The Diary (pottermort)

chapter thirteen

Harry, back when drowning was possible and blood rushed beneath his skin, walked to his death willingly. He knew the consequences, knew it was nessecary. He drilled these facts into himself; repeated them as a broken record of a crooked catch phrase. But the knowledge that his death was not in vain... did not, admittedly, make the task at hand any easier. He did not want to die.

He, now dead and forever so, missed his friends, missed life, missed his friends. This yearning had not lessened up as time went on-- and I ask how could it? When his chest does not rise and he his unbeating heart belongs to people yet to exist?

Sometimes, it is all he can think about. Sometimes, he lies awake in the dead of the night (awake, always awake) in a faded body and the pain of loss is stabbing. His mind swarms with Ron's support, however inconsistent it might've been, and Hermione's bright charm. He thinks about Sirius Black's life and death and Dobby's evitable demise. He thinks that he might not know how to love, but if the removal of his old life proves anything, it's that his attempts worked pretty damn well.

So, yes, Harry misses his friends. But, oddly enough, in the mist of such, he's never missed Death.

When Death got in contact with Tom Riddle, Harry wondered if that was the correct mindset.

Harry didn't tell Tom his conclusion-- not that it'd matter, of course. Tom's intelligent, especially of a boy of now fourteen (the letter from Gellert and Death was certainly an interesting birthday present), so Harry's sure he'll be at the same conclusion soon enough, especially when the answer to the question is so very blatant.

Harry saw Tom's confuseded writing of the mystery howler from the even more mysterious "Gellert Grindelwald & Co," and decided that he needed time to think. He scribbled down ignorance about anyone in relations with Gellert Grindelwald and encouraged Tom to tell the Prophet about him.

I'm already dead, Tom, wrote Harry. It's not like they could do much else to me.

But Tom refuses. He was hesitant-- not afraid, for Tom's above such-- because, Normal people don't talk to Death when they die, Harry. It's not going to believable; Grindelwald's likely going to kill me either way.

Life is precious, Tom, wrote Harry.

Or so you say.

And that was the end of such; Tom refused to discuss the matter further.

Harry thought that Tom's reasoning was inane and he was more likely than not simply lying-- Are you teasing Fate, Tom? Harry thought to himself the evening of Tom's date with Fleamont. Are you seeing just how far you can push Gellert? If he'll make due on his promise? Because I can assure you that if Gellert's anything, it's a man of "follow through." I know this because I know you-- and in some ways you are so very similar. Or am I wrong entirely, Tom?

What is your ploy?

But these are thoughts Harry thinks but never says. He has a lot of those, nowadays, and a part of him wishes that when he spoke, it wasn't just to him.

The solemn thought reminds Harry of Death. About Death, Death's "hint," and the unexplained why's that cloud Death like smoke.

Harry personally thinks Death's hint is about the second Deathly Hallow-- the ring that currently belongs to one that shares Tom's blood. His father. Blood is not usually thicker than magic... but it is this time, is it not? It is this time because the circumstances that surround the dilemma make the two more intertwined than they would otherwise be.

Why are you helping so subtly? Harry wonders. It's not like you care. What is this all to you? Some sort of sick game, twisted entertainment?

(Yes.)

Harry sighs and says, aloud, "Hello to you too, Death."

Death does not respond.

(It's not like he expected them to. His hope was unfounded; born of a wish for answers to things like why are you "Co" with Gellert? and what the fuck is wrong with you? Harry wants answers, expects none, but always allows himself to hope. That it is charm of faith in nothing-- it is always unfounded.)

Harry does not understand Death and does not understand Tom. Death is an entity; one above and below everything because they are everything. And to complicate matters further, Death is an entity that has taken an interest in Harry (and, apperantly, Grindelwald.)

Harry is so small in the grand scheme of things, even more so now. He is nothing and never everything, so it raises they question of why would a god interact with Harry?

Harry does not understand Death, does not understand Death's motives, but he is forced to try. He has little else to interact with, after all.

Harry is less confused by Tom, because Tom prides himself in logic and charm and even more so making sense. There are bits and pieces of Tom's idealologies that prove, yes, this is a boy of only fourteen and he is not infallible. (Not yet; not ever, for if a man's downfall is arrogance then he had nothing to be arrogant about in the first place.)

Tom holds Fleamont in no light other than a tool; a connection that Tom views with endearing condesendition. Why, then, does Tom believe that kissing him will prove any results other than unsatisfactory?

It is illogical. It is confusing. Harry will let him try, though, because half the battle in infatuation is allowing yourself to have it.

Still, Harry feels as if Tom is setting himself up to fail. As if he does not expect his effort to be worthwhile, so why put in any effort at all?

You are flawed, Tom. Fatally so. It's better than being immortal and flawed, though. It's better than being Voldemort.

As Harry sees Tom's writing flood the page the hour after Tom and Fleamont's outing, Harry wonders how much longer the sentiment will ring true.

He wonders, and then he hopes in what he can only wish is founded ground.