Our Corrupted Souls

Part IX: The Mended Souls

"He stood there, his eyes like they had been before. Their beauty stabbed at her heart like a great knife; the hair looked so like she had just pressed the wet comb to it and perhaps put a little pomade on the sides; and the small face was clean and sad. Yet her arms somehow did not ache to hold him like her heart told her they should. Something too far away and too strong was between her and him; she only saw him as she had always seen resurrection pictures, hidden from us as in a wonderful mist that will not let us see our love complete."

~James Purdy, 63, Dream Palace: Selected Stories, 1956-1987

After the break-in to the Lestrange vault in Gringotts Wizarding Bank, security on the bank has increased. Any one wishing to view their vaults is asked for their wand and key traced with their magical signature. Harry decided he would disappear from the Greengrass' lives for a while. Of course, he kept a close watch on Lennox and his progress with Remus, and occasionally dropped by to keep Daphne company.

Apart from that, Harry remained a ghost to the Wizarding world. Over time, Harry fell into a comfortable routine. He woke up earlier than his relatives. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, he would go to the Greengrass residency to talk to Lennox, who was still needing things to prepare before speaking with Remus and spending time with Daphne. As much as he disliked to admit it, he had a soft spot for the girl, reminding him of the life he could have had if his parents had never defied Voldemort, if his mother had been born into the Wizarding world rather than introduced to it, and his father had the emotional restraint he lacked. Tuesdays and Thursdays would be spent with Harry sitting on the cliff overlooking a cave in a stone basin that was an island that seemed to be in the center of a vast lake that went as far as the eye could see. During those days, he wrote on a small notepad on the different ways he could obtain the locket that lay inside the haunting cave. He yet did not want to drag Daria in until after she was in the clear with the ministry. Saturdays and Sundays were spent with Harry sleeping in, after all, they were the days his aunt had him the busiest.

In the mornings of the weekend, Harry accompanied his aunt in the kitchen and watched over the food she cooked, occasionally, he would pull her trouser sleeve, shake his head, and point at the ingredient that made the food much better. At first she did not pay attention to him and even sneered whenever he dared interrupt her, but out of curiosity, she did what she assumed he meant. After that, she grudgingly did whatever he suggested.

At night, no matter the day, Harry spent them with his servant. Death sat on the makeshift bed with Harry curled up in its scented robes, examining the tablets while he subconsciously played with Riddle's ring. Everytime he did so, he could feel the place Tom Riddle was at. It was cold, chilly, like Death. Wherever Voldemort resided, there was a cool breeze that reminded Harry of death, a place so familiar that only he was accustomed to.

Harry thought, at first, that only he could be used to the loneliness of death. But the more he tapped into the small part that locked with Tom's soul, the more connected he felt. In a way, his connection with Tom in this reality, reminded him of the connection he had with Voldemort, but at the same time it was different. This connection... It made Harry feel in control. With Tom oblivius, at least to Harry's belief, he knew how the man felt, how his soul truly was when nobody was around.

A soft smile played on his lips as he allowed for his surroundings to melt away and be submerged by the breeze around Tom that aided envisioning the place the Dark Wizard was currently at: Silent. Old. Dusty. Chilling. Peaceful. Harry relaxed on Death's robes. He took a sharp breath as he was pulled under. When his eyes snapped back open, he was surrounded by pitch-black darkness, which was quickly overtaken with visualization. Harry pictured himself in a place as silent as a void, as old was the ring around Harry's neck, as dusty was the Hogwarts library, as chilling as when Death's fingers brushed his cheek and ignited a wave of cold shivers down his spine, and as peaceful as when the killing curse hit his chest and he was dead.