Harry Potter Float On - Harry Potter/IT Crossover

[Zephyrus]

Float On
A Harry Potter x IT crossover​

Summary: Tom Marvolo Riddle did quite a bit of wandering for ten years after killing Hepzibah Smith. We know that during this time, he built up his knowledge and mastery of the Dark Arts. But what we don't know precisely is where he went. I've been re-reading a certain book and the most delicious plot bunny popped into my head. If you do a little research, you'll find that the timelines even match up perfectly. I may or may not pursue it any farther than this (as I say with all of the works I post) but it's fun to see how far I'll go.
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Tom Riddle fingered the brim of his felt fedora as he surveyed the dusty used car lot. A sign, once cheerful and bright, now faded and worn, proclaimed in the soft streelight:

Gus’s Used Car Lot! Best Deals in Kittery!

Muggles weren’t good for much, but he would secretly admit to himself that they had a head for producing machines capable of rivaling the wizarding world’s own modes of transportation. Of course, nothing was quite so convenient as the International Floo Network or even a portkey. But still, there was something alluring about the sleek lines of metal and the rumble of the engine that called Tom to one of these cars.

He glanced around the lot, making sure that he was unobserved as he walked down the short rows of vehicles wand raised high with a Lumos spell shining, languidly kicking a tire there, running his fingers along a side mirror here. Yes, these cars were certainly shiny.

He paused for a moment in front of a 1956 Plymouth Fury, though he didn’t know the make or model of the car, nor would he even have cared if someone had told him. All he knew was that the bright apple red was pleasing to his eyes and the bright sheen of the metal invited him to take a closer look.

A quick murmur (“Alomohora!”) and the lock clicked softly, giving him access to the interior of the beast. He eased himself down onto the cushioned bench and wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, closing the door as smoothly as he had opened it. He sat there for a moment, admiring the metallic harmony of the machine as it thrummed with dormant life, waiting to be unleashed. The dashboard clock showed a quarter past 7.

This was madness.

What was he, Lord Voldemort, proud descendant of Salazaar Slytherin, champion of blood purity, and defender of wizard superiority, doing in the Colonies, the state of Maine to be precise, caressing the steering wheel of a filthy, muggle-built contraption?

What bothered him was that he had absolutely no idea. For the last ten years, he’d traveled the dark corners of Europe, scoured the shadows of the Orient, and traipsed through the moist, savage jungles of the Dark Continent.

There was nothing of interest in the United States, no secrets to uncover or places of power in to peruse. No, there was nothing here to aid him in his quest for power and mastery of the Dark Arts. North America was much too young to harbor any dark secrets. The colonies were nothing more than a continent to drift through as he made his way north from the ruined temples of the Mayans, prying their bloody secrets from the specters of the past. But for the past two weeks, he had lingered in New England, a nameless feeling compelling him to stay.

He was far more attuned to the dark powers now than he had been in his youth. He had paid a heavy price for all of newfound knowledge, but he paid it gladly and without really considering what he was giving away in exchange. This feeling, he assumed, came from these acquired powers of his.

He’d concentrated on that feeling, honing in on it like a bloodhound on a scent, dogged and fearless. It drew him from Boston, Massachusetts and up into the north-eastern most tip of the country: Maine. And once he crossed the border from New Hampshire into Maine, that feeling coalesced into something more tangible; he began to hear whispers in his mind that were alien to him.

Why not go a little further north, Tom? The autumn leaves are so pretty and you have all the time in the world. Time enough before you have to return to that nasty business over the Pond. There’s something ever-so-interesting right over the next rise, and if not that one, then surely something over the next hill. You’re a sort of scholar, aren’t you Tom? Don’t you want to learn what’s over that hill, down the lane, and under the bridge? You’re almost there, Tommy boy. Just a little farther. Float on, Tom, float on.

Without quite realizing what he was doing, he listened to that voice, curiosity aroused. Far from being afraid of that dry voice that spoke easily into his heavily defended mind, he was curious. As he drew ever closer to the source of the voice, he began to reconsider his assessment that there was nothing of interest in the US. The further north he went…the stronger this feeling of his became. It wasn’t wholly dark. But it still felt…off. Yes, off was the right word.

“Yes, why not go a little further?” He whispered, not aware that he had spoken aloud. He tapped the steering wheel once, twice, and the engine came alive with a low purr. The wonderful thing about magic was that one could make things work without really knowing how it worked. Any schoolboy could fire off a Stunning spell without knowing the theory behind it. And so, Tom merely spelled the car to drive wherever he wished without him having to put the car into gear or any other such thing. Magic was terribly convenient sometimes.

And so Tom Riddle pulled out of the lot, headlights flickering on, and onto the road. He needed no map to show him the way. That compelling feeling guided him as unerringly as a compass pointed north. Within a half-hour, he was on the interstate and out of Kittery. He leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes, letting the car drive itself to wherever he needed to go.

The gentle swaying of the car on the pavement lulled him to drowsiness. Distantly, he heard the strains of a song filter quietly through the radio.

Forever, my darling our love will be true.
Always and forever, I'll love only you.
Just promise me darling, your love in return
May this fire in my soul, dear, forever burn…

The soft tune pushed him over the edge of sleep and he tumbled into oblivion.

~*~*~

He awoke in a cold sweat, a yell dying off in the back of his throat. He looked around wildly in the darkness for a moment before remembering where he was. The car was parked in front a largish building that bore a slight similarity to a townhouse he had seen in London. He breathed easier when he felt the reassuring coolness of his wand nestled against his arm in its holster. He forced himself to calm down, reminding himself that dreams had no power over him. He had not had a bad dream since his days in the orphanage.

He gripped the steering wheel, brow furrowed as he tried to remember the specifics of his dream. But the memory slipped away like so much mist between his fingers. It left him feeling uneasy. A quick Drying Charm dissipated the sweat from his person and he stepped out of the car, adjusting his tie.

He shut the car door behind him and marched up to the dim glow emanating through the glass doors of the building.

Gold lettering on the glass told him that this building was the Derry Townhouse, which confirmed his suspicions that it was a hotel of sorts. He absently patted his wallet, stuffed full of transfigured American greenbacks. They wouldn’t last forever, but Tom was always careful to make sure he was out of town every two weeks or so. He doubted he’d be treated kindly for paying his way with blank paper.

The receptionist was a middle-aged old man, with a balding pate and half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose. He glanced up from his newspaper and seeing that he had a customer, set it aside.

“How do you do, sir? Lucky you caught me before closing time.” He remarked as Tom approached the counter. Tom had to pause a moment and mentally translate what he had heard--

“How do yeh do, sir? Luckeh you cawt me befoah cloasin’ time.”

--into recognizable English.

“I’m well, thank you. I’d like a room for the foreseeable future, if you please.”

The receptionist raised an eyebrow at that. “In town on business, are you? We don’t get very many Brits in these parts.” He reached under his desk and brought out the register and a ballpoint pin, laying it in front of Tom.

The dark wizard opened the register and hurriedly scribbled in a fake name. “Real estate,” he without thinking. He slid the register back across the marble counter. “My company has a vested interest in some commercial ventures throughout New England.”

“Well uh, Mr...Anderson--” the receptionist somehow managed to read Tom’s purposefully bad scrawl-- “standard room is fifteen a week and a suite is five dollars more.”

Tom merely brought out his wallet and fished out two twenties. “A suite will suit me perfectly.” The receptionist took them without batting an eye. “And call me George.”

As he tucked the money away into the register, the man asked, “Where are you coming from tonight, Mr. Anderson?” Tom wasn’t sure if the man had deliberately ignored Tom’s attempt at being friendly or simply hadn’t heard him.

“Kittery.” Tom didn’t want to seem unfriendly and so elaborated. “It was a nice, short drive. I couldn’t have been on the road more than an hour and a half.”

“Must’ve been bookin’ it then. No one I know that drives the speed limit can make it here in less than 3 hours from Kittery.”

Tom’s own eyebrows raised in slight surprise. It had been around 7:30 when he left the parking lot in Kittery. He was sure that he had carefully spelled the car to drive normally. Where then, had that other hour and a half gone? He put that thought aside for the moment. He needed to cover his blunder.

Tom grinned, winking. “I’m a bit of a speed demon.”

“Ayuh. My kid brother’s the same way.” The receptionist agreed, also smiling.

Tom was then handed a key with a numbered tag tied to the loop on the end. “Suite 4. Up one flight and down the hall. Have a nice stay.”

Fifteen minutes later, Tom had finished modifying the interior of the small suite to be more of a loft in London and lay more than a few heavy muggle repelling charms on the threshold of the room.

After a light dinner, Tom lay himself to sleep, burrowed beneath the emerald covers of his king-sized bed, so similar to his own bed in Hogwarts, but bigger.

On the edge of sleep once more and not a little bewildered as to how he ended up in the tiny town of Maine, of all places, Tom somehow felt...complete. Whatever he was looking for, he’d find in Derry, one way or another.

Just before he slipped into a deep sleep, he murmured, “Float on, Tom, float on.”

Tom Marvolo Riddle had come to Derry.

 

[Zephyrus]

He awoke the next morning feeling refreshed. No dark dreams disturbed his sleep. After a morning shower and a light breakfast, Tom exited his loft feeling quite a bit better than he had in weeks. His journey north had had a touch of the surreal about it, but now that he was in Derry, all seemed right with Tom’s world once more.

The same man who had checked him in last night was there this morning as well, reading the morning’s paper. When he peeked over the edge of the paper and met Tom’s eyes as he came down the stairs, he nodded to him once and then went back to his reading. Tom shrugged. He was only sociable with muggles so far as his persona as a traveler demanded it. The fewer people who spoke to him, the better.

On his way out the door, he spied a rack that held the usual pamphlets and maps for tourists. He snatched up one at random (The Walker’s Guide to Derry!) and stepped out into the warm September sunshine. The threshold of the Derry Townhouse is where his good feeling about the town ended. The car, the beautiful beast of burden, that had brought him so far north in a such a mysteriously short amount of time, was gone. He stood staring at the empty parking space for a for a few moments, a little unsettled. The townhouse certainly had no valet parking and it was simply unthinkable that a car thief made a living in such a small town as Derry. For one thing, the people tended to be far too nice, for lack of a better word, to harbor big time thieves. For another, small towns tended to have plenty of witnesses to crimes committed. That alone would stave off even the most cautious of criminals.

Attempting to shake off the uneasy feeling that the unexplainable absence of the vehicle he’d stolen had caused, Tom resolved not to worry about it. It was a pretty car, true. But wizards weren’t hampered by the lack of mechanical means of transport. Still, he’d keep an eye out around town. No one stole from Lord Voldemort, much less a muggle, and lived to tell the tale.

Dismissing the incident from his mind, he opened up the little pamphlet and pored over the little town of Derry. It was no different the other dozens of towns he’d drifted through in the past several weeks. Pretty as a picture in a magazine. But if there was one thing he’d learned in his travels, it was that even the most picturesque of places could hold dark, terrible secrets.

Tom was not fooled by the mask Derry wore for tourists and outsiders. Something had drawn him to this place and it had perfected the art of going unnoticed by the rest of the world, even the town itself.

He folded the map and put it in his back pocket, deciding to take a stroll farther down Main Street. He would get a better sense of the town from there. He crossed Jackson Street and entered downtown Derry proper.

It was a Saturday and most of Derry was out and about, determined to take advantage of the sunshine and the weekend. Groups of old men sat on front porches smoking and cackling at the stories they told one another of their youth. He shared the sidewalk with mothers wheeling their newborn babies in strollers, families on their way to some family functions, and gangs of children running wild, caught up in their own adventures and freedom from school.

No one smiled at him, or really noticed him at all, except for the occasional nod of acknowledgement when he happened to meet their gaze. Only the children he passed were pleasant, though that was just mostly them looking at him in frank curiosity. He supposed that his emerald pinstripe suit was a little eye catching in an area of the country where most dressed conservatively, but damned if he’d conform to a muggle’s sense of propriety.

He took a random turn down an alley and emerged on Center Street. Almost immediately on his right was the Center Drug Store. Tom was thirsty and supposed he’d step in to get a drink. He was no Dumbledore, to rave on about the wonders of muggle candy, but he had enjoyed soda pop in his youth. A small bell jangled as he opened the door and stepped in. A man, wearing spectacles and quite thin, peered over his counter at Tom. There was no welcoming smile on the man’s face and his eyes were beady and hard. A small plastic nametag said ‘Keene’ in no-nonsense font.

Despite the lack of a welcome, Tom put a friendly smile on his face. “Hello there! I’m here in town on business. Real estate, actually. I was walking around town and spied this lovely little shop. I don’t suppose you have a soda fountain?”

The older man gave Tom a once over and twitched his lips slightly, obviously disapproving of Tom instantly. The wizard had to resist the temptation to kill him on the spot. Despite the murderous urge egging him on, Tom maintained his friendly smile and waited patiently for a response.

A long moment passed. “Sure I do, stranger. I have Coca-Cola and root beer. Ten cents for a regular and a nickel more for a large.”

“The large will be fine.”

Mr. Keene jerked his head toward the rear of the store, past shelves full of no doubt disgusting remedies to cure any ailment a muggle quack doctor could think of. “Fountain’s in the back. Styrofoam cups provided.”

Tom made to make his way to the fountain, but was stopped by the thin man clearing his throat. “I’m sorry--” No, he isn’t really sorry at all, Tom mused to himself.-- “but I’m afraid I need your payment first. Too many rascals drink first and conveniently forget to pay.”

“A pity.” Tom commented as he fished through his pocket, transfiguring a bit of lint into two shiny coins. “That kind of behavior makes one wonder what the world is coming to these days.” He flipped the transfigured coins to Mr. Keene, who surprisingly caught them with ease. After fetching his root beer and wandering back to the front through the aisles of ‘medicine’, he decided to pry a little bit at Mr. Keene. He leaned against the counter and took a sip of the delightfully sweet soda. “This is a nice town. I was sent out here to scout out some likely sites for...commercial development.” Tom lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper on the tail end of his words.

“How nice.” Mr. Keene commented in a non-committal tone of voice. He didn’t even glance up from the paperwork he was working on.

Tom stifled a sigh. “This town has so many possibilities, don’t you think?”

“Mhmm.”

“Perhaps you might know of some interesting places I could visit during my stay here?”

Mr. Keene’s pen paused in its scribbling and he finally looked up at Tom. “Mister, as you can see, I’m a very busy man. I’d appreciate it if you took your drink and moved right along.” He smiled, as if to take the sting out of his words, but it was a cold, fake smile. It was a smile that Tom knew very well, having worn it many a time himself. “If you insist on being a tourist, perhaps the Kitchener Ironworks would be the place to visit. Good day.” And then he bent back to his paperwork, intent on ignoring the man who had killed men for less insolence than he had just displayed.

Inwardly seething, but restraining himself (mustn’t attract attention no mustn’t attract attention from it) from decorating the shop with the man’s entrails, he left without another word. He paused on the threshold of the store and cast a curse. Mr. Keene, if he even had a happy bone throughout his entire body, would never have a satisfied customer ever again so long as he lived.

And indeed, in the many years after Mr. Anderson left the Center Street Drug Shop, Mr. Keene never truly enjoyed a faithful clientele. The residents of Derry came to him because he was all they had. He died a bitter and lonely man.

Tom stepped out into the sunshine once more, mulling over Keene’s words and sipping his root beer. There was something about Keene that niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite make it out. Something, something, something...

A dull roar in the distance snapped him out of his thoughts. It sounded like water rushing through an enclosed space. Juggling the cup of soda, he brought out the map once more. Reading the blurbs of text, he was surprised to learn that there was a river nearby, some several blocks to his right, and a complex system of sewers and canals ran under the streets of Derry itself. He fancied he could feel the water flowing under his feet this very moment.

Float on, Tom, float on.

He blinked, not really noticing the murmur in his head, and folded up the map again. He began to wander around the town, not really noticing where his feet took him. He hoped to come across someone who might tell him where this Ironworks place was. It was as good a start as any to track down what had drawn him to this little town.

His wanderings brought him to the City Center, where a garish statue of some giant brute of a man named Paul Bunyan graced the small lawn in front of the building. Stepping inside, he once again introduced himself--

(“Oh, a British businessman? What brings you to these parts?”)

--asked where he might find the Kitchener Ironworks facility--

(“That old wreck? I tell you, it’s about damn time someone came in and cleaned up that place. It’s an eyesore for this town, let me tell you.”)

--and made himself scarce, armed with directions and a bad taste in his mouth from the atrocious accent these yokels sported.

(“It’s a little ways west of here. Just cross the Kissing Bridge through Bassey Park and follow Pasture Road. You cain’t miss it, no sir.”)

He found Bassey Park easily enough; the screams of delighted children at play and the crowds of adults out to bask in the sunshine gave it away. After consulting his little map once more, he found the Kissing Bridge. As he walked across it, the water gurgling beneath his feet, he raised his eyebrows at the more than a few disturbing messages carved into the old wood amongst the usual declarations of undying love and dates. He chanced a dim Lumos and peered closely at a particularly long message carved into a post.

ROGER PENDLETON IS A QUEER AN IM GONNA KEEL HIM.
YEA HE IS AND HES FULLA DIZEEZE.
^ THAT GUY IS A FAGGOT

As he walked, he spied more and more of these hateful messages, most featuring messages of homophobia, racism, and so much hatred that it near took his breath away.

A piece of the mystery that had been niggling at him earlier came together in his mind. He paused, eyes staring sightlessly at the exit. The standoffish demeanor of the residents as he walked down Main Street, the hateful attitude of Mr. Keene, the watchful, silent eyes of the children, the hateful messages on the Kissing Bridge...

Something was rotten in the state of Derry, festering in the heart of the town. The residents knew it, even if subconciously. What terrible thing was it that they were so determined to ignore even as they went about their daily lives in fear of it?

More than ever before, Tom became convinced that there was power here in Derry, ripe for the taking. There was no darkness too great that could not be bested by Lord Voldemort. He was a master of secrets, after all.

Float a little further, Tom. Float on...

Tom shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, and he exited the bridge, leaving the inscriptions of hatred behind him to be forgotten.

-----
For those of you who'd like a little bit more than a mental image of the world Tom is mucking about in, try out this fanmade map of Derry. Very useful for my purposes.

 

[Zephyrus]

After a good 15 minutes of walking, Tom came upon the blackened ruins of the old Kitchener Ironworks. He stood for a moment on the road, surveying the desolation from a short distance away. The old factory had a desolate feel about it, the kind of aura you might find in a graveyard on a moonless night.

Hands in his pockets, he stepped off of the road and meandered through the small mounds of blackened, twisted metal to the remnants of the factory. He completely ignored the forlorn ‘KEEP OUT!’ sign that dangled on a rusty chain-link fence.

A short time ago, he’d been told by the overly-talkative man in the City Center, the Kitchener Ironworks had been the pride of Derry; it was a factory that provided Derry citizens hundreds of jobs and gave generously back to the community. In 1906, the Ironworks shut down every single machine in the factory and invited all of Derry to participate in an Easter Egg Hunt. Despite every piece of equipment being silent, the factory exploded, killing 88 children and a grand total of 102 people.

Like so many other tragedies in Derry, the people grieved in silence and simply did their damnedest to pretend it never happened.

The rusting shells of the factory buildings were somehow menacing, even in the bright September sunlight.

Something crackled sharply beneath his feet and he looked down at the blackened earth. A half of the face of a plastic doll peeked playfully from under his shoe. He took a step back and squatted down on his haunches. He pried the head of the doll from the ground and gently brushed some of the dirt from its blonde hair. It lay nestled in his palm for a moment and he could almost see the little girl that had once owned this doll, dressed in her Sunday finest, clutching the doll to her chest even as fire and molten metal consumed her...

He tilted his palm downward and the doll opened its eyes. Ceramic green eyes peered up at him through dark lashes.

A thought coalesced in the depths of Tom’s mind. It wasn’t based on any obvious clues or anything at all, really. But looking at this child’s broken plaything, he felt that it was true nonetheless.

Whatever resided in the dark places of Derry had a taste for the flesh of children.

What kind of monster took sustenance from an innocent child? He grinned wryly as he rose to his feet, doll’s head still in hand. Well, he couldn’t really that he wasn’t the same. After all, innocent blood was the price for his own immortality. But still, a child?

Suddenly, the doll’s head in his hand began to quiver slightly. His lips parted slightly in bewilderment as the plastic lips twisted into a sneer and the eyebrows were drawn down into an angry grimace. A hoarse, deep voice issued forth from the doll’s head, “What’s the big idea, Tommy boy? Only faggots play with dolls.”

With a small cry of surprise, Tom dropped the head to the ground and staggered back a few steps. The head bounced a few times, then landed face up, its features still twisted with hatred. “Oh, that wasn’t very nice of you, Tommy. I just wanted to play!”

The ground began to undulate and bulge in the shape of dozens of tiny mounds at Tom’s feet. In an instant, the wizard’s wand was in his hand and he began backing away slowly.

“Where you gooooooooing, Tommy? The fun’s just BEGINNING,” the doll growled.

And the earth began to disgorge the rotting remains of children's playthings. Threadbare teddy bears leaking bloody stuffing out of their eyes and mouths, maggot-infested dolls missing legs, arms, heads, and lips, termite-ridden puppets; all crawled forth from the blackened earth and began lurching in Tom’s direction. One torso, grasping the ground with its plastic fingers and pulling itself forward, stopped by the head of the doll and jammed it on. It resumed its crawling in Tom’s direction.

“Awww, whatsa matter, Tommy? Don’t you like toys?”

The dark wizard raised his wand. “INCENDIO,” he cried. A torrent of flame swept over the demonic toys. Over the roar of the fire and crackling of burning wood, he could hear the shrieks of small children. He squinted, peering deeper into the fire, and blinked once. The toys had been replaced with the figures of children burning in their Sunday finest.

He lowered his wand, horrified. A little girl stumbled out of the inferno, shrieking for her mother, a doll clasped to her chest. The smell of roasting pork filled his nostrils and the girl’s skin bubbled and melted, sloughing from her tiny frame like melting plastic. She fell to her knees a few scant feet from him and laid there, unmoving. Within seconds, the cries of the children died out, and the flames reduced to embers.

Tom stared at the carnage, stomach roiling from the greasy scent. His lips curled up in disgust at the sight. "What trickery is--”

A cheerfully red balloon floated past him, borne on some invisible wind from behind. Words were painted in the clumsy hand of a child on its surface:

YOU CALLED?

He whirled around, wand instantly at the ready, his face set in a murderous snarl.

A clown, holding a cluster of colorful balloons, stood not ten feet away from him. A red nose bulged obscenely from a powder-white face, and orange-red hair, slightly crusty with white makeup, swayed gently in the breeze. The clown was dressed in a one-piece clown suit, complete with a dizzying array of colors and tufted felt balls of orange.

The clown winked and wiggled a white gloved hand in his direction, as if to say hello. “Glad you could make it, buckaroo! The children were just so eager to meet you, you see.” Lips painted blood-red peeled back in a smile. “We’re looking forward to having you join us, Tommy boy.”

 

[biigoh]

Is Pennywise looking for someone to love~?

 

[seitora]

So before zeebee1 gets here to make his complementary one-liner sarcastic unhelpful comment, I'll post first.

You've done a pretty good job of setting up the prelude scenes, slowly guiding Tom across North America to Maine, then from Kittery to Derry. Little things here and there, such as his car appearing to be going too fast, or the car disappearing overnight, help to contribute to the unsettling mood Tom finds himself in. I reckon you've also done a good job of his own personal view, at that state before he truly begins to think of himself as Lord Voldemort, and more just as Tom, even if it is just to maintain a tourist/businessman persona.

The real question I have is, is this actually a prelude, or a one-shot? This could already stand on its own with the reader deciding what happens next, or make Tom a badass who fights It, or make Tom a badass who fights It and gets out with even more unsettling Dark powers for when he returns to Britain, pushing him from Dark Lord to Eldritch abomination.