When A Slaughterhouse Becomes A Home (selfcest/tomarry)

four

Harry is haunted by the ghosts of another life. He is haunted by the phantom form of Tom, literally, and more metaphorically by the Durselys, by the way their words will never leave him. He is always Harry Potter, the boy under the stairs. Harry Potter, the freak. Harry Potter, the delinquent. He will never escape these words, these sentiments.

He is now also haunted by himself -- an older, more ominous version of himself. And now, he does mean literally.

Potter begins to follow Harry around and no one else can see him -- save for, for some reason, Tom -- and it's driving him mad.

The man is here, Harry can only try to tell people about it, and his motivations are yet to be determined. For now, he sticks to whispering strange, if sometimes helpful, things in Harry's ear while he works.

He gently corrects Harry's potion technique until he (finally, for what must be the first time) gets a potion that is more than acceptable. Snape still turns up his nose at him, but even Harry can tell he's somewhat impressed. If Harry keeps this up, he might end up not being so lousy after all... and wouldn't that be a beautiful thing?

Not that it matters, he reminds himself. Potter is dangerous, not to be trusted, an unknown that shouldn't be able to access Hogwarts or hide himself so thoroughly or get inside Harry's head. So no, it doesn't matter that he's nice, or (weirdly) handsome, or helps him in Potions. He's still a possible threat that Harry cannot afford to trust.

He always disappears when Harry is alone, or the moment he summons Tom, so Harry hasn't gotten a proper chance to talk to him.

Except until, a week after his initial appearance, Harry wanders into a corridor alone... and Potter does not dissipate. He stays by Harry, walking six or so feet behind him.

Harry stops in his tracks and so does Potter. Harry turns around to face him and Potter tilts his head, curiously. "Hello," says Potter.

"Why now?" asks (demands) Harry. "Why allow me to talk to you now?"

"I suppose," hums Potter, "I missed our talks. I haven't been visiting your dreams since I've been here, and I think that's awfully uninspired of me, don't you think?"

"Not at all," answers Harry, honestly. He takes a deep breath and runs his hands along the strap of his schoolbag. "Why are you doing this?"

"Isn't it evident?" asks Potter, looking offended.

"No. Not in the slightest."

Potter rolls his eyes and walks forward. Harry forces himself to stay in place. Potter runs his knuckles along his cheek and Harry shivers. He is so cold, it is like touching a corpse. (Why do the only two people to offer him contact feel like the dead?) "I like you," he whispers.

"You miss your younger self?" scoffs out Harry, trying to compose himself. He feels so at odds here, with more human contact at the tip of his fingers. "I can't tell if that's narcissistic or just plain sad."

Potter, of course, ignores the insult. "I traveled a great deal to find you. I knew at this point in time, you'd be at a particularly vulnerable point. I knew you'd need me, and I was right."

Harry thinks back to his dreams, of all the moments where Harry kept moving closer and closer to Hogwarts... though there is one thing that's bothering him. "Where did you travel from?"

Potter smirks, like he is impressed with Harry's question. "2007," he answers. "2007, and then from the great country of Denmark when I arrived here."

"You're me," breathes Harry.

"I thought we already established that, darling."

Harry ignores the shudder that racks his body at the word 'darling.' "No, I mean you're... you're actually me. From the future."

Potter nods absently. He brushes his fingertips along Harry's jawline, down to his neck, teasing his chest. Harry melts under the touch, fighting off a content sigh. "I came all this way for you. And look, already, at your Potions grades. Look at all the wonderful things we can do together."

"But -- why?"

"Hm?" Potter leans in close, his breath misting Harry's neck.

Harry forces himself to jerk back. "Why did you come for me? Because you miss me? But why me? Why now?"

Potter sighs, his hands pulling back, and Harry aches at the loss. "I forget," he says, "how incessant I was in asking questions."

Harry frowns, his arms going to wrap around himself, as if trying to replace Potter's touch. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No," says Potter. He gets a look in his eyes, something fond but... scary, and suddenly Harry feels a fool for allowing him to get so close, for allowing Potter to touch him, all while they're alone. How could he forget that Potter is potentially a monster? "It's a wonderful thing, and you're such a bright boy."

"Now it's definitely narcissistic," Harry tries to joke weakly.

Potter, to his credit, smiles. "I had plans," he explained. "Plans that failed. This is my back up."

"What does it have to do with me?" Unsaid: Am I in danger? Even though logically Potter can't kill his younger self without ceasing to exist, Harry is still worried for some reason.

He doesn't want to die.

"Nothing," says Potter, soothingly. "My back up is a... vacation, you might say. I am no longer scheming, or plotting. My presence here is not malicious, Harry."

"How can I trust you?" asks Harry, shrinking in on himself, pained.

"Oh, baby, I know we have problems with that," says Potter, earnestly, moving forward to touch Harry again, this time intertwining their fingers together. "But I hope in time, you'll learn to trust me."

"I don't know how long that might take to happen." Or if it will happen at all.

"That's okay," says Potter. He smiles, a devilish thing. "We have all the time in the world." He steps forward and hugs Harry, tightly.

Harry closes his eyes -- his heart forever in turmoil -- and lets himself, just for the moment, be embraced.

"Now," says Potter, stepping away and grabbing Harry's hand in his own. "I would like to talk to Tom."