Chapter Text
Chapter 25
Leaves from the Vine
Harry woke up feeling incredibly sore. Every part of his body hurt, and he felt like he weighed a ton. His head throbbed, and he didn’t want even to open his eyes as it felt like it would only be more painful. He let out a pitiful moan, and suddenly there was a soft hand on his head. The hand guided Harry’s head up, though it hurt to do so, and there was a rim of a glass pressed against his lips. He moaned again, and a familiar voice told him to drink.
Reluctantly, Harry opened his mouth, and a very cold liquid poured in, burning through his aches. The liquid revitalized him, and Harry felt enough strength to open his eyes. He was met with the blurry outlines of Mr. and Mrs. Flint. “Your glasses, here,” Mrs. Flint said, gently putting Harry’s glasses on his face while Mr. Flint pressed more pillows behind him.
As everything came into view, Harry noticed a few things. First was that he was in the hospital wing. Second was that he was surrounded by his parents, along with Professor Dumbledore. And third, he was covered with bandages, making him look like a little mummy.
“Finally awake,” Professor Dumbledore said. “You’ve been through quite a bit the last few days, haven’t you, Mr. Potter. In fact, you have been through quite a few changes this year, I have to say.”
“Where is Neville?” Harry asked.
“Mr. Longbottom, after being checked for any damages, has been cleared to leave the hospital wing after a single night,” Professor Dumbledore said. “That was three days ago. You, however, needed more time to rest and heal from your foray into the Chamber of Secrets.”
“Sir—”
Dumbledore held up a hand. “Your friend Neville has told me everything. And while I can commend both of you on your bravery and services to the School, I must also add that what you have done was very dangerous, not to mention you both have broken a dozen school rules.”
“We just wanted Ginny to be safe,” Harry said.
“As Neville has told me, yes,” Dumbledore said.
“Ginny? Who is this Ginny person?” Mr. Flint demanded, looking at Dumbledore. “You have told us nothing, Dumbledore! Nothing about the attacks and nothing about my son’s involvement! We demand to know what has happened in this school!”
“There was no harm, in any way, to your son,” Dumbledore said.
“No harm!?” Mrs. Flint laughed coldly. “Then tell me why my baby boy is in bandages! He has been here alone for three days, and you have failed to notify us! We would not even be here if it weren’t for Marcus, and even then it took lettering your deputy Headmistress to get permission since you refused to answer!”
Dumbledore gave a concerned frown, “Mrs. Flint,” he said carefully. “As far as I understand it, you only have one child.”
“Two children,” Mr. Flint said, shoving two fingers in front of Dumbledore. “We have two sons! And the Ministry knows it! I will not play whatever twisted game you think of playing here in front of my son! Now tell us what exactly has happened.”
“I have heard the story from a boy named Neville Longbottom, as he was in the chamber too during the time; however, I feel it might be better to let Harry explain it as well,” Dumbledore said carefully.
Harry looked between all of the adults and nodded. Mrs. Flint reached for Harry’s hand and held it as he talked. “All of the attacks were because of a diary that was taking over this first-year girl in Gryffindor. The diary possessed her to open the Chamber of Secrets and unleash the monster inside. People thought that I was the Heir of Slytherin because I have Loki, so I wanted to find a way to clear my name… Neville wanted to end the attacks. We worked together and found the diary, and then the Chamber… and we fought the monster, using its fang to destroy the diary.”
“What made you think of using the fang?” Dumbledore asked.
“Our spells couldn’t hit him, and the diary was near me as well as a fang. I didn’t think, I just did,” Harry said. Dumbledore seemed to accept the answer.
“What is this book my son Harry is talking about?” Mr. Flint demanded.
Dumbledore reached into his sleeve and pulled out the inky remains of Tom Riddle’s diary. “This,” he said. “This was found on Harry when Mr. Longbottom called for help. Mr. Flint recoiled at the sight of the diary and took a step back.
“If there isn’t anything else,” he said. “I want some privacy with my son.”
Dumbledore did not move.
“Damn it, man, this boy is my son by both blood and adoption!” Mr. Flint yelled at the Headmaster. “Either you give up whatever wrong assumption you have now, or we will take this up with the Board. Either way, I will have my privacy.”
Dumbledore finally moved. However, before he was fully out of the hospital wing, he turned and said, “Rest assured, our conversation about this matter is far from over. It is too dangerous for him to leave his aunt’s.” He gave Harry a pointed look, then left, the doors closing behind him.
The Flints all breathed easily before Mr. Flint scooped Harry into a hug. It was an easy thing to do for the big, powerful man; nevertheless, it shocked Harry. Especially when he saw the tears in Mr. Flint’s eyes.
“Oh, you clever, clever boy,” Mr. Flint said. “Oh, my strong boy!”
Mrs. Flint joined them in the hug and said to Harry, “Marcus told us everything about your ritual. You are very lucky it worked.”
“He did?” Harry gasped.
“Yes, son, he did,” Mr. Flint nodded. “You’ve really honored the Flint name that night, as well as the Potters’, I’m certain. I don’t know what exactly the Voice was thinking, but he trusted you with it, and you were able to do it.”
Harry nodded and moved so that he could hug both of his parents. “I’m just happy I could have helped him,” he admitted. “And now, Sigyn is free too! Oh, Sigyn is Slytherin’s basilisk, the monster in the Chamber of Secrets. She’s also Loki’s girlfriend. She helped a bit, but now I have a promise of my own to keep with her.”
“Well, that’s… I’m sure you’ll be able to keep it,” Mr. Flint said, clearing his throat. Still carrying his son, Mr. Flint moved to sit on the bed, sliding Harry to sit next to him. “Either way, I’m proud of you, both of us are.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Harry smiled.
“Did you pick your classes for next year?” Mrs. Flint asked.
Harry nodded, “I’m going to take Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, and Divination.” He saw the look on his parents’ faces and said, “Pansy is taking Divination, and we didn’t want her to take it alone. It seemed like an easy class.”
“It’s… something,” Mrs. Flint said, clearing her throat politely. “Anyway, do not worry about whatever Dumbledore says, you’ll be coming home for the summer, naturally. And you’ll finally be able to meet your aunt and cousins.”
Harry was very excited about that. The Flints stayed for another half hour before promising to pick him and Marcus up at the end of the school year. They said their goodbyes, and soon enough, Madam Pomfrey took charge and told Harry she wanted him in bed for one more night, just to monitor him.
Marcus found the perfect place to talk with Oliver on the seventh floor. He was going to tell his love everything, no more secrets between them. Oliver was silent as they walked around the seventh floor. Marcus told him that there was something important they needed to talk about, and the Gryffindor didn’t say a word. Finally, on what was their third round down a corridor, Marcus found a door that led to the perfect room.
It was small, intimate, with a fireplace and a loveseat as well as a comfortable rug underneath. “Perfect,” Marcus breathed. “Come on, babyboy.”
He pulled Oliver to the loveseat and sat down. Both of them looked nervous. Marcus took a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ollie… I love you.”
Oliver stared at Marcus in silence. “I… I wasn’t expecting that,” he chuckled. “Honestly, I was a little afraid.”
“Why?” Marcus asked.
“I thought that you and I… that you would break up with me,” Oliver said.
“No!” Marcus shouted. “I mean—I love you, Oliver! If I had it my way, you’re never leaving my side.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I love you too,” Oliver smiled, and the two pressed together in a kiss. Marcus wrapped his arms around Oliver as they kissed and pulled away only because he remembered what else he had to tell his boy.
“Hold on,” Marcus panted. “I wrote—I wrote something down.”
Oliver looked at Marcus curiously as the younger boy edged away to pull out a rather long piece of paper that had several things crossed out and several ink blots. Marcus blushed. “I’m shit at words, and I love you… and I don’t want to fuck this up or make you scared, so…” he waved the piece of paper. “This is stuff I need to tell you. Important stuff that’s about my family, me, and even Harry. Just listen, okay?”
“Okay, I promise,” Oliver nodded. He reached out and held Marcus’s hand, which the taller boy appreciated.
Marcus cleared his throat and started to read. “Oliver, I love you, you’re the only boy for me. But there’s some stuff I want to let you know, stuff about my family and me that’s very important and dear to my heart. There are a lot of people who say that a lot of the families in Slytherin are Dark, that we do illegal spells and torture Muggles. I want to say that for my family at least, we’re Dark. We have been long before that shitty You-Know-Who. While he was around, my dad was forced to help him… otherwise he would have hurt my cousin… and me. My father hated every moment, and he freely confessed when he had the chance.” Marcus took a breath, scared to read more, but Oliver squeezed his hand.
“Go on,” Oliver whispered. “I don’t blame you.”
Marcus smiled. “But we are Dark,” he continued. “But that doesn’t mean what you think it means. I don’t go around cursing everyone I see and wishing harm to muggles or muggleborn. I hate certain muggles, yes, but that’s only because they treated you and Harry like shit and not the treasures that both of you are! The point being is that my family is Dark. We follow a tradition that is long forgotten and celebrates the old holidays like Samhain, Beltane, and Yule. These holidays were celebrated by all wizards back then, dark and light, even muggleborns! But some people refused to learn about our culture, and they started to blame my wizards for everything that’s wrong.
“So, our people had to hide our celebrations as those in charge made up every fucking lie they could about the Dark Arts. I’m not saying that all Dark Wizards are good, fuck no, but there’s a lot of good people who just want to celebrate our traditions… and my family, I am one of them. Currently, I’m on what’s known as The Path to the Dark, it’s like this coming-of-age tradition that takes place over two years, and I’ll be finishing on Samhain, or Halloween, next year. We do it to get closer to magic and closer to each other. I know that this is a lot, Ollie, but I don’t want to lie to you. I love you, and I’ll do everything to protect you, and I want you to know who I am.”
Marcus folded the piece of paper up and looked anxiously at his boyfriend. Oliver squeezed his hand and licked his lips anxiously. Oliver was silent, but he kept holding Marcus’s hand. Marcus was silent as well, but he was scared with every minute that passed. Then, suddenly, Oliver jumped on Marcus, kissing him deeply. Marcus gasped as they rolled off the loveseat onto the rug. “Ollie!”
“That was a lot of words, Wolf,” Oliver panted, kissing every bit of skin he could. “Way I see it, you’re a bad boy with a good heart, and I love that.”
“So, you accept me?” Marcus gasped.
“I do,” Oliver said. “Your family doesn’t harm muggleborns, right?”
“No! Never!”
“Then we’re good,” Oliver smirked. He moved to straddle Marcus’s waist and smirked as he started to unbutton his shirt. “This place is perfect,” he breathed. “No one to bother us.”
“What are you doing?” Marcus blushed. Oliver tore his shirt off, revealing his bulky build. His chest was large, and his stomach looked shapely, revealing abs before expanding at his waist for his ass.
“Something I’ve thought about for so long,” Oliver said cockily. “You’ll be my first, actually, but I always wanted to do it.” He took his wand and transfigured his pants into a skimpy skirt that barely covered his ass and growing erection. “I have to admit, I like skirts too,” Oliver breathed.
“Ollie?”
“Let me make my man feel good,” Oliver breathed. “Be a good boy now and listen.” Marcus found himself nodding, his pants becoming very tight. Oliver noticed it and started to grope Marcus’s crotch as he kissed Marcus. “Take it off,” he breathed. “All of it.”
Marcus moved quickly to get naked, kicking off his shoes and socks before battling with his shirt and pants, revealing his huge muscles and impressive abs that caused Oliver to drool. “Damn Flint! You sure you’re only fourteen?” he teased.
“I’m man enough for you, Wood,” Marcus said confidently, flexing his arms. Oliver laughed before reaching down and glancing at Marcus’s member. “Oh shit,” he breathed. “Oh shit.” It was huge, much larger and thicker than Oliver’s own member. It looked like a challenge that Oliver wanted to conquer. He pressed his dick against the cock and thrust, moaning at the tension. They continued to kiss before Oliver shifted on top of Marcus. The Slytherin moaned at the sight in front of him, Oliver’s cock hanging over his face and covered by the skirt, along with his perfectly muscled ass. Oliver shifted again, and Marcus moaned when he felt a wetness on his own cock as Oliver wrapped his mouth around it.
“Fuck,” Marcus moaned. Oliver lowered his body, his cock pressing against Marcus’s face. In his lustful haze, Marcus opened his mouth around the cock and moaned at the taste. It was hot and salty, but easy to slide down Marcus’s throat. Oliver gasped, and they shared a look before continuing. Marcus’s hands went to Oliver’s ass, pushing the skirt out of the way as he grabbed the muscled globes. He pulled Oliver closer, the Gryffindor’s dick pushing deeper into his mouth as he thrust his huge cock deep into Oliver’s. He controlled the movement, slapping Oliver’s ass when the Gryffindor tried to change the speed. This was his reward, and once he got an idea of how to do it, he wanted complete control. Both boys groaned around their cocks, and their climax built quickly. Oliver swallowed as much as he could as he flooded Marcus’s face with his sweet nectar. They kissed sloppily, their cum coating their faces as their dicks grew hard again. They both panted and smirked at each other as Marcus pushed Oliver down for a second round. The lovers grew closer as the night went on, as they came over and over again, trying out different positions. Marcus’s favorite was when he was sitting and in complete control with Oliver between his legs.
Marcus knew that his favorite thing in the world was kissing Oliver, but that night, he learned his second favorite thing to do with his sexy boyfriend.
The rest of the school year was thankfully peaceful. Harry and Marcus were able to focus on Quidditch fully and won the Quidditch Cup with ease, dominating over Ravenclaw 300-0 during the finals. The petrification antidote was finished in early June, and all the victims were restored to great applause by the rest of the school. However, the thing that Harry was most excited about was that on the last day of school, Professor Lockhart gave a long speech that boiled down to the fact that he wasn’t coming back, and that instead he had a great opportunity in Germany, and that he had to leave immediately! Harry hoped he never returned.
Voldemort was in the restored Riddle Manor. He decided not to kill the muggles who repaired his home, instead paying them very little and using magic to make them accept it. The Voice was a common sight in the manor, visiting whenever he could for at least an hour to talk. It was late on Beltane night when the Voice came. He was preparing tea for the two of them when it struck him.
Voldemort suddenly felt extremely hot. He broke out into a sudden sweat, and his forehead felt extremely warm. “What?” he grunted as he fell to his knees. He felt heavier, and his body exploded in pain as memories from fifty years ago rushed to the surface, as well as other memories that were not his. He screamed at the pain, and the last thing he noticed was the Voice rushing to his aid.
Memories played. The night Myrtle died. The rush of power he felt unleashing the basilisk, and the satisfaction he felt learning that someone died because of his actions. Guilt. The night he made his first horcrux. The simple diary, an impulse purchase years ago, now the container of his soul and the key to his immortality. How powerful he felt. How important. Guilt. Stuck. Isolation. Stuck inside a cell. Aware of everything that was happening. He was in darkness, hidden for so long, only to be given to a man. An older man with long platinum blonde hair. The man was told to treat him with care, but he didn’t. Tom was left on a shelf, forgotten. Anger. The night he killed Lily and James Potter. The night he tried to kill an innocent baby and made something more. Guilt. Surprise. Pride.
The first time he was open in more than fifty years. First by that girl, then by Harry. His connection with Harry. Showing Harry everything. His small talks with Harry. The ritual. He connected with the boy. Truly connecting and finding out. What he was. What the boy is. Warmth. Guilt. Light. Dark. A constant war was being fought inside him as the memories continued to play. Then, nothing. He was floating in a void, feeling nothing, seeing nothing.
He didn’t know how long he stayed in that void. He just knew the sensations he felt. Some moments he was hot, unbearably so, before the coldest chills took over him, and then he felt the same hotness once more. His mind brought back memories he thought he had long forgotten. His time with Abraxas and Orion. The first time he felt something other than hatred with that queer boy with purple eyes, and then the feeling of loss when that boy was taken from him.
Hours, days, maybe even weeks passed by. Voldemort was not too sure until he woke up in his bed, wearing only a loose pair of pajama bottoms. His head hurt as Tom sat up and looked around to see that he was in his room. He sat on the edge of the bed until he felt stable. He felt both heavier and lighter, fuller of himself. He had memories of his life, but also memories of his Horcrux, and what it experienced after separation. But that couldn’t be, that shouldn’t be possible. “Elf!” he called out.
There was a popping sound that was too loud for him as a house-elf appeared. “What can Jaxs do for you?” the house-elf asked.
“Where is the Voice? What day is it?” Voldemort demanded.
The house elf called Jaxs flinched. “Th-the Voice is in the gardens!” he said, “It’s—it’s May 15th, Master.”
“Two weeks,” Voldemort muttered. He swept past the house-elf, not caring about his half-clothed state. He made his way through the empty manor, down to the first floor, into the back living room, through the double glass doors that led to the backyard and the gardens. In the backyard was a single tree, almost as tall as the house. Voldemort saw the Voice there, sitting on a blanket. He was facing the tree, and as Voldemort approached, he noticed that the Voice had incense sticks, three empty cups with a bottle of wine, as well as a photograph that was leaning against the tree and a strange musical instrument.
“What did you do to me?” Voldemort demanded when he was close enough. “I was out for two weeks, and I’ve seen memories of my horcrux!”
The Voice looked back at him and gave a sad sort of smile. “I’m glad you’re awake,” he said. “Come, sit.” He patted the space next to him.
“What did you do to me?” Voldemort demanded. “Why do I remember conversations with Potter that never happened?”
“Because it did happen, only between a different version of yourself and Harry,” The Voice said.
“That is the problem. I should not hold my horcruxes’ memories,” Voldemort said. “They should not even have memories to begin with.”
“Why not? They are a part of you, aren’t they?” The Voice asked. “Everything has memories, even if it is a brief touch.”
“My Horcruxes do not,” Voldemort hissed. “I should not remember these things. Why is it that I am?”
The Voice just looked at him for a moment before he took the bottle next to him and started to fill the three cups. “Did you know that I spent a good decade in China and the other Asian countries? Well, altogether it was much more than a decade as I kept visiting and returning. But the last time, I spent a decade there. Learning, growing, and healing.” He looked down at the framed picture and lifted it so Voldemort could see.
It was a photo of a rather handsome young man, around his early twenties. He had a strong face, sharp eyes, and dark hair. He looked only somewhat familiar. The Voice smiled at the picture and said, “My miracle grandson, Isaac Travers. He was my son’s second-born child. They had many… complications during his birth. We’ve almost lost him and my dear daughter. But he was a brilliant mind, and a very wholesome boy who loved his family, and his culture.”
“He was a Death Eater,” Voldemort stated.
“Yes, he joined right after he graduated from Hogwarts,” The Voice said. “It was the proudest I’ve ever seen him. He served you faithfully.”
“I vaguely remember the two Travers,” Voldemort said. “This one is dead, isn’t he?”
“He is,” the Voice said sadly. “You’ve sent your Death Eaters to break into the Ministry of Magic. It was your boldest attack during the war.”
“Yes, I remember. The fights were mostly in the streets. Many muggles died because of it. They blamed it all on an explosion,” Voldemort said.
“Many muggles, and your followers. Including my grandson Isaac. He was only twenty-two,” the Voice said. He placed the picture back against the tree and, with his fingers, ignited the incense. The Voice gave Voldemort his cup before placing his own in front of him, and one more in front of the picture. He picked up the strange instrument and tuned it. It looked like a rather strange guitar with only four strings.
“A skill I’ve learned in my time in China,” the Voice said. “I was going to bring my grandsons with me one time, but I never got the chance to.” He continued to tune the instrument, and then he shocked Voldemort by starting to sing.
“Leaves from the vine… falling so slow, like fragile tiny shells …Drifting in the foam.… Little soldier boy Come marching home. …Brave soldier boy …Comes Marching home.”
The Voice was openly crying. He placed his strange lute down and lifted the picture to kiss it. “Happy Birthday, my grandson,” he whispered. He took up his cup and drank.
Voldemort watched this in silence. He was shocked to feel his own eyes growing misty as he watched the display of grandfatherly love and loss. Still, in this silent moment, a word couldn’t help but ask itself. “Why?”
The Voice placed the picture down and wiped his tears. “Not everyone gets a second chance at life, even if others think they deserve it most,” he said. “Both Harry and I, even if it is mostly me, believe that you deserve the chance to change who you are. Despite the mistakes and evils you have done and caused.”
“An old man who wishes to help me, even though I sent your grandson to die. And a twelve-year-old boy who believes I could be better even after killing his parents,” Voldemort said. He felt the mocking of a smile on his lips as he chuckled.
“You find it funny?” the Voice asked.
“I find it maddening,” Voldemort said. “I don’t understand it at all. It makes no sense why you should even waste your time.”
“Should it make sense? We only wish for you to be a better person,” The Voice said.
Voldemort chuckled. “I remember what that Potter boy told me. He says that he’ll help me, and we can start again.” He shook his head and stood up. “I’ll leave you to your grandson.” He drank from his cup, finally, and let it float to the ground.
Voldemort walked back into the manor and stopped in front of a mirror in the living room. His pale skin looked livelier and more youthful; there was actual blush to his cheeks. His eyes, too, seemed livelier than before, the dark orbs now looking inviting, yet still mysterious. However, what shocked the Dark Lord most of all, and what made him think about Harry Potter’s words again, was the smile that effortlessly graced his handsome face.
“Harry,” the man purred. “You truly wish to help me?” He smiled at his reflection, and for once, it wasn’t a smirk, ironic, or even had any malicious intent. It was just a smile, and it came as effortlessly as breathing. “I’ll see you soon, then, Harry.”
END OF YEAR 2