Summary: After a long life, Harry Potter returns to his personal crossroad between life and death, King's Cross Station, and to what's waiting for him there.
I wrote it therefore it must be SLASH (male/male) – HP/LV
Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me. They are the property of J.K. Rowling and lots of other rich people.
Author Note: I don't have a beta reader or Brit picker, so you've been warned. Please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes that need to be fixed. =)
This is just a little something that came to mind. Hopefully it means my writer's block is finally cracking and I can start writing the long story rumbling around my head.
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy it and please review if you have time. I'll consider it a Christmas gift if you do. Happy Christmas, everyone. =)
King's Crossroad Station
King's Crossroad Station
The first time Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, arrived at the crossroad between life and death he was seventeen. One moment he'd been in that clearing in the Forbidden Forest and the next in a completely clean and white King's Cross Station. He knew that he had to do it to separate himself from the piece of Voldemort's soul that was attached to him and he hadn't hesitated in letting his parents' murderer murder him, too, so that he could be.
Dumbledore had been there at the station when he'd arrived. His former headmaster hadn't been there alone. Lying under a bench had been the piece of Voldemort's soul, shriveled and moaning in pain. It having been a piece of Voldemort's soul hadn't made him want to help it any less than if it had been a part of anyone else. Dumbledore said there was nothing he could do to help it and had ignored the soul fragment in favor of telling him things that he'd always wanted and needed to know. He listened closely to everything Dumbledore said before shifting back to the world of the living. And though he ignored it, for some reason when he did he didn't feel whole.
The second time Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Still-Lived, arrived at the crossroad between life and death he was thirty-seven and pissed off. Stupid damned rookies and their mistakes. He couldn't die. He had young children that still needed their father's guidance and protection. For once he was glad for the responsibility of being the keeper of all three of the Hallows. Since he'd taken the Killing Curse meant for someone else he was still the owner of all three and it meant that he was able to beat death and return to the world of the living and his children where he belonged.
It was as he was preparing to shut his eyes to return to life that he heard it. He remembered the sound of the moaning from the first time he was there, but this time it was much louder. Looking under the bench where Voldemort's soul fragment had been before, he blinked at there being three there now spread apart by several feet. Without Dumbledore there to tell him again that he couldn't help, he stopped resisting the urge to try. He walked over to the bench, knelt down beside it, and gently moved the three fragments closer together until there were curled together like triplet fetuses in a mother's womb. And while they still moaned, they were quieter doing it. Standing up and taking a few steps backwards, he took one last look at the fragments before closing his eyes. He had children in the living world that needed him, too. He wasn't as pissed off about dying again anymore either.
The third time he arrived at the King's Crossroad Station, Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Kept-Living, was seventy-five. He seriously considered not going back to the world of the living. Yes, he was still young by wizarding standards, but he'd lived long enough to experience all of life's pleasures and pains. He had many on both sides of the spectrum.
His pleasures for the most part revolved around his three grown children, all of them successful in their chosen careers, and his four grandchildren. The largest pain came when dealing with the mother of his children during birthday and holiday parties. Yes, it was his fault. He was the one who'd been unfaithful and ruined their marriage. He may have been the Savior of the Wizarding World, but he was still human. That he'd been caught with another man had made the bite of his infidelity that much worse. Ginny never forgave him and neither did the Weasleys. It took years to get his life back together again after the break up, but he'd done it and was content. There was really no reason for him to go back, especially when he'd be returning to the physical pain of Amaloria's Malady.
Contemplating returning to the world of the living, he turned towards the benches at the low, evil chuckle he knew anywhere even if he hadn't heard it in nearly fifty years. The bench and beneath it where the soul fragments had been the last time he was there was empty. It wasn't until he moved towards the benches that he saw him, the shriveled, naked, Inferi-looking body of Lord Voldemort behind another bench a good twelve feet from where he'd left the first three fragments curled together all those years ago.
"And… The-Boy… Who-Lived… is back… again," Voldemort rasped and wheezed.
"Finally pulled yourself together, I see," he replied looking at the emaciated face of his most hated enemy. Well, at least at one time Voldemort had been. Looking at the man now, he couldn't help but say what he was thinking. "You look like shit," he said gently.
"There is still… a piece… missing," Voldemort whispered closing his eyes.
"Where is it?" he asked.
"As if… I would… tell you," Voldemort replied.
"Who do you think put the first three pieces together?" he asked. Voldemort opened his eyes again and looked at him.
"Because no one deserves to sit here in limbo in pain forever, not even you," he replied. "Where is it?"
He could see how much strength it took from Voldemort to move his arm and lift one finger, pointing towards the opposite end of the platform. With a nod, he walked in that direction scanning the floor for the last fragment of Voldemort's soul. The closer he moved to the other end of the platform, the more the sound of soft moaning guided him than his eyesight did.
He found the final fragment trapped under another bench against the wall, the piece of soul pinned between the wall and the legs of a bench. It being obvious the portion hadn't ended up there naturally made him frown.
"Who did this?" he asked thinking up a blanket, gently freeing the fragment from it's confined space, laying it in the blanket, and carefully picking it up to carry it back to it's owner.
"Three… Aurors," Voldemort wheezed. "I had… nearly reached it… when they… arrived… and moved… it away."
"Arseholes," he snorted moving back towards Voldemort with the fragment. "Probably died because of Amaloria's Malady, saw you, and took it out on you when wasn't your fault even though the Ministry is claiming it was."
"The wiz… arding world… still fears… me?" Voldemort chuckled as he knelt down, unwrapped the fragment, and shifted Voldemort gently until he could place the fragment against the man's chest.
"As much as ever," he snorted. "Any new curse or sickness that sweeps through the wizarding world you get credit for creating even when you didn't. Amaloria's Malady is the latest. It's a contagion that is nothing more serious than the flu in most, but for those weakened by repeated spell damage it has more dire consequences. A lot of suspected dark wizards and Aurors are dying because of it."
"Which explains… you being… here," Voldemort chuckled again closing his eyes, his arm slowly curling around the fragment. The blanket still on the floor, he picked it up and covered Voldemort with it. "Though I suppose… you are… able to… return… yet again… others are… not so… fortunate."
"No reason for me to go back, though," he replied. "My children are grown, my grandchildren are healthy and happy, and I retired from the MLE at the start of the year. Nothing left for me there to go back to."
"Except… to save… others from… dying," Voldemort said. "My… journals… Have they… been lo… cated?"
"Not that I know of. Why?" he asked raising an eyebrow.
"Yes… they have… Ama… loria… is Yaxley's… daughter… What you.. call… Amaloria's… Malady… is my… affliction. I… created… it to… destroy… the Order… yet it… became… obvious… that it would… decimate… my ranks… as well… so it was… never used."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I… require… another act… of atonement… to complete… my restor… ation."
"You're still just doing it for your own benefit," he smirked. Voldemort did too and he sniggered shaking his head. "How do we cure it? I'm assuming that since you and the Death Eaters didn't die when you made it that you created a counter for it before the disease was even finished."
"Under the… floorboard… in my… room… at the… orphanage… my journals," Voldemort replied more and more quietly. He frowned in concern.
"Go, Harry… You do not… have much… time," Voldemort whispered and went slack in sleep. He adjusted to blanket over the man just staring at Voldemort before standing up and closing his eyes. He had a reason to return to the world of the living after all.
Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Was-Tired-Of-Living, smiled at the ripe of age of one hundred and eighty. A century had past since the last time he'd died. In that time, he'd accomplished so much due to Voldemort's journals. Amaloria's Malady was a long forgotten thing of the past, several other curses had been cured as well, and hundreds of spells had become public knowledge. He'd credited Voldemort for it all. While undoubtedly the darkest wizard to have ever walked the face of the planet, the man really had been brilliant.
Standing in front of a blank, thick wall in the Department of Mysteries, he smiled and waved his walking stick at it. His walking stick, with his old holly and phoenix tail feather wand and the Elder Wand safely and secretly tucked inside, glowed and the stone cracked and parted forming an archway inside. It was time for this, time for him to let go of the living realm for good. His children were old and he couldn't bear the thought of burying any of them. Yes, it was selfish to make sure he died before they did, but a parent should never outlive their children. He was going to make sure that he didn't either.
He'd spent the last week with his family, traveling from house to house each day. His days were filled with the love and laughter of his children, grandchildren, and great-grand children making sure they all knew how much he loved and cherished each one of them. None of his children questioned him doing it, but he could see in each of their eyes that they knew he was saying goodbye.
"You'd better be ready this time, Riddle," he sniggered looking at the slab inside the room where Voldemort's corpse still rested. For over a hundred and fifty years there'd only been one stone slab with one corpse in the room. As of today, there'd be two.
With another stone slab conjured into place beside Voldemort's, he levitated Voldemort's corpse, carefully spread his father's invisibility cloak over both slabs so they looked like one, and lowered Voldemort's body down back down onto it's final resting place. Without thinking twice about it, he stepped inside the room and sealed it shut behind him, ignoring the shouts of Unspeakables running towards the room begging him not to seal himself inside the death chamber. With another wave of his staff, he made sure the room would never be opened again.
The small amount of air in the room wouldn't last long. That was fine. He wouldn't need it for long anyway. Old age had caught up with him and it was only the Hallows that kept him from Death's hand anymore. Sitting down and turning so that he could lie on the slab beside Voldemort's body, he lifted Voldemort's right hand, pulled Marvolo's ring with the cracked Resurrection Stone from his pocket, and slid the ring onto Voldemort's hand. He'd barely lain down with his staff in one hand on his chest, his other over Voldemort's beside him, when Death lulled him into a peaceful, eternal sleep.
The last time he arrived at the King's Crossroad Station, Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived-No-More, was greeted to a blanket being placed over him a moment before gentle fingers carded through his hair.
"You made me wait for you for a century, Potter."
"Figured it would take you that long to finish putting yourself back together, accept why you ended up in my version of limbo instead of your own, and be ready to cross over with me," he smiled adjusting his head into the hand and opening his eyes. Seeing the face of a young Tom Riddle kneeling beside him, the age the man had been when he'd first split apart his soul, along with not feeling the heavy burden of old age in his bones and knowing he looked seventeen again, the age he'd been when he'd died for the first time, made him smile even more. "Did it work?"
"It worked," Voldemort whispered leaning down.
He lifted his torso and one hand. His hand landed on the side of Voldemort's neck at the same moment as their lips met. The kiss was deep and greedy, as if they were old lovers who hadn't seen one another in ages. Their tongues moved together until Voldemort pulled the blanket off of him, moved over him, and the man's clothes were gone with just a thought. Some things about the realm of death had their advantages.
In life, he'd let himself be killed by the man to be free of the part of Voldemort's soul that was attached to him. It was only once it was gone that he realized that without Voldemort's soul connected to his that he was empty. And though it took over a century and a half, Voldemort had finally realized that without him the man's soul would never feel complete either.
They stayed there on that platform for an infinite amount of time, his soulmate steadily thrusting inside of him while he touched and tasted in kind. They'd barely recovered from one orgasm before they started trying for another, this one with him in control. After all, Voldemort marked him as his equal in life, there was no reason why that wouldn't carry on into death.
And lying there wrapped around one another some time later, both of them completely spent, they ignored the open doors of the train car beckoning them to board for the journey to the realm of death beyond limbo. The train had waited for them this long, it could wait a while longer.