Chasing Harry

Chapter 16: The Riddle House

To the casual observer, the large mansion on the hill looked deserted. There was a neglected look over the whole place. During the summer, the expanse of land that surrounded the house would be overgrown with weeds that no one cared to trim. Any passerby would have only seen the high stone walls and the distant bricks peeking through the top of the trees. Now, it looked a lot statelier with snow coating the roofs and the ground that surrounded it.

The house's appearance clearly lived up to its local haunted reputation; there had been (as any of the village folks would be glad to attest) a number of mysterious deaths in the place. No doubt, the house was crawling with ghosts.

Since the death (or murder, as the local barman claims) of the old caretaker, the house had changed owners again. Merely a few knew this as neither the current owner nor his predecessor lived in town. Maybe it had something to do with taxes. And so it stands at present--uninhabited as always.

But, unknown to the townspeople, it wasn't vacant. In fact, there were quite a few people inside; they had been there for some days now. And, if one could just look through one of the high windows, the person would see an empty room, dusty with neglect. But what the eyes sees is not always true. For the room was far from empty. Beneath the illusion there is a young man, sitting on a plush armchair by the bed, while he watched someone else who appeared to be asleep.

The young blond man tapped his finger on the armrest as he looked on. He had come suddenly, against his father's wishes, when he received news that they had finally found Tom and that he was alive. He needed to see him with his own eyes to assure himself that he was safe. In a few minutes, the sleeping man appeared to stir.

"Are you all right?"

Tom glanced at the boy sitting beside him. Draco's back was facing the window and his face was bathed in shadows making it difficult for Tom to see his expression. He turned away and sat up lazily. "Shouldn't I be?"

"I was just wondering when you would wake. It's been three days."

Tom didn't reply. Instead, he checked his body. He was dressed in simple white pajamas under the thick sheets and a few portions of his legs and arms were bandaged. He glanced at Draco questioningly.

"You cut yourself a lot while walking around," the blond explained. "You also had a bad case of frostbite, but you're fine now. Father had to find a Healer who agreed to go all the way here. Of course, it was necessary to perform a mean Memory charm on the poor fool."

"Where exactly is here?" Tom asked softly.

"Your old house."

"My father's house? Ah... You did a good job of cleaning up," he remarked, looking around. Tom smiled humorlessly. "Yes, this was the Riddles' house. But it was never mine."

"It's yours now. Someone bought it for you, I think. It might have been Father. No one would think of coming here." Draco turned away and looked out the window to the deserted grounds below. "I came as soon as I was told that you were found."

"Am I supposed to thank you?" The young man on the bed started laughing, unable to help it. It was an empty sound, devoid of feeling. "I suppose I should, seeing as I would've died if you people haven't picked me up from that cold hell where I came from."

"You know they would do anything for you," Draco stated without emotion. He continued to stare outside, deep in thought.

He was tired of skirting around the issue. He didn't come all the way from Siberia--or wherever that place was--just to exchange social niceties with his former roommate. "Why did you do it?" Tom snapped tersely, interrupting the other boy's thoughts. "Why did you sell me to your father?"

Draco started. His eyes slid back to his friend on the bed. "I didn't," he said simply.

"It would be very uncomfortable for the both of us if you start lying right now," Tom said, staring at Draco coldly. "It was you who asked me to come to your house, not Lucius."

Draco sighed. He knew it would come to this. He hated the fact that he always seemed to end up caught in the middle of things, whether he wanted to or not. "I didn't come here to fight with you, Tom. Believe me or not, I came to see you. I have an idea what my father is up to but that's just it: an idea. I don't work with or for them." He paused for breath, waiting to see if Tom would speak. When he didn't, Draco continued, somewhat bitterly, "If my actions played to their plans, it was not what I intended."

Tom blinked. His face remained blank.

"I think my father and the others want to talk to you. You can ask them yourself."

"That would seem to be a good idea," Tom said helpfully. He made no sign to indicate whether he accepted Draco's explanation or not. He stood languidly. "Would you excuse me for a few minutes? I'm dying for a hot bath."

***

Exactly one hour and twenty minutes after he woke up, Tom heard the click of the knob as the last man left the formal dining room. He leaned back on the high-backed chair where he had sat for the past hour while he talked to the six men who had brought him here in this house.

Alone at last. A chuckle escaped his throat as he recalled, a tad incredulously, the intriguing conversation that had transpired. It had been his fault all along. Or, rather, it was Voldemort's fault. The old wizard had been cunning; he even managed to fool himself!

***

The story began many years ago, even before Harry Potter was born. Tom Marvolo Riddle, more famously (or infamously) known as Voldemort, had been at the full bloom of his powers. His dark influence was spreading among many countries and his right hand witches and wizards, the Death Eaters--the only people who had the privilege of speaking and meeting him in person--were in their element, ruling his far-flung empire through the many layers and ranks of men and women loyal to his cause.

But in spite of his archaic ideas when it came to the wizarding race, Voldemort was a forward-thinking man born in a modern world. He believed passionately in insurance of all forms--which was why, at such a young age, he had created his magical diary. He had high ambitions and he knew that at any time, there would always be someone plotting his death. Such was the fate of all beings who exposed themselves to controversy. His life-long search for immortality was a form of insurance against death and his transformation of his physical body throughout the years was another.

But there was one more, one that was not revealed to the world. Voldemort had to consider all options, and just in case (incredible though it may be) some young whelp did manage to kill him, physically and spiritually, he needed to have a back-up plan. This was where the diary came into the picture once more. Aside from serving as a frozen memory to incite the reawakening of the basilisk in Hogwarts, Voldemort knew that the diary could have further uses. One mustn't let such powerful magic go to waste.

There was a small chance of it happening, but, in the case of his death, the diary could pave a way to have himself reborn as Tom Riddle--sixteen years old, an age ripe to influence a new generation. If he could not keep himself alive in body, he could at least use his magic to absorb someone else's life force and resurrect himself--a smoother and surer form of what the muggles coarsely referred to as cloning. With this in mind, he gave secret written instructions to only one of his most trusted assistants, Alphonse Goyle, Gregory Goyle's grandfather, to keep the resurrected Tom Riddle within the Death Eaters' circle to ensure that he would have the same goals as before and that he would carry on the task that the original Voldemort had started.

Alphonse was to ensure that the new Dark Lord would be made as similar as possible to the original. And should Alphonse die, the legacy should be passed on the next loyal generation.

But Voldemort had not foreseen Harry Potter. Hence, he had taken little precaution to prevent his well-known body-less wandering for thirteen years. With this, he also failed to expect that the diary would befall a very different fate, and that the spirit of the young Tom Riddle would be released from it much earlier than scheduled. And so, things came to a head at the end of Harry Potter's fourth year--when Voldemort earned a new body, and unexpectedly, a new self inside his head. His insurance worked only too well.

The rest, as you all know, is history: Voldemort was killed, resulting in magical glitch that made Tom gain a body of his own. But there was just one other flaw in the whole game plan. The new Tom did not know of Voldemort's instructions to Alphonse years ago. Either the old Dark Wizard forgot all about it, or more likely, he resolved not to think about it while the sixteen-year-old version of himself lived within him. So in spite of Tom having access to all of Voldemort's thoughts, he had overlooked this tiny detail among the wealth of memories. And Taylor Goyle, acting completely on faith, took the news of the rebirth as a sign that the old contract should be followed to the letter.

***

They were only following orders. Tom shook his head, amazed.

He had come down from his room and started this meeting, prepared to rain his prodigious wrath upon the Death Eaters for causing him to undergo indescribable torture, also for endangering Harry's life in the process. But the revelation checked his temper and brought a change of atmosphere to the meeting. The proof was sitting right in front of him: the roll of parchment with Voldemort's--Tom's--distinctive handwriting, and the box containing the dagger they had found.

Goyle, Malfoy, Nott, Crabbe, Avery, and MacNair--only six left of the finest wizards and witches under Voldemort's command--had expected good news. It was only natural to think that the young lord would continue Voldemort's work. His whole life had prepared him for this mastership and in spite of the recent major injury to their organization, they could still pick up the threads of the old connections.

But Tom had disagreed.

"I'm not going to work that way," he had announced decisively.

Lucius was aghast. "What? But, my lord, you can't possibly have turned around completely after only a few months in that school!"

Taylor tried the diplomatic approach. "Begging your pardon, my lord. But do you think you would be happy living with them while leading a squeaky-clean life and going by the rules? What about your talent, your genius? It would be wasted among those fools who only value their secure mediocrity! What about your vision? You can't leave us now. You made us who we are, you made us believe in you! Don't throw it all away just because they made the pretense of accepting you."

Emboldened, Lucius continued the argument, "You were given another chance at life, another chance to continue your work. We had been devoted to you our whole lives. And what about the million others who are similarly faithful? Just because they believed you to be gone forever doesn't mean that their loyalty to you is lost. They don't believe in me or in any of us." He gestured to his fellow Death Eaters. "Without you we have nothing. They love only you! As soon as everyone knows that you're back, stronger than ever, your following would rise once more. It will take time, but it will be greater."

Avery finalized it with a grave statement, "Perhaps, this time, you would win, my lord."

"Yes, I have to admit that in the past, I had been very passionate with fulfilling my goal. But maybe I was too focused on the end results." There was a certain freedom in admitting the acts as his--a freedom from his months of denial, of memories that he tried to bury. It was time he grew up and take responsibility for his actions, even if they had been done literally a lifetime before.

He looked around. "I had wanted a certain kind of order to end the chaos that I believed to be prevalent. I wanted safety for our kind, a different attitude of governance that I felt the recent spate of leaders were unable to give. The Muggle world was perceived as a danger." He paused to take a breath. They would not like what he was going to say next. "But, as Voldemort, I had made grave mistakes with my methodology. Violence and fear isn't the way to effect long-lasting change. My presence here, I believe, is a chance to remedy that mistake. There is still a goal at the end, but the road I shall take to that goal shall be a very different one."

His decision was not an impulsive one. It was based heavily on newfound belief, and experience--he had spent years in Voldemort's head, had seen and felt like the travesty of a man that he had become. And he hated it. Even if it meant having to live another lifetime, he vowed to himself that he would never turn into a being he himself would loathe. Addiction to power could make even the smartest man lose sight of a lifelong vision.

Four Death Eaters gaped in amazement as they digested his words. Macnair, in particular, was having a hard time swallowing. Perhaps they were wise, or too afraid, not to oppose him. It was a hard fall from their previous hope of seeing the good old days restored.

Only Lucius forged foolishly on, "My lord, you are young. Perhaps after some time away from the influence of Dumbledore--"

Tom interrupted him softly, dangerously, "Do not make the mistake of assuming that my youth clouds my judgment. In many ways, I am still much older than you, Malfoy." They all shivered inwardly at the look in those eyes--eyes the color of aged wine; old familiar eyes on a young boy's face. They could not forget the power that it had held over them and others for many a day and night. With just a look, the Dark Lord had been able to command an army.

Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. "I understand the risks all of you undertook to follow my old orders. I am not one who forgets faithful service. Your loyalty shall be rewarded in time."

The smile disappeared, and he added, with a little sadness. "Although I regret to say this shall be the last meeting of this kind." Their strange fraternity, no matter how terrible it had seemed to others, could not be easily forgotten. He stood. "You can leave."

They filed out of the door one by one, still stunned, and not a little disappointed with the turn of events.

Not long after the last Death Eater closed the door, Draco burst into the dining room, grinning. "You called?"

Tom smiled in return, his sixteen-year-old self back. "Would you like to come back with me to Hogwarts tomorrow?"

"Do you even need to ask?" Joyfully, Draco rushed forward, taking Tom's outstretched hands. "So I gather that I'm forgiven?"

"What's to forgive? Also, I believe we owe each other a Christmas present."

"Of course. Only I'm afraid I left yours in school," Draco replied laughingly.

"And I left yours in your house." Tom raised a brow. "But I can get you a new one. By the way, I sent the whole lot of them home. Do you mind spending another night in this gloomy house? I could use a friend to celebrate with."

"Not at all."

And with that, he picked up the piece of parchment that Goyle and Malfoy had found months ago--the same piece where Voldemort had written his orders--and tossed it to the fireplace. It wasn't needed anymore.

***

He waved his hand in the air; delighted with the way his control over his magic was progressing. He remembered what the late Headmaster Dippet had told him many years ago, when he was just about to enter Hogwarts as a young boy: Magic isn't contained in a wand. It's merely a stick--a concentration channel to make things a lot easier for us. The real power lies inside.

Tom was proving him right again and again tonight. The old china vase had been transfigured into a dozen other things and flown across the room many times since Tom started to practice. He had been at it for ten minutes now. Satisfied so far, Tom prepared for his last trick.

With his left hand, he opened the window without moving from his position. The vase, which was now a small model of a Galleon ship flew outside with his guidance and silently exploded into a thousand silver sparkles, finally melting into the night air within seconds. He was getting better--not as good as he would have wanted, but a lot better than before. Tired but happy, he locked the windows shut.

Draco clapped from the plush chair. "That was a good show. Impressive."

"Thank you. I should be able to do more with increased practice. And if I were more sober." Tom sat on the bed, giggling drunkenly. "Not having a wand takes so much more energy."

"I have your wand back in school. It's there when you need it."

Tom collapsed heavily on his back, fully dressed. He felt more than a little woozy. He and Draco had been celebrating the whole night with two bottles of wine that the blond had found in the cellar. Even Draco had to grudgingly agree that the muggle-made drinks weren't bad at all. His normally pale cheeks were now flushed from the alcohol, and he took one more swig from the bottle before rising jerkily from the chair. A red drop of wine stayed on his lip.

"So it's just the two of us tonight," Draco whispered, stopping before the figure of his friend on the bed.

"Yes. No troublesome Death Eaters to steal me away." Tom smiled blissfully, his eyes closed. With the wine's help, he was completely relaxed and he allowed his mind to wander. He imagined how Harry would look tomorrow when he surprised the boy with his return. He would be happy, of course. And they can continue where they left off--a prospect that was only too enticing for the dark-haired Slytherin.

He and Harry could have a very private reunion, now that he knew from Draco that the Gryffindor boy was back and safe in Hogwarts. He could almost imagine Harry beside him, naked with only his bewitching smile to dress him. He would start with the lips and travel his way down, and as if his daydream Harry heard his thoughts, he reached for Tom and enveloped him in his arms.

Suddenly, he was kissing Harry with all the heat and fervor that he could offer. He could almost feel his bare skin beneath his hands and he hugged him tighter, pulling him closer as his dream-Harry raised his luscious mouth away from his kiss and fumbled with the clasps of Tom's robe. Immediately, Tom pulled his head back down.

"Harry," he whispered roughly against his lips. He opened his eyes. And, just as suddenly as it had started, the dream kiss ended. He had expected to see no one beside him but was only too surprised to discover that he had not been dreaming. He had indeed been kissing someone. Only it wasn't Harry's soft green eyes that stared down at him but Draco's! And, to add to his shock, his own limbs were wrapped around the blond's very naked body.

"What the--" Tom tried to push him away. "Draco... stop it!"

Draco resisted, gripping the other's shoulders tightly. "Don't stop, please... I don't even care if you call me by his name," he mumbled, closing his eyes and trying to continue their interrupted kiss.

"No, wait, you don't understand." Tom pushed at him weakly. It was getting harder to resist temptation. After all, Harry was miles away and Draco was here--beautiful in his pale glory and very, very willing. His wine-dulled state of mind didn't help. A moment later, Draco made him gasp louder as the blond reached into the folds of Tom's robe. "Draco!"

"Mmm... delicious," Draco whispered, his pink tongue licking Tom's neck. "I've been wanting to do this for a very long time."

Only a fool would have stopped now. Or a eunuch. Even Tom didn't know where he got the strength to do what he did. But, somehow, he managed to pull his mind away from the growing situation between his legs and separated himself from a resisting Draco. "Draco, Draco... wait, please," he pleaded, breathing heavily as he pulled himself up from the bed, his lips still swollen from their violent kisses.

Draco finally stopped trying to force himself back on Tom and stepped back, staring at him with disbelieving eyes. "But... don't you understand? I'm giving myself to you freely. Can't you forget him even for just a few hours?" he asked desperately.

"I'm sorry. But I can't," Tom said with regret. He forced himself not to look down and concentrated on Draco's eyes. He touched his friend's face as he spoke, "I love you, Draco. But not that way."

At that moment, Draco wished the floor would swallow him up. Humiliated, he blushed an angry red, grabbed his clothes, and ran out of the room. The door slammed loudly behind him.

Tom listened to the fast fading footsteps outside the closed door. He sighed, a bit regretfully, and let himself collapse on the bed, face down. He knew exactly what he had turned down tonight and if only things had gone a little differently, Draco would have gotten what he wanted.

But things happened. Harry happened.

Still, he could have yielded. The reality of Draco's body pressing upon his had been highly promising. But he doubted if Harry would ever forgive him. And Tom didn't doubt that the Gryffindor would find out someday, in one way or another, and he didn't think he could take the consequences.

(tbc)