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Harry wasn’t lonely, he never was. Mentally speaking, that is. Physically he was mostly in his cupboard and comfortably alone. His mind though, that was a different matter entirely.
Ever since Harry could remember, a voice had been in the back of his head, whispering atrocities and soothing lullabies alike. He wasn’t exactly sure if everyone had a voice, and nobody talked about it, or if it was another part of being a freak, but he never dared to ask. Besides, it was pretty nice, to have someone to talk to. The voice had never introduced himself, but sometimes, late at night, when everything was dark and he was just about to fall asleep, he thought it might be called Tom.
Tom was a good companion to have, his only friend for years, but he had his own faults. Like the fact that he kept trying to convince Harry that he should kill his relatives.
Maybe it was a magical thing, Harry figured later, when Hagrid had delivered his letter and he found the root of his freakishness.
(He knew, he knew, none of his friends had Tom, he knew and he kept quiet)
The wizarding world was truly magical, breathtaking, and with every step he took, Harry felt more at home. And yet, he felt like there was a barrier between him and his peers, it was like he looked at them through a mirror, normal enough, but yet not on the same level.
Tom grew more quiet, the longer Harry was at Hogwarts, but he did occasionally whisper Harry the right answer on a test. He felt guilty at first, but then he figured he wasn’t cheating if it was his own mind telling him.
(It wasn’t though, how hadn’t he noticed earlier?)
Facing off Voldemort at the end of the year, just barely defeating him, man that was an adrenaline rush. He could almost ignore the way Tom had screeched at the back of his mind, if he focussed on the murderer in front of him.
(How could he forget all about that, afterwards?)
Back at the Dursleys, Tom returned with full force, trying to get him to torment his cousin with endless spells, as if he didn’t know just as well as Harry, that he wasn’t allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts. And besides, the Dursleys were way tamer than before, now that they were afraid of his magic power.
(Sometimes, though he’d never admit to it, Harry enjoyed that fear, maybe too much. It boosted his ego and made him feel so incredibly powerful, like he deserved to be treated as better, when he was just Harry)
(There were so many signs, over the years, and he’d never said a word)
Returning to school was an adventure on his own, but Harry was kind of glad that Ron snapped his wand, it had become quite dangerous to sit next to him, when practicing hexes.
The basilisk was less nice and more dangerous but talking to snakes was kind of cool. Truthfully, he’d forgotten all about that talent for a while and he liked that he was something special, even in the wizarding world.
Meeting Tom Riddle, well, that was exhilarating. The tall-grown shadow of a boy that lived generations before him, made him weak in the knees. (If it was out of fear or something else entirely is highly debatable, even much later in Harry’s life)
The only thing that kept Harry from actively conversing with Riddle, was poor Ginny, laying on the wet stone, hair spilled like blood, weakly breathing and deathly pale.
Curiously enough, Harry could’ve sworn he felt just as much pain as the diary-ghost did, as he stabbed the book. (Of course, he’d just been bitten by a basilisk, but that probably wasn’t it)
It was only after that fateful rescue mission, that Harry and Ginny grew closer. Maybe it was the mutual understanding of Riddle, or the feeling that they’d lost something in the aftermath, but there was just something about her.
Tom was suspiciously quiet on the ride home. (And why hadn’t this been a clue all along, -hell, they shared a name! Harry was oblivious)
In fact, Harry got the distinct feeling that Tom was cross with him for the majority of the summer, -Up until he blew up his aunt. This made Tom positively cackle in delight and yeah, Harry had to admit that it was satisfying, somehow, to be able to manipulate people whichever way he wanted.
The news of his godfather took up the majority of his school year, only disrupted by the violent fantasies Tom projected of him murdering his Divination professor. (He wisely did not include this in his dream diary)
Even more curiously, Harry only ever seemed to be able to produce a Patronus when Tom was quiet, and any memory of the two them did not work for the happy memory needed.
(The signs, god the signs)
The reappearance of the Deatheaters just before the start of his fourth year delighted Tom so much, he kept talking for three days straight, never giving Harry a single minute of peace. The tournament delighted him less though, which was great for Harry, because he needed all the rest he could get to defeat the, honest to Merlin, dragon.
Under Moody’s watchful eye, Tom grew almost ecstatic, he was such a fan of the unforgivables, and Harry couldn’t help his own enthusiasm. Tom sure was a weirdo, but at the end of the day, he only ever wanted what was best for him. (A lie, such a LIE!)
Cedrics death was so traumatizing, not even the elation of talking to his parents could help him. And, Harry thought, perhaps for the first time in his memory, he felt completely alone, when faced with Voldemort. Tom was basically non existent for at least half an hour, only coming back when Harry’s feet touched the grass of field, Cedric pressed closely against his body.
In all the chaos, Harry never asked him why exactly he’d disappeared, honestly he was just glad that someone was there to talk him through the nightmares afterwards, when all his friends decided to ignore him. The dementors really were the cherry on top of his endless torment. That and watching Dumbledore ignore him at his own hearing. Harry was angry, so incredibly angry and it seemed none of his friends could even understand his grievances. It was just so easy for them, it wasn’t fair.
Neither was Hogwarts, as it turned out, since Umbridge absolutely had to make his life a living hell, torture included. And oh how Tom raged on his behalf, calling the toad every word under the sun. -It helped, laughing through the pain.
Dumbledores army was truly his escape, and he thought he might have found his calling as a teacher. Truly, he enjoyed the lessons, even if the name was slightly stupid.
He came to regret most of his actions towards the end of the year, look at what it got him! Sirius was dead and he couldn’t even really avenge him, all because he was too much of a goody two-shoes to actually torture the bitch. The battle was the most abrupt Tom had ever been silenced. One-second, he was absolutely laughing in delight at the battlefield, the next he was silent. (How had Harry never put two and two together, how?)
Everything went downhill from there, the discovery of the half-blood prince, his obsession with Draco, the revelation about the horcruxes, Dumbledores death. All his fault, and now he’d have to go on the run. His friends insisted on coming along, even when he was sure it would prove fatal, still he was glad for the additional morale booster.
Wearing the locket felt right in a way Harry was too afraid to explore, even as his two friends grew angrier under its control. Their year on the run was hard, and the news of the deaths that they couldn’t help was worse. Harry hadn’t been prepared, though likely he never would’ve been and this, this was too much. His only pillar of stability was Tom, a voice in his head, possibly a sign that he belonged at a ward in St. Mungus, and he had never told his friends about him either. It felt too personal somehow, even as they shared everything else.
Tom was simultaneously two sides of the same coin, flipping between absolute violence and somber moments of rational at every change of the plan.
(It was around this time that Harry started to suspect it, though he never did dare to speak his thoughts. Everything fit too well, and maybe, on some subconscious level he’d already accepted his fate)
It didn’t help the shock that was his destiny, dying on the chopping block for a nation that had brought their fate on themselves. Harry never did value his life very much, and all of these people deserved to live a peaceful life. Tom roared in Dumbledores office but grew quiet as the battle kept on going and the horrors kept on happening. Quietly, Harry had accepted his role, and maybe he also knew what Tom was, now. Not that it mattered much, both of them had to die, maybe because of Tom, maybe not. It was what the prophecy had foretold, after all.
It was then, on his way to walk himself right to his own execution, like a lamb to the slaughter, that Tom suddenly send him a love so strong, it almost made him keel over. They’d never talked about it, but they both knew that the love was reciprocated, wether romantically or not. Tom had been his trusty companion for longer than anyone else, they understood each other on a much deeper level than he could ever hope to achieve with anyone else. That is to say, if he ever got the chance to try. He’d never thought of himself as a martyr or a soldier, but in that moment, at the edge of the forest, surrounded by his parents, he felt like something had been lifted off his chest. Finally, everything would be over.
It was easy, somehow, to face Voldemort, in the knowledge that he wouldn’t ever have to bear the consequences.
(Oh how naive he’d been, to think his life would end, just because he was ready)
In the In-between, he met Dumbledore and what he suspected to be Tom, who looked oh so painfully crippled. It wasn’t what Harry had expected him to look like, truthfully he still thought of the voice as the handsome boy from the second year.
And if it ended his suffering, Harry would gladly return to the land of the living without his companion, even if he could barley register the meaning of it.
(Tom was Voldemort. Voldemort was Tom. His most trusted friend was his mortal nemesis. How fitting)
And when Harry did return, it was quiet. That is to say, he could still here the murmur of the Deatheaters surrounding him, the cries of the gentle giant and the shouting from the castle, but inexplicably, his mind was quiet. No presence was found that wasn’t his own thoughts and somehow Harry wanted to curl up and cry. It was strange, to mourn someone that he’d never met face to face, a murderer, an intruder. Yet, Harry did mourn all the time spend with his friend, the love he’d felt and the loyalty he knew was reciprocated.
It was all the more satisfying to assume his role as the master of death and duel the man that had killed that part of him. Never mind that the man was also the living version of that spark, for all intents and purposes the two beings were separate entities.
Still, Harry couldn’t bask in the glory of his victory, couldn’t even express the sorrow he felt over his enemy, without fear of being regarded as crazy. He knew how fickle the mind of the masses was. (Tom would say that they were all beneath him, but Tom wasn’t there anymore, Tom was DEAD!)
Ginny was the only one that could even begin to understand, and in parts, Harry suspected she knew who he was truly mourning in the years following his destruction.
She missed a part just as much as he did, and even if two empties didn’t make a whole, they did commiserate in their misery, and something akin to love grew.
Neither ever mentioned the mannerisms that were so clearly taken from a dark figure long gone, nor did they mention the way Harry would sometimes say something, only to abruptly stop and turn to leave. Neither mentioned how Ginny cried the first time their son asked for a diary and how accepting she was of their other son, being sorted into Slytherin. Maybe they both lacked something, but misery loved company, even if it wasn’t the company Harry ached for, in quiet moments and dark corners.
Harry had never been a soldier but he had a soul once.
(He’s not sure if he still has it)