hairs on your neck stand up.

When Tom returned from his inspection, he carried a Basilisk fang, its tip still coloured with deadly green venom.

I'm going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter. Take your time. I'm in no hurry.

Déjà vu.

The memory brushed your mind like the hem of a ghost's veil. Five years ago, he had terrified you with that calm, malicious cruelty. But since then, you had seen at least as much darkness as he'd ever inflicted. Now, drawing strength from a different source, you let your smile acquire a slight mocking edge.

Tom's eyes hardened. He raised the serpent's fang and ran it over the hollow of your throat, first only the smooth ebony curve, then the pointed tip. And stopped before breaking your skin.

"There might be more productive uses for young Mr Potter." Your eyebrows rose in surprise, an expression mirrored on the face of your adversary. Minds in complete accord for a split second.

"There is no power left in him." Tom's lips curled with disgust. "He's no more than a filthy Muggle."

"We don't know why the Dark Lord desired his death in the first place," Lucius continued, unperturbed. "Why destroy a potential weapon before we have examined it, thoroughly? As long as Mr. Potter is among the living - even if he is removed from Dumbledore's clutches - the focus of your tragically disturbed future self will be... elsewhere."

Tom's gaze raked over you, for the first time seeming to take in Lucius' semi-protective gesture. Something raw flickered in his eyes and died. Something like... hurt?

"You want... you want that?"

No answer, just Lucius running his hands gently up and down your arms and shoulders. It was pleasant, if a tad unsettling. Tom's look was an eloquent declaration of 'I'll make you regret you've ever been born, Potter', but he plainly wasn't ready - wasn't willing - to cross Lucius openly. Not yet. And slowly, underneath the anger and bitter jealousy, a tiny spark of interest began to flicker.

"All right, then." The fang disappeared to meet your glasses in Tom's pocket. Not thrown away. Only put aside for the moment.

Lucius took one of Tom's hands, still clenched to fists, and waited until the death grip loosened. He laced his fingers through Tom's and brought them up to brush your cheek.

For a moment you closed your eyes, relief, fear and excitement warring inside you. Dealing with Tom was a terrifying prospect, and you did not yet want to think on what dealing with Malfoy might entail. But it was the only way forward. You could die - or let Dumbledore spirit you away to safety to protect you from Voldemort, while your friends looked on in worry and pity.

You still wanted to fulfil the prophecy and take the fight the Dark Lord, as Harry no less than as the Boy Who Lived. The two who stood with you in the Chamber wanted to use you to do exactly that. An unspoken invitation to a different dance, fraught with pitfalls, atonal music and deadly partners.

You did not want safety, even less pity, and they at least would never consider offering you either. It was a start.

And so you would let them use you, and use them, too.

Slowly, you raised your own hand and put it over their interlaced fingers on your cheek. Sealing the covenant. You met Tom's eyes, allowing him to see your resolve, still lined with a hint of challenge, and echoed,

"All right, then."

~~~ tbc. ~~~