- I'm kind of looking for a beta, seeing as English is not my first language. Sorry for eventual mistakes.

Chapter I

The Abyss's eyes.

England, 2030.

Harry loved the scent of burnt wood. It reminded him of warm nights by the fire in the Gryffindors' common room. The smell of home, of belonging. The rich perfume invaded his nostrils and gave him the nostalgic shiver of someone coming home after a very long time. Happiness coiled for a few seconds in the pit of his stomach, as if he was a eleven years old boy again, so eager and so naive and so full of life.

But as soon as the man opened his eyes, the magic was gone. Instead of the warm nostalgia, there was now only grieving and resignation in his heart, for before him stood the ashes and fragmented ruins of Hogwarts. The lovely thoughts from before were now gone, as if an icy wind scattered his old self, his memories, his life. He gripped his middle from the sensation, suddenly feeling cold, and helpless.

« What a pathetic ending. » he thought aloud. No one was here to hear him, and the only response he got was the rustling of the autumn leaves of the Forbidden Forest. Everyone was gone, friends, foes. Nothing mattered. The whole world was empty, just like the battlefield before him. There was no one, there would never be anyone else. He was the Last Man on Earth, for he was the Master of Death that escaped the mortal fates.

—

To make the loneliness a little more bearable, he established his lodging in the old dorm of Gryffindor's tower. It was in a pitiful state really, but with a flick of the wand, he placed a ward against the elements, but also a relatively cozy tent to escape the Scottish weather. « Welcome home. » he muttered with a small, bitter smile. He could probably go to a nice tropical island in the middle of the Pacific to live the rest of his life, but it wouldn't really feel the same. Harry always wanted to die surrounded by his friends and family, but it seemed like their memories would suffice.

« Dying… What a pretty thought. ». If he found Voldemort's obsession with eternal life a tad ridiculous, it now seemed completely bonkers to want to stay alive forever. It was a curse, an unbearable curse, a cruel joke from Fate. He must have been an awful person in another life to live this nightmare now. When he thought about it, he found himself smiling a fond smile. Voldemort would have gone crazy too, living forever with no one to lick his boots.

When he found the shard of a mirror one morning during his daily stroll in the ruins, he took a long look at himself. Not a day older than 22. Not a wrinkle. Nothing. His face was full of the beauty of the youth. His hair were straight, but dishevelled as always. Not a speck of white could be seen. He no longer needed his glasses with the advancement of muggle medicine: he wore contact lenses — which he would have to abandon soon since everything was out of production anyway. His Avada Kedavra eyes which once shone with the sparkle of mischief were now a bit dulled, a somber green, like moss. His mother's eyes, maybe? Harry couldn't quite recall what she looked like. Her picture have burned a long time ago after all. She was a redhead, like Ginny had been (and it was a bit freaky, with a little retrospective, to have married a girl resembling his dead mother so much), and he always thought that if he grew a beard it would be partly reddish. But no such thing as a beard grew on himself. He just looked like he was out of school, petite with a toned body from years of training, completely unchanged by the years.

He was 50.

—

During daylight, he hunted for food. It was nothing too complicated, but it was strenuous enough that he didn't stay late at night. It was good, he thought, the nightmares didn't plague him when he was this tired. It lasted a certain time, months or something, before he couldn't bear the thought of killing another life. It reminded him too much that he was alone to walk the Earth. He expanded the small garden he had at the bottom of the Lion's tower. Hogwarts' soil was good, great even. No wonder Pomona Sprout cultivated with success such rare breeds of plants here. The weather however, was awful. An enchanted greenhouse like the old one would have been perfect to keep his fruits and vegetables safe, but the wizard had more urgent matters to address, such as the reconstruction of the Tower into something more familiar and hospitable.

He still grew a large array of comestibles, which were perfectly fine to eat, and some other things like Ghostly Manes (to brew calming droughts) or Heaven's fruits (to stay energised through the days). The patch of garden soon became a small field divided into different sections, blooming beautifully according to the seasons. It was maybe the activity that calmed him and eased him the most. Neville Longbottom would have been proud.

When he wasn't gardening, he was reading: having found the old library in the dungeons, mostly untouched, he occupied his mind with books, learning with a thirst he didn't know he had every information, every bit of magic he could find. For a brief period, he researched spell and hexes to put an end to his misery and finally kill himself. « So much for the Boy-Who-Lived ! ». But it proven to be quite useless, and frankly, it stung a bit to slice different parts of him, only for them to regrew anew the next morning.

Instead of indulging himself longer in his morbid dreams, he tried to become the best wizard ever born under the sun (it was an easy feat since he was now the only wizard). Having read a grand total of eight times the book in the Forbidden Section, he had after all a lot of time on his hands, he sometimes apparated to different parts of the World, looking for old books and new things to search and quench his newly found interest in becoming a living library. But he didn't stay for very long outside his Scottish haven, for it was unbearable even then to see the world completely empty.

He was 78.

—

He reconstructed almost everything in the Castle, from Hagrid's shack to the Headmaster's office, although it seemed quite empty without the moving portraits and of course the students. He was sure there were a few errors in his memories, but it comforted him to be in familiar waters. He didn't felt as much crazy when he was on Hogwarts's grounds. The magic of the place was lost since it was the powers of the four Founders combined that gave this place this eerie feel. Harry had constructed a shell, an empty shell from his long lost dreams. It was pretty sad, but in a way, not so much. For a moment, he put a spell in the halls in order to hear background noise, people talking. But after two hours, Harry went downright crazy, hurling and crying like a banshee. Such a bad idea. He never attempted that again.

He had a cooking period where he stress-baked, after a trip to New-York to retrieve some book about healing spells. The world was empty of life, but it wasn't devoid of the remnants of people. There were skeletons everywhere, wands… He would rather not think about it again.

Animals were soon attracted to the everlasting smell of food in the castle, and roamed the halls freely. It wasn't a rare sight for Harry to see deers in the middle of the Great Hall. He woke up everyday to the joyful chirps of birds, but he was careful not to let them in too much so as to not make the whole place an owlery. He had cats, once he had a dog but those were rare now since they couldn't really live without Man. His favorites familiars were snakes, they could, after all, understand each other with parseltongue. He had a few he favourited, letting them sleep with him sometimes. Even if they could talk, they rarely did. Snakes were creatures of few words. It suited Harry though, he longed human company and conversations. Snakes were nice enough, but asides from talking about their latest meal, they weren't all that interesting and lacked complex emotions.

Often his mind drifted to Voldemort. Harry thought he saw him in every scaly creature. Tom Riddle, whose mind Harry came to understand with all these years of solitude. It took Harry a long time to accept that Riddle and him were similar, were very similar. He would even go as far as to say that they were two sides of the same coin. He was the only person Harry couldn't forget, even if he wanted to. Hermione, Ron, even his once wife Ginny… He forgot their faces sometimes, how they behaved. He only remembered bits here and there, parodies of their personality. A bookworm, a klutz, a kind redhead. They became keywords and vague concepts. His children, James, Albus and Lily, had not yet suffered the same fate. But he couldn't help but feel that they were going to disappear from his mind soon, like the winds scattered the dust. He lost them so long ago after all.

Periodically, he kept journals and diaries with their description, names, tastes, activities, so he couldn't forget them. Then every few years, in a fit of rage because of all this injustice, he would burn it all. Then he would be plagued with remorse for weeks, and restart anew, each time forgetting more and more about them. But he couldn't forget Riddle. Oh no, he couldn't.

He never wrote anything about Riddle because he felt guilty. Guilty for forgetting those who loved him, but never forgetting the man who tried to take it all from him (even though he didn't really succeed). It was like a second, minor curse, besides this eternality thing.

Since he was the only one whose shape and mind he could distinct so well in his tortured memories, he was some kind of sick lifeline, a link to the Lost World in his forsaken Eden. It felt good, but at the same time, it was agonising. Soon, he forgot how to be guilty for this. Then came a time where he felt angry. Riddle was always there, but he was not. At least his loved ones had the decency to not haunt him like he did. When Harry cut woods, he did it without magic so that he could imagine that the log was Tom's head.

« Fucking—» tak « Riddle—» tak « Fuck! » tak « You ! » Then he took a deep breath after his outburst. « You are always here you stupid fuck ! » tak « Begone you and your shitty ideas ! » tak « Who fucking names his followers Death Eaters, huh ?! » tak.

After cutting wood, his voice was always hoarse from screaming.

He was almost 100 by now.

—

The thought of Tom never left him. It was maddening. It was some kind of small buzz the first years, but the older Harry got, the more his presence was loud, so very loud. Nothing could deaf the figure in his mind. Harry was becoming crazy with Tom Riddle. « Fucking Horcrux shit magic… » He would mutter sometimes. The deers would look at him strangely before resuming their deer activities. Harry was sure it was because of the Horcrux in him, so long ago. Like an open wound, the piece inside Harry left, but also never left.

Then, after years of forgetting things, he started to openly accept that he remembered Tom Riddle.

He let him occupy his mind. It was a welcome change of pace. Since he was starting to lose it, might as well do it on his own accord.

He started celebrating his birthday. He would bake a cake (to Harry's taste of course), light a candle, and eat it by the lake, letting his mind wander to the person Tom Riddle might have been before being an horrid serpentine man. He would finish the cake with a bottle of red wine, and brandish his glass in a mocking gesture of a toast, admiring the velvety red of the liquid in the sunlight, thinking that this was an hommage to Tom's eyes and their colour. He would drink half of it, then throw the rest in the murky waters. « May you find this drink in the Afterlife, Tom. ».

It was a beautiful ceremony in Harry's opinion, one he now did every year.

He started remembering little things about his nemesis, and when he adopted a new snake, he called it Tom, because he was more beautiful and more intelligent than the rest of his specie. He actually conversed with Tom. It wasn't like he was talking to Riddle, mind you, but he felt his mourning of the Old world starting to fade when they conversed.

—

Tom always slept with Harry. He wasn't really big so he wasn't a nuisance, and the creature didn't mind Harry trashing in his sleep as long as he stayed warm. It was a win-win. It made Harry laugh when he thought about it, really. He thought it was fitting and that the snake really lived up to its name.

But one day, Tom slithered out of the bed before Harry woke up.

« Tom ? » He called out to his friend. Harry slid out of bed, wondering where this damn snake was. They never really left each other except when Tom was hungry, which wasn't often. He stepped out of his chambers, into the Gryffindor's common room.

Then he heard it.

A cristalline laughter.

Harry's entire body grew cold this instant.

He must have misheard it. He was the Last Man on Earth, the cursed Master of Death.

He ran out of the room into the halls, calling all the moving stairs to obey his orders.

« Is someone here ?! » he screamed at the top of his lungs, descending the steps in a frenzy. He ran, corridor after corridor, to hear that laughter again. He was sure it was real. He stopped. Or was it ? Has he truly gone mad ?

Something in the corner of his vision moved. A shadow, a glimpse of something.

Harry was truly afraid now. Whatever it is couldn't have passed the wards without him knowing. The laughter. He heard it behind him. Harry shivered as if he was possessed. He spun on his heels. Nothing. He ran. He ran as fast as possible towards the hellish sound.

Anyone in his right mind would run the other way, the sound was horrible. A childlike laugh, directed right at you, that chilled you to the bone. Harry was strong, but this seemed otherworldly. The sound echoed in the whole castle. Feverishly, Harry gripped the handles of the Great Hall's wooden doors and scurried inside, wand drawn, his whole ready.

« Show yourself ! »

The laughter was now deafening. The enormous room which was usually occupied by wildlife was terribly empty, Harry hurried to the Professors's table, stood on it, his body tight with anticipation.

« Show your fucking self ! » He repeated more harshly.

And then, it stopped.

It was as if Time stood still for a moment. Nothing moved. Harry stopped breathing, his eyes a striking emerald against the redness of his cheeks. Somewhere in his mind he noted that he was trembling like a maniac.

« What the… »

And then the screech, the screech happened. Harry fell on his knees on the table, his hands covering his ears in a reflex. He screamed but he couldn't hear his own scream over the terrifying sound. If Harry thought he's known pure, undiluted terror, he was wrong, nothing could compare to this.

He heard a rip, a tear, an enormous scratch, which was an incredible feat considering the noise he was hearing. He felt tears in his eyes. He would die like this? Killed by the maddening sound?

The scratch surpassed the scream. Harry half-opened his eyes. The ripping sound was very real: There was a rip in reality ! The air seemed to split open, and in the opening there was nothing but the pitch-black void. Harry tried to analyse the situation but nothing he read could compare to what was happening. The rip was gigantic, as big as the Great Hall's doors. At first it was a big but thin gash, but it was expanding rapidly.

He suddenly thought of something he'd read long ago in a muggle book.

« And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee… »

And it was true, something was calling to him; the void wasn't void, the void fucking called to him. It was a terrifying thought, but he couldn't look anywhere else than the wound, his eyes drunken with the sight. He crawled on the floor towards the abomination, crazed, sweating profusely. He was in some kind of haze, thoughts gone from his mind. After what seemed like an eternity, he was there, he was at the doors of the void. The abyss stared back ! The abyss !

The horrid scream had not died down but seemed to double with Harry's closeness to the singularity, and when he put his hand in it — he fucking dared put his hand in the thing ! he smiled the awful smile of someone who's lost it completely.

He put his whole body in the rip.

—

Harry should have been 152.

—