The Tea Is Getting Cold

Rating: PG-13 for language

Title: The Tea Is Getting Cold

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred.

Spoiler Alert: Default to Books 1—5.

Summary: In my recollection, in that moment of sincerity, I caught a brief reflection of what Riddle could and might have been.

Pairings: Harry/Hermione

Author's Notes: This is a one-shot. Just something I had to get out of my head. It’s been kicking around for a bit in there. There’s plenty of room for that.

It’s first person from Harry’s POV. The story rating follows the MPAA guidelines; in my humble opinion, I think that this is a PG-13 piece as the F-bombs are not used in “that” way.

It’s not really a song fic per se, but it is one in spirit. The song at the root of this is “Passive” by A Perfect Circle.

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THE TEA IS GETTING COLD

[] OR, DREAMS OF SMOKE AND SONG

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Therapy.

Cognitive-behavioural therapy.

Narrative therapy or therapeutic writing or catharsis.

Script-o-therapy.

Whatever.

I’m supposed to be doing that now. They’re all afraid that I’ll go barking if I keep it bottled up inside.

I wonder if that is what did Riddle in. Keeping it all inside.

A murder is only an extroverted suicide, you know.

I ought to cease the gallows’s humour. I think this is what has everyone convinced that I am barmy.

After what happened with Tom, St. Mungo’s, in consultation with St. George’s, has prescribed me with a course of cognitive-behaviour therapy, the crux of which is me keeping a journal.

After what happened Second Year, don’t they know I bloody don’t trust journals?

So, here I sit, in my room at Grimmauld Place, armed with a parchment scroll and a charmed quill. It’s supposed to write every word I dictate.

Orange water gibbon bucket of plastic.

Well, blow me, it wrote that.

I wonder if I could get it to draw a picture.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I think today is Tuesday. He was supposed to have died on Saturday. They say I killed him on Saturday. Or something to that effect. I killed him. I just don't know about all of that. Something happened on Saturday. I'll commit to that much.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I keep dreaming of smoke. And…no, it’s not music. It’s not a song. It’s…sirens.

Smoke and sirens.

Damn it, my tea’s gone cold again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They told me that he was dead.

But I’ve never been much one for optimism.

I’ve been fighting against him for so long now. He’s been my enemy, the enemy of my parents, for so long, I can’t believe that he’s dead.

I won’t believe that he’s dead.

He can’t be dead.

I couldn’t have killed him. I'm not strong enough.

He’s only playing.

They should be more careful at St. Mungo’s. He’s not really dead. He’s only playing. He’s having everyone on. He’ll wait, and then he’ll get up, and he’ll walk away. He’s not dead.

He’s not.

...maybe I would be better off dead...

I didn't kill him.

It wasn't me, I swear, I was dead at the time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I did say I would stop the gallows's humour, didn't I.

Ah.

Well.

Then.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione, you must be so disappointed in me...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I made them let me see him. See his body.

So I could believe.

Hermione helped me to get into St. Mungo’s. She helped to convince Minister Bones that I needed this. That I needed closure.

Merlin, God, Buddha, Mohamed, Vishnu, Morgana, Jesus...I don’t know what I would do without Hermione.

Should I thank the three hundred plus saints as well?

I would say that I love her, but I am not sure what that means. I think I know what love is. I think I know what it is supposed to feel like. I think that I feel love for her. But I am afraid to call it that. What if I am wrong?

I don’t want to lie to Hermione. I can’t really lie to her anyways. I just can't. She always knows the times I even dare to try. She knows me too well.

She knows me when I no longer know myself.

She knew that I had to see his body. When I couldn't explain myself or the why or the what for, Hermione did it for me.

She does so many things for me.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I don’t why I thought he was playing dead. But I did.

I believed that whole-heartedly.

Even when I was in the morgue. I’d been in St. Mungo’s before and it had never before occurred to me that they might have a morgue.

Honestly, who thinks of such things?

The morgue is where I suppose a morgue should be. Downstairs, in the basement. They don’t advertise its existence. Wizards and witches are just like Muggles; we’re all scared shiteless of our own mortality.

We have a lot in common with Muggles. I hope they all remember this.

The morgue is cold. I reckon it should be cold. The morgue is white. I reckon it should be white. The morgue is very, very clean.

I found that to be of great relief.

I’ve seen enough blood to last the rest of my life. No, no more for me, please, thank you very much. Pass it along to the next saviour of all wizarding kind, I’m done. I’m not morish.

He was in a drawer. Tom Riddle, stuck in a drawer, like a pencil.

I wondered what he would make of that.

The morgue was very quiet. No one was speaking. There were quite a few of us in the morgue. There was Hermione, Neville, Ginny, Lupin, Snape, Mad-Eye, Minister Bones, Professor McGonagall, and me. I didn’t think anyone else would want to see if Riddle was still breathing or not, but I suppose curiosity bested them.

No one said a word.

What do you say in a morgue?

Brr, I think I might catch my death of cold.

Oi, do you have anything to eat in here?

Do you have any ice for my gin and tonic?

How do you keep all of your whites so sparkling white?

I don’t think that there is an etiquette guide for conversing in a morgue.

They didn’t walk me to the drawer. I was glad for that. They all had the good sense to hang back a bit. In case he popped out, like a jack on a spring.

That would be the prank of all pranks, wouldn’t it? I’ll wager that not even Gred or Feorge thought of that one.

The…mediwizard, I was about to call him the medical examiner, but I don’t know what the wizarding term would be. We never call things the same as Muggles do. At any rate, the mediwizard opened Tom’s drawer.

He was beneath a white sheet.

It was very still.

Nothing moved.

He didn’t move.

Nothing made a sound.

He didn’t make a sound.

The drawer sliding along on its greased metal wheels was the only thing to be heard. Since it was St. Mungo’s, the morgue didn’t utilise refrigeration or air conditioning. I’m not sure how the morgue was enchanted to be requisitely cold.

The mediwizard pulled the sheet down, revealing his face.

He looked asleep.

I had to suppress the urge to get my wand in my hand. Just in case.

I stared down at him. Into his face. He looked the way he should have looked. The way he should have been. It was the face of Tom Riddle and not of Lord Voldemort. It was the face that had been corrupted absolutely by his thirst for absolute power. The face that once was so twisted by hatred that it was alien, the face that spat Unforgivables at my parents, at me, at my friends. The eyes, now, closed, that had burned a fiery red, brimming with hated. That face, now cold and catatonic.

I remembered what he looked like while he was at Hogwarts. He was Head Boy. He was sincere in his desire that Hogwarts not be shut down due to the horror that he set upon the school. He was afraid of going back home. In my recollection, in that moment of sincerity, I caught a brief reflection of what Riddle could and might have been.

He could have been the greatest wizard of his age.

He could have been humane.

It was his right as a human being to treat others fairly and with compassion.

It was his ability as a wizard that made him forget his right.

The possibilities that he chose lead him to become my enemy.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I suppose I had been staring down into his face for sometime. Hermione had quietly ushered everyone out of the morgue, including the mediwizard.

I was surprised that she was met with little resistance but then again, I was the only person who seemed convinced that Riddle was feigning death.

I’m not certain how she knew…she always knows…but she knew that I needed the room.

I needed to talk to him.

To tell him.

How fucking wrong he had been.

This was the only time he’d ever listen to me.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Wake up.

I know you’re faking it.

Wake up.

Come on, now.

Face me.

You know you want to.

Wake. Up.

Don’t play dead.

I can’t walk away as long as you are playing.

But you know that.

I can’t believe that I killed you. I can’t believe that you are dead.

Wake up.

Face me.

So you know that you disappoint me.

You fucking disappoint me.

Maybe you’re better off this way.

Dead.

You weren’t strong enough to live at any rate.

No, see, you were alive, but you were not living.

There is a distinction, Tom.

I am alive. I know what that feels like. I know what it means to feel. To live.

You were only alive in clinical terms, Tom. There was no life in you.

Now, I am not a religious person. I think you know that better than anyone, with all of the sorties in my mind. I think you know that I’ve never really quite believed in the Powers That Be or in the great beyond. I don’t know enough to believe. So, as much as I would like to tell you that you had no soul, I am not sure what that means, exactly.

I know that you can hear this.

Go ahead and play dead, then. You are too much of a coward to face me.

Coward without a heart. Coward without a soul.

And yet I am the one who killed you. Or so they tell me.

So, what does that make me?

That you don’t answer, Tom. That you don’t bloody answer. Why can't you turn and face me?

You fucking disappoint me.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I'm glad that I have the chance to tell Hermione thank you. For everything. For taking care of me. For always being there for me. For being my friend.

For being so easy to love.

Ron clued me in on that.

Ron is a great friend to have. He truly is. Obsessed with Quidditch, loyal to extremes, will give me a short, sharp shock when I need it, a wheeze when I need it, and will shut it and listen when I need it.

It was Monday. We were talking about the Cannons. We always talk about the Cannons. It's a Ron thing. You wouldn't understand.

I know you’ve probably seen a fair bit in your time on this earth, Parchment, but believe me, you wouldn’t understand.

We were talking about the Cannons for the umpteenth time when Hermione came into the ward to drop off some books. Ron, as per his usual, went for the wind up. And Hermione, as per her usual, took the bait. I think they enjoy having at one another. It's fine for friendship, but not for dating.

I hate to admit this to you, Parchment, but I was relieved, happy even, when they broke up. That sort of quarrelling just couldn't work for a romantic relationship.

There was a time when even thinking of their relationship in those terms made me queasy. But, idiot that I am, I didn't recognise my reaction for what it was: jealousy.

I was starting to tell a story. Oh, right. It's a good thing this quill writes everything down.

Ron and Hermione were doing their usual and I guess I was watching the proceedings with a bit of a stupid look on my face. Lovesick sod kind of stupid. Once they ended their squabble and Hermione left, Ron immediately said this to me: Oi, mate, that look...why don't you tell her?

Tell her what? (I told you, Parchment, I am an idiot. Seriously. You ought to start believing me.)

You must have been Stupefied one too many times. Tell her what, he asks. Tell her that you love her, man.

Someone must have been surreptitiously Stupefying me every day since the first time I met her on the Hogwarts' Express, because I have been an idiot for that long.

I've never been accused of being the brightest wizard of my age.

I’m only the luckiest.

I am lucky, Tom Lying In A Metal Drawer Below St. Mungo’s Covered By A White Sheet. You must be bloody bored down there.

I’m lucky for many reasons, Tom. I am lucky because you are in that drawer and I am not. I am lucky because I had the love of parents who will never know me but gave everything they were for me. I am lucky because I have the friendship of a mate who has taken curses and hexes for me and has put up with me being a stroppy bastard. I am lucky because I have love…a love…her love…I think she loves me. When I sit back and think on it, it does look like love. Everyone in the known world seems to have picked up on this. Except for me. But I know now.

I’m awake now.

I’m alive.

She’s alive.

And you are in a drawer, Tom, and I have a chance. You might have life, you might be deader than death, it shouldn’t worry me. You are locked in a drawer. I am free.

I am, amn’t I.

Free.

Of the scar. Of the prophecy. Of you.

I’m free.

You are in a drawer, Hermione is downstairs, in the kitchen, getting me some more tea as this pot has gone cold, and I am talking to a scroll and a quill…

Merlin, I am an idiot.

Excuse me, Parchment, but there is something I have to do.

∞