When A Slaughterhouse Becomes A Home (selfcest/tomarry)

nineteen

Harry, Ron, and Potter run the halls of the Ministry and find them suspiciously empty. Harry realizes with growing horror that everything he's done -- lost Hermione for good, killed Dolores Umrbdige with his two good hands -- might have been for nothing. It is a real, distinct possibility.

Sirius Black is not here.

It was a ruse.

"I think we should get out of here," says Potter, quietly.

"I agree," says Harry. "Was it like your timeline, then, Potter?"

"Yes," says Potter. "It must be. Sirius Black is not dead... but he might be, if we do not get out of here soon."

Harry grimaces. "Right," he says. "Let's split -- Hogwarts isn't safe... do you think we could take to the Burrow? Or is that too closely related to Dumbledreo?"

"Too close," agrees Ron. "Guess we're on the run."

Harry can tell that Ron is not happy about this all -- that he likes his stay at Hogwarts, likes hanging out with his family, hell, likes Dumbledore. And Harry can't blame him, not really, because all that stuff -- life outside of The Harry Potter -- ... it's normal. Harry has never been normal. The life he lives, the life that the people associated with him live -- it isn't normal, either. It isn;t fair of him to ask this of Ron.

That doesn't stop him. Perhaps he is what Dumbeldore called him, evil, because any and all of what he is doing now, down to the most minute detail, is not good. He's not a good person and he's slowly coming to realize that.

Right now, however, is no time for introspection. It's time for a great, cunning escape, and a speedy one at that. Ron is describing the places they could be on the run toward, the beginning of their grand new life and Harry is suddenly grateful.

"I love you," Harry tells Ron. "Thank you -- for doing this for me." They are both thinking of Hermione, of Ron's complete opportunity to leave Harry like she did... and how he wouldn't really be blamed, if he did.

Ron flashes a weary grin. "Don't mention it."

"Here we are," says Potter, who quite frankly seems disgusted with their sentimentality... perhaps it is because he thinks Harry is better without friends.

As they round the corner to circle back to the Floo, they skid to a stop.

Because standing right in front of them, impossibly, is Voldemort himself. He stands with rows of Death Eaters at his side, all pointing their wands at Harry and Ron. Harry and Ron stick their hands up.

"Drop your wands," commands Voldemort in an easy, lazy drawl, as if he is taking great pleasure from their positon. "Lest you have no opportunity to negotiate."

"Fuck," mutters Harry. The two of them drop their wands in a clatter.

"This didn't happen last time," mutters Potter, already in a fighting stance, futile as it is. "It didn't happen like this."

And that of course begs the question of what went wrong? What happened that was so different?

And the answer of course: Potter... and Tom.

... Tom!

Harry's breath catches in his throat. "You don't want to kill us," he says, sounding much barever than he feels, even though he does feel lightened, elated. Like this revelation has unburdend them he is suddenly certain that he and Ron will live. This is not the end. He will not die.

"Why is that, Potter?"

Both Potter and Harry wince at the name. Ron looks at him expectantly, as if to ask, Yeah, why shouldn't he kill us? Potter, however, seems to have already pieced it together and is beaming at him proudly.

"Because," says Harry, sticking his chin out, "I have something you want."

Voldemort looks genuinely surprised -- though only slightly. "You have the prophecy?"

"No," says Harry. "This place really needs to work on their security," he mutters, as an afterthought.

"You were the ones who opened all the right wards. Good job on that, by the way, on having the perfect Light magical signature."

"I don't even know what you're talking about," says Harry, thinking all the while that he is perhaps not as light as they believe. But that's fine. Let them think what they want.

That belief is about to be crushed, anyway.

"I don't know anything about a prophecy. To be honest, I don't really care." He slips off his schoolbag, hands still half raised, as if to beg mercy. "I have something much more interesting."

And then from the bag, he raises out Tom's diary.

Tom is still away, fighting Dumbledore, and apparently succeeding, for the lack of the Order's presence. But his diary had remained in Harry's pack the entire time. And Harry knows that if his mortal enemy had the memory of his younger self stored away in his schoolbag, he'd want to keep them alive to ask some questions as to how, too.

It is not such an unfamiliar thing, to think like a Dark Lord.

Voldemort stares. And stares. Then raises his wand and, with a flick of his wrist, knocks both Ron and Harry out.

Potter watches on with a smug smile, oddly proud of his young Harry. He'd thought for sure that Harry would die, and never live long enough ot kill himself. For, you see, if Harry dies by any other means other than Harry's own hand, then Potter remains immortal. Potter remains alive.

Voldemort turns to his Death Eaters. "I want anyone who must of knew of this alive. I will deal with them as the time comes."

"Aren't you going to kill them, My Lord?" one Death Eater ventures, gesturing to Harry and Ron's unconscious forms.

Voldemort surprisingly does not Curcio him. Instead, he turns a thoughtful gaze upon the two bodies. "...No," he decides eventually. He vanishes their bodies with a wave of his wand and the mutter of a small spell. "I want to deal with them personally. They are to live... for now."

And then he descends into a mad laughter, filling the corridor with the sound.