Archive of Our Own

?

Harry flung his torch down from his high vantage point, the leaves briefly illuminated with a blue-white glow before it hit something with a thunk. It was not the sort of thunk of hard plastic meeting wood or stone, but rather the thunk of meeting hard bone encased in flesh. There was a snarl, guttural and horrifying if this wasn’t the forty-seventh time that Harry has bothered to count hearing it.

For a brief moment red, glinting eyes met him from down below, a face covered completely in the bone white of a skull mask, which was now knocked askew thanks to Harry’s little gift. The air stilled, the night quietened, and then there was a spring of movement, the masked killer beginning to scale the wall Harry stood upon with an ease he envied, the sharp and bloody axe attached to the killer’s hip. Tonight Harry would be far from his first victim.

‘You know that there’s stairs 5 minutes from here, right?’ said Harry, crouching down low to get a better view of those rippling muscles. Once he got over the whole running for his life sort of deal—very easy to do when you can no longer count on both hands how many times it's happened—it was easy to be appreciative. At least the killer offered some eye candy before sending Harry to the grave. ‘Yes, I know it’s very impressive that you can climb bare-handed like this, you’d be sure to send everyone in my class swooning, but I feel like you'd reach me quicker if you took the…’ he stopped short, realising that the killer was somehow speeding up, perhaps extra motivated by his taunting. ‘Okay, maybe not,’ muttered Harry, before turning on his heel and running.

It wasn’t long before he could hear heavy footsteps behind him, slow and steady, the drag of the axe scraping against the stone ground. The killer was acting like this was a fun little jaunt rather than the high-intensity survival chase Harry was experiencing. It was almost insulting, really. Here he was, getting a stitch in his side, while the killer wasn’t even breathing hard.

‘You know, I don’t particularly appreciate being chased around by a man with an axe!’ Harry shouted over his shoulder, jumping down the stairs and running out towards the Great Lake.

The killer didn’t respond, because he never responds, and no amount of cheek Harry gave could change that.

Harry wasn’t quite sure why he was running towards what was essentially a dead end (he wasn’t sure why the sight of the lake set his teeth on edge). He never really got the hang of the whole swimming thing (he could manage a respectable dog paddle and that was it), and he doubted the killer would just stand by and let him unmoor the tiny little boat that had seen better days and housed three generations of mussels before paddling away. But he had never run to the Great Lake before, something in him always unconsciously avoiding it, and he had reached the point of mindless experimentation in the hopes of stumbling upon a new ending. He didn’t need results, he just needed something different.

His bare feet kicked up loose dirt behind him—his shoes had been lost to a particularly greedy brush a long way back, and his socks were so damp that he felt no remorse tossing them to the mossy rocks—before hitting the wooden boards of a pier. He stopped at the edge, staring out at the lake, unable to take a step further. The sun was nearly set, but a strike of fiery orange still lingered on the surface of the water. He took in a deep breath, the crisp air refreshing, and tilted his head back. He let out a joyously mad laugh.

The shifting of grass approached, and then metal on wooden boards and heavy boots.

‘Will you at least show me your face before you kill me?’

Silence.

Harry opened his eyes, watching as a large figure blanketed his own reflection in the water. The killer tilted his head to the side for a moment, the red of his eyes wobbling back and forth from the gently lapping waves. And then he lifted the axe.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to jump in, preferring to die a much more bloody death than by drowning.

‘Guess not. Figures.’

There was a sickening crunch, a splash, and no more.

And then he woke up, because that was what Harry did now when he died.

1

‘Woah, this place could give someone a serious asthma attack,’ said Ron, swiping his finger across the surface of the table, leaving an obvious streak. ‘Can’t believe that it’s still up and running.’

Hermione furiously swatted away a spiderweb from her hair. ‘Do they seriously expect us to live here? This has got to be against some sort of code.’ She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘Ugh, it feels like bugs are crawling up my back.’

‘That’s because they are—’

She whipped around. ‘What?!’

‘Just kidding!’

‘I am going to murder you, Ron.’

‘Sorry, sorry.’ Quick hands darted out, jabbing into the soft meat of his sides. Ron let out a yelp, curling like a shrimp. ‘I said I was sorry!’

Harry looked out the window, out at the vast stretch of land and at the sprawling castle. ‘I mean, it is pretty cool that we get to live in a castle for a month,’ said Harry. Pretty cool was an understatement. There was no amount of words that he could say to capture the awe, the strange sense of belonging (the whispers of fear), that overcame him as they stepped into Hogwarts. ‘I doubt many people will get the opportunity to do this.’

Ron gave a shrug, notably a good distance away from Hermione now, continuing to snoop. He found a chess set in no time, the marble pieces connected by dust and thin cobwebs. He plopped down into the chair and a puff of dust plumed into the air. He gave a few coughs, waving his hand in the air in hopes of dispersing it quicker, but all it served to do was spread it farther.

‘Ron,’ hissed Hermione.

‘Are you trying to choke us out?’ coughed Harry.

‘Admittedly I didn’t quite think things through.’ Ron immediately began to move the pieces, practising his openings as if he wasn’t sat in an historic castle that had seen better days, chess fanatic that he was. ‘But it was going to have to happen at some point, so why not now?’

‘When do you think the others are going to arrive?’

‘Fred and George are off exploring the Great Lake last I heard, while Neville and Luna are inspecting the other dorms.’

‘What about the Slytherins?’

‘Who knows, who cares,’ said Ron, having reached the point of checkmate with his illusionary opponent, knocking over the white king in triumph. He stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles. ‘Figures that those rich tossers got assigned to the historically wealthy House.’

‘How’d the owner even know?’ They had all received handwritten invitations in practised, looping calligraphy, inviting them to stay at Hogwarts. Each letter already denoted them to a House, and none of them had been signed off. They didn’t even know who the owner was, only that they were supposedly credible enough for their school to sign off on the trip.

‘You think they’re a stalker?’

‘Who knows.’

‘Hey Harry, come over here for a sec,’ interrupted Hermione. She was stood in front of the fire mantle. It was sparsely decorated, save for a single picture frame, which she held in her hand. She wiped the glass surface and frowned down at it.

‘Hmm?’

She brought it closer to him. ‘Look familiar?’

‘Holy shit, it’s you!’ said Ron, having at some point abandoned the chess board in favour of standing behind Hermione. ‘Creepy.’

Hermione let out a squeak that Harry knew she would never admit to. ‘You’re the creepy one, standing behind me like that. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’

‘It’s not my fault that you weren’t paying attention.’

‘You…!’

Harry let their conversation wash over him, taking the picture frame from Hermione. His hand tightly held it, his heart pounding in his chest. Something throbbed in his head, and it almost felt like he could hear a lullaby in the distance.

It really was him. Perhaps a little older, a little faded into sepia tones due to the age of the photograph, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

‘Do you think…’ Hermione hesitated, tentative, ‘...it’s your dad?’

When Harry didn’t respond she dropped the matter entirely, placing the pictureframe back on the mantle, her sensitivity to his parents—or rather lack of parents—conveniently coming into play. Convenient because Harry somehow knew, with absolute certainty, that it wasn’t his dad in that picture, but he didn’t quite know what to do with that knowledge. Didn’t want to, really.

1

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’

‘Of course it is,’ said Fred.

‘When have we ever steered you wrong?’ said George, giving him a wide smirk.

Harry took in a deep breath, and then began, ‘Well, there was that one time with the frog in the punch bowl—the very pregnant frog, mind—and the other time where you poisoned the drinking fountains, and then that one time you stole Professor Mcgonagall's knickers and wore them as a bandana to her class—’ A hand slapped over his mouth.

‘I thought we agreed that never happened. And it wasn’t poison, it was just a little bit of…’

‘Pure citric acid?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And what about that time you gave our entire class viagra?’ Harry deadpanned.

‘Some people were happy about it. Why, I imagine Professor Snape—’

‘George,’ interrupted Harry, scandalised.

‘You called?’ said Fred.

‘I meant the better George.’

‘Hah!’ crowed George.

‘Hey!’

‘Anyway, I’m just saying, he was a lot nicer the following week, and I bet two chocolate frogs that I know exactly why.’ Fred and George gave a wiggle of their eyebrows before they fell into snickers, patting each other on the backs for what they no doubt considered a job very well done. ‘But back to the matter at hand.’ His face turned serious, or as serious as a twenty-something year old with a penchant for flirting with the prospect of imprisonment could be. Harry seriously wondered about the sanity of the adults who put the twins in charge of this trip. Just because they were older didn’t mean that they were responsible.

‘We are going to give Draky-poo a haircut.’

Case in point.

‘And not just any haircut. A Mohawk. Maybe add a streak of orange to the mix? I think I still have some dye in my bag.’

‘And how exactly are we going to manage that?’

Twin pairs of brown eyes stared him down. ‘You’re going to sneak into his room, of course,’ they said in unison.

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. No offence—’

‘-Much offence,’ scoffed Harry.

‘-but you’re short and skinny enough that it’ll be a lot easier for you to sneak in.’

And that was how Harry found himself descending into the dungeons, a pair of scissors in his back pocket and a bottle of orange dye tucked into the waistband of his jeans (he dearly hoped that his infamous luck wouldn’t kick in, the bottle deciding that it was a good time to leak). He slowly cracked the door open until there was enough room for him to slip inside the Slytherin Dungeon. The common room was large and filled with fancy carved wood and silver embellishments. Harry couldn’t help but notice that the place was a lot cleaner than the Gryffindor Tower. He wondered if they cleaned it (not likely) or if servants had (more likely). Though he had yet to run into any staff members yet…

He walked further inside, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he could see murky water outside the windows—what if the glass broke?—and made his way to the dorms. Luckily their names were on the doors, so it took no time for Harry to find where Draco was.

He opened the door. The room was very dark. He made his way to the bed, where Draco was hopefully sleeping (it was 3am, so the chances were high). But then suddenly he let out a yelp, slipping. He crashed to the ground, letting out a hiss as he fell onto his side. Something wet and sticky coated his jeans, the cold, tacky feeling spreading through his exposed ankles. He laid there perfectly still. Hopefully no one else was awake to hear that, or was awoken because of that. When there was no stomping of feet or shouting voices, Harry sat up.

He pulled out his torch from his pocket. He rubbed his thumb over the exposed battery, the only way he could get it to reliably turn on, and with a click the room flickered to life.

Harry wished he hadn’t done that.

Blood coated the floor, coated Harry, and spread its way onto the wall and the bed in front of him.

His breath caught, and he sat there dumbly. ‘D-Draco?’ he whispered. With a shaky hand he pushed himself up to stand. The shining light turned, illuminating the bed. And what little was left of Draco.

Harry sharply inhaled. But before he could scream, or call for help, or do much of anything, there was a shuffling behind him, and then everything went black.

?

A distant scream. An owl aggressively hooting into the night. His stomach rumbling in hunger.

Againagainagain—

He tossed down the bundle of firewood in his arms, a wordless declaration of his fury at the world.

How many times has it been now, these resets? He was almost afraid to keep count. If he told himself that it had only been a couple times, then maybe he would believe it. Maybe it would all feel like a terrible dream, and not this twisted reality that seemed to eat away at him and grow from beneath his skin.

He stared down at his arm—the right arm, always the right arm—watching dispassionately as a mosquito landed, easily biting into skin. He didn’t slap it away this time. He would be benevolent. Or perhaps indifferent with the perks of benevolence. Either way, the insect would be getting a good meal today.

He plopped down onto the forest floor, uncaring at the sticks and rocks that pressed against him. If he squinted just right he could almost see the distant glow of the firelight from the campfire; could fool himself that the shifting shadows were that of his friends and not-friends alike. This summer trip was a terrible mistake.

He stayed sitting like that until he could hear those heavy footsteps and the drag of the axe, leaves crunching underfoot.

He looked up, craning his neck, meeting the eyes of the killer—his killer, always his killer. He let out a deep breath. ‘Well, go on then. Get on with it.’ He didn’t feel like resisting this run. Didn’t feel like doing much of anything for a couple lifetimes, as short as they were nowadays.

Instead of the expected swing of the axe, however, something was different.

‘Peculiar.’

It took a few moments for Harry to realise that the killer had spoken. It had happened before, but it was so far and few in between that sometimes he forgot that the killer could speak.

The killer crouched down, still taller than Harry despite that. ‘You’re almost…familiar.’

‘Familiar?’ Harry echoed. But before he could think about it anymore, the killer finally did what he expected, what felt like was scripted, and swung the axe down.

2

Harry blinked, finding himself all alone in the forest, a bundle of firewood in his arms. What a strange dream he had. Or perhaps it was a hallucination, considering that the image of Draco’s mutilated body still lingered and he had not awoken in his bed but standing upright under the chilly night. He looked down, checking his clothes.

Dry. Completely dry.

He squeezed his eyes tight for a moment, before heading back to the campfire. The Forbidden Forest, despite its name, was not actually forbidden—at least not with the twins as their chaperones.

‘I found some more firewood,’ he said, dropping the sticks and wood into a pile by the log benches. He sat down next to Ron.

‘Took you long enough,’ said Draco, and Harry turned his head.

Normally this was where he would give some sort of snarky rebuttal, but all he could do was stare unblinkingly at him.

‘What are you staring at?’

‘...Nothing,’ Harry finally said. ‘Just thought I saw a ghost.’ He then turned to engage in conversation with Ron and Hermione.

‘A ghost, really Potter?’

‘It’s not that surprising, considering your pasty face, Malfoy.’

‘Did someone say ghost?’ said Fred, stepping into the campsite with a pack of beer in either hand and a large bag slung over his shoulder. One might wonder what could possibly be inside, to make the bag bulge out in such an overstuffed way. But considering it was Fred, the answer was probably not something one wanted to know. There was a very real possibility of being traumatised.

‘Dear brother I believe someone did,’ said George, also carrying two packs of beer. Harry squinted at the unnaturally coloured liquid—a blue beer, really?—and began to internally bet on what strange concoction the twins cooked up.

‘What a wonderful idea.’

‘I think—’

‘-it’s time—’

‘For ghost stories, don’t you think?’

‘Wouldn’t be camping without them,’ said George.

‘I think we should start off with a massacre, that always makes things lively, right?’

‘In fact, it happened at this very castle, believe it or not.’

‘A real tragedy.’

‘And it started with the murder of an esteemed professor called Dumbledore—

‘Who the hell names their kid Dumbledore?’ said someone.

‘It’s his last name, stupid.’

‘What’s stupid is that name.’

?

Nothing he did changed anything. By the end of the night someone was already murdered, and no matter how many times Harry died everything would reset and he’d find himself back to the beginning, bundle of firewood in his arms.

The question of the meaning of existence—as well as the meaninglessness—was a profound one that philosophers could spend hours debating over. Once, Harry thought that life was a wonderful awful thing that was worth it despite all the misfortune he’s experienced, because he had friends and family and a purpose, even if it was nothing grand. Now he just wonders what the point of any of this was. He longs not for the gilded gates of heaven or the continuing cycle of another self, but for the bleak nothingness of oblivion. Anything so he didn’t have to feel anymore, because there were only so many times he could watch his friends—and even people he disliked—die before he became numb to it all.

It was scary, to see how quickly affection and love seemed to wane. What used to be agony stabbing through his chest, making it hard to breathe, had merely turned into a brief shock. What used to be easy camaraderie and pleasant company turned into a desire to avoid people altogether. He couldn’t help how he felt, but a part of him, the part of him from the first life that still lingered, felt revulsion towards the monster he was becoming.

So the next time he woke up standing in the Forbidden Forest, watching things play out like a bored audience member, he resolved to not die by the killer’s hands.

Suicide was something he had never contemplated outside of the occasional intrusive thoughts that would worm its way into his mind during the worst of his time with the Dursleys. The thought of never having to go back to that awful house had been a wonderful fantasy, but it was never something he seriously considered. A part of him wished that he had considered it a little more, so that he would be more prepared now instead of scrambling for how to best die.

When it came to delicate matters like this, Hermione was the obvious choice. It wasn’t like she would remember his highly concerning line of questions when he died and the world reset. When in doubt, and lacking any internet service whatsoever, ask Hermione.

‘What’s the quickest way to die?’ said Harry.

Hermione squinted at him, a funny look in her eyes, as if she could already pick up on the fact that this was not just a random, morbid question. But she answered him anyway, saying, ‘Probably a snapped neck or being caught right at an explosion point.’

‘Huh, interesting.’ Trying to snap his neck cleanly (or sever it completely, like in the case of the killer) didn’t seem very feasible, but causing an explosion in the boiler room might be possible. He just hoped that it would kill him instantly.

Hermione continued to stare at him suspiciously, and Harry looked away in guilt.

7

On the seventh turn, when Harry came to terms with the situation he was in, he tried to warn everyone about the killer. It didn’t go well at all, and while Ron and Hermione eventually believed in the desperation in his voice, they still held doubts.

That turn, they all died much quicker.

That turn, he was left to watch everyone perish before him.

13

‘The killer was a young man, probably around our age,’ George had said, leaning forwards towards the fire.

Harry paused, pressing his foot against the floor board harder. It squeaked under the pressure, even bending every so slightly.

‘No one really knows why he snapped, though some say that it was because his guardian disappeared one day. Officially, he was declared missing, but there was a lot of speculation that he was murdered. Though I guess we’ll never know, now. You know how cold cases are, and this happened decades ago.’

He crouched down, noting how one of the floor boards seemed looser. His nails dug into the grooves, but it didn’t budge. He stood back up, rummaging through the drawers of the bedroom. The nightstand had a small hammer inside. He bounced its weight in his hand. He supposed it would have to do.

And then, back at the loose floorboard, he swung down. On the first hit the wood had little reaction, the hammer bouncing back up and sending a shock into his wrist, but on the second it began to chip. He continued to swing down, over and over, until finally the wood splintered and revealed the cavity below. He curled his fingers around the opening, uncaring about how the splintered wood dug into his skin, and pried the floorboard off.

Inside the cavity was a small box, the wood old and slightly moulding. He picked it up and popped open the top. There were photographs, a lock of hair, and a broken pair of glasses inside. He dumped the contents onto the floor, spreading out the photos. They were in surprisingly decent condition, most likely due to being kept in the dark, hidden from the sun’s deteriorating rays.

Every single one contained the same person. Sometimes he was younger, a teen at the cusp of adulthood, while other times he was older than Harry. He had dark hair and dark eyes and skin so pale it felt unnatural, and he was quite tall as a man. Familiarly tall.

He rubbed his forehead, feeling the beginnings of a migraine coming on. Normally he didn’t get them too frequently, but ever since he came to this castle—ever since the resets began—they had been insistent and were only getting worse. The throbbing was so bad that it felt like there was a bell ringing in his head. It almost felt like the ringing could be words, or rather a single word, but it hurt so much that he could barely distinguish it.

There was something (a name) on the tip of his tongue, but then the migraine stopped and it was lost to him.

27

The loops continued on. This was no dream or nightmare or blissful hallucination, but eternal damnation. He wondered what he had done to deserve this.

39

He peeled back the plastic of his ready meal, scooping up a piece of roasted pumpkin into his mouth. There was probably something to be said about eating mass produced, frozen food in a plastic container in the middle of an ancient castle, but like most teenagers he was too hungry to care. Besides, the pumpkin, while a little bland, wasn’t too bad. Though one might think that it was cow dung if Daphne Greengrass’ face had anything to say.

If Harry learnt anything from looping, it was that time was a lot mushier than he expected. They didn’t always have the roasted pumpkin and spicy sausage on the second Tuesday of the trip. Sometimes they had it the Sunday of the first week, or the third Friday of the second month. In other words, small little details changed around for no apparent reason aside from being the lucky—or perhaps unlucky—winner in a game of chance.

‘Who’re you?’ said someone.

Harry took a bite of the sausage. He chewed slowly, a piece of fennel seed getting stuck in between his teeth.

‘Did the twins put you up to this?’

He swallowed, then took a swig of his pineapple juice.

There was a scream, a clattering of chairs, a flurry of commotion.

‘Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.’

‘Did he just—’

‘Is he really dead?’

Finally Harry looked up, watching as the killer leisurely walked into the dining hall. Someone’s crumpled form lay at the double doors, though he couldn’t tell who it was. He continued to eat his food, watching as the killer prowled about, striking down anyone who was unfortunate enough to be in his way. Harry stabbed into an errant string bean, which was not technically supposed to be a part of the roasted pumpkin and spicy sausage ready meal but the steak and potato and string bean one.

‘Take this!’ yelled out one of the students, something small in her hands. She stabbed it towards the killer, connecting it with his side.

With a loud zapping sound, the killer let out a groan, falling to one knee. The axe clanged to the floor, though the killer notably did not let go of the handle.

The string bean dropped from his fork.

Everyone stared, dumbfounded.

‘Where the hell did you get a bloody taser?’

‘That’s illegal, right? I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.’

‘What? My dad’s on the police force.’

‘So he gave you a taser?’

‘Well, maybe not explicitly…’

‘This is so not the time for questions.’

And then the students were running, scrambling out of the dining hall and into the labyrinth of Hogwart’s halls.

‘What are you doing, Harry?’ said Hermione.

Ron grabbed his arm roughly, pulling him up. Harry kept a firm grip on his fork and plastic container, scraping off the last of the pumpkin and shoving it into his mouth as the killer turned his attention to them, the only ones who had not fled.

‘If there weren’t other pressing matters I would hit you,’ seethed Ron, and then he was being dragged out the doors (he morbidly noted that poor Cedric was the unlucky student struck down at the doors) forced to contend with Ron’s long legs. Once they had run a significant distance, they stopped to catch their breaths.

‘Are you mad? What were you thinking?’

‘Sorry, the pumpkin and sausage was just that good.’

‘You—!’

‘Calm down, Hermione. We can do this later, when there isn’t a maniac on the loose.’

She took a couple deep breaths, loosening her shoulders. ‘Fine. Fine, you’re right. What do we do?’

‘Split up and look for help?’ suggested Harry, despite knowing full well that they would find no one and nothing, the castle completely abandoned.

‘You want us to split up? No, absolutely not. There’s safety in numbers.’

‘Yeah, but time is not on our side, and we’ll find a landline or a groundkeeper faster if all three of us don’t look in the same spots.’

‘But—’

‘I hate to say it but Harry is right,’ said Ron, putting a comforting arm across her shoulder. He gave a quick peck to her cheek.

She crossed her arms. ‘I…I know. You’re right. It’s just…’

‘Terrifying?’ said Ron, rubbing up and down her arm.

‘Yeah.’

Harry let them have their moment before saying, ‘I’ll start at the west wing, you guys head to the library and the boathouse?’

‘Sound good to me.’

‘No dying on us before I can chew you out. And no more acting stupid, you hear?’

‘Just…be safe, okay? That’s all I ask.’

‘Always,’ lied Harry through his teeth. He watched as they walked farther down the hall, splitting up at the junction.

And then he turned around and headed to the dungeons.

The path was full of blood and bodies. It was clear that the killer had been there recently. It wasn’t long before he reached the Slytherin Common Room entrance. Just before he pushed open the door, he lurched to the side, instinct taking over, just barely avoiding decapitation.

His left leg wasn’t nearly as lucky.

He bit back a scream. ‘Fuck.’ He looked down at the gruesome sight, the white of bone peeking out from bloody flesh. He hobbled as fast as he could down the hallway, slipping into one of the rooms. He slammed the door shut, locking it, before sliding down onto the floor. He knocked his head back against the door, trying to keep his breathing steady. He was beyond the point of pain. It wouldn’t be long before he bled out, though the killer would find him before then, considering the bloody trail he left behind.

He looked around. The room was as dusty as Gryffindor Tower had been, full of empty beakers and strange objects. He even spied what looked to be a cauldron tucked away in the corner. He wondered what Hogwarts was like before in its glory. Wondered if anyone got stuck in a loop like him, during that massacre all those years ago.

Wood splintered, the gleam of the axe piercing through the door. A hand pried off stray pieces, reaching inside to unlock the door.

Click.

?

He had thought that he could no longer dream. Rare was it that he felt comfortable enough to sleep, choosing to push his body until exhaustion caught up with him. Typically, every time he lost consciousness signified his own death, so it was a surprise for those photographs he found under the floorboards to haunt him in the black void, the images flashing by in his mind. They spun around in his head, flickering, until it felt like he was not dreaming of the photographs but dreaming of snapshots in his own memories.

And then, astonishingly, he woke up. Not in that awful clearing with the firewood and mosquito and chilly air, but on the couch where he had succumbed to sleep, his eyelids fighting against him. He had given in eventually, wishing for the exhaustion of his body to go away even if there was no hope for the exhaustion of his mind, fully expecting to be murdered in his sleep like the last dozen or so times. Instead, he was perfectly unscathed, and there was even a warm blanket thrown over him (he hadn’t thought that anyone else was still alive to show such care).

He sat up, staring at the floor blankly, unsure about what to do. For a brief moment he dared to hope that the cycle had been broken; that sleeping away the night out in the open and not dying meant something. But then rationality came back to him, and he quashed that faint burning ember. Besides, this was not the life he wanted to stick. All his friends were dead, after all.

He went to glance back up at his surroundings, only to freeze.

There was a footprint on the ground, large and distinctly from a combat boot.

None of the other campers wore a shoe like that.

So he was right. Things were different. The only question was if it was a good kind of different, or if these changes signified an even worse spiral.

Regardless of the answer, however, Harry knew what he had to do. He had to find out who the mysterious (familiar) person in the photographs was.

?

Time was unravelling. With each clue he discovered it was as if the world was righting itself. It was only by a handful of minutes, but he noticed that the resets were going forwards. And what was a mere minute became significant with how many times he looped back, so much so that he found himself coming back to consciousness not deep in the woods but at the outskirts of the campfire, the warmth of the fire abating the chill.

And then what used to be indifference bled into concern. Because where before every death reverted with each reset, there was the very real possibility of looping so many times that someone’s death would become fixed. The consequences of his actions were catching up with him, and it was terrifying (he finally felt alive again).

He had to find more clues, and fast. He had to make every life count.

?

He found some answers in the old newspapers tucked away in one of the castle rooms. One of them spoke of the castle changing hands, the young son of the former owners inheriting it after his parents’ unfortunate accident. The picture on the headline was of Harry’s lookalike, who was disturbingly also named Harry (he tried to convince himself that it was a perfectly common name back then), though at least the last name was Potter and not his own surname, Evans. But he was more concerned with the young man standing beside him. There was only one sentence that mentioned that the new castle owner had a ward, playing up his goodness, but the information it offered was immense.

He moved on to the next newspapers, and soon came to the conclusion that not much happened in this sleepy town in the Scottish highlands. But then, in the last newspaper, one headline caught his attention: HOGWARTS TO CLOSE DOWN.

In light of Harry Potter’s mysterious disappearance, the town’s historic castle is set to shutdown in the next month, citing an inability to continue operation due to a lack of funds. Harry’s former ward, Tom Riddle, has refused to give a statement on the matter, but one of the former employees claimed that Harry had been acting strangely before vanishing.

Tom Riddle.

Harry had him. He looked at the familiar figure, the man older than the photographs Harry had seen of him before, and so very familiar.

There was an intimacy to being constantly hunted and killed. Harry did not always go down without a fight, refusing to not at least cause some damage to the killer. Even if it wouldn’t stick, it satisfied the vengeance in his heart to some degree. And because of this, he was very familiar with the killer’s build, and what features he could discern.

There was no doubt that Harry Potter’s ward was the killer. He didn’t quite know how he was so agile and fit considering his age—if he did the maths right Tom would be in his seventies by now—but there was no doubt that the killer was him.

Now what to do with the information.

?

Blood slicked his skin as he lay in a pool of it in the Slytherin dorm.

He knew that this moment would eventually happen, but the knowledge burned at him.

Time had reset. And Draco was already dead. Just like what had happened in the first timeline, which felt so far away that he could hardly keep all the details straight. But what he could remember was that this was where he would die for the first time.

A shuffle of movement.

If he reset once more, would he stay dead for good?

(The answer was no. He will still wake up in Draco’s room, this time also covered in his own blood, his neck throbbing from a phantom wound).

The raising of an axe.

He shut his eyes.

A beat.

There was no swing.

He waited a few more moments, before taking a peak.

The killer was still there, but the axe was lowered. He had a hand on his head, as if in pain. ‘Again…again?’ he murmured, so low and muffled that it seemed unintentional. But then he eventually came back to his senses, or perhaps more accurately fell back under this terrible nightmare, fingers tightening around the axe handle.

?

He was on the pier once more. His heart pounded in his chest, and fear slid its way in between his ribs. He had looked everywhere. Torn the entire campsite apart, sometimes literally, but ever since those old newspapers there had only been dead ends.

Or rather, he had looked nearly everywhere.

He looked down into the waters below. He had never felt so fearful at the prospect of going into water, despite his inability to swim well. He should’ve been even less wary, considering he couldn’t truly die. But the thought of going into the lake filled him with dread. And yet that was what he must do.

He jumped into the lake, the cold water wrapping around him suffocatingly. He tried to breathe in and out evenly—and failed—steeling himself before plunging below. He forced his eyes open, looking around. Nothing. He broke the surface, taking in shaky breaths, before slowly swimming further out. He dove down. Again and again, searching.

He could feel his limbs becoming heavier, slower, like rusty machine parts. It wouldn’t be long before he drowned. He thought that he had got over the whole dying thing, but apparently not. He dove back down, for what he knew was the last time. He wouldn’t be able to return to the surface again. He let himself drift downwards, eyes closed, trying to convince himself that this was just a dream.

He landed onto the sandy floor. His lungs burned, and he could feel his diaphragm contracting, but he didn’t let himself breathe in the water. Not yet. Something brushed against his skin, hard and smooth. Harry frowned, opening his eyes and turning to look. And then he opened his mouth in surprise.

Water rushed in, leaving a burning trail through his throat and lungs. It wasn’t long before he succumbed, the sight of a skull lingering in his mind.

And then he gasped, sitting on a couch in the common room, Fred and George telling another one of their ghost stories (this time about the panty thief of Gryffindor).

‘You alright, mate?’ whispered Ron, leaning in.

‘Y-yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.’ He pretended to pay attention to the story, which had lost all interest after the third time he heard it. All he could think about was to take the first chance he could get and run back to the lake.

2

‘...it was then that the authorities started to find the bodies. The killer didn’t really care about hiding them—it seemed to be a crime of passion or madness—so some bodies were even strewn about the hallways,’ continued George. ‘But most of them had been tossed into the Great Lake, supposedly.’

‘Hogwarts was closed off completely for a few decades after that.’

‘How’d it re-open?’

‘I…I’m not actually sure.’

?

He jumped into the lake, swimming towards the centre, trying to remember where he died. He grit his teeth, pure determination fuelling him as he pushed himself to go faster. He submerged himself, letting himself drop like a stone, until he reached the floor once more. He looked around wildly, slowly walking around, until he finally saw that skull once more.

It wasn’t the only one.

The weather was sunny and cloudless, so the water was nearly crystal clear. So it made the many bones and skulls littering the lake floor very obvious. His head throbbed, and for a brief moment he was not looking at bones but bloated, rotted bodies floating in the water, scraps of soft flesh peeling off.

Harry breached the surface, letting out a choking gag.

‘...most of them had been tossed into the Great Lake…’ echoed Fred’s words.

He only gave himself a brief moment of weakness, before diving back down. He couldn’t afford to waste time freaking out. The lake floor was back to normal, in the sense that it was only bones, the brief hallucination gone. He scoured the bones, until he came across one skull in particular.

He swam towards it. It looked like a normal human skull, save for a strange lightning bolt crack that went down its forehead and into the eye socket. His head hurt, and he could hear a ringing in his ears. He reached down, picking it up. There was a splitting pain in his head, blood muddying the water.

And then he remembered.

0

The funeral was a solemn affair. Closed casket, because Harry couldn’t bear to see their still, unbreathing forms.

A hand heavy on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, my boy.’

Harry didn’t respond.

It was this moment—his parent’s deaths—that catapulted him into an impulsive decision.

And that was how he found himself in Wool’s orphanage, telling the Matron to show him to the oldest child there.

Harry crouched down, so that he was eye level with the sitting boy—young man, really—in front of him. ‘I’m going to take you away from here, okay? Far, far away from this nasty place.’

The young man stared blankly at him. Blank in a way that he could recognise as guardedness.

‘What’s your name?’ he said, even though he knew the answer. ‘I’m Harry. Harry Potter, though please just call me Harry. I won’t have any of that “Sir” or “Mr Potter” nonsense.’

No response.

‘The quiet type, huh? Well that’s fine too, I’ll certainly make up for the both of us.’

A slight twitch of annoyance.

Harry held back a smirk.

‘From now on I’m your…’ he hesitated, unable to bring himself to say father. They were only five years apart, it would feel too weird to have a sixteen year old call him such. ‘...Guardian.’

‘Why me?’ he finally said.

Because even though he had two years until he aged out, Harry wanted to let him experience family. Because the world was a cruel place, and he would have nowhere to go when he was kicked out onto the streets. (Because, selfishly, Harry wanted to fill the fresh hole in his heart with purpose).

‘There was just something about you.’

‘And why should I go with you? I can refuse.’

‘Well, you’ll get to live in a castle for one.’

‘...A castle?’ Despite the caution he couldn’t quite hide the excitement in his eyes.

0

‘There is something wrong with that boy, Harry,’ warned Dumbledore. ‘Something twisted beyond repair.’

Harry gave a scoff. ‘Are you sure that you’re not projecting your past mistakes onto him?’ he said, going for the jugular. Just because he was Harry’s former mentor, someone he still loved despite his flaws, didn’t mean he would stand idle when he went too far.

‘Killing animals is no small matter, and now there are the disappearances...’

‘You can’t seriously be holding that against him still. He was a child, a deeply traumatised child, lashing out to the world. Just because it happened once doesn’t mean he would do it again, nevermind to another person. As for the disappearances, there isn’t any proof.’

Dumbledore's shoulders slumped. ‘I see that nothing I say will convince you. You’re truly blind when it comes to him.’

‘Am I the blind one, or is it you?’ Harry couldn’t help but retort. Because perhaps there was something wrong with Tom, wrong with Harry too, but it wasn’t at all what Dumbledore was implying. It might have been less damning if what Dumbledore actually thought was the truth, rather than the twisted relationship brewing between them.

(If someone was really to blame, it was Harry, for folding to Tom’s advances).

0

They collided together in the end, like two opposing magnets, because Harry was weak, and Tom far too charming for his own good. He tried to comfort himself that he hadn’t truly raised Tom, and that he was no longer technically his guardian now that he was older, but the wrongness still lingered.

It still didn’t stop them.

0

‘Where are you going?’ murmured Tom, arm tightening around his waist, preventing Harry from slipping out of bed.

‘I can’t very well sleep the day away, even if it’s the weekend. Besides, I have a meeting with Dumbledore later.’

His fingers dug into his side, not enough to be painful but enough to warn. ‘I don’t see why you can’t cancel it,’ he grumbled. No matter how many years passed Dumbledore and Tom never quite saw eye to eye, even if they had mellowed out after Harry’s insistence. ‘Especially since you’re sick.’

‘It’s just the beginning of a little cold, nothing to worry about.’ Harry swatted his arm. ‘Now let me go and get dressed.’

Tom gave a sigh, loosening his grip. ‘Very well. But I expect you to be back for dinner.’

‘Yes, father.’

He raised a brow. ‘Shouldn't I be the one calling you that?’

‘Did you just…’

‘What’s wrong, father? Embarrassed?’

Harry grabbed the pillow and tried to smother him with it.

0

‘This couldn’t wait…why?’ grumbled Harry, sitting in the dingy boat as Dumbledore rowed. A light pattering of rain had begun, already soaking into his clothes. Tom would definitely have a fit if he knew what Harry was up to while (mildly) sick.

‘There’s something I must show you, my boy.’

He gave a light cough. ‘Again, why couldn’t we have waited? At least until the storm blows over.’ He looked warily at the sky, which had rapidly turned into a dark grey. When Dumbledore had told him to follow him, this wasn’t exactly what Harry had in mind. Somewhere like the tea shop in Diagon Alley, or the pub in Hogsmeade, yes, but not a little excursion on the Great Lake, in the rain at that. If he didn’t know any better he would’ve thought this was an elaborate ploy to kill him (if Dumbledore were to kill him, he certainly wouldn’t get his own hands dirty).

‘A storm is actually the best time to see it, I’m afraid.’

‘If you say so…’

They gently reached the shore.

‘This way, now.’

They made their way up the hill. Despite all of the wandering he did, Harry had never been here before. It didn’t look like much: sparse trees, no buildings, and a few large boulders. But as they reached the top he saw it. He couldn’t honestly tell what it was. It was a large tear in the air, like a lightning strike perfectly frozen at the moment of impact, ripping through reality itself. If he squinted he could see the trees and rocks and hills warping inside it, a kaleidoscope of colours dragging at the edges. It hurt to look at it. 

They approached the tear, the very air charged with a strange energy. Harry couldn’t look away despite the burning in his eyes. Just as he reached out, fingers brushing the corner of the tear—it felt like electricity and ice and caused his gut to swoop—there was a wheezing sound.

‘Wait, my boy!’ said Dumbledore, the words horse and choked, and then there was a thump.

Harry turned around to find Dumbledore slumped over. He froze, becoming alarmingly aware that they were on the other side of the Great Lake, all alone. Harry had told no one else where they were going, because it hadn’t even crossed his mind. And now his former mentor was having some sort of medical emergency and he was most definitely not medically certified.

‘Dumbledore?’ He reached down, shaking his shoulder. There was no movement. ‘Fuck.’ He grabbed his arm, trying to pull him, but for such an old man he was surprisingly heavy. ‘Fuck.’ He looked around, before standing back up, letting Dumbledore’s arm drop down limply. ‘I-I’m going…’ he let out a harsh cough, ‘...to get help, okay? Don’t die on me in the meantime or I’ll be terribly cross.’

He rushed to the shore and jumped into the boat. It wobbled precariously, and his legs felt particularly weak. He grabbed the oar, and began to hurriedly row. The storm had well and truly rolled in, wind fierce and the rain making it nearly impossible to see. He continued on, despite the strain in his arms and the numbness consuming him. The tips of his fingers still felt strange, unnatural, like they were no longer a part of him, and the sensation was quickly spreading.

It would be suicide to try and get back to Hogwarts, but he could see the Hogsmeade docks in the distance. If he could just get there…

He let out a series of harsh coughs, feeling suddenly dizzy, and the oar slipped from his hands. ‘No!’ He darted to the side of the boat, trying to grab the oar before it floated away or sunk to the bottom, coughing the entire time. Dark spots filled his vision as the boat rocked, a strange piercing sound in his ears. And then he jolted back to consciousness, cold water surrounding him.

He had fallen in.

He didn’t know how to swim.

He flailed, trying to keep himself afloat, desperately watching as the boat rocked away from him. Something seemed to snag at his legs.

It was inevitable that he finally lost strength.

?

The next time he saw the killer, saw Tom, Harry did not run. He let him walk towards him with that axe, trying to hold back tears. A trickle of blood dripped down into his eye, a lightning bolt scar having etched itself into his forehead, like what he had seen on the skull—hisskullhisskullitwashim.

When Tom was an arm's length away he stopped, clearly intrigued by Harry’s behaviour. And there was something else in his gaze. Something on the cusp of remembering but not quite. He didn’t remember each loop, not like Harry did, but he couldn’t help but think that he was affected in some way too. Call it a feeling.

Harry swallowed, and said, ‘Do you…do you remember who I am?’

The killer took half a step closer, hand tightening around the axe handle.

‘It must be strange to see me like this, so young.’

Another step.

‘You never used to have red eyes, Tom.’

The killer halted. ‘How do you know that name,’ he said in a raspy voice.

‘Because,’ he swallowed, the words coming out choked, ‘I’m going to take you away from here, okay? Far, far away from this nasty place.’

The tight grip on the axe loosened minutely.

‘I’m Harry. Harry Potter, though please, just call me Harry. I won’t have any of that “Sir” or “Mr Potter” nonsense.’

The axe fully dropped to the ground. ‘Harry?’

‘Yes, it’s me.’

And then there were arms wrapping around him so tight that he could hardly breathe, and Harry finally allowed himself to let out ugly sobs. Tom buried his face into his neck, the bone mask poking into his skin, entire body trembling.

Harry let out a shaky laugh, brushing his hand through Tom’s hair. ‘Look at you. You’ve grown up so well. I wish I could’ve seen it happen.’ He gave a tug on his ear. ‘You’re still so handsome despite being such an old man,’ he teased.

Harry winced. There was a piercing pain in his neck. Tom had bitten him. ‘Ouch, you cheeky brat.’

He raised his face. ‘How could you leave me like that.’

‘I’m sorry.’ he gave a kiss to the top of his head, removing the bone mask so that he could finally see his face after so long. He gave another kiss on his forehead, and then his nose, until he finally reached his lips. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again,’ he promised, giving another slow, tender kiss.

And he meant it. He would do everything in his power to make sure he could keep it.

There were still so many questions unanswered. Of the loops, of Tom’s nature, of Harry’s continued existence—though he had his suspicions. All the deaths that happened could not be undone. All the lives he experienced could not be forgotten, having made permanent residence in his memories, sure to haunt him for the days to come.

A part of him wanted to rage at Tom. To scream at him and ask why he had done all of this senseless murder. To ask if it was all worth it ( he wouldn’t ask this question in particular, because Harry already knew the answer, and it would only make him angrier to hear it). But a bigger part of him was, quite simply, tired. He had given his friends a thousand lifetimes, but he hadn’t even been able to give Tom more than a handful of years. The choice in the end, while painful, was obvious.

(And it would save everyone, wouldn't it?).

He looked up at the sky, taking in a deep breath. He could smell the metallic tang of ozone. ‘Looks like a storm is coming in.’ He looked back at Tom, staring into his eyes. He wasn’t sure if this was the right answer. Wasn’t sure if it would fix things or make it worse. But it was the best answer he had, and all that really mattered was that Tom was with him. That they would be in this together.

‘There’s somewhere I want you to take me.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere across the Great Lake.’