Chapter Text
All fault of that (now) nose-less fucker.
The red eyed arsehole.
Dick-brained piece of rubbish, parading around as a functional human not being, and scattering everywhere his “memories” (what a joke) as Dumbledore did with his sweets.
Harry sighed and rubbed his face at the vivid memories of the past couple of hours (hiding his blush behind righteous anger), pointedly ignoring his grinning—as a cat who got the cream and then some —much to be desired company.
Friday the 14th truly championed to be his new bad omen day.
And it was all Voldemort’s fault.
As usual.
Tom Marvolo Riddle was a once smart boy, who then turned into a cunning young man. And after shedding his human form, he emerged as a god-like creature, Lord Voldemort, commanding fear and awe alike, becoming more than a mere mortal, more than a common run-of-the-mill wizard on the world-wide scale.
But even the Master of the craft, Dark and Light magic disciplines alike, sometimes has a moment of an … isolated occurrence of something so unbelievable, so rare, that it strikes one odd and leaves him bereft.
A mistake.
Seven—the most sacred, and magically potent number it might be—but as the number of soul parts it has proven to be unwise. Not discounting the fact that up until the Journal’s destruction almost four years back, there were eight parts of the Dark Lord’s fractured soul.
It completely overridden his once desired goal, the predicted stability of his soul, amplified by the hallowed count of seven.
In numerology the number eight represents abundance, manifestation, and power—but it is also looked down upon as a number of sorrows, misery, struggle and death. All discomfiting factors Lord Voldemort would like to prevent himself from, always.
The descent into disarray started with a boy named Harry James Potter, some time before his birth through the mouth of a Seer (of questionable talents, but reputable origins) up until his 15 months of life—to a day, interestingly enough, a trifecta of dynamic force of change that is a five. After that point, the course of the events felt like fighting a tide for the Dark Lord.
So, in the spirit of the karmic balance (not that Lord Voldemort believed in such puerile matters, but he liked the symmetry of Fates rightfully yielding to his will) it must end with the child as well.
One question remained: how.
So far, this crusade to establish order back within the world has presented to be somewhat problematic. Unforeseen accidents, strikes of fickle luck, and simply put ‘unfortunate circumstances’ of no volition from the blasted boy itself (much to Lord Voldemort’s eternal disappointment), all but laid by others protecting the Child of Prophecy… This and more has been preventing time and time again for Lord Voldemort to annihilate Potter’s bothersome existence.
But Voldemort is nothing but an ever-changing creature of chaos, someone able to self-reflect and timely adjust to unfortunate circumstances. It shows his wisdom, endless shrewdness, and his profound maturity gained throughout long decades of being the best of the best Britain has to offer.
Heavy burden to be sure.
But Lord Voldemort is used to leading the masses of nimble-minded witches and wizards, looking up to him for a purpose, guidance in matters overshadowing their scopes of interests.
As such—a messiah of the Wizarding world—he needs a new name for his latest pursuits once more, to hide in plain sight behind a clout of mystery and subtlety of being an unknown. A covert threat. Wolf in the sheep’s clothing as it were.
In the blackness of his existence (waiting, always waiting for an opportunity to strike), he smiled with expression full of malice, his grin as sharp as a Goblin-crafted steel blade, a weapon ready to be bled upon by his foes always.
Somehow he knew the tides would turn soon.
Sons are born to replace their Fathers.
Tom Riddle killed his own Father once (and Grandfather and Grandmother too for good measure), and he can do so again—proving himself superior.
Dodging the company of his two friends and masses of love-struck teenage girls (and even some of the boys, much to his chagrin) after his classes ended, Harry wanted to disappear on this horrible day and come back when the madness was all over—Monday would be ideal, as it was Hogsmeade weekend, so the craziness will probably last three whole days. He winced at that conclusion.
The ever-present pinks, hearts and all garish decor made him want to gag… Yet it could be worse—he remembered his second year and Lockhart’s ridiculous ideas with the cupids and all that nonsense.
Hearing somebody coming from the other side of the hall, he ducked behind the nearest tapestry. It seemed like everybody wanted a piece of the Boy-Who-Lived (not Harry, never Harry himself) on this day. He gagged again at that and shuddered. The love potion blunder on Halloween proved that one’s infatuation could be dangerous. Mortally so.
He really should have remembered to bring his invisibility cloak today, but he and Ron were running late this morning and they didn’t want to be late for McGonagall’s class.
So here he was, holed up behind stupid tapestry on the 6th floor, waiting for the mysterious person(s) to pass so he could go hide in his dorms and pretend he didn’t exist.
Soft voice disrupted his erratic train of thoughts. “Oh hello, Harry. Nice to see you here.”
He jumped at the potential discovery by some fan, right hand half-way on his wand and then relaxed—at seeing who it was.
“Hullo, Luna. How are you?” he asked instead of the otherwise useless question of how exactly did she find him here. It was pointless, as Luna always knew more than she let on in her own … ways or others gave her credit for (especially Hermione). Luna was … Luna.
And it was okay.
“Very nice, thank you.” She wore a dreamy expression, silvery-blue eyes sparkling. “And you? Have you been enjoying Valentine's Day so far?”
He made a face. “Eh, not really, no.” Harry scratched his neck, thinking what to say next. “But … you know, thanks for asking anyway, Luna.”
The girl smiled and then unblinking, she offered, “That’s too bad.” Tilting her head, blonde hair slipped from her face revealing some unknown— vegetable? —dangling from her ears. After a few seconds passed and he started to feel truly awkward, Luna gave him a commiserating look. “Perhaps you might want to use The Room for some quiet time?”
He shrugged. “I guess?”
If it was unused—by snogging couples, ugh , or Malfoy and his ilk, double ugh doing whatever—it wasn’t the worst idea, really. After all, people could still find him in the boy dorm’s room, but not in the Room of Requirement if he didn’t want to.
Luna watched his resolve breaking with quiet patience that nobody but her could ever possibly replicate and Harry found himself on the verge of breaking.
“It might help with the flock of Wrackspurts flitting around your head,” Luna said then, which had him frowning. “You’ve mustered quite a few, Harry, since I last saw you at breakfast,” she remarked, trying to be helpful no doubt, before delving into a conspiratorial whisper. “They have a breeding season around this time of year, you see.”
Breeding what now!?
Harry sputtered at the mental image, but Luna ignored his flush. “The Room has a nest of the Aquilaetom Cidaris species. I am sure they would be very helpful in getting rid of the Wrackspurts for you, if you ask very nicely.”
Harry blinked, not sure what that's supposed to be. Wrackspurts he knew or more like he guessed by now, but this new thing was … well, new.
“Erm, thanks, Luna. I will maybe try that then if I can find them?” He gave her a small, (hopefully) polite laugh and smiled. Harry won’t be looking for this new creature or whatever, but Luna didn’t need to know that—even though she probably did.
Luna smiled back, knowing tilt, and nodded. “Don’t worry, Harry, they will find you.” And with that definitely not ominous statement, she pulled the tapestry up and skipped away, humming soft tunes.
He shook his head and shrugged, sniggering quietly to himself. Yet something about the whole exchange piqued his interest. He knew he shouldn’t—past experiences reinforced that—but Harry was always too curious for his own good.
It’s only the Room of Requirement after all.
What’s the worst thing that could happen?
Sensing (and hearing) the object of his musings traipsing into the room—which was a subdued replica of the Gryffindor commons, much to his displeasure—Tom knew his wait was over. It was time to put his plans into motion, ensnaring the boy into his web.
‘Harry,’ he whispered with much conviction he could muster, a trickle of magic accompanied the single word.
The Room of Hidden Things teemed with obscure magics, odd bits and pieces ready to be drained continuously, adding to his strength, the very nature of the room providing enough ambient magic for him to use. On top of it all, they were inside Hogwarts—British nexus of raw power—so Tom was sure it would work flawlessly. And that he would have enough magic available for accomplishing his aims.
And as predicted, Harry Potter stopped in his tracks, hearing him.
“Hello?” the boy asked from under a disguising spell of sorts, giving away his position like the little idiot he was. Not much changed there from the last time they met as his Journal self, Tom thought bemused.
With another magic pulse, Harry’s chosen room reverted back into the Room of Hidden Things and Harry fell into a nearest pile of clutter with yelp—finally revealing his lithe form as an invisibility cloak of remarkable quality slipped from his shoulders in the process.
He chuckled at the sight of the stumbling figure. If it could be called that, as it wasn’t sight, not in the traditional sense, more like spatial awareness accentuated by the boy’s own nearness. Harry shone like a little glittering star in the darkness of the night, exuding alluring warmth and Tom couldn’t wait to seize him.
Patience, he reminded himself.
‘Harry,’ Tom whispered the name once more. The presence was much stronger now, being within close distance to his pretty little Horcrux.
Harry blinked and then looked around, frantic, most likely trying to find out where the voice came from. Soon enough, the frowning boy zeroed onto the Diadem’s direction, no doubt lured by the kinship of their essences guiding his focus.
‘Yess, Harry. Come,’ he coaxed, weaving a sweet, but miniscule thread of magic into his soul. And the boy went, like the curious, foolish little thing Tom knew he was.
At least Harry now had a wand at the ready. So perhaps he was salvageable, with careful guidance from his truly, of course.
With the argentate cloak laid laden on the floor in a careless pile, Harry now searched the table where a carved wooden box with the Diadem rested, waiting. Watching. Quivering with anticipation.
Fumbling fingers soon found him, holding him in both hands, the touch of familiar wood now pressed between them like a lively conduit. The direct contact sent thrills through Tom’s metal frame. His enjoyment at the physical property manifested as a little jolt of static electricity.
“Huh?” Harry said in response, shrewd as an overgrown flobberworm. But fortunately, he held onto the silver jewellery, too engrossed in inspecting it to care.
‘Put it on,’ Tom commanded. Touching Harry's hands straight on, the words were forceful, and his Horcrux bore the brunt of them like a spelled compulsion. Yet the boy did not budge, still staring at the Diadem, now rigid. Voldemort then remembered the boy’s remarkable resistance to Imperius for one so untrained.
It would be no stretch to imagine this natural resistance transferred to other like-minded magics. So he doubled down, and cajoled him instead. ‘You want to put the pretty trinket on.’
“It’s just a discoloured old tiara,” Harry replied, absentminded, not realising he was speaking to himself. Adorable.
But stupid.
‘Diadem,’ you little imbecile, Tom added inwardly with a sigh. His naive little Horcrux will take some work, won’t he?
“Diadem,” Harry repeated. Now they were getting somewhere.
‘Pretty Diadem for a pretty boy. Why don’t you try it on, sweetnesss? Just to see how pretty you can look.’
Harry chuckled, thumbing the Latin inscription on the base circlet with surprising tenderness. “Yeah, why not?” Interesting.
Tom watched as his precious Horcrux put him on with a heady anticipation, bursting in short-lived triumph as he was securely nestled within the thick mop of hair.
Harry, you foolish, foolish boy.
Tom immediately fired several consecutive spells, ensnaring the little bird in a trap. Feeling they all took root, he carried on. Spreading his spiritual presence, Harry’s surface mind offered little to no resistance.
His sweet boy was unfortunately no Occlumens, natural nor trained. Severus and his lackadaisical (and misguided at best) attempts with forceful Legilimency trying to form a basic Mind shield saw to that, turning the boy against further attempts in the essential discipline. Unacceptable.
But it’s not all dear Severus did within the unsuspected mind, no doubt on Dumbledore’s orders—poking and prodding at Harry’s little … extra, like he had any right to it. Fury rose within him, but he reigned it in—not now, he reminded himself. Later.
In time, the traitor will pay for that and for mind-raping his sweet little Harry, causing him grievous harm, and discouraging him from his studies.
No matter now.
Engrossing himself in full, the mindscape itself gave no struggle. On the contrary, the Horcrux within the scar sensing his intentions, it welcomed him with perverse excitement. Tom grinned, the sentiment mirrored by the proto-Horcrux at finally being acknowledged after long years of longing. Years of attempts at being seen. At being recognised.
Success never tasted this sweet.