Resonance

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So this is what it's like, living in limbo

First I'm high, then so low. -Poe

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It's nineteen eighty-four when he forgets the sound of human voice.

// Knows there are worse things, but still believes it to be unjust. //

It's three years later when he regrets the lack of it and actively seeks it out.

// Running into the melee when the sound of suffering reaches his ears. Not giving consideration to the hesitant backlash within his veins when he steps forward to stand between Dudley's gang and the neighborhood cat. He's rewarded for his efforts with a black eye, it hurts his glasses more than his self when his weight is thrown backwards and he's knocked to the gravel of the street.

Startled by the fall, he sits up carefully, brushing the fringe of his hair out of his eyes and collecting his glasses from the pavement. The cat hisses and in a streak of calico vanishes.

In his palm fragmented stones have embedded themselves and splash his pale skin with vermilion.

He looks up and finds himself encircled and wonders if it's destiny that he should capture the attention of the most dangerous and least secure? Dudley glowers fiercely and there's a scathing retort on his lips, that his cousin should look at him in such a fashion. After all, how much emotion can truly be reflected from something so common placed as Harry Potter knocked down and bruised?

It's the clinical revelation that there's *not* that much to be gained from the situation that sparks within him the knowledge he's smiling. A soft, superior sort of grin etched upon the canvas of his features.

Bleeding and tossed aside as insignificant, pathetic on the ground and an outcast in all the ways that matter to his relations. Strong enough to take the punishment, to stand up for another creature who couldn't readily defend itself.

He's positively glowing. //

It's nineteen-ninety-one when he can't stand the thought of another child laughing.

// Hears the rustle of a lawn sprinkler showering the lush blades of grass with cool beads of moisture and in the distance listens to the delightful melody of children laughing. It's a beautiful sound, uncontrollable joy and innocence. It's the sound of faith, that there's nothing which can inflict you, affect you. Nothing which can break through the barrier of youth and its shelters.

He relishes the sound because he doesn't believe he'll ever be young enough to properly project it. //

Tom misses the interpretation of intonation. Misses the physical pull of adrenaline exploding from a voice shattered and shameless, screaming in last ditch effort for mercy. Misses the rush of laughter caught in his throat.

Misses the way Bella sometimes lied, just to see what he would do about it.

How she held her head high when he confronted her days after the self imposed fatality. She possessed an arrogance to be envious of as the world about her crumbled, never admitting defeat as though the shards of destruction could topple everyone, but miss her by miles.

That she could look him the eyes, and pretend to not be acutely aware of the betrayal of her actions (which did not include him). After living on lies for six weeks, Tom could hardly blame her. Watching her from the sidelines with ever increasing amusement and silence as she desperately worked towards the conclusion to be found from logic waging a war on emotions.

That he could be sure of, three knew the truth of the situation at hand. Herself, and the only two creatures living who possessed the ability to look into her eyes and *know*. Himself and Rodolphus. It seemed, for a time, that all were content to sit back and await the inevitable. To be sure, he had assumed the outcome would be drastically different.

She said it hadn't been fear, like a mantra until she came to abhor the very thought that it was fright egging her on from the sidelines. But, then, on some level, he'd always known she was terrified of the prospect of children who called her 'mother'.

It was her passionate, stilted laugh and unwavering loyalty that seemed contagious to those around her that kept her memory endearing.

He'd handed her a doll and she'd held it high above head, naming it Ava. She has the greatest sense of humor.

Misses Lucius' derisive smirk as he mocked sweetly, "We could always ask daddies dearest." And Barty nodding his head in a token bow. The profound confidence that swept through the group of people he would loving refer to as family, had he ever the conviction to love them. How they radiated in the ease of which they worked in view of the ever watchful eyes of justice.

He misses the suffering.

Someone had ought to suffer for him now.

// Hasn't quite come to terms with what it was like before he was born. Knows intimately what it means to be Harry Potter, and yet, can't conceive of the idea.

He read the books (or rather, scanned over the interesting parts. Doesn't want to get too close. He's already in so far over his head he has almost completely forgotten normalcy. Wanting to look secure, in control. Wanting to live up to the belief in him that the people have. Feeling very much like a madman dancing precariously at the edge of a cliff, hoping the ledge doesn't break, hoping he doesn't fall, hoping that when he takes that last step into the unknown, he'll have learned how to fly.) and grasps the concept of how insane it must have been, the grand scale of injustice that had existed which allows for a group of such intelligent, powerful people to revel in the life of someone so small.

He'd known it was bad. Just hadn't thought it was epic. More than a decade and in the end… in the end, it took merely a single miscalculation to bring them down. It wallows in his head, and he can't sleep for thinking on it. A miscalculation… impossible. They'd beaten against humanity like the constant rhythm of waves in the ocean, the tide pounding away endlessly at the Earth until the land was swallowed into the abyss of the dark ocean. Consuming all that stood before them, spreading out like the waves until nothing would be left. Distributing their will throughout the land from the center to destroy all.

It seemed impossible that he had survived these years in anonymity. Just another in the crowd, faceless to those around him. Kept under heel just enough for him to believe it might not be unfair. That living in the shadows wasn't a sad fate. Thrown into a sea of faces who found his childhood more unreasonable than he ever had.

But they were expecting something brilliant out of him, something inconceivably majestic after the years of having their unwitting savior so hastily discarded.

He's a name without personality, his identity a marketing gimmick. A stranger to himself, thrown into circumstances beyond his control by luck.

Even in his fantasy's, he can't live up to the name Harry Potter.

And then, fate intervenes and proves him wrong. //

All his grandeur, his great wealth of power and influence, has been fractured. Possibly, he bleakly believes, past the point of resurrection.

It is disappointing.

The last thing he remembers is the blackness, the fight followed by the flight. Of drifting recklessly into unknown, dangerous waters. Remembers thinking

// so this is what it means to be //

Harry Potter.

// And everyone wanted to *know*. 'what did he look like?', 'What did he say?', 'How did he say it?' but he can never tell them, never come close to explaining, because //

they shiver and

// shadow their eyes, //

look excited and

// scared. Stare at the floor and *cringe* when he begins to say the name.

But he forgives them, because of the perfume of parchment and books clinging to Hermione's clothing in a way that makes her smell of wisdom and history. How she steals his smiles and turns them into treasures, because she doesn't believe in fame or misfortune and forces him to be better. To be worth the noise surrounding him.

The constant courage of Ron which is as underrated as it is potent. Leaping into danger without restriction when someone is threatened. Who never fails to pull through, and wallows in self-doubt without realizing he's the one keeping them stable and sane in the midst of the fray. Who makes Harry feel fun and brave, just by standing at his side. //

Love withers, fading into the monotonous background of life.

// Hatred sears your spirit and steals away a piece of your soul. //

And he's never loved anything

// anyone.

But he loves them.

He's appreciating just about everything these days because it took a long time to arrive at this place. Forced to take the longest road because no one ever bothers to stop and point out the shortcuts through life. If only it could have begun without their //

*her* death.

// *She* died and there isn't a part of him that doesn't blame himself, isn't a part that doesn't hold her responsible for his fate and wonder if he can do any better with the life she gave him than she with the life he could have given her. In the darkness of his room, while the wind drifts through the open window and causes the thin curtains to curl in the air like cigarette smoke, it doesn't really matter. By the first light of dawn he will have forgotten that for a moment he couldn't find it within himself to //

forgive her. She needn't have died.

If only they had

// tried a little harder. //

She left him, and some part of her must have been willing to go. He figures they all saw it coming, but believes they were still probably surprised when the end finally came.

// It's because of her, that he respects //

death

// and the power of sacrificing for the benefit of another. //

He was young when he learned death is eloquent, compelling and above all else, liberating. It is learning to walk and seeing the world from the viewpoint of no longer needing to rely on others to reach his destination. Death was the first true sign that while there were those who would stand in his way, they too could be removed the path. It is holding onto the shackles that bind man to law and it's mediocrities and watching the face of justice walk by with a furtive glance, trusting the locks were secure. It is the freedom of facades.

But his earliest memory, that thing which he remembers,

// his first thought before //

before his name

// Harry Potter //

Voldemort

// The Boy Who Lived //

Slytherin

// Is the incurable sensation of being displaced. //

Of wearing the abnormality he never truly believed he possessed as a suit of armor. Staying in the shadows, wishing to be overlooked, forgotten, away. Away.

The isolation welcomed over the brawls, the bruises, cracked ribs, split lip, sprang wrist, the…

So small, so insignificant. A child with the power, resourcefulness and composure to kill to escape the bullies. He can't laugh but mirth over boils inside. Such silly worries, the fears of youth that left a network of scars on his psyche.

And then the owl came.

// Hagrid came.

He's always existed, //

will always exist

// but it wasn't until that moment //

that he lived.

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He closes his eyes and

// he's at peace with his environment in his dreams.

But it always seems as though they are not his own. They are //

curious, confusing dreams that are tangled in shinning webs of disorder, weathered about the edges and obscured in fog. Moving pictures interwoven with fantastic mind-sets foreign to his natural ways of thinking,

// that are often injected with the noises of his surrounding environment that filter into his subconscious. Dreams which consistently feature //

*Him*. Constantly *Him*.

// His appearance shifts, but always manages to stay same enough to be instantaneously recognizable. //

Either looking too much like his father or too much like his mother. And always, always with the unnaturally Technicolor shimmering green eyes reflecting the iridescent glow of the failed curse.

Sometimes, though, it's merely the past that invades his subconscious. The fragile workings of history which have been dissected and studied until all knowledge could be gained from them and it became worthless.

// But still remains haunting. //

The instant knowledge that something had gone wrong, not quite yet conceiving what. Less than seconds, but in dreams time is often dislocated. Existing in the shaft of an hourglass, the fine powder sands shifting, relocating around him but stubbornly he refuses the pull of gravity working in time with fate.

Torment so intense that only silence could give it proper justice. Confident, commanding features startled in the aftermath, and for a moment he's the spectator, glowering at the injustice of the child's good fortune, his own sickening incompetence. Hands reaching out in anguish, caught in fragile immobility. Scandalously stunning. Ripped away with the cacophony screams

// tearing through the circulating air, howling his name.

His eyes blaze open and aware, awaking to the sensation of bewilderment and disorientation. Displaced in a drug induced haze. He doesn't feel like Harry Potter, feels instead as though he's been occupying someone else's consciousness and it's hard going to separate reality from dreaming. The world is misted over and he's lost in the limbo of slumber and awareness, reaching out blindly for his glasses, as though they will strengthen his vision and his will.

He looks about his room, trying to place himself, repeating over and over again that dreams are merely dreams and nothing else. He fails to convince himself. Staring to the tarnished cage in the corner, into the eyes of the only friend he can take with him, but it cannot ground him.

It still feels like a dream.

As the day progresses, he knows the feeling will fade.

At night, he steals into the neighbors yard cloaked in the shadows of night and liberates a fruit from the fig tree. The fruit makes his fingers sticky, the taste travels over his senses, saturating his tongue and it's too wonderful for heaven so consequently tastes of Privet Drive.

A soft sigh whispers from his lips, and he looks up into the darkened sky to the stars flickering through the cloud dusted night.

It's always worse sneaking back inside the house than risking being caught thieving away from it. Easier to accept the sharp blow to the back of his head as he feels his way along the darkened corridor out to freedom than to the hit on his back when he's unsuccessfully made it back inside. Willingly returned.

But for now time is dislodged, giving him this endless moment of content.

It's illogical, but there are times he can see people looking down at him. Made out of funny little shapes in the vast space above the trees and clouds, never anything tangible and always slightly alien. He never looks at the stars when there are people about. Guards his moments of happiness covetously. Rationally, he knows there is no one there, but sometimes it's so easy to see a smile shining from high above, a cluster of stars that aren't brighter than any others, but banded together and catching his eye in the sky.

He stargazes for the dead he can't remember.

In the heavens, he sketches his dreams. //

His life is a hectic jumble of extremes, lacking a happy medium. The shades of gray so many people wander through. Lacking the balance in life that so many take for granted. Always so unsatisfied with what is thrown his way.

It's what's made him the best.

He is the best. In everything he's ever tried. Master of all he's even glanced at. He'll take his hat off to Dumbledore and if he can manage, he might even smile because at the end of the day the truth remains a hard fact. Dumbledore's good, but he's not one who astounded the masses at age sixteen, who graduated leaving the board of directors speechless in his wake. Who has died many small deaths, a new demise for every dark (or otherwise) accomplishment and scholarly achievement, and if it costs a bit more numbness to see something brilliant just within his reach, well, that's an acceptable trade. Not many people can say they went against Voldemort's designs and lived to tell the tale, and the knowledge that he, that *he* survived still manages to leave him motionless for minutes at a stretch. He faced his *own* treacherous curse and lived to take on the best security Hogwarts can provide.

He might not be the better man, but he unquestionably still *better*.

Sneering at what the world realizes as perfection and tossing it aside like a worthless trinket. Tearing down the norm and demolishing the rules of nature and society. Because he *can*. It's within his power. His expectations and demands configured and hardwired to tear apart a lesser man.

// Bracing himself for the fall, because it's all too much to ask. //

There need never be room for doubt, his sincerity is absolute. He wants is all, tucked away in a shinning body. Sterling power in a gilded cage, polished around all corners. The sole reason that he dwells on the idea of absolute control over everything that touches him. Influences him. Provokes him.

// To know that he wants out of the limelight. To place the power in the hands of another. Doesn't want to confront anything like that again, but still, the brilliant truth spinning though his mind in whispers of gold, 'better you than anyone else'. Doesn't want his past, doesn't want it with such a passion that he wouldn't wish it on anyone else. //

It is not simple.

But it's getting there.

There's only one thing he wants now. Craves above all else. And it's a heady desire, it would have to be to overwhelm the obsession pulling at all areas of his mind. To possess the last breath in that child's

// monsters //

lungs.

// Home. //

Will it still be familiar and known? He's anticipated drastic changes, and yet expects none. Knows which of his faction are entombed and which are prowling the promenade.

Wants too see the adoring look on Rodolphus' face when Bella lifts her wand and he mocks the reprieve, murmuring ridicule from his voice, taunting palpable beneath the layers of his familiar tone. 'What's this, then?' watch her catch her expression beneath a façade of boredom when she raises her eyes to his. 'Mercy from Bellatrix?' shaking his head with derisive amusement, 'And I thought I knew you well.'

Lucius' ever scandalous political ambitions. His fanatical dedication to power and image that will not allow him to settle for anything less than perfection.

How Severus always manages to look indifferent and cold when cringing inwardly. Who lets his wounds fester on the inside, sit and decay within, letting their giver win. Closing himself off so tightly that air cannot get through, dieing just a little bit for every moment he continues on in his way. Watching the world spin about him in a calmly ordered fashion.

Will the center of the circle still be Home? It seems impossible to picture himself standing at the core of the most feared, the most powerful, the most devoted. Another life, drifted away.

// Another life, materializing out of thin air. //

And Voldemort isn't sure how, but one things for damn certain

// He'll do what he has to do as the situations continue to present themselves. He's not going to give up. If he can't win, he can't win, but he has to //

*try*.

// For the sacrifice //

The memory of his mother

// and father //

for those who came before her, the legacy left behind

// deterred momentarily by //

Harry Potter. Whose destruction

// will be legendary. //

-- End