Disclaimer: I don't own anything I don't own. Simple as that.
Title: Of What Once Was.
Rating: M.
Pairings: Slash. Tom Riddle Jr. / Harry Potter.
Warnings: This is a slash-fiction. Includes pre-slash. Relationships with minors. Time Travel. Swearing. Violence. Sexual Content. etc.
...
This fic was adopted. Then adapted.
.commence thy reading.
Of What Once Was
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Once upon a time, he knew too much of the future and too little of the past. Now? It's the complete opposite.
In conclusion, Harry Potter still did not know anything at all.
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Chapter I
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Harry Potter was used to stares. Especially ones directed at him.
He didn't exactly like them, but they just simply were always there.
Awestruck glances, hateful glares, lustful ogles, incredulous looks of pure shock; you name it and Harry has most likely been subjected to it.
Oftentimes, they just couldn't be avoided. The looks and the stares.
After all, Harry Potter is Harry Potter.
Pretty, dark-haired, green-eyed Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived.
A celebrated hero of Justice. The golden boy of Prophecy. An elegant doll for Fate.
The Chosen One.
Harry Potter was the Wizarding world's shiniest token—and they weren't about to let him forget it.
They showered him with obsequious praises, intolerant criticisms, and constant looks of expectation.
Expectations of hope, of love, of eventual failure.
Love him or hate him, no one ever forgets Harry Potter.
Just as Harry Potter can never forget himself.
A tragedy, perhaps?
Harry would often like to think so, but just as equally often, he refrains. He'd rather not be shoved so easily into one of Freud's cynical little archetypes.
But still, tragic hero or not, Harry simply didn't revel in the attention he was given.
Appreciate it? Yes. At times.
Care for it? Not in the slightest.
The way people looked at him was always a bother. Whether it be looks of wonder or glares of hatred; it was all equally irritating.
Like a persistent itch of constant judgement, Harry simply wished for the niggling feeling to depart in ease—rather than for him to scratch his face off in effort to be rid of it.
He didn't do things to be stared at. In fact, it was quite the opposite.
Harry could hardly handle himself properly in private, let alone be anyone's subject of awe and reverence.
Though Harry hated to let people down, he didn't want anyone to expect anything from him either.
Expectation breeds many things, and more often than not, it's never anything good.
Harry didn't want people to just unconditionally give him their loyalty, to so easily give in their blind faith and unwavering hope. But more importantly, he didn't want to be the one take away such things from someone.
No matter how easily they give, Harry found nothing simple about taking.
He's learned, quite a few times over the years gone by, that there's always a price—always something to be exchanged.
Hermione calls him cynical, but whether or not he's cynical, pessimistic, or simply disillusioned, Harry knows that he's right. At least on the basis of things, he is.
He doesn't deserve anything more than anyone else, so why would anything be given to him for free?
But just as Harry didn't believe in simplicity, he equally refused the notion of exchanging one favour for another. Whether the favour is explicitly described or not.
If he were to follow his own perceptions of philosophy: if functionality is desired, when something is taken, there must always be a replacement given in exchange to fill the void left behind.
Not only does this result in a tediously continuous cycle of exchanges, it it causes an eventual dependence upon the system.
A dangerous sort of dependence that Harry can't afford.
What will happen there's nothing left for him to give back to all those who have chosen to give?
Harry wasn't interested in finding out.
Quite contrary to popular belief, he didn't save the world over and over again with the purpose of getting people to notice him—to love him.
Sure, being risen up onto a pedestal of worship and confidence wasn't exactly a horrible thing, but it didn't serve as his main source of motivation.
Harry liked to think he was better than that.
And even if he wasn't—if, deep down, he was truly a horribly shallow and shakingly insecure bloke who needs self-validation through others—he still knew that falling from a pedestal is far worse than simply falling.
Wasn't it said that Lucifer had once shone the brightest of all the angels?
Look how that turned out.
Harry would rather not be compared to the Devil.
However, irony was almost as much of a bitch as fate.
Within a moment, it decided to strike out him with a poetic sort of injustice.
Within a mere moment, Harry Potter fell from the sky in a similar fashion to the way Lucifer did from Heaven, and just as the Devil became acquainted with the pit and the inferno, Harry was introduced to his own set of Hell.
It only took a simple moment for Harry Potter to fall—literally fall—and within another spare moment; he realized that Hell wasn't much different from Heaven.
Perhaps there isn't any real differentiation, he thought warily.
…
…
…
The people still stared.
The first thing Harry noticed as he fell was that the sky was an inky dark blue, deep and extensive like peering into the ocean at midnight. The indigo was speckled with iridescent little stars, and he swore that some even dared to wink cheekily at him.
It was beautiful—the sky—but it didn't distract him from the insistent force pulling him downwards. The push of his building momentum made him gasp aloud as it clenched at his gut, briefly winding him and disallowing his breath to return.
The second thing Harry noticed was the harsh burn of a flame licking at his bare forearm and the viscous trail of wax tracking hotly across the underside of his jaw.
He wanted to scream at the heated pain, but as the stench of burnt flesh—his burnt flesh—wafted through his sinuses, Harry could only swallow the sound in effort to prevent from heaving upon himself within the same motion.
The acrid taste of sickness clung harshly against the back of his throat, biting cruelly at his tastebuds and sliding with exaggerated disgust on the roof of his mouth.
He had to prevent himself from retching twice more.
The last thing Harry noticed, as the cutting wind scraped at the pale flesh he bared, was that the ground was hard. Much harder than he'd anticipated.
Although some talented bloke had taken it upon himself to perform a lovely little cushioning charm beneath him—Harry could feel the ground transfiguring with sudden ease against his back—said talented bloke and his handy little charm were a moment too late.
If only it had been a moment sooner...
Harry could feel the crack of his vertebral column vibrate along each vertebrae, and the sharp sound of break was almost deafening as it rolled through his eardrums like a continuously crashing wave.
The ground was really, really hard.
The first and last thing Harry Potter realized, before his world faded slowly into the webs of black obscuring his sight, was that he was in the Great Hall of Hogwarts.
It's been a while, he thought, almost dubious in his nostalgia, but the sky has never been that blue. At least, not since... The pain prevented a coherent continuation of that process of thought.
Though blue sky or not, Harry recognized the warm embrace of Hogwarts. Where he was unmistakable.
And from the sudden sound of the chattering—rushing into his ears with an alarming clarity—Harry reckoned with trepidation the presence of students seated within the Hall.
—who is that?—what is that?—how did he get here?—isn't there an anti-apparition ward?—what just happened?—is it a sign?—must be the Dark Lord's doing...—Merlin, that looks like it hurts!—is he alive?—is he dead?—how is he alive?—why isn't he dead?—
What a spectacle he must appear to be.
Unfortunately, he grimaced in silence, this is nothing new.
He could feel the stares pinning down his aching body, scrutinizing as they attempted to take him apart.
As high-rushing adrenaline pumped sporadically through his veins, unfocused green eyes flicked wildly about the room in effort to flesh out his dubious surroundings.
Sparkling periwinkle blue robes came into sight; pointed and obnoxious.
Familiarity struck out at him, and the sight nearly blinded him.
Albus Dumbledore, was Harry's first thought, immediately followed by a bewildered second thought, No. It can't be. He's as dead as dead can be.
But those twinkling blue eyes—though they didn't quite twinkle at the moment—were irrefutable in their existence.
Harry closed his eyes tiredly; he felt a heavy fog mist over his mind, letting the tension in his body ease away and heightening the steady sound of his own heartbeat against his eardrums. It lulled him carefully into a trance-like state.
Though his body was trying to shut him down with its soothing slowness, Harry couldn't help the lingering thoughts that persisted at his consciousness.
He struggled to open his eyes; he had to be sure—of what? He didn't exactly know, but he had to be sure of something.
Glazed emerald green eyes stare deeply into wistful blue memories.
Dumbledore. Albus–fucking–Dumbledore, he paused, is alive...
How?
The stability of his sanity was often fickle, but he had never an opportunity to truly consider it.
As the darkness closed in on him, Harry was almost thankful that he fainted from blood loss and head trauma before the opportunity came to pass.
A question of sanity is a question in itself.
...
...
...
Questions that Harry Potter wasn't sure he could answer.
To say Tom Riddle was irritated would be an understatement.
Romulus Lestrange had somehow managed to snag the seat next to him, much to Tom's dismay.
Hearing Lestrange bootlick was a rather tedious affair under normal circumstances, but having the boy whimper thoughtlessly into his ear like some mindless sycophant was doubly so.
It takes a surprising amount of effort to keep his features untouched by any emotion other than pure boredom whilst having to listen to Lestrange go on and on and on.
Glancing at the boy seated to his left, Tom manages to keep his lips from grimacing in disgust. Shrugging off the urge to puke on Lestrange—because he was practically panting with need against Tom's neck—he angled himself away, turning to look pointedly at the boy seated to his right.
"Where is your cousin, Orion?" he hissed impatiently, sparing another quick glare at Lestrange before staring down at the grey-eyed boy to his right.
"Which one, my lord?" Orion Black enquired dully, his stoic facial features belying no taunt in his words despite their intention. "After all, we're all somewhat tied in blood. If one takes into consideration the amount of effort put into keeping our families pure of taint, the number of cousins I have are as numerous as the amount of admirers you've acquired." Sly grey eyes flick nonchalantly towards Lestrange as a smug smirk traced at his thin lips.
Tom's facial features didn't change from its mask of blank composure, but he did give the Black scion a look that said something along the lines of, "One more utter of pointed insolence and I shall rip your tongue from your mouth with the use of your very own hand so as to not concern myself with dirtying mine by having to reach into any one of your orifices. Then, as you lay in sufferance, I will set Lestrange upon you and watch him feast."
Getting the message, Black softly cleared his throat and bowed his head in apology. However, a faint smirk still curled at his lips as he spoke, "My apologies. It was unwise of me to tease, especially since my cousin's lack of presence allows for that vexatious buzzing at your ear." He mockingly simpered, placing a hand to his heart in a feigned gesture of honesty, "Please, my lord, accept my humblest apologies."
Tom resisted the urge to sigh in exasperation.
Orion Black's endeavour to crack his façade had been entertaining at first, but recently it was rapidly descending into a constant source of irritation. The persistent provocation had become boring in its perpetual insistence, evolving from a petty amusement into something of a chore.
"Spare me, Black," he drawled, the bite clear and sharp in his tone. "Every second you waste spouting these torturously irritating remarks is another second added to the amount of time I shall enjoy torturing you. Except, of course I won't be using my words to do so."
Black struggled with his own composure as he felt the heat of the other boy's threat. He looked away. A miniscule bead of cold sweat trickled down his pale neck as he clenched his jaw tightly. The taut tendons beneath his pale skin throbbed with obvious tension.
Tom smirked at Black's downcast gaze of obedience.
He was getting much too audacious, he mentally sneered. So much so that I was almost uncertain that he would be able to reign himself in. At least not before I got to torture him. A pity, that. Tom smirked to himself for a moment. But then again, blatant disregard or no, when have I ever needed a reason to deal out a bit of pain?
"Nothing to say anymore, Orion?" Tom hissed beneath his breath, leaning just a hairbreadth away from the grey-eyed boy. "Where are your pretty words now?" he whispered into the other boy's ear, almost seductive if not for its sinister undertone. "Have you somehow managed to swallow that silver-tongue of yours?"
Black visibly gulped. He turned his face away in genuine apology and submission. His humiliation and dread were told through the tremble of his pale lips.
Using a deceptively gentle finger, Tom turned his face back. Lifting Black's pointed chin, he stared deep into the other boy's uncertain grey eyes.
Such fear, he practically purred at the sight. I'm glad to see that Orion Black has not yet lost sight of the true power within this 'relationship' of ours. He should be as pleased as I am that he is still able to acknowledge his betters. Roughly throwing away the boy's chin, Tom dragged his fingers along the collar of the boy's velvety robes. Flicking his hand away, as if to cleanse the dirt from his fingertips, he smiled cruelly. As I'm sure his parents will appreciate the fact that I do not yet need to kill him and deprive them of yet another son.
"Well, Orion?" he finally prompted.
It took a moment for the Black scion to reply.
"Forgive me," Black eventually uttered, the smooth confidence evidently lacking from his speech. "I've been deplorably impudent in both my words and actions, my lord. I only seek yet another chance to serve you, as a humble servant to the cause and to you as my master."
"And yet," Tom drawled, "While you beseech me with your failing silver-tongue, pandering out those meaningless words that you think I wish to hear," he paused, eyes narrowing dangerously, "You still haven't told me where your idiot cousin is."
Black paled.
"Now, now, Tom," an irritating simper broke out from Tom's left before the grey-eyed boy could speak. "Orion's always been rather deaf and dumb. Disobedient. Like a rabid dog, I'd say. You should just teach him a lesson and be done with it. There's no use for inbred dogs like Black at our esteemed table." He fixated upon Tom, eyes sparkling with maddened glee. "We taught the last one that, didn't we, Tom?"
Tom turned cold green eyes towards Lestrange, impassivity blandly colouring his features. Beside him, he could feel Black's magic tense. He could see the frigid strands crackle hazardously against its surroundings, snapping against Black's control.
Tom peered at the grey-eyed boy with a quick look of disapproval. Black allowed wild emotion to veil over his normally inscrutable countenance with such quick ease that it left Tom wondering if the boy had fallen victim to some sort of whiplash.
Black's grey eyes lost their lacklustre consent of defeat as he narrowed them viciously. Dull grey became sharp and unyielding as they pierced into the Lestrange with a feral sort of intensity that Tom could only describe as crazed. Though it is often merely meant as a figurative quote of speech; in that moment, it literally seemed as if Black might just succeed in killing Lestrange with only his glare.
"I'd watch my tongue, my dear Romulus," he hissed softly, harsh and menacing.
"Else what, Black?" Lestrange retorted with a careless sneer. "I doubt a inbred beast like you could put two brain cells together, let alone do anything about the way I run my tongue," he taunted. "Your brother certainly wasn't able to, so I'd be surprised if you were."
Black was quick to draw his wand, but practical enough to keep it just under the table to distract from unwanted attention.
Tom bit back another sigh. Dealing with an impudent Black was one thing, but now he had to deal with both Black and the simpering idiot Lestrange?
I should just kill them both and get it over with, he thought wistfully. If only we weren't in the Great Hall and Albus Dumbledore didn't exist...
Deciding to cut in before Black could curse Lestrange into a boneless mass of obscured flesh, he spoke with a low hiss of command, "Else you wish to lose a hand, Black, I suggest you withdraw that wand." Lestrange let out a deranged giggle as the other boy clenched his jaw tightly and reluctantly sheathed his wand back into the velvet folds of his robes.
Tom glanced around, meeting Lestrange's sycophantic smile with one of his own feigned grins. The brown-eyed boy sighed in admiration, much to Tom's disgust.
"And you, Lestrange—" he addressed coolly.
"—Yes, my lord?" Lestrange was eager to cut in, practically trembling in excitement as words slipped mindlessly from his loose tongue.
Annoyed that he was interrupted—and by the primary source of his entire night's irritation, at that—Tom stealthily jabbed his pale white wand into Lestrange's sternum before either could blink.
His kind smile was kept deceptively in place.
Lestrange gasped at the harsh pain digging into his chest from the pointed tip of the wand.
"Don't fucking interrupt me, please and thank you," Tom admonished gently. "I'd hate to have to make your ribs eat out your internal organs while such a lovely feast is taking place around us," he purred, "as that would probably make everyone lose their appetite for all the wondrous food we've been presented with." His attention didn't stray as he addressed Black, "That would be quite the tragedy, now, wouldn't it, Orion?"
"Quite so," Black drawled casually, a pleased smirk pulling lightly at his lips as Lestrange winced. His grey eyes were callous and bloodthirsty, belying his agreeable tone. "Especially if all these poor souls are exposed to Lestrange's disgusting countenance in addition to the fact that he would literally be eating himself out—an atrocity in itself, I think. In fact, I fear that Lestrange would induce more than a loss of appetite." He shook his head admonishingly, mockery alight in his gaze.
Tom dug his wand harsher into Lestrange's chest. He found himself more annoyed than gratified by the boy's garbled plea for forgiveness.
"Do you think that many would lose their dinner as well due to Lestrange's unsightly display?" he queried with false curiousity.
"Of course," Black replied conversationally, unmindful of Lestrange's gasps of pain. "Wouldn't you?"
Tom hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I couldn't say. I've found myself having to adapt to his nauseating presence, seeing that he fancies lingering around me so often." He smiled proudly at Black and commented thoughtfully, "Actually, it happens that I may have even worked up an immunity; I have yet to lose my lunch whilst being in such close proximity. 'Tis quite an unfortunate—or fortunate, depending on perspective—how I've grown so used to his unsightliness."
Lestrange's eyes watered, but he dare not let the tears fall in fear of both the possibility of further punishment and the certainty of torture if unwanted attention were to fall upon them.
"Either way, I find it quite admirable, my lord," Black praised dutifully, "though I highly doubt that I have such perseverance. To think of the length of time in his presence you've had to endure to earn such an achievement. I'm almost in awe of your feat."
"You flatter me, Orion," Tom chuckled heartily though his green eyes were devoid of humour, remaining as cold and cruel as they've always been. "It's a practiced art, I assure you. Even I had not achieved such with unobstructed ease." Lestrange whimpered loudly. "Silencio," he purred the spell, rolling its syllables against his tongue. Tom dug the pale tip of his wand deeper with a quick vindictive jab. "Hush now, Lestrange, my friend. We wouldn't want anyone to interfere with our intimate little affair here, now, would we?" he whispered into Lestrange's ear. His tone was husky and soothing, but filled with enough dark promises to warn a sane individual off.
Granted, Romulus Lestrange most definitely wasn't sane.
Tom detested the unconscious glaze of lust that fogged over Lestrange's terrified brown eyes. In response, he stabbed his wand into Lestrange's chest so hard that the boy could not help but scream in silent agony, a knee simultaneously jerking up to hit the bottom of the table.
The clatter of silverware and Lestrange's watering eyes drew a few too many eyes towards them, forcing Tom to adopt a sympathetic expression while veiling his blatant disgust. "Oh dear, Romulus," he addressed—loud and clear for all the nosy spectators who peered curiously at them. His brows furrowed in worry as his wand dragged down towards the boy's thigh hidden beneath the table. "You hit your knee rather hard, didn't you? Do you need any help with it?" Tom prompted with a kind smile. He narrowed his eyes at Lestrange, daring him to disobey in any way, shape, or form.
Lestrange found himself unsure of whether or not his lord wished him to shake his head in denial or nod in acquiescence.
If he shook his head, claiming to need no help, then Tom would most likely resume hexing the bones of his ribcage until they truly did puncture a lung or two. However; if he nodded, Tom would surely help him out, if only to maintain his image as the kind, helpful Head Boy.
Although Lestrange was rather unnerved by what Tom's definition of 'help' could be, he couldn't resist the want to feel his lord's destructive magic wash over his unworthy being.
Tentatively, Lestrange tilted his head into a nod of assent, almost panting in silent anticipation.
Tom really had to hold back his bile this time, Lestrange's hot breath wafting onto his face.
The nerve of this psychotic imbecile, Tom thought with distaste; Lestrange's wish to be cursed was in no way subtle. He inched back, deliberating a way to effectively torture the other boy without the entirety of the Hall noticing. Merlin, I feel my magic being tainted by the mere notions that dare to float about that empty head of his, he thought, restraining his urge to cringe away. Perhaps this is the only time I'd admit that being a practiced master of Legilimency is not to my current advantage.
Withdrawing his wand entirely, Tom turned to Black with a blank smile.
"Deal with him," he murmured under his breath, though clear enough for his message to be heard. Black smirked, tilting his head in compliance. Enunciating louder, Tom said with abashed modesty, "I'm afraid I haven't been brushing up on my healing spells recently. I should be ashamed, really." He sheepishly rubbed the back of his head, eyes downcast. "Lestrange looks really hurt, Orion. He's even breaking out in cold sweat from the pain. I want to help out, but I wouldn't want to make it worse..." he trailed off sadly.
The students from the next table over looked at him with foolish sympathy while his own unsuspecting housemates looked on with empty reverence.
Clever, handsome Tom Riddle has the ability to admit ignorance. 'How admirable,' they must be sighing within the confines of their naïve little minds, Tom scoffed silently in mockery. 'Is he human after all?' they inquire thoughtfully to themselves. He smirks imperceptibly at the thought. What a good question.
"Don't sweat it, Tom. You've got a plenty of other things to deal with, after all," Black replies with a feigned look of comfort. He continues with a cold smile written across his often stoic features, turning to Lestrange as he speaks, "Cygnus, my younger cousin, is always getting injured from Quidditch, so I know just the spell to help Lestrange out. No worries, really."
"Thanks, Orion," Tom acknowledged, nodding in appreciation as an angelic smile pulled readily at his full lips.
Black drew his wand slowly with crisp anticipation; his grey eyes are glacial but heated anger simmered beneath the surface. The smile dropped as his arm extended forward, the tip of his blackthorn wand glowing as dark as both its namesake and owner.
"I'm glad to be of service."
However, before Lestrange could whimper, or Black curse the boy, Tom raised his finger in a sudden command of halt.
Both Black and Lestrange seemed taken aback by the motion, but as they opened their mouths in question, Tom waved his hand in an abrupt gesture, thinly veiled impatience written across his face as he bid them to be silent.
...
...
...
He saw it before anyone else.
Tom had caught a slight fluctuation in the existence of magic surrounding the Great Hall, just before Black had released his curse. He'd done well to stop it; the other boy most likely would've smothered the strangely errant flux had he been successful in releasing his potent Dark magic.
Entranced, Tom ignored both Black and Lestrange's gapes of confusion.
He followed the bare strands of foreign magic with wide-eyed curiousity. The wisping aura of pure magic was starkly visible against that of Hogwarts' own, leading him slowly up to the twinkling night sky that engulfed the ceiling.
I've, he paused unevenly, not believing his own sight, I've never seen such a thing. Tom was momentarily stupefied, a look of pure awe tracing across his often still features. It's like this thing, this magic, it has the ability to bend the very existence of magic itself. Single-handedly, at that. He felt himself tense as a trace of unconscious jealousy tinged his thoughts, All my arrogance aside, I am unsure of my own probability of success if I ever attempted such a feat alone. Though I doubt... his thoughts trailed off dangerously. To be able to bend Hogwarts' magic is indeed quite a feat. Tom narrowed his eyes. An impossibility most would even say.
No longer awestruck or childishly curious, Tom could feel a hunger claw up from within him, dragging languorously against his very being.
I want that power.
He looked on with glinting eyes as the foreign magic stretched a hole messily against the surrounding aura, tearing mercilessly as it went.
I want that power.
The hole enlarged, scratching and cracking against Hogwarts' magic as it forced its way open.
Tom's eyes were a bloodied red, his knuckles pure white.
And if it weren't so cliché, I'd say something along the lines of, 'I always get what I want'.
...
...
...
The dark haired boy who fell... wasn't part of the plan.
—
.to be continued.
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