HP one shots

Kometa // Tomarry

Summary:

In 1948, Tom Riddle comes into contact with a mysterious artifact at Borgin & Burke, which propels him fifty years into the future and sets him on a collision course with his prophesied downfall.
____________________________________

1998

Lord Voldemort's funeral takes place after sundown. A cremation, rather, because a funeral implies more fanfare than a hastily constructed pyre outside the Forbidden Forest.

As one, the Aurors cast their spells, erupting a fire that fills the silence with the crackle of burning wood, in contrast to the clamor of celebration parties raging in the distance. Soon, all that remains of the once powerful wizard are unfulfilled ambitions and distorted memories. Just another casualty of time, gone like the empire he would never finish building.

While the other attendees depart, Harry lingers, drawn by the desire for a moment alone with his former nemesis. He bows his head before the scorched wood, searching for something to say, something profound and insightful. However, grander words elude him, so he says only, "I'm sorry."

A gust of wind blows, carrying his message far away. Not anticipating a response, Harry turns to leave.

He will not realize, until much later, that he was not alone.

On his way back to the castle, Harry detours to the White Tomb to return the Elder Wand.

The jagged crack that runs the length of the tomb has not yet been mended. Exposed to the cool night air, the former headmaster's face is peaceful, oblivious to the bloodshed that took place around him.

"Harry Potter. If I may have a word."

Harry spins around to face a dark-haired, dark-skinned centaur, who looks thoroughly unimpressed with the wand pointed at his bare chest.

"Hello, Bane." Harry lowers his wand. The centaur is an ally, if never a friend. "Okay."

Without another word, the centaur walks into the Forbidden Forest. Harry hurries to follow, navigating the brambly path under the glow of Lumos. The forest once seemed so foreboding to Harry, full of menacing shadows and disconcerting noises. But after many near-death experiences, plus an actual death, it no longer feels forbidding. Tonight, its usual activity is muted, and the air smells particularly fresh, laden with the fragrance of late spring and the petrichor from earlier rainfall.

When the trees thin into a small clearing, Bane stops. After ascertaining they are alone, he holds out his hand. "This belongs to you."

In his palm rests a small black stone, etched with the symbol of a circle and a line enclosed within a triangle.

Harry takes an instinctive step back. Bane frowns. "Do you not recognize it?"

"I do, but it's not mine. I don't want it."

"Your name is written in its magic. Thus it belongs to you, and to you alone."

"I don't want it," Harry repeats. "I never intended to recover it. You can keep it."

Bane scoffs. "Centaurs have no need for human-made artifacts," he says, not withdrawing his hand.

Harry caves and takes the stone. "Thanks," he mumbles, shoving it in his pocket.

"You are the first human I know who tried to turn down a Hallow," Bane remarks, gaze piercing.

"I have no use of them anymore. I only plan to keep the cloak."