Chapter 3-Vicarious

Chapter 3: Vicarious

A malicious light glinted in Tom's eye as he approached the small cupboard in Billy Stubbs's room. He coughed a bit, as he lifted the perpetually dusty lid, retrieving a small box and dumping the contents on the ground. The boy didn't have much - none of the children at Wool's Orphanage did - but Tom happened to be aware that Billy had a secret hobby; collecting marbles. Billy wasn't a complete imbecile - he never said anything about his little collection, well aware that the other children would want to play with them, and that they would, eventually, be lost or stolen. But Tom wasn't fooled by his silence. Tom knew about the marbles, and he knew exactly where to look for them.

Now, Billy hadn't done anything to him, this time. No, Tom was not doling out any sort of punishment or revenge; he had an experiment to conduct. Since success would mean being divested of his test subject, he wasn't about to use one of his own meager possessions (nor the steadily growing collection of trophies he had acquired over the last few years); indeed, it was either Billy's marbles or Jane's sweets stash. Tom had flipped a coin - heads for marbles, tails for candy - which had landed heads-up. Now it was a question of which marble to take...the red one? The blue one? Maybe the green one. Yes, he was in a rather green sort of mood. Green it was.

For a moment he paused, and stared at the little glass ball on the floor, watching it sparkle ever so slightly in the sunlight leaking through the musty window behind him. This little ball of glass was the only thing standing between him and the most profound of victories.

His fingers were shaking with excitement when he picked his chosen marble up, and as he closed his eyes, his whole body quivered in anticipation. He had been practicing for days now, with varying degrees of success, on pieces of grass and dead insects; but finally, this time, he knew he had it. The marble would be an appropriate challenge - it would be his most impressive feat yet. The very thought had him mad with the thrill of it all.

But he had to relax - this would only work if he focused, if he breathed soft and slow. He could do this. And if he could do this...he could do anything.

Go away.

Go.

Go.

GO!

The feeling of hot water washing over his skin embraced him suddenly, and he felt a rush of static dancing across his skin. He could hear his heart thrumming in his ears, punctuating the electric pulses emanating from somewhere deep inside him. But it was only for a moment, and then all was still again.

He blinked, and stared down at his empty hands. A gleeful laugh bubbled up in his throat. He'd done it! On purpose.

Tom knew he was strange, he knew he was special – he knew that he could do things no one else could do. He'd always known that, deep down, but now he had proof – undeniable proof. He'd never doubt himself again.

Harry'd had that dream four times now - it was one of his favourites. Every time he woke from it, the indomitable sensation of pride and triumph gripped him tightly, and for a few moments, at least, he felt like he could do anything. For a few moments after waking, he knew the truth - he had the power to be free. Tom was brilliant, Harry had decided. Whatever his faults, the boy had in him the drive and confidence to accomplish anything he put his mind to. Tom would be a great man, one day, he thought. And whenever he had that dream, Harry awoke wanting to be great as well.

By the time the fourth occurrence of this dream rolled around, he was determined to learn this skill for himself. Every smidgen of common sense in him told him it was impossible. Things don't just disappear, he told himself. He had heard the same story many times, uttered by his relatives like a mantra,

"There's no such thing as magic!"

But he could not help but wonder...if he could talk to snakes, just like Tom did, could he perhaps make toys disappear too?

Yes, he decided. Yes he could. It didn't matter how impossible it seemed - he would believe in himself, and he would do it. If Tom did it, he could too.

It wasn't easy, that was for sure. For months, he sat silently in his dark cupboard at night, holding his least favourite toy soldier in his hands, which were, like Tom's had been, sweating and shaking in anticipation. Unlike Tom, though, he couldn't quite get the relaxation thing down. He'd sit there on his cot for an hour, sometimes two, just willing the toy to vanish.

Go away.

Go.

Go.

GO!

But it was to no avail. For months, he went to bed with failure weighing down his tired limbs. In a way, it was infuriating. How does one go about willing a toy to disappear? There was no science to it, no explanation - either it worked or it didn't. Truth be told, while he wasn't about to give up, he didn't even know where to start. That is, until he had the dream a fifth time. Then everything changed.

As soon as he woke, he knew what he had to do: he needed to feel it – he needed to feel what Tom felt. Exactly what Tom felt. That was the key - not just willing the toy to disappear, but also feeling every minute detail of the object in his hands, so that he could fully understand its absence. It was the feeling he needed.

So he let himself fall back into the dream. Where was he? Billy Stubbs's room. What was he doing? Proving once and for all that he was superior to the other children. Why was he doing it? He had to do it. He had no choice. He had to do this. He let himself get lost in the desperation, the anger, the frustration; he drenched his consciousness in the surreal intoxication of the knowledge that he was destined for something better, something greater. It swelled in his chest, washing over his skin with a cold burn that could be only be described as profound.

And when he opened his eyes, the little toy soldier - Bob, had been his name - was gone.

Harry covered his mouth to muffle a shout of joy. It was just like magic! No, he shook his head. It was magic. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were wrong. So, so wrong. Magic was real – he'd just proven it. He'd proven it beyond any shadow of a doubt - magic was real and it was his.

He couldn't wait to show Sam. After all, Sam loved magic.

Sam Stewart was Harry's best friend. Well, actually, he was his only friend.

If he was being completely honest with himself, Harry thought the boy was a little annoying – he talked so much. Seriously, he never stopped talking. Harry hadn't known people talked that much. He didn't think they were capable of it, until he met Sam. It was probably for the best though, Harry supposed, because in the end he could just let Sam do all the talking, and bask in the welcoming warmth that was friendship.

Despite his faults - which, Harry always reminded himself, were quite minor - Sam really was a good person. It hadn't taken Dudley long to figure out that Harry had made a new friend, and had made it his mission to warn Sam of the truth; that he was being deceived by a freak, and if he was smart, he would run as far away from the aberration that was Harry Potter as possible.

But Sam didn't run. He defended Harry with a smile. Sam never looked on idly when Dudley and his friends picked on Harry; indeed, he seemed to find considerable satisfaction in standing up to Dudley and his gang of distasteful bullies. The bold magician-in-training always called them out on it, and when necessary, took Harry's hand and they ran. Together.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt like a real boy, living a real life, with a real friend - with a real future in front of him. He was more than 'boy' or 'freak' - he was Harry Potter, Sam Stewart's best friend.

That's what Sam called him. His best friend.

Sam told Harry everything. He told him about every trick he worked on, about how much he hated his homework and how one day he'd drop out of school and become a travelling magician. He told Harry about his annoying older sister who thought she was so important because she was in their church choir, and his funny baby brother; he even told Harry about when his parents yelled at each other and talked about something called 'divorce'. Harry was deeply flattered and encouraged by the trust Sam placed in him, but the confidence Sam's trust gave him was always overshadowed by the fact that he felt terrible about how little he trusted Sam. It wasn't as though he distrusted the blonde boy...he just didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to tell Sam that he lived in a cupboard under the stairs, or that for a long time, he thought his name was freak. He didn't know how to explain to Sam that every night, he dreamed of another orphan boy named Tom Riddle. He certainly didn't know how to tell Sam that he could talk to snakes, or that he could do magic. But that wasn't going to stop him from trying.

"Sam! Sam! I have something to show you!"

Sam turned around and grinned at him. He, like everyone else, was imbued with energy wrought from the fact that this was the last day they had to spend locked in a classroom, until the new year; it was the last day of school before Christmas holidays. Harry and Sam had already made many plans for the holidays - they were going to make snowmen together, go to the library together, and practice magic tricks together. Sam's parent's had even invited Harry to church with them. Harry wasn't sure what one does at church - he'd been to the building a few times, but he'd never been to an actual church service - but Sam seemed to think it was important, which was enough for him. Yes, this holiday would be filled with exciting new discoveries, and, for the first time in his life, presents.

He wasn't sure what he was going to give Sam, what with his limited funds, but today would be a good start - he was going to give Sam the truth.

"Do you have an idea for a new trick?"

Harry shook his head excitedly, trying not to fidget too much. Sam didn't need to know how nervous he was. "I can't tell you here - it's a secret! You wanna see?"

As Harry expected, Sam nodded avidly. "Well then! Let's see it."

Harry grabbed his hand and sprinted forward, leading his friend toward a small grove of secluded trees not far from the playground, where they often ate their lunches together. A few months ago, Harry would have never thought to take someone by the hand and lead them anywhere (he'd be much to afraid to get smacked for it), but he knew Sam didn't mind; the blonde boy just continued chattering happily behind him.

Once they reached the trees, Harry tugged off his mittens and pulled a small ten pence coin out of his pocket, placing it in the palm of his right hand.

Sam had stopped talking, and was staring at him curiously. "Are you going to make it disappear, Harry? Because I already taught you that one, remember? Child's play!"

Harry smiled. "Just wait, this is different...watch carefully."

Seeing Sam nod, Harry closed his eyes, recalling the dream he'd had five times before now. He could do this – he just needed to remember – remember the focus and determination, remember the joy, remember the power. Remember, Harry, remember.

And then it happened – that familiar warmth overcame him, dancing across his skin in the most tantalizing of ways.

Magic...

There was really nothing more beautiful.

When the subsequent pleasured shiver went down his spine, he knew he had succeeded, and sure enough, when Harry opened his eyes, the coin was gone.

"...Harry...?"

Harry looked up at his friend, expecting to see the same wonder and thrill he was reveling in - he expected to see marvel in his friend's eyes. Instead, he saw that familiar expression. Fear.

"H-how did you do that?"

Harry smiled weakly. Maybe Sam just needed a moment to process. After all, the first time he'd seen Tom do magic, he had been nothing less than floored. It had taken him a while to convince himself Tom hadn't just been hallucinating (after all, he was kind of crazy like that). "It's magic, Sam. Real magic."

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. "You can do...real magic?"

Harry nodded hopefully.

"You mean, what the other kids say...about you breaking the windows when you were mad..."

"Well, yes, but-"

"And throwing your cousin across the playground just by glaring at him -"

"Well, he was being a-"

"The things they tried to warn me about...the things you said weren't true...they all really happened?"

Harry froze, not sure what to say. He could lie, yes, but it wouldn't be very convincing, not after what he'd just shown Sam. A simple "yes" was all that slipped out.

Sam took a step back. "You can break thing without touching them? You can hurt people without even moving? You can make things disappear!?"

"Yes!" Harry cried. He did his very best to stifle the anxiety growing steadily inside of him. This was not going to plan at all...he was quickly losing control of the situation. He needed to make Sam understand...he needed to make his friend understand that he didn't mean any harm. "Yes, I can, but I don't mean it, any of it! It just happens! I don't mean it!"

"You meant to make that coin disappear – you could make any of us disappear!"

Harry gasped. "I wouldn't do that!"

"And how do I know that! How do I know you won't hurt me, like you hurt those other kids!?"

Harry bit back a sob, as he reeled in shock. How could Sam even think that? Harry had never done anything to him - how could he think he would hurt him? Had Harry done something to make Sam think he was a bad person? Suddenly very ashamed, he stared at his feet. "Because I'm your friend." He said the words earnestly, imbuing them with raw sorrow and guilt. Surely Sam would understand how sorry he was.

But much to Harry's surprise, Sam scoffed at that. It was a weak, unsteady scoff, but a sound of mocking nonetheless. "No you're not. You're a liar, Harry Potter, and they're right."

Dread bubbled up inside him, and Harry let out a small whimper, unable to remain entirely silent.

"They're right. You really are a freak."

At that moment, something inside Harry died, and all semblance of thought died with it. He couldn't think, he couldn't process, all he could do was feel.

And he felt horrible.

Unbidden, a cold wind swirled around him, stirring the snow from the ground like a tiny blizzard. Sam let out a screech before being tossed backward, blinded by the torrent of wind and snow between him and Harry.

Harry could hear Sam's shouts - "Stop! Stop! Please stop!" - but all he could do was sob into his hands. Why? Why? Why did this always happen to him?

A moment later, everything fell silent. The wind died, and the snow slowly drifted to the ground, strangely serene.

Sam didn't say anything. Neither did Harry. And as the blonde boy scrambled to his feet and ran, Harry knew they'd never speak again.

"So you finally scared him off, did you, freak?"

"Leave me alone Dudley."

He heard cruel snickering behind him.

"Did you hear that? The freak wants us to leave him alone."

"Poor little Harry Potter - aren't you going to run?"

"You should be more careful how you talk to us, freak. Stewart isn't here to protect you anymore."

"Stop it...please."

"Please, he says," Dudley mocked mercilessly, "Don't tell us what to do, freak!"

Harry was too tired to run away. He was too resigned to fight back. He was too hurt to care when the punches started flying.

This again.

He didn't make a noise, he didn't move as fists pounded on his face and his ribs, over, and over, and over again, each strike forcing a hoarse breath from his lungs. He didn't know when he ended up on the ground; when the punches turned into kicks. It hurt. It hurt so bad. But he was powerless to stop them, just as he always was. He couldn't do anything - he didn't want to do anything. He wished it would just end. He wished he wouldn't have to wake up the next morning, friendless and covered in bruises. It wasn't worth it; he felt a wave of nausea wash over him with the nostalgic realization. It never got better, nothing ever got better. He coughed out a sob as another kick connected with his shoulder. If they kept this up long enough, would they kill him? Would they know when to stop? Maybe not. And maybe it was better that way, he thought, even as intense fear gripped him. Perhaps Harry Potter was finally going to meet his end – perhaps he never belonged, perhaps he was never meant to be alive, and this was just fate. The thought was both terrifying and comforting at the same time, and if he was being entirely honest with himself, at that very moment it seemed to him that dying might not being so bad.

Maybe I deserve to die. Maybe I should never have been born.

But just as that thought crossed his mind, something changed. Something went very, very wrong.

A crippling pain erupted from his forehead, and as his body seized, he could not stop a horrifying shriek from ripping through his throat. He couldn't think, he couldn't move; he was drowning, his mind far away as screams clawed at his throat and blood dripped from his forehead onto the snow covered ground.

Then it stopped suddenly. Everything stopped. The pain in his head, the screams, the kicks – everything stopped.

And then Harry experienced something he'd never experienced before. Whilst Dudley and his friends stared on in shock, no doubt unsettled by his screams, he felt his body moving on its own, muscles straining as he slowly rose to his feet, despite the pain emanating from every joint, every muscle, and every tendon in his body. He felt the pain and the cold, but it was not him who was doing the feeling; he was far away from his own skin. He was nothing more than a puppet. A bruised, bleeding puppet.

He was not prepared for what happened next; he laughed. The puppet master was obviously oblivious to the pain, not hesitating in the slightest as he he doubled over in laughter, his whole frame shaking with mirth. But it wasn't a happy laugh, it wasn't cheerful – it wasn't Harry's laugh. It was a cold, high, mocking sound, filled to the brim with malicious glee. Then it stopped, and all was silent again.

"You vile, filthy little muggles."

The voice was his - he'd heard it many times before - and yet it was not. There was something hard and icy in this voice, which was but a semblance of Harry's childish soprano, frozen and frigid in the most unpleasant of ways.

"You dare harm this child, this child in whose veins flows the most potent of magics? You – who are nothing more than insects – dare to even touch this child, whose blood is sacred, the purest elixir compared to the disgusting sludge that gives your pathetic forms life?"

He felt his body straighten, his stance proud and tall. "You have committed a crime against nature, and for that crime you must be punished."

Something shifted inside Harry, and something ugly twisted deep inside his chest, an evil feeling he'd never had before. Unbidden, cruel glee burst forth from inside him and he could do nothing but stare on in shock as Dudley and his three friends writhed on the ground, silent screams pouring forth from their lips, as he bilssfully soaked in the power pulsing in the air around him, prickling his skin like static. He felt pleasure. And he hated it.

He didn't know how long he watched his tormentors tormented, but after what seemed like hours, it all stopped, and the street, along with his mind, fell silent once again.

Harry was scared – he was terrified. He had never been more afraid. He was sure that were he in control of his body, he would be on the ground sobbing and struggling to breath. What was happening to him?

Pain seized him again as his body moved once more of its own accord, stepping over the prone and quivering form of Dudley Dursley and kneeling before him.

The last thing Harry heard was the word "Obliviate."

When Harry awoke, it was dark. Dark and silent.

At first he didn't know where he was, but then he noticed the familiar scratchiness of the fabric below him, and the musty smell he had long since grown used to. He was in his cupboard. What had happened? How did he end up there? The last thing he remembered was...

He grimaced. That...that could not have been real. Magic was fine, he could believe in vanishing coins and invisible pushes and pulls. But the memories that were slowly seeping into his awareness...he felt as if he had been possessed. By the devil.

His whole body protested as he sat up. The pain was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, but, miraculously, he didn't think anything was broken.

He felt like his body was going to fall apart as he trudged up the stairs as quietly as possible, determined to at the very least wipe the dried blood off his face. He hated the feeling of dry blood. It was sticky, and it smelled vile, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep until his face was clean.

The smallest semblance of victory crept into his tired mind as he finally found his way to the bathroom, locking the door behind him with a quiet click. He turned on the tap only slightly and wet his hands before rubbing his face, doing his best to ignore the pain. He should probably disinfect the cuts too, he thought to himself. They were probably pretty deep. He sighed. He tended to heal very quickly, but they would still probably take forever to heal, and his face probably looked awful. He really didn't want to see it, but steeling himself, he looked up at the mirror, almost recoiling at the sight of all the crimson painting his face, not to mention the nasty bruise that had formed on his chin and over his left eye.

He was about to reach for the soap and begin what would no doubt be a painful and arduous disinfecting process when he froze. Something was not right. Unease filled his already sore chest, and he felt his hairs standing on end. He felt afraid. Why? What was going on? But suddenly it made sense; for when he looked more closely at his face in the mirror, but he saw, instead of the vivacious green eyes he had grown used to, two crimson orbs staring back at him.

"Harry Potter," the boy in the mirror said softly.

He stepped back in shock, almost falling over. He took a deep breath. "I must have hit my head harder than I thought," he said, smiling weakly in the mirror.

His reflection did not return the sentiment.

"You are not dreaming Harry Potter, nor is your mind playing tricks on you."

The smile drained from Harry's face, along with any lifelike colour that had graced it a moment ago. "Who...what...?"

Slowly, the figure in the mirror smiled at him. It was a cold smile, betraying not a single emotion. "What, you don't know who I am, Harry?"

Harry stared into his doppelganger's eyes, his mind finally starting to catch up with him. He was in the bathroom...looking in the mirror...but his reflection was nowhere to be seen. Instead, someone else was staring back at him with his own face. Someone who knew him. Someone with a cold smile that seemed to grow at the sight of Harry's fear and confusion. This...person...knew him. Not many people knew Harry - not many people who might manage to find themselves inside a bathroom mirror. It was almost like...magic.

Magic...

Then it was obvious - this could only be one person.

"Tom Riddle."

The boy in the mirror grinned at him. "My, you are a clever boy, aren't you?"

Harry's breaths were shallow. "How can you be here? You're just a dream..."

"Come now, Harry, I was never just a dream."

It was true. Tom Riddle had always been more to him than a mere dream. Harry knew that...but he'd never really thought about it - if Tom Riddle was more than just a dream, what was he?

"I assure you," the boy continued, "I'm just as real as you are."

Harry took a deep breath and stepped closer to the mirror. "Then...you're really here? How can you be here?"

The other boy's eyes grew wide, a strange light flickering in them as his grin widened. "Magic."

"But...how? You were in my dreams...how did you end up inside my bathroom mirror?"

The other boy shook his head. "Silly boy. I'm not in your mirror."

I'm in your head.

Harry's eyes widened.

"I've been watching you Harry Potter, and you've been watching me. I watch you walk and talk in my own skin every night, just as I see what you see, hear what you hear, smell what you smell, taste what you taste, and feel just as you do. We are together, Harry, always. I live vicariously through you, just as in your dreams, you live vicariously through me. Magic has bound us together, and nothing can tear us apart.

"Know this, Harry - you are never alone."

Harry really didn't know how to respond to that.