Chapter 9- Yew And Holly

Chapter 9: Yew and Holly

Harry looked over the comic book in his hand to stare questioningly at Tom's mirror, which was propped up against the wall beside him. "Do you consider yourself evil?"

Tom did that eyebrow thing he always did when Harry annoyed him. "There is no good and evil -"

"-only power and those too weak to seek it. I know, I know. But do you feel like a bad person? Ever?"

"It has never occurred to me to think of myself as such."

"Hmmm...do you consider yourself amoral then?"

"That may be...an accurate description," Tom conceded. "How long do you plan on wasting your time with those muggle picture books?"

"They're not picture books! They're comic books. And it's not wasting time! I'm learning about fighting evil from the most genius crime solver ever!"

"Oh?" Tom drawled, entirely unimpressed.

"Batman!"

Tom blinked, and then burst into laughs. It was always a bit disconcerting to watch Tom exude laughter (which was often more a chilling cackle), especially after learning that he was, in fact, a dark lord. Something told him that in the past, when Tom Riddle laughed, someone usually ended up dead. "And what, pray tell, is a bat man?"

"He's the dark knight that watches over Gotham City from the shadows – the caped crusader!"

"Gotham City? There's no such place."

"That's not the point, Tom. He's...well, he's Batman!"

"I fail to see how bats are in any way relevant to this...caped crusader."

"Well, I suppose his costume looks very bat-like, you see?" He looked down at the comic and pointed to the panel depicting the full form of Batman, in all his caped glory.

"Costume?"

"Yeah! He wears a costume so that the police and the villains don't discover his true identity, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne."

"I see. So if I understand correctly, this Batman is a vigilante, yes?"

"Uh huh."

"And you admire this vigilante?"

"Of course! He saves people, and fights villains."

"Villains like Lord Voldemort?"

Harry froze, frowning a bit. :You're different, Tom.:

:And what makes Lord Voldemort so different, Harry?:

Ah, there it was again. Over the last two and a half weeks, Tom had been probing him with similar questions. Harry understood where he was coming from; Tom had risked a lot, telling him about his parents, and knowing Tom, he expected him to be angry, resentful, and grief stricken about the whole thing. But he wasn't. It was not in Harry's nature to be angry and resentful; he rarely got worked up about anything, and usually felt quite bad about it afterward. He'd been confused at first, hurt and disappointed, but he was never really angry. As for the grief...well to be honest, he was a bit conflicted about that aspect of the whole ordeal. He knew he was supposed to feel something...more. He knew that the truth of his parents' death was supposed to weigh him down significantly...and it did to some degree. But the fact of the matter was that Harry knew very little of his parents, and didn't remember them at all - he didn't even know what they looked like. He didn't ever recall having a loving family, so how was he supposed to fully experience the grief of losing it? Perhaps that would change over time, as he learned more about his parents and their world, but for now...he had Tom. Only Tom.

So Harry did his best to restore the dynamic of their relationship to what it had been a couple of months prior, while Tom assisted...albeit somewhat reluctantly.

:Well, you're my friend. My best friend.:

"There is something very, very wrong with your head, Harry Potter."

"Yeah, it's you."

"No, I don't think I have anything to do with this particular malfunction."

Harry laughed at that, oblivious to the calculating stare Tom was boring into him.

"Have you been continuing with your studies?"

Harry pouted. "It's summer time."

"That's no excuse to cultivate sloth."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I've been reading the mathematics books you made me borrow, but I've already finished all the primary school ones."

"And the others?"

Harry scowled. "I read the history book and the astronomy book. I haven't looked at the other ones yet. I don't even see why I have to bother with this, though. I'll be going to Hogwarts in a year."

Tom scowled back at him. "You will continue studying science, mathematics, Latin, and history in the summer time."

"Tom, that's so unfair."

"The Dark Lord does not care about what's fair, Harry."

"Of course you don't." Harry sighed. "Science and maths, I get. Latin too. But since when does Lord Voldemort give a damn about muggle history?"

"Language, Harry."

Harry blinked. "Language? Yesterday you called my mom an obsessive mudblood hag."

"Slip of the tongue."

"Does that mean you're sorry? Because that hurt my feelings, you know."

"No. In answer to your question, however, muggle history is, unfortunately, a necessary evil for young minds such as yourself. Too many witches and wizards are woefully uninformed of the events of the muggle world, and as a result are oblivious to the fact that despite being inferior creatures, muggles are dangerous."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "Dangerous, Tom?" he said skeptically.

"Yes, Harry, dangerous. There are billions of them. Quite literally. That alone is cause for worry. And they are not without their weapons. I still remember when the papers proclaimed the destruction of two Japanese port cities in 1945. Splitting the atom – muggles managed that, 50 years ago. Which is why they should be disposed of before they become even more clever."

"They're not vermin, Tom."

"Perhaps not, but they are mere animals nonetheless."

"So are we."

"That is where you are wrong, Harry - those of us with magic have risen to a new level of being; it is we, not the muggles, who are the true future of humanity."

Harry frowned. "You know...sometimes you sound kind of like Hitler."

Sharp pain flooded Harry's scar.

"Lord Voldemort does not appreciate being compared to a muggle dictator."

Harry shrugged as he rubbed his forehead. "Ok, no need to get angry."

"My cause was much more well founded. Muggles are muggles, no matter the colour of their skin or the place of birth of their ancestors."

"Aren't wizards and witches the same, though?"

"No, Harry, they aren't."

"I don't really understand, though. I'm a half blood, and you're a halfblood, right?"

Tom looked a bit put off. "Yes."

"Well, why do you think you're better than everyone else then?"

"Because I am."

"But you're not a pureblood."

"No, I am not."

:Tooommmm,: Harry whined in parseltongue, :It doesn't make any sense.:

Tom raised an eyebrow. "You're a naive child; I don't suppose that it would. So let me make it simple for you; purebloods monopolize the majority of the money, status, and influence in the wizarding world. It has been like this for longer than living memory, and it is not likely to change anytime soon. Lord Voldemort has no interest in the weak."

"I'm not quite sure I know what you're getting at."

"Then think about this, Harry. Purebloods are influential and wealthy, and their support as a whole is a significant advantage. Additionally, pureblood society is governed by etiquette and archaic traditions, making them easier to manipulate and control than, for example, muggleborns who have been immersed in the postmodern individualistic mindset of the muggle world. It is also worth noting that most pureblood families keep a careful record of their members through family histories and genealogies – this makes finding information on purebloods very easy. On the opposite side of the spectrum, muggleborn wizards and witches are much more unpredictable, and tend to display more variation in background and behaviour, and the lack of birth records of them contributes to this. So tell me, Harry, if you wanted to gain and maintain control over the wizarding world, who would you oppress, and who would you coddle?"

Harry's eyes were wide with understanding. "I see. That's actually quite clever."

Tom smirked.

"Awful," Harry quickly corrected, "But clever."

"Now, while I can think of nothing more rousing than discussing politics and morality with a ten-year-old -"

Harry scrunched up his nose. "That was a veiled insult, wasn't it?"

"Insult, not veiled. That aside, we must have a serious discussion."

"Er...wasn't that what we were just doing?"

"That was Lord Voldemort indulging his apprentice -"

"I would rather not consider myself a dark lord in training..."

"- but now we must turn to more urgent affairs."

"I feel like you discount me sometimes, Tom."

"Stop being facetious. In less than a year you will receive your Hogwarts letter, and for the following seven years you will be under the watchful eye of some of the most dangerous wizards and witches alive. This is something that must be discussed."

"Uhh..."

"They cannot, under any circumstances, know about me."

Harry blinked. "Why?"

"Because they will do anything necessary to separate me from you, and in the process, you will die."

Harry paled. "C'mon Tom, I'm sure they'd be more understanding than that."

"There's nothing to understand, Harry. Lord Voldemort was one of the the most powerful wizard to walk the earth, and he slaughtered thousands without mercy. They are perfectly justified in using any means necessary to end me."

"But you're not doing anything wrong now."

"And this is the current topic up for discussion."

"Umm...how so?"

"In the initial stages of our interactions, I had a plan, Harry, to eventually take control of your body, and use it to construct for my master soul a vessel with which we could resume the war we were waging."

Harry grimaced at that, but was, honestly, not too surprised. He supposed that were he a dark lord in Tom's position, he would do the same thing. "Ummm...that was past tense you were using, right?"

"Indeed it was. I have since rejected that plan."

Harry laughed uneasily. "Why the change of heart?"

"You fascinate me, Harry Potter. I would rather make use of you than throw you away."

"Thanks...I think. I'm...honoured?"

"As you should be."

And he was - this was Tom's way of telling him that he cared for him, after all. "So...what's the new plan?"

"It will be revealed in time."

"Awww..."

"Right now, we must focus on ensuring our survival."

"Ok...and how do we do that?"

"I need my wand."

"Your...wand?"

"Yes."

Harry supposed that made sense. "Well, where is it?"

"Godric's Hollow, Cornwall."

Understanding dawned on Harry's face. "That's...where you...killed my parents."

"It is."

"But how do you know your wand is still there? Don't you think someone took it? It's been almost 10 years."

"I trust my wand to be loyal and clever enough to conceal itself until its master returns for it."

"That's awfully considerate of it."

"Indeed."

"But...how do we get there? By train? Bus?"

"No, you will enlist the help of your Aunt. I will leave the details to you."

Pride swelled in Harry's chest. Tom really did trust him.

"Speak to me once you have secured our transportation."

"What...now?"

"There is no time like the present, Harry."

Harry sighed as he placed the mirror back on his bed and quietly made his way downstairs, his silent footfalls fading into the stillness of the house. Dudley was away at summer camp, and Vernon was on a business trip in France, so it was just him and Aunt Petunia inhabiting Number 4 Privet Drive at the moment, bestowing upon the suburban domicile a new level of pristine tranquility, as per Aunt Petunia's preference. Harry preferred it that way, too - he'd come to the conclusion that his childhood would have been much simpler and pain free were it just him and Aunt Petunia. He much preferred her to her rotund husband and son - she was quieter, and seemed to dislike him a lot less than the male Dursleys did.

She was also more inclined to take the time to do the housework on her own, when it was just her and Harry.

It was nearly noon, and the sound of carrots being chopped vibrated in the air as he passed by a familiar cupboard under the stairs and stealthily entered the kitchen.

"Aunt Petunia?"

The woman frantically spun around, startled, and pointed the stainless steel knife in her hands straight at Harry as her pale blue eyes went wide in fear.

Harry sighed sadly. He didn't like how afraid of him Petunia had become...he found it kind of hurtful, to be honest. He'd never done anything to hurt her...he'd set Vernon's belongings on fire a few times, and had pushed the larger man back when he tried to whip him with his belt, but he'd always made sure not to harm his Aunt...not that it did any good. Honestly, he'd never treated any of the Dursleys half as bad as they treated him; he didn't understand why they seemed to find his behaviour unexpected and ill-deserved.

"Expelliarmus."

The knife flew out of Aunt Petunia's hand and into his, causing the woman to pale drastically.

"I didn't mean to startle you, Aunt Petunia. I just have a little request."

"Wh-wh-what kind of request?" she stammered, eyes trained on the knife he now held loosely in his own hand.

"I...want to go visit my parents...their grave."

The woman's eyes widened. "Their grave?" she whispered.

Harry nodded.

"Th-that's...a long drive."

"I know."

"F-f-four hours."

"I know it's a lot to ask, but it's...really important to me. I just need a ride. You don't even need to leave the car. And I promise I won't bother you after this."

The woman exhaled shakily. "When?"

"Now?"

She nodded slowly. "Fifteen minutes."

Harry smiled gratefully. Things were so much easier with Aunt Petunia.

"Pink elephants and lemonade, dear Jessie

Hear the laughter running through the love parade..."

Two hours later, Harry was sitting in the back seat of Aunt Petunia's car reading reading The Art of War whilst Madonna's dulcet tones emanated from the speakers, caressed by static. Neither Harry nor his Aunt were listening to the vaguely glitching radio, so it was little more than ambient noise, doing away with the need for Harry and his Aunt to exchange words. She was no doubt still terrified by their earlier conversation, and he wasn't going to apologize, though he did still feel really terrible about the whole thing.

"Candy kisses and a sunny day, dear Jessie

See the roses raining on the love parade..."

Tom had been very amused, of course; his friend did not even try to stifle his pleased smirk when Harry remorsefully discussed the exchange with him. It was always like this with Tom; the things that brightened the days of the dark lord simultaneously made Harry feel incredibly guilty, which made Harry's desire to impress him very counterproductive in his ongoing quest to maintain his mental health.

"Close your eyes and you'll be there

Where the mermaids sing as they comb their hair..."

He yawned, sleep starting to creep on the edges of his vision.

"Like a fountain of gold you can never grow old

Where dreams are made, your love parade..."

His life was so complicated.

Tom gripped his yew and phoenix feather wand in his right hand, relishing in the way the dark magic danced about it like decadent static.

The man's face was cold, eyes dull and dead. They were his eyes, set upon a face that was nearly his face, aged by a few decades. A lesser man might have been been cowed, staring into the face of his dead father, but Tom was not.

Tom Riddle Senior was dead. Tom Riddle Junior had killed him. That was all. There was nothing more to it.

Harry jerked awake, tears in his eyes.

Godric's Hollow was a quaint little village, Harry observed as he wandered through the streets unnoticed – Tom had insisted that he use the disillusionment charm as soon as he left Aunt Petunia's car. Apparently there were quite a few witches and wizards in the area, and they couldn't afford to be recognized.

The cobbled streets and stone buildings alluded to a distant past, deeply contrasting the asphalt and cookie-cutter houses of Little Whinging and stirring Harry's imagination in the most eerie of ways. Did his parents once wander the same path he was on? He smiled at the thought, staring lazily at the sky. The sun was obscured by clouds, that day, casting a vague and subtle glow on the medieval architecture. Godric's Hollow, he thought, could be described as...subdued - an old place full of old stories kept by old people. It was peaceful, quiet, and he rather liked it.

There was nothing particularly special about the place, and Harry was about to cease his explorations and go straight to the Potters' cottage when he noticed something odd in the town square - a strange shape standing in the centre of street, the air about it warped with a delicate sort of magic. As he approached, it became clear to him that he was looking at a statue – of a man and a woman embracing, with a young infant smiling contently in their arms. The man looked eerily familiar, with messy hair and glasses framing his softly smiling face; there was something about the height of his cheekbones and the shape of his nose and chin...

...that looked very much like what he saw in the mirror every day.

Harry's eyes widened in shock as he ran toward the statue.

"Mum...dad..."

Unbidden, tears gathered in his eyes – was this what they looked like? Were these people his family?

He felt a deep aching in his chest, and suddenly he became very aware of Tom's presence in his mind. Tom...Lord Voldemort, the man who murdered these happy people in their home. This was his family, right here, in front of him, this stone monument of what had been taken from him remembering them while he did not. It was war, Harry knew that. It was nothing personal – Tom didn't do personal. But it still hurt. And had been times lately – like now – when he could not help but wonder if he was a bad person for forgiving the man that took his parents away.

He looked up at his mother's face, through tears, and all he could do is marvel at how beautiful she was, and how serene her smile was as she stared into her baby's – Harry's – eyes. He could see her love for him written all over her face - the love that killed her, and gave him life. She looked so...young...innocent...almost naive in a way. He wondered if she was still able to look at him the same way after she heard the prophecy. Her eyes, her smile, her posture - they all pointed to the fact that she loved her child with all her heart. Would she still feel the same way, knowing what her love had wrought?

And then there was his father, with his arm protectively wrapped around them both – what would he think of Harry now? The man was what Tom called an auror - he had dedicated his life to fighting dark wizards, to saving people, while his son consorted with a murderer. Would he still love Harry knowing the things he'd done?

Harry, we mustn't linger. You can only maintain the charm for so long.

A shot of fury ran down his spine when he heard Tom's thoughts in his mind, and he felt the air heat up slightly around him. As usual, Tom was just looking out for him...but the rage was there nonetheless, even if only momentarily. How dare Tom deprive him of more than he already had? Hadn't Lord Voldemort taken enough from the Potters? This moment belonged to Harry...and Tom had no right to interfere.

Except...that didn't matter. As usual, Tom was right.

He sighed. "I know."

Reluctantly, he walked away from the statue, relishing in the feeling of something ripping apart in his chest as he turned away from the only likeness of his parents that he'd ever known. He grew numb as he continued down the cobblestone street, listening to Tom's faint directions in his mind, and, as far as he knew, it was not long before he found himself in front of the Potter Cottage.

It was a sobering experience.

One side of the house was completely untouched, and could have been any abandoned house, blending in easily with the aesthetic of Godric's Hollow. But the other half...something twisted inside him as he surveyed the damage done by the killing curse that had rebounded off of him. It was like a fire had broken out in one of the rooms, and, while contained in one half of the house, had ravished it mercilessly.

Transfixed by the sight before him, Harry barely heard himself as he whispered "alohomora" to the gate in front of him.

The flowers gilding the sides of the cobblestone path to the cottage had long since died away, withered or strangled by weeds. He wondered what kind of flowers grew there, once - they were now too shriveled for him to tell. Did his mother choose them herself? Did she enjoy gardening? Had she lived...would Harry be tending this garden instead of Aunt Petunia's, his loving mother at his side?

Harry was in a daze as he entered the house – it was like stepping into a single moment of the past, the interior of the cottage almost mocking the loss belied by the candid normalcy of the scene before him. It was as if someone had frozen a moment in time and let it wither slowly away, preserving the shapes while dimming the colours, perpetuating a moment in a life while draining the life itself down to nothing. Dishes still sat in the sink, and toys still lay on the living room floor. Shoes - a pair of trainers, work boots, and dress shoes, accompanied by small leather boots, pumps, and Mary Janes - were lined up against the wall on the left, a dust covered umbrella hanging above them with an array of autumn coats.

Harry could practically see the moving shapes of the previous inhabitants – his family – flitting in and out of reality. A mother was making soup in the kitchen while a father helped his son build a fortress out of pillows on the floor of the living room; a family was sitting together smiling at the kitchen table; a baby boy lay sleeping in the arms of his mother as his father arrived home from work with a smile. That was his life, once.

He shook his head. He wasn't there to reminisce on things he couldn't remember. He had a job to do.

So slowly, he made his way up to the stairs to the nursery, the location of which was obvious to him; it was the epicentre of the cottage's wounds.

He nearly stumbled and fell upon entering, almost physically startled by the cold wave of eerie nostalgia that washed over him. There was a crib...toys on the floor...pillows...walls painted with baby blue paint intermingled with scorch marks...

Did he recognize this? He couldn't tell whether it felt familiar, or if he just wanted it to feel familiar. He'd slept here, once. This was his room, before he had been orphaned and shoved in a cupboard. This bed, these toys - they had been his. Given to him by loving parents. It was all his, until Tom stepped foot in it...

He grimaced. He needed to get him self together.

Taking a deep breath, he knelt down and peered under the crib, and sure enough, there lay a thirteen-and-a-half inch yew wand, sleeping inconspicuously on the carpeted floor. Harry could feel Tom's glee in his mind as he slipped the wand into his backpack.

Well, that was...anticlimactic. He shook his head. He'd completed his mission. That was all that mattered.

Except...it wasn't. No, there was one last thing he needed to do - for his parents...for himself.

"Tom...I can't leave yet. There's something I need to do."

"Hi mum, dad...it's nice to meet you."

He stared at the modest white marble gravestone in front of him, nestled in the corner of an old church graveyard, brushing aside the branches of the holly bush framing it delicately.

Ouch.

He winced as he caught his finger on one of the sharp leaves, but didn't let the pain stop him from continuing his task. When the stone was clear he moved his hands over to the silent epitaph carved therein, tracing the letters slowly, leaving specks of his blood behind in the crevices.

'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is Death'

"I like your gravestone...it's...inspiring. I wonder how one goes about destroying Death..."

He smiled sadly. "But I guess you wouldn't know..."

He took a deep breath. "I wish I could remember you. I don't even remember what you look like. I wish...I knew you well enough to grieve for you properly.

"Tom told me a bit about you, though. Tom is my best friend, you see. I really think you wouldn't approve...he's the reason I can't remember you after all...but he looks after me, and I owe him a lot. He's not a good person, and I know that, but he's good to me, and that's what counts, right?

"He told me that you were really good at your job, dad. You were an auror, right? Tom said that even though you had just finished your training, you already had a reputation. You caught bad wizards and brought them to justice – I think that's brilliant...you're just like the superheroes in the comic books I read. Like Batman. Tom says you fought bravely, and died with honour – that you didn't hesitate to sacrifice yourself for mom and me. You would have been a great dad, I think. And I'm proud to be your son.

"Apparently I take after you, mom. Tom insults you a lot...he calls you a mud- ...you know what, never mind. I think he's just a bit sore about how you managed to outsmart and outmagic him."

Harry winced as a sharp pain pulsed in his forehead.

"Hehe...I guess I was right. Anyway, Tom says I'm a fast learner, and that if I work hard, I might be able to hold a candle to you someday. It's a lot of pressure, but it...makes me feel happy...like I'll amount to something one day, you know? He says that you were a 'formidable witch' and that you were his most 'dangerous foe.' You don't know him very well, so I guess you won't understand this...but that's probably the highest complement you could ever receive. I'm grateful for having inherited at least a little bit of your talent.

"Tom says that you were adept at soul magic...he said you researched some pretty dangerous magic to save me...you risked everything, and he said that it was your death that kept me alive. I don't know the details, and I don't think he does either, yet, but I want you to know that the little bits of your magic that I have inside of me won't go to waste. I know I'll probably disappoint you...I'll probably do things that will make you sad. But I promise – I will make you proud one day. I'll become a great wizard, and honour the sacrifices you and dad made so that I could live. Your deaths won't be in vain...I won't let anyone take away what you've given me. I'm going to survive...and more than that, I'm going to live a life worth living. I promise.

"And in advance...I'm sorry."

The drive home was silent. Aunt Petunia didn't dare say a word, and Harry didn't trust his voice – he didn't want her to hear him in his moment of weakness. He would be lying if he said he didn't shed a few tears on the long drive back.

It was getting dark by the time they arrived back at Number 4 Privet drive, but despite the time and the long day Harry'd had, he'd lost his appetite and was eager to disappear into his bedroom; so after a quick thank you and goodnight, Harry trudged up to his bedroom, exhausted from sitting still for so long. He took out Tom's mirror as soon as he collapsed on his bed.

"So...you have your wand now. What are we going to do with it?" He could not help but notice that his voice sounded more than a little dead in his ears.

Apparently Tom had noticed too, because he hesitated before he answered, just for a moment. "Apparate. Rest well tonight; first thing tomorrow I will apparate us halfway across the country. It will require a non-trivial sum of our energy."

"Halfway across the country? Where are we going?"

"Spinner's End."

"Where's that?"

"Cokeworth."

Harry scowled. "And where's that?"

"Not far from Manchester."

"Oh. What's in Cokeworth?"

"Severus Snape."

Harry blinked. "What's a Snape?"