We're All Mad Here

II

Just Harry is standing before them without even the slightest bit on concern on his painted face.

His clothing has changed since Tom's last interaction with him; now a lightweight white shirt covers his torso, the sleeves billowing out before suddenly gathering at the wrist, and half of his bare chest on show due to the lazily laced collar. The same strange markings cover the pale skin exposed by the half closed shirt, though the silvery cape remains. The trousers are a near copy of before too, though they glimmer an incredibly dark green beneath the midday sun, tucked into dark leather boots.

Tom's not even going to try and figure out the lacework on those boots, he doesn't want to know in the slightest how the mad stranger has positioned the laces so that they tie in the shape of his strange symbol.

The obnoxiously creepy grin is back too.

"Who?" Malfoy croaks out beside him, and Tom is reminded that these three idiots don't know any better, don't know that they should ignore everything this stranger does -this untouchable strange that Tom cannot hurt, and thus cannot defend himself from- and just continue on like he's not there.

If anything, Just Harry looks over the moon that they're acknowledging him, jumping forwards in a way that gravity should not be allowing. It's just too springy, too free to be bound by the physics of earth. Then again, this place isn't quite earth as Tom knows it.

As if to further prove his point, Just Harry takes one more leap and comes to rest in the air, floating there harmlessly upon his front and at eye level with the quickly back-pedalling Slytherins. Now they look a bit more alarmed.

Good, now they might take this threat a bit more seriously.

"Fred and George, or Gred and Froge as they prefer," Just Harry states, flicking the feather adornments tied in his hair back over his shoulder. Tom recognises the feathers of a hippogriff, a golden snidget, a phoenix and the scarlet plume of a male basilisk. A vast array, and the last one is quite worrying indeed.

"They're twins, pranksters, wannabe Marauders."

The grin widens impossibly so, until Just Harry's face is literally splitting at the seams and he dissolves into multiple wisps of thin smoke.

Lestrange swears under his breath, eyes wide even as the brim of his ridiculous hat droops down over the bridge of his nose. Malfoy and Avery are no better.

"If you're looking for the exit, then you want to head east," Just Harry's voice echoes across the hilltop, the same strange symbol that he has adopted appearing in the air before them, "you'll find a key there."

Tom doesn't trust a single word out of this maniac's mouth. Instead, he glares at the symbol -wishing that the stranger wasn't capable of complete invisibility so that he might turn his furious gaze upon him- even as his mind spins. Tom is a master of lies, of sugar coated promises that turn to ash in your mouth.

Yet, he cannot tell for the life of him if the stranger speaks truths, and so, elects to ignore every damn word he says.

"Which way is east anyway?" Malfoy snaps, glaring up at the midday sun, which has sat right above their heads for an undetermined amount of time. Once again, the stupidity of wizards astounds Tom as he lays is wand flat upon his palm and eyes the floating symbol one more time.

"Point me, east."

The wand rolls, twisting in his hand before -for the first time since he fell through the floor- it settles in a certified direction.

"Finally," Tom whispers beneath his breath and begins striding off in the opposite direction. If Just Harry wants him to go east, then Tom shall travel west. His fingers itch to understand the significance of the symbol that Just Harry uses for his own, that even a wizard as powerful as Grindelwald claims as his own sigil. It clearly holds some kind of significance, but what?

"Why's the Deathly Hallows symbol hanging in the air?" Avery whispers, one hand resting warily upon the hilt of his highly decorated sword, a pucker between his brows.

Tom skids to a halt at that, swinging around to stare at Avery as both Malfoy and Lestrange goggle at him.

"What?"

"How'd you recognise it as that? It's been years since I've heard that story."

As usual, Tom's muggle raised background once again tripped him up, has left him with less of an understanding than what these Purebloods hold. Anger burns, both at his useless mother and his disgusting muggle father, but Tom forcibly pushes it down and focuses on the here and now.

"Explain."

Avery jumps at the command, but complies, hastily explaining the tale of the Three Brothers, of the two that succumbed to Death and the one that greeted it with open hands. Tom rather liked the youngest brother until he heard that last part.

"-it's said that collecting all three Hallows makes one the Master of Death, though obviously no one has ever actually managed that."

Silence sits heavy in the air, and the only question running through Tom's head is why he didn't know of this sooner. He of all people knows that every legend holds a grain of truth; the muggles have books on wizards, dragons and phoenixes, and they're all true. What is to stop a wizarding tale from being more than a simple myth?

Though they have walked away from the hill, the sigil is still engraved upon Tom's mind, there every time his eyes close as he blinks. It's present on his ring, housed within the stone that sits upon his finger, and for a moment, Tom stares blankly at the ugly gem.

Could it be? His uncle had bragged of the Peverell legacy, was it possible that-

"Shit. That grinning freak has the cloak."

Lestrange's obvious conclusion pulls Tom from his thoughts, and as he considers his fellow Slytherin's words, he finds himself grimacing in distaste.

That is, not good at all. Just Harry seems impossibly to pin down, and Tom's attempt to rip the cloak from him will take far more planning and energy than he currently has to spare. Never mind that spells seem to just pass through his body, that he can seemingly disappear from the world at will.

"No wonder he disappeared," Malfoy hisses, eyes narrowed as he checks the obnoxiously large pocketwatch that cannot be removed from his person. The handles haven't changed in the slightest, petrified in position.

"He'll turn up again," Tom asserts, and he knows that for certain. Just Harry seems quite content to continue making a nuisance of himself, has appeared again and again since Tom had first found himself in this 'Hallowland', he had proclaimed the place as his own, though that could mean anything at all. The implications make Tom uneased, that much is certain.

The trio of Slytherins share an assessing look in response to the certainty in their leader's words, but Tom fails to pay them too much attention. He has a new idea to play about with, a new concept to consider.

.

The Master of Death, huh?

.

Night falls as abruptly as Tom's hopes for an easy solution. That is to say quickly, and with all the impact of a meteor striking the earth. An unearthly glow descends from the moon, and the cast of the lighting reminds Tom uncomfortably of the Chamber of Secrets.

Malfoy's hair lustres silver beneath the starlight, Lestrange's dark curls bleeding into the black of the night. In the darkness, the mice upon Avery's sword seem to dance together along the blade, though thankfully they make no noise.

It is as if all the colour has drained from the world, leaving them in a distressing monochrome, nothing more than images upon newsprint.

Looking down at his robes, Tom notes that is Slytherin tie seems to have faded, becoming a lacklustre combination of greys. No, it is not just a trick of the light, all the colour has seeped from the world alongside the sun. Hallowland seems an even more apt description now.

"This place is awful," Malfoy hisses under his breath, fear lingering beneath his attempted bravado. It's evident in all of their faces, in the stress lines that edge the curves of Avery's mouth, in the creases that hang low beneath Lestrange's eyes.

They're not coping well, and Tom knows that his own discomfort sits heavy inside his stomach, for all that it does not show upon his face. He is too good at the masks now, perfected it to the point it has become difficult to remove. He feels more comfortable with it, feels as if he has more control by wearing a façade of confidence.

Though even he feels as if his insides are cracking.

No time managing spell works it this place, Tom doesn't have the slightest clue how long he's been gone, nor does he know if anyone is observing him, waiting for him to trip up and expose himself as a rising darkness to rival Grindelwald.

It irks him, having to temper himself, to temper his spells. But he can do nothing, not when he's in enemy territory, not when he has not been attacked first. If Just Harry goes for the kill, then Tom will do everything in his power to remain alive, and will probably be able to wiggle out of the Ministry's justice system with a claim of self defence. Especially with families like the Malfoys and the Lestranges backing him up.

Until he is attacked in such a way though, he cannot possibly warrant the use of such spells, no matter how much he burns to do so.

His anger is a powerful thing, concealed as it is, clawing away at his innards until it feels as if nothing but a shredded mess scorches away inside of him. All that occurs around him does nothing other than to add kindle to the flames, stoking it to greater heights, leaving Tom to choke on the thick smoke that he cannot free himself of.

If the other Slytherins are away of the imminent danger that remains within their midst, they do not acknowledge it, instead quietly agreeing that they should stop and sleep.

Spells are cast, runes drawn and amateur wards erected. Even then, not even the slightest illusion of safety has been contrived, not that it was ever there to begin with.

Tom transfigures himself a bed -colourless, no matter how he tries to stain it green and silver- and nestles himself within the covers. As the others make their own sleeping arrangements, Tom casts a selection of Parseltonuge spells upon his own bedding, going so far as to include an especially tricky one that would have his enemy attack those around him before it'd come after Tom himself.

While he'd rather not see the Slytherins picked off one by one, he wishes to see is own survival even more.

There is nothing he values more than his own continued existence.

.

Morning strikes swift, the sun actually rising, unlike its previous pattern of blinking in and out of existence. They have been left alone throughout the night, there has been no evidence of foul play and all of their spells appear to have held strong.

Colour has yet again returned to the world, and Tom slowly sits up in the confines of his bed to find clothing has appeared beside him. He ignores it, for the fabric is cut a little too similarly to that of Just Harry's outfit. Though it may be crass to wear the same robes again, to simply apply a freshening charm and continue on, it's far more favourable than to wear potentially cursed clothing.

The others agree, for their dismiss the offers, all of which are far more eccentric than Tom's simply white shirt and blue waistcoat, with matching pants. Though the boots look admittedly nice -certainly more so than the worn leather shoes that cover his feet at the moment- he will not bow. Lord Voldemort answers to none, and he will not be cowered into playing along with the stranger's disturbing games. They will continue east, and that will be that.

Tom doesn't bother to vanish his temporary bed, instead consulting his wand for east.

He regrets taking his eyes off the landscape, for when he looks up, it is not a grassy plainland that sprawls before him, but a seemingly endless ocean. Upon turning to look over his shoulder, he notes that their little encampment has become a small island, who's total cubic space grows smaller and smaller by the second.

A startled noise escapes from between Tom's lips before he can stop it, water licking at the butter soft leather of his shoes and he hastily backs up.

Both Avery and Lestrange swear in surprise, wands whirling as they transfigure their beds into a hastily created boat. Tom boards with all the presence and self-importance of a king, the others scurrying on after him like rats.

Both just in time, as the water rises, the taste of salt in the air.

Tom has only ever seen the ocean during the summer holidays of his childhood, looking out upon that vast expanse of water from the sandy shores.

Now there is not an inch of land within sight, no stability whatsoever and the half-forgotten tales of drowning sailors instantly surge to the forefront of his mind. For a single moment, fear stills him, and it is almost as if he can feel the salt water already scraping at the inner-lining of his throat, choking him from the inside out.

Yet, there's something wrong with the water. It is exactly the same as the ocean from his childhood, but at the same time, there seems to be something more to it. Another dimension, like a visual that sits just upon the borderline of the spectrum, shimmering in and out of existence to forever remain out of his grasp.

"What is wrong with this place," Tom snarls beneath his breath, trying to identify the extra substance, and feeling his fury burn hotter when he fails at that.

"I've told you, Tom," The voice echoes through the air, and Just Harry's smile is suddenly reflecting upon the crest of every wave, "Hallowland is mine. A reflection of the real world, but better suited to my needs."

"I don't recognise half of the things occurring." Quidditch is one thing, but this extensive body of water; the earth has more of this than land, but it holds no magical significance. Not beyond whispers of Atlantis anyway.

"That's because it's my game we're playing, not yours." Now he just sounds drily amused, as if Tom were unknowingly reading from a script that Just Harry had wrote himself.

"You're lucky I let you have any pieces to play at all."

The three Slytherins tense at that term of address. Tom knows that all they are is pawns though, pawns in a bigger game that Tom himself has only just apparently being eligible to play in.

The question is, is this a game of chess, of a game of life? Is it one opponent, or are there more waiting in the long shadows that this Just Harry character casts?

Suddenly, that playful, taunting voice is gone, and in its place sits a heavy, stern tone that stills Tom's blood.

"Our actions come back to haunt us, Tom Marvolo Riddle. I do believe it is time you learnt that."

And with that a shade appears in the ocean mist.

.

.

.

"Oh Merlin, not her." But it is.

Myrtle Warren, a horrid spectre in intangible Hogwarts robes floats before them. It is her tears that feed this ocean, her tears that trickle into its depths and increases its capacity.

For a moment, Tom is struck dumb by the sheer ridiculousness of this fact, but it is undeniable. The substance he was previously unable to identify is in fact, the ghostly quality that water both holds and releases, a broken film that sets over reality.

Now that her presence has been acknowledged, her bemoans and whimpers echo through the air, complaints of Olive Hornby and her bullying ways, of her poor grades and even poorer appearance, are as welcomed a sound as nails upon a chalkboard. Tom physically checks the instinct to cover his ears, and uncouth as such a thing would be.

How has Just Harry figured it out? How does he know that Tom was the cause of Moaning Myrtle's death?

Say what you would about Hornby, but that was an rather apt nickname she'd come up with regarding the Mudblood Ravenclaw, one that the Slytherins had taken to snickering about in the common room.

Right up until her death that was.

While this normally wouldn't have stopped them, it was the sheer fact Warren had died on Hogwarts grounds, inside its very walls. While the Pureblood greatly approved of killing off the filthy blood that stained the castle's hallowed halls, that particular death had been just a little too close to home for them to really celebrate it. Such a thing was in poor taste, they whispered.

Regardless, there had been no evidence, nothing to connect Tom back to his most heinous crime; murdering a child. Only Dumbledore knew that he could talk to snakes, a slip from an young, overeager tongue. Even the deputy headmaster had been unable to truly connect the dots, not when Tom had gone to so much effort to erase their very existence.

Yet, here this stranger whispers buried truths that would do better to never be unearthed again. Not for a long while, not until the law can no longer hold Tom. He is so deliciously close to freedom, in his final year at Hogwarts, and he will not be caught. Lord Voldemort will not be stopped.

"Moaning Myrtle?" Lestrange questions, eyes filtering to Tom and back.

For the other Slytherins, it had been a process of elimination to conclude who was the true heir of Slytherin. Had to been a pureblood, they'd have bragged.

As such, suspicion fell upon the half-blood shoulders of Tom Riddle, who'd background was as mysterious as the very idea of the Heir of Slytherin even existing. Ever since, they had followed him out of fear. To have it confirmed for them though…

"Are you aware, Tom Riddle, that a Basilisk can travel through water as well as they do across land?"

There is a moment of tense, horrible silence, before the surface of the ocean bursts. It is not the great snake, the king of the serpents that rises from its depths though. Instead merpeople flip through the air, shark-human hybrids dancing alongside them, before the proclaimed ophidian appears.

Tom's stomach flips and then sinks like a rock when he notes the red plume upon the creates head. It is not Slytherin's basilisk, it is not one predetermined to answer his call, to obey simply for the blood that runs through his veins, tainted as it is.

This is a free Basilisk, larger than even Slytherin's, and Tom does not like his chances.

Lestrange actually screams in terror, while Malfoy cowers behind the lopsided mast. Avery faints, useless deadweight that he is.

Tom adamantly does not meet the Basilisk's gaze, instead staring at Just Harry as he appears besides Moaning Myrtle. The ghost instantly stops wailing, lacking onto the stranger as if he is a physical presence. An impossibility for a ghost. What is he?

Tom files away the fact that Just Harry seems quite unbalanced with Warren hanging onto his arm for future reference. Is it all ghost, or just specifically her? For if it is the latter, Tom can at the very least understand.

A vapid airhead, Warren had actually believed she had a chance with him, that he'd sweep in and ride off into the sunset with her atop a white hippogriff. A stupid little girl with stupid little daydreams. Daydreams she'd paid dearly for. Tom hadn't been aiming for her specifically, but if he couldn't off Dumbledore, at least he's gotten the second greatest annoyance in his life out of the way.

"Kill the one of Salazar's blood," the stranger hisses, and Tom freezes for a moment in terror.

In the next second, he is freezing the surrounding water to escape across, as the bulk of the Basilisk's body comes down upon their makeshift boat.

"Parseltongue won't save you this time, Riddle!"

There's a pause, before the stranger sighs and flops in on himself.

"It's just not the same, not as dramatic. I should have known I would struggle to play this role, but it's interesting to see the switch."

What in the name of Merlin is he talking about?

Tom has but a second to consider before he is once again forced to flee across thin ice, the Basilisk's vicious teeth snapping at the air mere centimetres away from his body.

He can hear the other three Slytherins, screaming and fleeing. Cowards.

Tom wants to rage and roar and to burn them for their treachery, only he's too occupied keeping himself alive for a few more seconds. He cannot look upon the Basilisk without risking certain death, and he cannot kill it with magic, for its scales are the most magic resistant substance on earth. Panic blazes through him as he flees, as he tries to apperates and fails. Chances of survival are slim, and while he has his Horcruxes -two of them, two lifelines- he does not want to spend who knows how long attempting to rebirth himself. He knows Horcruxes will prevent him passing on. He has yet to research making a new body; he'd thought he had no more time than this!

"Mmm, you know what, I don't think a phoenix is going to be coming to your rescue. Though I suppose it's only fair..."

Tom chances a glance towards the psychotic Just Harry and blanches at the sight of the Basilisk beside him. Only, it's eyes are covered by a thick red blindfold, confusing both the Heir of Slytherin and the Basilisk itself.

"And Slytherin's weapon... Doesn't surprise me he favoured long-range rather than close combat."

And then there's a bow.

Tom recognises it from the paintings in the common room, from the entries in Salazar's journals. Slytherin's Bow.

With little care, he snatches up the valued antique, feeling the quiver of arrows settle upon his back. Tom has no experience whatsoever with archery, has never taken any interest at all, but this is different. Salazar's bow was designed especially to slay basilisks, just in case one ever broke free of his command, Salazar needed a way in which to kill the rebellious creature. Each arrow tip is said to be dipped in the venom of a basilisk, and coated with the fluid from the venomous sac of a Nudu. A legendary weapon, one lost to the ages, and one Tom has never even considered possibly finding.

He cannot stop the admire it though, and the Head Boy is forced to perform a clumsy forwards roll in order to avoid the Basilisk's flailing tail. Why Just Harry has blinded his own weapon, Tom doesn't have the slightest clue. It's comparable to tying a cat's two front paws together; it might hinder it, but eventually it'll work around that hindrance and catch it's mouse.

"You might not be able to see him, but you can smell him."

Who's side is this bastard on?!

Tom snarls, rolling out of the way and drawing at arrow. He fires, specifically at the blindfold of the Basilisk, but his lack of training with the weapon shows, the arrow glancing off the serpents side and bouncing harmlessly into the water.

Tom hits himself with an odourless charm, hastily creating more ice to retreat onto as the Basilisk approaches. It's not smooth ice, and his shoes slip and slide across the surface of the frozen waves, scrambling for purchase.

In the air, he can feel the eyes of Just Harry and Moaning Myrtle following his every move, the ghost still clinging to the stranger's side despite his valiant attempts to dislodge her. Good, let him suffer for a bit.

Under a silencing charm, Tom curses as another arrow rebounds from the beast's reinforced hide, desperation clawing at his insides and setting his blood aflame. He has no experience with a bow, has never seen the need to learn. If he ever gets out of this madness though, he will learn how to wield his ancestors bow with lethal results.

He draws another arrow, the sleek wood gripped in hand as he's forced to throw himself to a side, avoiding those snapping, poisonous jaws. If even the slightest bit of that venom gets in his bloodstream, he's dead, that Tom knows for sure. Well, not completely dead, but a bodiless wreath, and that's practically death for him right now.

He still has a great many things he wants to do before having to go through the time consuming procedure of having to create another body. Like tracking down this traitorous Slytherins, and wringing Just Harry's neck nice and tight until his eyes pop out.

.

The climax of the battle is an understandable relief, is somewhat understated.

It is pure luck that Tom managed to catch the Basilisk just as it's reorienting itself after another full body slam. It's pure luck he manages to stab the Basilisk through the eye with an arrow -what a waste! He could have used such a magnificent beast to far greater effect than what the stranger does-, killing it if not instantly, than quickly at the very least.

He's exhausted, his muscles quivering under the pressure he's exposed them to, chest heaving for breath, and he's still not alone so cannot afford to let his guard down.

Their eyes meet, green holding dark blue steady, before Just Harry grins. It's almost a proud smile, were his lips not cracking under the pressure, blood seeping and beading steadily upon the dry flesh.

"Well done," he says, a simple wave of his hand dissolving Warren as if she were of no significant meaning. Something they can agree on at least. Though why he'd allowed her to cling so tightly to him, when clearly he was more than capable of banishing her right away, Tom doesn't have the slightest idea. He doesn't understand the stranger, and doesn't even want to attempt puzzling out how his twisted mind works. Were Tom even somewhat capable of following Just Harry's logic, that means thinking somewhat similar to him.

Such a thing is unacceptable.

"You did well, didn't even get poisoned," Just Harry muses, one hand rubbing at the crook of his elbow, head tilting to a side and a considering look crossing his face.

It's a weighty thing, and it makes Tom shift, gathering another arrow from the quiver just in case. Spells might have passed through Just Harry, but perhaps one of Slytherin's legendary projectiles will be able to fell him if needs must.

"Why are you going west though? I told you to go east, you wouldn't have even encountered the Basilisk." A pout.

The lunatic actually pouts at him, and Tom can feel his anger erupt from a gentle simmer to a ferocious boil, barely capable of keeping the lid on it.

"I have no reason to trust you," Tom responds, tone bland even as he carefully shifts his weight about on the thick ice beneath his feet. It's already melting around the edges, battered by the salty waves of the ocean, and Tom momentarily bemoans the loss of the hastily made raft.

It is surely going to be a pain, to continue on towards the shore -a shore he cannot see- by constantly freezing the water that surrounds him.

He also has to track down his cowardly cohorts, if only to extra revenge upon them. They deserve it, for abandoning him so quickly to his fate, fleeing in a mass of hastily swimming limbs and dripping hair. Tom will show them exactly what their 'loyalty' has gifted them with. Pain, oh yes. There will be a lot of pain involved.

The sea suddenly shifts around him, a wave of immense mass cresting just beside of him and before Tom can even begin to think about reacting, it's swept both him and his little iceberg up.

The water closes up over his head, panic claws at his throat even as his wand finds its way into his hand. One clutching at Slytherin's bow, the other making a valiant attempt at impressing the wand into his palm, Tom twists his magic to launch himself up to the sky.

He surfaces, sucking in a great breath of air, Hogwarts robes far too heavy and dragging him back under the surface. Another charm, weightless this time, takes care of their life threatening weight, and Tom's head rises from the ocean once again.

It is still now though, and it's only after a moment of treading water that he realizes why.

Impossibly, he is mere metres from shore.

A stretch of beach, looking far warmer than the sole English one he has seen before sits within reachable distance. The tropical looking trees weather the gentle kiss of the wind well, their oversized leaves rising and falling in far smoother motions than what the sea's waves are managing.

It is such a pleasant change from the formerly endless stretch of ocean that Tom hastens his swimming to approach the golden sands that much quicker. He stumbles up the stretch of beach, quickly stripping himself of the outer-layer of robes, for it is exceptionally warm here.

A moment passes as he collapses onto the sand, coming to terms with his near death at the hands of Just Harry and his Basilisk, of his sudden acquisition of Slytherin's bow -thought to have been destroyed by Gryffindor when Tom's ancestor left Hogwarts- and his current predicament. This place is the height of madness, and Tom has no choice but to play along, to accept what may come.

As soon at the thought crosses him mind, hissing reaches his ears, and the Slytherin Head Boy tenses at the dulcet tones of Parseltongue.

Only, it is not Just Harry's voice.

With a sinking feeling of absolute exhaustion, Tom recognises exactly who that voice belongs to, and is incapable of not running his hands over his face.

He does not what to spend any more time with his maternal family, but it appears as if he will have no choice in the matter.

.

I am going to try updating this once a week, but next week is my big deadline week, so we'll see how well that pans out.

Regardless, here's Tom's latest escapades throughout Hallowland, with guest appearances from Myrtle and a Basilisk. I honestly don't have much planned out for this, so we'll see how it all goes; I've only got a very tentative outline for the next chapter. Please excuse any mistakes, 90% of this was wrote in the past 24 hours.

As far as I am concerned, the quote that applies most to Tom from Alice in Wonderland is 'But I don't want to go among the mad people,'.

Thank you for all your reviews, I'm glad people are giving this word waffle a read.

Tsume

xxx