【TR/HP】Solace in Shadows

exoshenny · 发表于 2017-6-7 18:25| 字数 28

互动非常萌，不过讲真FF我一直用不好，感觉不如ao3方便

显示全部楼层 · 发表于 2017-6-25 21:12| 字数 28

这篇原来是这板块唯一的TRHP吗...这cp果然比较冷啊

显示全部楼层 · 发表于 2017-6-27 09:27| 字数 73

FF的小说ios的好像可以复制，爪机可以很方便的复制，平时看就是复制在备忘录里面的。
可是windows系统的电脑就复制不了。
应该也是一种版权保护？

momomomo · 发表于 2017-8-16 16:58| 字数 36

这板块唯一的trhp......真是，果然看长篇英语原文还是太嫩了啊……

SNAKE979 · 发表于 2017-12-30 16:58| 字数 33

回复 63# Daisy_0914

可以复制。改一下设置即可。百度上有。

SNAKE979 · 发表于 2017-12-31 22:56| 字数 157,691

Chapter 41:

Severus Snape was still skeptical about his offer of Occlumency, even though he would stand by his decision for now.

From what he'd seen, Potter simply did not have the discipline over his emotions to master the mind art. Still, if recent events were anything to go by, the brat would be a key element in this war, and that meant that whatever secrets he had in his mind needed to be protected.

The boy knew too much, and, with time, would need the power to make his own decisions and judgements on matters without external tampering - whether from the Dark Lord, the Headmaster, or anyone else.

Regardless of his own feelings towards the boy, it was evident that he had become a player, or a pawn at the very least, and to give him as many resources and preparation could only be a good thing. Furthermore, he would be useful to be able to guide and influence. And they needed a better rapport than they currently had for that to work.

Perhaps, even, Potter wasn't quite so intolerable anymore. James Potter would never have conceded to anything less than all out war with Slytherins, unlike his son, who whilst still irritating, had promise.

More like Lily. Lily's son.
He did wonder, vaguely, what had happened to the mutt. Not that he cared, but he would have rather killed the bastard himself if any murder was to be committed.

There was a knock on the door, finally.
"Come in," he instructed, curtly.

The boy entered, looking a little wary, shoulders squared defensively for battle, even if his expression was more neutral than normal.

Harry was trying. He'd give the brat that - he was trying to be civil here, and make the most of the opportunity. He could try too.

"Evening," the boy muttered. Still forgot the 'sir', but the address was polite, if a little stiff. A bit pureblood etiquette actually.

It made him very curious as to what Harry's summer life had been like, living with the Dark Lord.

"Take a seat," he orderered, in turn. "I'm led to believe you are aware of the basics of what Occlumency is?"

"It's a mind art, defends the mind from outside intrusion," Harry answered. He gave a nod at the response.

"Correct. Anything else?"

"...sorry."
He'd take that as a no. And another time when the boy didn't add a 'sir' or 'professor' on the end. He carefully clamped down on the urge to correct that, lips thinning.

He was quiet for a moment, studying the boy.
"I will attempt to break into your mind. You will attempt to defend yourself in anyway that you can think of."

"What-how?" Potter began. He'd already cast his spell - gently, for the first time, aware that the boy was young.

It was easy as sinking a knife into melted butter.

Tom knocked on the door, greeted by a smiling Professor Lupin as he was invited in.

The Office was neat, and rather sparse, though homey enough with books on the wall, and a creature in a tank.

"Thank you for inviting me," he said, politely, following the man over to the table where tea was set out.

"Oh, my pleasure," Lupin responded, pouring out some tea into both cups. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Some sugar."

The cups of tea were prepared, and they both settled in their chairs, studying the other with a curious brand of hostility disguised behind every pleasantry possible.

"How have you found your first week of teaching to be?" Lupin questioned, in that mild tone of his.

"My students have been very receptive so long as I make no mention of Goblins."

They shared a few words and constrained laughter on the matter of Binns and their shared experiences and comparisons of his classes, even when it was very clear that Lupin's possessed an uneasy edge he was trying to hide - perhaps with the knowledge of just exactly had had happened to the ghost to open the position of History Professor for his taking.

He calmly took another sip from his cup, feeling it clink against the saucer.

"And yourself, Professor Lupin? Have you settled in well?"

"Please," the man smiled again. "Call me Remus. And yes, yes I have. It's a wonderful opportunity of course, though I fear how lacking and jumbled the students previous education in Defence against the Dark Arts has been."

"Hmm, yes. I have noticed that. Especially with all the dangerous events which seems to happen at this school, one would assume that the Headmaster would put more effort into preparing and protecting his students for and against what's out there."

Lupin visibly bristled.

"I think he hopes to give the children a childhood, which they fully deserve, and so is protecting them in that sense. Also, considering that notoriously there is a curse on the job, I would say he is doing his utmost best with the resources allowed to him."

Gratitude. There was a level of gratitude and admiration that went above even the normal many showed the famous Headmaster. Tom took another sip of his tea.

"Well, we can only hope that nothing tragic happens to you then, mustn't we, Mr Lupin?" he said, lightly, keeping his eyes fixed on the other.

He could see the man wondering if he meant that as a threat or not, eyes tightening a little.

"I suppose."

"Though, you seem capable of defending yourself," Tom continued, "as one would hope for a defence instructor. I was sorry to hear about what happened on the platform. The students were lucky that you were there."

"You lived with Harry all summer, didn't you?"
Lupin seemed to lose some of his patience for dancing around and pretending he was oblivious. Ever a Gryffindor, he supposed, being bold enough to cut to the chase when it concerned his...did he even have a connection with Harry?

Tom let a small smile curl his lips, not quite so innocent. He didn't have to be. Lupin had just established that he knew damn well who he was. He could almost respect the man for having the guts to do this and invite him over for tea anyway.

"Yes, I did, and I will continue living with my charge once the years is out," he said.

"But you are not his rightful guardian, are you?" Lupin said, delicately. His eyes could have flashed, but he simply drank some more, before setting the cup down with a soft clink.

"Not right now, no." But he would be. "However, it is not uncommon for a child to find himself with a new guardian if his current ones are found to be unfit, and the lack of concern Mr and Mrs Dursley showed for their twelve year old nephew going missing certainly warrants further investigation. I'm sure no one wants Harry living in an abusive environment."

Something flickered in the other's eyes, and Tom could have grinned in triumph and pounced on it. There was the doubt, that small scrap of doubt over the great Light leader's actions. God, Harry was a goldmine for blackmail, wasn't he? He should keep the boy alive for that, at the very least of things, and see how many of the light he could twist with it.

Sentiment. There was a reason he was so eager to avoid it.

Having a soul connection, or even his current level of attachment to the boy could be fatal. He couldn't afford to grow fond, not in anything but the remotest sense of pride for his possessions.

After all, he'd already identified the power he would have if he could get Harry to care for him. He wasn't going to in anyway open himself up to having the same trick used on him - besides, he was sceptical of his own ability to care.

He had never loved anyone. The greatest he had ever reached was a reluctant sense of respect, or acknowledgment, possessiveness perhaps. Not-hate.

He also had no desire to express how quickly Harry had fallen into the not-hate category, all things considered, but he supposed the Horcrux had something to do with it.

"And you think you're a better environment?" There was a definite pointed edge now, the facade splintering around the edges.

"Naturally," Tom said, before accommodating the dropping of walls. He knew the man would be reporting anything he learned back to Dumbledore, but he figured he'd made his claim obvious already. "And you would do well not to get in the way, or let anyone else get in the way. He's mine, and he will stay that way. I think it's the best solution for everyone involved. Guardianship battles can get so messy. I wouldn't wish to traumatize anyone."

Lupin's nostrils flared, eyes dark.

"You have nothing good planned for him."

"I have something great planned for him, which is better. Good and bad are mere shackles, lacklustre words used by weak men to justify their own incapabilities." He drained his tea. Vowed to get more information on this Lupin, some more grabbles for his use. "Thank you for the tea. I've always found a good brew clearing to the mind, haven't you?"

He gave a smile and walked out.

He had work to do.

A/N: Yeah, I'm aware that this chapter is crap and stupidly short, but I know if I don't just post it I'm just going to be stuck on it forever and I like where this story is going in my head, so I don't want to be perpetually stuck. Hence, bad short chapter. Except me to skip to Christmas with a summary. I'm skimming third year, this is just...painful. Sorry! :(

Chapter 42:

Ron and Hermione were skeptical, and perhaps a bit annoyed, that he was going to be disappearing all weekend.

Honestly, Harry was rather nervous as well. He'd grown used to Tom's tutelage and company - the Death Eaters were another matter entirely.

He suspected he'd be tossed in the direction of the Malfoys. He'd been thinking about it, and it made the most sense. They were the ones Tom had interacted with the most, along with being the ones he himself knew the most. Tom didn't seem to trust him with all of his followers, after all.

Certainly, whilst he himself didn't trust the blond purebloods, they were definitely the best option out of a bad lot. He could only imagine being dumped with some of the Azkaban escapees. The very thought made him shudder slightly.

He wondered who was taking care of Sirius, now that they were both at Hogwarts.

It was a shame that Hogwarts didn't accept dogs as a viable choice of pet. They weren't so different to cats, surely?

Either way, he found himself knocking on Tom's door at 7:45 that morning. Ungodly for a Saturday really, but over the summer he'd grown used to the schedule.

Whilst he was pretty sure that Tom did sleep...maybe….the Dark Lord did keep odd hours, and Harry had never witnessed it for himself. Whilst he was sure Tom did sleep, at the same time he wouldn't have been remotely surprised if he just kept running like a robot.

"Come in, Harry." True to form, the man was already up and dressed - though it was a little creepy that he could greet him without even turning around. "Croissant on the table. Eat up. I already know you skipped breakfast."

Harry gaped at that, spluttering.

His stomach twitched in rebellion against the offending pastry. It wasn't that he was nervous he just…

So maybe he was allowed to be a little nervous.

Early start or not, and nerves set aside, Harry welcomed the weekend. And maybe he welcomed the escape from Hogwarts too.

He loved Hogwarts - he really did - and even to his own mind it seemed appalling to want to leave. But...well.

Things at Hogwarts weren't the same. They were weird, or at least felt so. And it seemed to just get worse as the week went along.

Whilst his Occlumency session with Snape hadn't been as bad as it could have been, it wasn't the best it could have been either. He was terrible at Mind Arts, it seemed. Not disciplined enough to control his emotions. All he'd gained from the experience was a headache.

Occlumency had been one of the better things of the week though.

If the Slytherins were treating him with a tentative respect, or at least a fresh sort of perusal, the other houses seemed warier of him in turn. When Slytherins were considered the markers of evil and darkness, and so Harry's lack of confrontation with them was a blemish on his own reputation in turn.

It made him, for the first time, feel rather sorry for the green ties.

Ambition wasn't so bad a thing, on its own. He could no longer equate the characteristic to simple good and bad.

Everything was grey. He wished they'd go to black and white again, in a way, because maybe then the whole affair would be less confusing.

"I'm not hungry," he protested. Tom finally turned around, dressed far less like a student teacher today. Gone were the shirts and the waistcoats; instead he was in robes that seemed like liquid shadow around him.

It immediately made for a far more intimidating form. The Dark Wizards eyes narrowed slightly in study.

"Take it with you then. But you're going to want the energy if you want a chance of keeping up and not embarrassing yourself. Your choice."

That had Harry stuffing the food into his mouth with more fervour, and Tom smirked. It reminded him of the summer actually; Tom making him eat. He never would have assumed being a kidnapped prisoner was less confusing than being free.

Five minutes later, they'd arrived at Malfoy Manor just as he'd anticipated.

He wondered what Draco would think of that.

The peacocks were once more strutting around to greet them, and Tom only took a moment to haul him up from the drop of the portkey. He'd never used one before, but falling smack into the grass unlike Tom's graceful landing was embarrassing. He felt his cheeks colour, but Riddle was already striding up to the door without much notice.

"My Lord," Lucius moved, before his gaze flicked down and...Harry couldn't read his expression.

"Hi," he said, automatically. The pureblood blinked at him.

"Mr Potter," the man greeted tersely after a moment, before ushering them in. Harry looked around himself with some more curiosity this time, seeing as he was rather less distracted this time by other matters and desperate escape attempt.

It really was a very expensive looking manor. He felt like he was in a museum, or one of those really old houses they took people on school trips to.

"Is Mrs Lestrange around?" Tom questioned. Harry's gaze snapped around again.

"Lestrange?" he yelped. "Oh no, no. You're not leaving me with her."

"I do hope you're not intending to make a habit of telling me what I can and cannot do," Tom said lightly.

Harry grimaced.

"She's crazy. She tried to kill me."

"She tried to hug you," Tom said. Harry was pretty sure he would have been rolling his eyes if it was just them.

"I'm not convinced," he said. But he also had a feeling that trying to in anyway cling was going to backfire on him. But he really didn't want to be left alone with Bellatrix Lestrange! He didn't know much about her. He should probably start looking up articles on all of the Death Eaters, really, but...well. She'd been in Azkaban. She obviously wasn't good.

He'd assumed to find himself with one of the Malfoys.

"Take it or leave it," Tom said, for the second time that day. "Next time someone attacks you or the people you wish to defend you can console yourself that though you were too weak to save them, at least you didn't have to put it with a few overzealous hugs." The Dark Lord met his gaze flatly, obviously having lost his patience. Harry could feel the warning brewing in the air, and sighed mutinously.

He had a feeling Tom's week had deteriorated too. And Tom couldn't have a release here, when he was still very much playing the conscious role of Voldemort among his Death Eaters.

Not that Tom wasn't always...he didn't know. He was just aware that Tom was very guarded around people. The most relaxed he'd ever seen the other was those times with the two of them, at the house, just sitting in the garden.

And he was pretty sure the only reason he'd even seen glimpses of the real Tom was because the man didn't consider him a threat. Maybe he should be insulted.

But either way, Tom was always weird and uptight around his followers. Even more of a control freak than normal.

"If I die, it's your fault," Harry conceded.

"I should hope so."

Harry scowled at that. That really wasn't reassuring, or the answer he was looking for.

And yet…

He couldn't wait to be able to use all the magic he knew freely again.

The boy stood unassumingly across the room from her.

He really didn't look like much to her, but Bellatrix supposed she'd find out. And, however much she wanted to take the opportunity to wring his scrawny little throat until those green eyes darkened away from such infuriating innocence, she wouldn't.

She had far bigger concerns and plans, to be so hasty.

Besides, she was his teacher. It was easy enough to just...play with him. To pay him back for the Dark Lord's downfall, whilst he was in her care. Of course, she wouldn't and couldn't use advanced level spells on him. The Dark Lord had made clear he was in fact to be taught and not tortured, but she figured anything up to sixth year hexes and curses was acceptable.

Being an ex-convict, and perhaps the most wanted woman in Britain, did lend itself to a lot of free time after all. Narcissa had a constant stream of duties, overseeing the house of Malfoy, attending Charity events and galas and everything that she filled her life with. Lucius had his politics, too. They both lead busy lives.

Hence, it was the obvious solution to all, that she should primarily be teaching Potter.

Besides, whilst Narcissa was undoubtedly a formidable dueller - surpassing her husband, certainly - Bellatrix was the best out of all of them. Everyone knew that.

If Lucius had been the Dark Lord's political right hand, she had been his Lieutenant.

Whilst she was a Slytherin, and so some level of politics and cunning came with the territory, she'd always considered herself to be a better warrior than a diplomat. She simply didn't have the patience to indulge fools, when her blood burned for war and the thrill of adrenaline in her heart.

She was fire, where her sister was ice.
Andromeda was not to be mentioned.

Potter spun his wand in his grip, blinking at her – nose wrinkled in distaste.

"Perhaps a duel to warm us up," she murmured, eyes lighting up.

Harry tried to shove his unease aside.

It wasn't working.

Whilst he could believe that Bellatrix was good at Dark Arts, she didn't look like good teacher material. There was something manic and slightly unhinged in her gaze that made his spine prickle.

He'd seen enough fights in his life to know that unpredictable enemies were the most dangerous. But he also refused to swallow. Tom had left him, to deal with whatever Tom did when he was being Voldemort, and he jutted his chin up slightly.

He was starting to get the feeling that half the trick was seeming intimidating and powerful enough that nobody wanted to mess with you, regardless of actual defence capabilities.

Bellatrix seemed to just study him for a moment, when they were left alone, before starting to duel just as quickly.

It would have been over very quickly if he hadn't lunged to the side. He panted for breath, rolled again, immediately on the defensive.

Much like whenever he'd practise fought Tom, he could tell instantly that he was outmatched.

He may have learnt some tricks over the summer, but – well.
He supposed he hadn't expected to win, but she had the wand out of his grip in the space of his hand in seconds, as his body shuddered with something like light electric shocks.

"Not exactly a warm up," she giggled. "Poor dear. Would you like a hand up?"

He shoved himself to his feet again, and she tossed him his wand.

"Again," he demanded. Her eyebrows arched with mock surprise.

"Baby Potter has some fire in his belly," she cooed. She barely hesitated to start fighting again, slashing spells at him in quick succession. Too quick for them to realistically dodge. Last time, it had soared straight through his Protego.

This time…well, this time he used Parseltongue. Tom had said that it would work better, didn't he? Not so easily countered. He wasn't an idiot. He was just learning to duel, he couldn't compete with her knowledge of spells.

But maybe he didn't have to.

To his (perhaps a little vindictive) delight, her eyes widened with shock and his spell soared straight through her shield charm in turn. She ended up knocked back in a bundle of ropes.

Harry grinned, impishly – only to falter at the way she was looking at him.

"Er…payback?" he said faintly. She physically tore the binds up, straightening, head tilting fluidly to one side. His mouth felt a little dry, and his shoulders squared.

"You-" she prowled closer to him, wand clutched in hand. "You know Parseltongue?"

Harry wetted his lips.
"…yes?"

And then…then she started to laugh.

"Next time, follow straight up with a Stunner or a Disarming charm."
She promptly had him floored again.

Whilst leaving Hogwarts didn't necessarily promise freedom, it did bring a level of relief.

He was a Dark Lord by nature, not a teacher. He suited academics, he even enjoyed teaching and study a great deal – but the battle drums and the call of greater things itched beneath his skin when he did.

It had been…nice to adjust to Hogwarts again.
Even with the staff against him, under Dumbledore's heavy hand.

It was a relief to be Lord Voldemort again, nonetheless. The façade of complete control settled far easily on his skin, than anything more innocent.

Lord Voldemort was the closest he got to being himself, in anything that could be called public.

His first order of business was finding out, and punishing, whichever insolent moron had organized the raid on Diagon Alley. After that, it was a matter of orders and organization.

He decisively did not think about Harry was getting along.

He wasn't sure Bellatrix was the best match for the boy, but she would definitely get him to fight back properly from what little he'd seen of her personality. She'd motivate him. A ruthless teacher, and far more what Harry needed than someone who would coddle him.

Besides, outside of himself her expertise in the Dark Arts were exquisite. He didn't need to talk to her long, to see her passion for the topic. And – even more than the skills involved – it was love of the Dark Arts that he wanted to inspire in his young Gryffindor.

Still, despite this he was rather surprised to come back to Malfoy Manor and see just how well they were getting on. He stayed silently in the shadows for a moment, to watch.

And…slowly, a smile began to spread across his lips.

Maybe the school year wasn't off to such a terrible start as he'd first thought.

A/N: Oh my god! It's a Solace update. I am as shocked as you are. Unfortunately, saying that, I have to apologize for the quality. As you have no doubt noticed, I have had a horrible writer's block on this fic. Hence...this chapter is literally me just getting something down to shove past that block. The balance for the quality should hopefully go up again once I right myself, and get out of the rut that is the development that needs to happen to get to the part of the story I am most interested in. Don't be too surprised if a time skip comes up soon. Anyway. Hope you managed to find some enjoyment in this nonetheless :)

Chapter 43
Sirius Black was not a man who gave up easily.

Whilst it was true that he held a different ideology to his family, and a lighter disposition at least in terms of attitude and magical choices, that didn't mean there was none of the Black stubbornness to him.

He'd been raised in a House of Slytherins. He knew how to deal with them, even when he'd dedicated so much of his life running away from that fact. He'd never wanted to have the potential to be a good Slytherin.

He was Gryffindor. Reckless. Light. Tolerant of Muggles and Muggle things made magic. The White sheep of the Black Family.

But he was of the Black Family nonetheless, however much he'd fled from any similarity.

He knew Dark Arts, even when he didn't use them. He knew Politics, even when he spat on them for pranks. No one could shake off their upbringing completely, after all - only affect the illusion of it, and choose consciously otherwise.

And Malfoy Manor was by no means the prison that Azkaban was.

Bellatrix was an unpredictable, imaginative and thus dangerous duelling opponent, but Sirius had a mind fractured by the same insanity. Azkaban had a funny effect on their family.

He'd spent the last two weeks hearing her taunting him about all the time she was spending with James Potter's son. And how Harry was going to shape up to be a good little Death Eater, like his brother, and to replace Sirius' own spot in the family.

The glint in her eyes was the most unnerving thing.
It didn't promise affection, or welcoming arms. It was a wild, cunning sort of glint, coloured by hate and obsession.

So he snapped.

Malfoy Manor was by no means the prison that Azkaban was, and he hadn't escaped one only to be jailed again. He refused to let the rest of his life be a series of shackles.

It only took him one month to get free, and run.

Harry had thought that things would get easier with his second week.

It didn't.

He was shaking uncontrollably, from the crisp Autumn air, and maybe everything else too. He squeezed his eyes shut, arms wrapped around him tight as he slid to the ground. Breath harsh, gasping, barely able to get air into his lungs - choked by panic.

Not only were some parties getting more and more suspicious, and indeed violent, regarding his seeming truce with Slytherins and the apparent guilt that indicated, the lessons didn't go right either.

More accurately, it was the hell called Divination and Boggarts in DADA.
Care of Magical Creatures had almost gone disastrously, but he'd stopped hard on Malfoy's foot before he could be a twat. So at least that was one good thing.

It was shocking that neither Tom nor Snape were on his list of troubles.
At least not directly.

Bile clawed up his throat.

And the darkness crept in.

Remus had always intended to do a lesson on Boggarts.

It was important to teach children how to deal with their fear, in all capacities of the word. He'd thought it better that they realize, confront and come to literally defeat their fears in the form of the Boggart, and in the safety of the classroom, than crumble against the real thing.

The classroom was a controlled environment. It was the safest possible space for such a thing.

This was never supposed to happen.
He'd even planned on taking special care with Harry - because it would cause a disaster if Lord Voldemort appeared in the middle of the room.

He wished, now, that it had been Voldemort.

Even more so when Lord Voldemort did in fact appear in the middle of his classroom, livid and in the flesh.

"What happened?" Riddle demanded, marching up to him, looking every inch the Dark Lord and none of the brilliant young teacher. Even in a waistcoat, instead of robes. His fingers bleach around a yew wand, with the tightness of the Dark Wizard's grip.

The lesson had started off fantastic.

Harry liked Remus, liked him better when he used the Wassawadi spell on Peeves. He liked practical lessons too, and Remus seemed like a good teacher.

But the second Boggarts were mentioned, Harry froze. Maybe he'd spent too much time around Tom, but the thought of everybody in class knowing his greatest fear horrified him. It seemed like bearing his throat up for attack, because he knew, if he'd done a Boggart lesson with Tom, that the man would forever use that fear against him if he had to.

Snape as Neville's Grandma had admittedly been hilarious, but…

For a long moment, he'd just stared at the Boggart as it stared back at him, still in the form it had previously been. The next second, he was staring back at himself.

Except he looked...different. Broken-eyed, cruel, blood on his hands. He didn't even have time to react before the other him had cast the curse.

Sensitivio Privatio.

Then there was absolutely nothing, but fear.

"I jumped in front of him," Remus said, wearily. "The Boggart shifted, and he seemed to revive. Got back to his feet, and...ran. I banished the Boggart back into the wardrobe, so it wouldn't be left amok with the students when I went after Harry, but by that point he'd already disappeared."

The rage had slid from Riddle's features, and all that was left now was a blank, dangerous sort of neutrality.

"Has anybody seen him since?" His tone was more clipped now.

"No. We've looked, but if he's in the castle, he's very well hidden."

Riddle was silent for a moment, studying him – no pleasantries masking his gaze now. He looked at Remus as if he was something pinned down under a microscope, or onto a corkboard. A clinical sort of expression.

"I'll find him." Then the Dark Lord strode out without another word, leaving Remus with the uneasy feeling that he'd missed something. Been abruptly judged, and found lacking.

He heaved a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face.
He'd informed Dumbledore about Harry's disappearance and the events of the class, tried looking himself but he couldn't find him. Even with all of the knowledge he had about Hogwarts.

Sometimes, he really wished that he still had the map.
Sometimes, he wished a lot of things were different.

Harry knew, realistically, that he should have headed back to the castle.

The sky was dark – and he hadn't realized quite when the darkness had stopped creeping in with the burn of the setting sun, to being palpably present.

The moon hung in the sky, a pale and ethereal slice against the blot of stars. He shivered. He'd cast a warming charm on himself, but he still couldn't seem to heat up.

It couldn't even have been a minute, under that terrible spell, and yet as always it felt like an eternity. Each time, it was so easy to convince himself that it was never going to end. That it was over.

And, for the first time, it made him think about death too. Especially with that Divination class. The Grim.

Ghosts suggested some form of afterlife, or at least consciousness after death…but what if it was nothing?

He found it difficult to believe in Heaven or Hell, and nice but harder still to consider reincarnation in anything but the most scientific matter of decomposition and decay.

Maybe it was irrational, maybe death was peace from pain and torment. Maybe death was seeing the people he'd loved and lost again, and a peaceful flight as soft and white as Hedwig's wings in the night.

But maybe it wasn't.
He didn't know. Maybe it was nothing. Conscious, nothing.

He'd never really got a good look at a dead body.
Hedwig's, yes, but though he loved her dearly that didn't seem the same. A great loss, but not quite the same.

He supposed he'd seen his parents die, though he couldn't remember. He must have in some way caught a glimpse of the Death Eaters too, but not enough to stare at vacant eyes. He just pictured them in his own.

At least, if the light and the brain activity left, it couldn't be like being stuck in his own body, unable to do anything as he rotted in whatever grave he found himself in.

But without a body…there were no senses. He supposed that was why Tom's diary had caused such deprivation in him. He shuddered.

Dying seemed far more difficult a thing, when one considered it wasn't the end.

An end was easy. No consciousness, meant no possibility of suffering. But if it was just another beginning, uncontrolled by him…that was something else.

He could see why someone like Tom would be so scared of dying.

He really should go back to the castle, instead of thinking about this. Comfort himself with a full stomach, and the presence of Ron and Hermione.

They were probably worried.
He'd heard them run after him, but he was faster. He'd always been fast, it was what had spared him with Dudley so often.

He hunched down smaller on himself, blowing gently on his hands.

Going back in, meant facing what had changed.

Over the summer, he'd been kept together by survival. Tom was…tricky, but it was just Tom. Tom alone was, in some way, easy to please. He did his work, and Tom was pleased. He had nobody else's expectations to contend to.

Now there were too many.
He'd forgotten what the Wizarding World was like, what outside was like. Trapped in four walls and a garden, it was easy to idealize the matter.

At the Dursleys too, the Wizarding World always seemed a wonderful, perfect place.
He forgot the bad stuff, because maybe the grass was greener.

He'd forgotten the way they looked at him – such exacting looks from strangers, comparing him up against a standard he hadn't realized was there.

Was he like his father? His mother? Was he an adequate hero? A satisfactory Boy Who Lived? Or was he scum like the Dursleys said he was?

With Tom, there was a way to win. With the whole world, and so many rules, he'd always lose. That much was becoming obvious. He swallowed, thickly.

Freedom to choose could be an awful burden sometimes. It made everything his fault.

He was broken out of his thoughts by the sound of someone yelling his name. Two people, actually.

Fred and George came to settle on either side of him. The silence stretched, tired and thin. There was a piece of paper hanging from Fred's hand, and Harry's head tilted with a disconnected sort of curiosity.

"How did you find me?" His voice was cracked from disuse.

"Was pretty easy. We know everywhere there is to go in Hogwarts," George said, quietly.

"Though I think you've managed to scare everyone else sick," Fred added.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled.

"Did Riddle do something?" Fred asked. Harry shook his head in response for that, giving a small snort.

"It's nothing."

"I always thought sitting on my own at the edges of the Forbidden Forest was nothing," George replied, in a cheerful tone of voice. "Makes me wonder why people don't skip their classes and do it more often."

Harry gave a shaky laugh, and they both looked at him expectantly. It was…touching, really, that they'd bothered to come and find him. Maybe the solid arm they'd wrapped around his shoulders helped too.

Physical contact, of course.

"What's that?" Harry asked, instead, with a gesture at the parchment.

"This, young grasshopper," Fred said, after a moment, seeming willing to drop the matter of exactly what was wrong with him for now.

"Is the secret to our success," George finished. Fred handed it over to him, as Harry stared at the mapin awe. His mood brightened further with fascination.

"Is this-?"

"Hogwarts."

"And everyone in it," Fred added.

"Every minute – or every hour – of every day," they said in unison.

"Wow." It was the best reply Harry could muster, when he was still in a wordless sort of astonishment. "That's amazing, where did you get it?"

"Nicked it from Filch's office of course. First year. Back when we were still young and innocent."

Harry didn't think he could ever imagine the Weasley Twins as 'innocent', but the thought certainly made him smile. And, seeing his own dotted name, it was clear how they'd found him too.

"The Marauders Map," Harry murmured. "That's cool. Who are Messers Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs?"

"No idea," George shrugged. "But he owe them everything."

Harry stared a while longer. He didn't know much about magic, though more than he used to, and this seemed very impressive. He wondered what Tom would think of it. After a moment, he offered it back to the twins.

"Nah," Fred said, pushing his hand back. "You keep it."

"Your needs are probably better than ours," George smiled. "Maybe that way, when you want to sit and think, you don't come freeze out here to avoid everyone. You know, if you need to breathe."

"Thank you," Harry breathed, stunned. "Are you sure-?"

"We know all of its secrets anyway," Fred dismissed. "When you want to use it, just say – I solemnly Swear that I am up to no good."

"And when you're done," George continued, "just give it a tap and say 'Mischief Managed.' Otherwise anyone can read it."

Harry couldn't help but smile back at them.

"Thank you," he said again. They both grimaced, waving a hand as if to chuck the mushy sincerity of it away.

"You can pay us back by coming up to the castle. It's bloody freezing out here, mate."

"Not to mention," Fred added, "Riddle is terrorizing the general populace. I think he made at least five students cry so far."

They were giving him that cautious scrutiny too now, as they spoke about the man. Harry sighed, but stood up on jelly legs.

Then his heart stopped.

"He's angry?" Harry bit his lip. He couldn't take that spell twice in one day, he just…couldn't. His breathing was picking up again, however hard he tried to stop it.

The smiles faded, and they both looked at him with a gravity he rarely saw on their faces.

"Dumbledore won't let him hurt you. You're not alone with him anymore."

For good or bad, Harry supposed that made all the difference now.
Either way, this was going to be a…fun discussion.

Probably best to get it over with.

A/N: First of a 2-part chapter arc, I guess? You know me. But I think I have this story back on track again, which is good. I've decided that if I do skip around, it won't be much. Third year does too much setting up, for fourth year, for me to just ignore it completely. So yeah. And I've thought up some more plans and moments and stuff. I still won't linger on it like forty chapters for a month like the first part was, but nonetheless. Hope you enjoyed this chapter :)

Chapter 44
Tom Riddle didn't like to think of himself as someone prone to worry.

Worry meant that something had gone wrong - that something had happened, or could happen, that he himself hadn't anticipated and planned against.

Worry indicated a lack of control over his surroundings, and the people in them. Worry indicated a threat dangerous enough for fear, whether reasonable or not.

However, if he was a man prone to worry…

He would have been worried about Harry.

The boy looked as pale as death when he shuffled back into the castle, to a concerned greeting party of professors.

Harry's eyes skipped straight over them, and glued to him. It was rather flattering, actually. Though he also knew that Harry wasn't currently fixated on him out of affection.

But one day he would be. Tom would make sure of that.

"Are you alright?" Lupin immediately asked. He took a step forward, only for Dumbledore to place a gentle hand on the DADA teacher's shoulder, as the Headmaster took the lead.

Harry's eyes flicked briefly to the man, before back to Tom.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Dumbledore asked. "You must be cold. Hungry. I'll have some cocoa and sandwiches brought to my office and-"

"I apologize for worrying everyone," Harry interrupted stiffly, tearing his gaze away from him. "But if it's all the same, I think I'd like to just go back to Gryffindor Tower. I don't have much of an appetite."

But enough was enough.

"It's not the same, actually," Tom stepped forward, striding straight past McGonagall and the rest, just as Severus' mouth opened to say something no doubt withering. "My office. Now."

"With all due respect, Mr Riddle," Dumbledore began, "I am the Headmaster. You have no involvement with-"

"I'm sure Harry would agree that I have a rather higher level of involvement with his boggart form," Tom murmured. "Certainly more so than you, Headmaster. Harry, come." He made a gesture with his hand.

Harry stayed rooted to the spot, eyeing him warily.

"Yes, in which case it would be irresponsible of me to allow a clearly traumatized student-" Dumbledore let a kindly hand clamp down on the boy's shoulder, "-to leave with the one suspected of causing-"

"Harry. With me. Now."

He kept his gaze locked on the Light Lord, expecting Harry to be smart enough to obey him. Sure, he could go with Dumbledore and stall speaking with Tom all he wanted, but the consequences would only grow if he did.

Yes, the Light Side were of a kinder sort. A more merciful sort. Which was exactly why Harry should know better than to side with them right now, considering his situation.

There were sharp inhalations at the parseltongue, though no surprise. Of course there wasn't. Most of the students were in bed. Everybody here knew the truth.

"He doesn't have to go with you, if he doesn't want to." One of the Weasley Twins had reared up, wand in hand. They were both practically bristling, incandescent with their righteous fury.

"It's fine," Harry said, quietly. However, instead of the resigned acceptance one might expect in his tone, the docility of the perceived sacrificial lamb, his tone was one of steel.

Tom nearly smiled, before composing himself.

"Harry-" Dumbledore started once more.

"I can handle him. I managed fine on my own all summer. I can manage fine right now. I'm the Boy Who Lived. I'm not going to keel over because of him any time soon."

Tom's eyes nearly twitched with irritation at that particular jab. Harry gave him an entirely too sweet smile in response. Still, he could utterly appreciate the fact that the boy had picked up enough to insult both him and Dumbledore simultaneously. It might not be necessarily a wise move, but he could appreciate the comment nonetheless.

"Harry-" Lupin had started this time, a heavy undertone of guilt in his voice. Harry just squared his shoulders and marched straight past them all, chin jutting up in a seeming illusion of confidence and defiance.

Tom followed.

Tom was unpredictable; that was a fact Harry had acknowledged plenty of times before.

Despite this, it was somewhat unnerving not to be able to get any real read on his mood at all. Harry liked to think he'd got good at navigating the minefield that was Tom Riddle, over the summer.

Though, really, he was starting to think now that he'd touched on the mere tip of the iceberg.

The game was naturally different when he was locked in a house as the Slytherin Heir's prisoner, mercy to his whims without any immediate company or allies to rely on.

It was almost easy to deal with Tom, when Tom was the one in power - because he was indulgent then. Amused in his complete victory. Well, almost easy. Tom was never easy to deal with. He was the Dark Lord, he was a nasty piece of work on all accounts.

But if there was ever a time Harry had the high ground, it was now. And if there was ever a time to assert that, it was now too.

Once they were in Riddle's office, he whipped around to face the other.

God, he couldn't take that curse twice in one day. He couldn't bear it.

"You can't be mad at me," he said. "This is your fault. You should be glad that my boggart was myself casting that spell at me, not you. Then you'd really be in a sticky situation trying to explain why the history teacher would be a boy's worst nightmare. Really, you should be grateful. And you can't yell at me for running off, because that's your fault too. You can't lock someone up for the whole summer and expect me not to go outside to get some air every opportunity. And really, if you're trying to recruit more people than getting mad at me really isn't going to help that from a logical perspective either-"

"Harry, I'm not mad at you," Tom interrupted.

"-and it's not like I was in any danger, so you can't use that as an excuse to kill anyone I care about. I'm not an idiot. I was on Hogwarts grounds, perfectly safe-" His voice was speeding up the more he talked, fists clenching at his sides.

"Harry. I am not going to punish you."

Harry blinked, and came to a stop, dry-mouthed. For a second, he stared at Tom.

"…you're not?"

"Do I have a reason to?" Tom raised his brows.

"No!"

"Well, then," Tom said, a familiar smirk at his lips. "I am not an entirely unreasonable man, Harry. I see little point punishing those who do not deserve it."

Harry had a feeling that Tom would still torture people for the fun of it though. Oh, he'd be honest in a Tom sort of way, and not justify it with punishment or any such thing. But that wouldn't stop him from doing it.

Harry could entirely believe Tom didn't punish people who didn't deserve it. But he could also entirely believe that he hurt people for no reason at all, for his own sadistic delight.

"Couple of deep breaths," Tom continued, after a moment. "There we go."
Harry did as instructed, not even realizing that his breath had been going harsh in his chest at all, with his thoughts. "Better?"

"If you're not intending to punish me, why did you drag me to your office?" Harry questioned warily.

Tom grew serious, and conjured up a plush, soft looking armchair for him. The next second, a house elf had appeared in front of him at a call. Harry nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Fetch us some cocoa, and some supper for Harry here. Perhaps a calming potion would also be advised." Tom waved a dismissive hand.

"Since when do you have a house elf?" Harry blurted out, as the creature vanished again. "Who the hell even thought that was a good idea?"

"It's one of the Hogwarts house elves," Tom said.

"Hogwarts has house elves?"

Tom gave him a look. Harry flushed a little – okay, so maybe that had been a stupid question when he'd literally just seen the proof of his answer.

"Take a seat, Harry."

"If you're trying to reassure me, it's not working." Harry nonetheless sank tensely into the armchair, drumming his fingers in his lap. Tom sprawled in his own chair, reaching forward to place a hand on his, stilling his fidgeting.

He wasn't sure what to do with himself now, though. He'd been fully prepared to go at Tom all guns blazing, to confront pain and intimidation and battle.

He hadn't expected this. Maybe he should have. But he never knew what to do with the Slytherin when he was being 'nice'.

Tom merely hummed in response, studying him with an alarmingly clinical expression. He didn't speak until the house elf had appeared once more, setting down cups of steaming cocoa and a platter of various sandwiches, cold meats and other dinner foods.

"Thank you," Harry smiled to the creature. "What was your name?" The elf's eyes widened with shock, and maybe Harry should have learnt from Dobby but…

"Sookie, sir," the creature replied. Tom dismissed her again, impatiently. Shoved a mug in his direction.

Harry couldn't relax.
Tom's next words proved that was just as well.

"So," the Slytherin Heir said, "why are you so terrified of yourself?"

Harry nearly spluttered.

"I'm not scared of myself, I mean-"

"I am the one who has cast that curse on you," Tom interrupted. "It would have made sense if your Boggart was me, if the sole aspect of your fear was sensory deprivation. However, it wasn't. Your boggart was very specifically yourself. A dark, seemingly murderous version of yourself. So."

That ruthlessly intelligent gaze seemed to sear straight through his skin. Harry chewed on his lip, uncomfortable with the topic. He avoided responding by taking another sweet sip of cocoa. Nibbling on a sandwich. The silence stretched.

Tom's jaw tightened a little, before he seemed to measure his words.

"You like my garden, yes? You liked your owl too? Hedwig?"

Harry's eyes flickered at the comment, not sure what Tom was trying to get at, but the memory of his owl made a cold stone settle in the pit of his stomach.

"Yes, and you killed her-" he snapped.

"-The strong prey on the weak," Tom interrupted, leaning forward again. Eyes aglow. "You see this all of the time in nature, and you don't judge them for it. You see it in the way plants compete for resources. You see it in how your Hedwig presumably hunted and fed on mice. On prey. That is how the world works."

"Yes, but – humans aren't-"

"Humans, whatever sensibilities and masks they put on the matter, work in the same way. You see that quite clearly in the cruelty of children, in how they can scent out the weak and the different immediately," Tom said. "The strong prey on the weak. There is absolutely nothing to fear in being strong, and you should never be afraid of your own strength."

"You're still not going to convince me murdering people is good," Harry mumbled.

"There is no good and evil," Tom replied. "There is only power, and those to weak to seek it. Power rules, Harry. Not morality. Power. Your parents were undoubtedly good people. Good people die just as easily as the wicked, if not more easily. Being good is not going to keep you and the people you care about safe, is it?"

Harry examined his hot chocolate with far greater attention that it really needed.

"Dumbledore is good. And strong. You can't tell me that they have to be mutually exclusive."

"I could personally make arguments against Dumbledore's complete goodness, but nonetheless I'll accept the point," Tom allowed. "There are different types of strength. That does not, however, make one type better than the other. Just like nature has various different types of predator. How does power work?"

Harry stared, utterly confused by the question.

"It…just…does?" He'd had far too long a day for this.

"Power works on hierarchy," Tom said. "On strength. To have power, another person must by necessity lack power. Our whole society is built on power structures, cruel ones, often. It is merely so normalized that you don't notice it."

"No," Harry huffed. "People have power over other people and abuse it, that's-"

"If you wanted something, you can buy it. Yes? You have money. Say the sweet trolley comes along, you can buy as many as you want. Right?"

"I guess so," Harry said, thinking of his first train to Hogwarts.

"And your friend – the Weasleys? Can they?"

An uneasy prickle went down his spine.

"I don't – that's – it's not like I chose to be rich, whilst they were poor-"

"No, you didn't choose it," Tom said, calmly. "But you benefit from the system. You have economic power. They don't. You have money, because they don't. Economic power hierarchy. As you said, you didn't choose it. Having that power is not inherently good or bad. No type of power is inherently good or bad."

Harry felt like his skin was itching.

"What's any of this got to do with Boggarts?" he grumbled.

"There is no point in being scared of your own power, Harry. That is the worst thing you could possibly be scared of. It's not going to go away, just because you don't like it. If you are going to fear power, fear the strength of your enemies. Fear the power that other people have over you. Murder, just like everything else, is an assertion of power. Of will. Of strength. The strong survive. The weak don't. That is the way it has always been, and the way it will continue to be. Moralizing it will not change that. Would you rather stand in a room with the blood of your enemies on your hand, or with the blood on your friends because you were too weak to help them? Too frightened to do what was necessary to get what you wanted? Put in overly simplistic terms, what do you value more - morals, or the people you care about?"

Harry's eyes were wide. The cocoa was turning cold in his hands as he just…listened. Let Tom's words wash over him. He swallowed, thickly.

"I can't help what I'm afraid of. You don't get to pick," he muttered.

"No," Tom agreed. "You don't. But you can understand your fear, and thus better confront it and overcome it. You fear doing to other people the worst things that have been done to you, but that is not going to stop those things from happening."

It would have been easier if Tom had just been mad at him. His head was spinning. Of course, what Tom said wasn't revolutionary of anything, and he knew that the world could be a cruel place, of course he knew that, but…

It was different looking at himself through it though.

He knew he'd been practicing Dark Arts for a while now, but all that time he'd still been, well…afraid of the dark, he supposed. Afraid of what it would do to him. If it would change him, and break him down, and build him anew as someone cold who he didn't even recognize.

But…well. His Boggart had been stronger than him, hadn't it? That was why he got cursed. Because he hadn't won. It wasn't because the Boggart had been dark, and cruel. It had been because the Boggart had been stronger.

For crying out loud, the Boggart should have been defeated with laughter! If anything was a will of light power, it would have been that. But he hadn't done anything with that, either. He'd just frozen on the spot!

Maybe Tom was right. Maybe he shouldn't be scared of darkness, or light. They were his to control. They didn't control him. They were his powers. He should be scared of being so weak that his own powers overwhelmed him. That other people's powers were stronger.

The Boggart Harry hadn't succumbed to the dark. It had been utterly comfortable with it, in a way Harry himself wasn't. Terrified of having power, and abusing it. But what was the alternative?

God, he felt so confused. It must have shown on his face, because Tom reached forward again, squeezing his shoulder with a warm, comforting pressure.

"The sense deprivation, I won't lecture you about," the Slytherin Heir stated. "But you realize why the sense deprivation scares you now, don't you?"

"Without senses, I'm alone and helpless. Weak."
Whether he believed it or not, he knew that was the answer Tom was looking for. Sure enough, the other man gave an approving nod.

"Precisely. Now, eat up."

"We're done?" Harry asked, perhaps a little hopefully. Conversing with Tom could be bloody exhausting.

"Well, I was also going to question why your automatic response to dealing with problems is to run away, but you already answered that," Tom said. Harry snorted.

"Why are you advocating strength so much? Aren't you scared I'll get stronger than you? Surely it suits you better if I'm weak?"

"Stronger in which way?" Tom countered. "There are different ways to be strong. You are a very strong person, Harry. However, what reason do I have to be scared, if your particular brand strength is not a threat to mine?"

"But what if it became a threat?" Harry knew he should stop pushing the subject. He was practically holding his breath. The Slytherin's head tilted slowly, expression blank once more.

"What happens when a great force meets an immovable object?" Tom countered. "A lot of collateral damage. Which you care about far more than me. You're not going to threaten me, Harry Potter. You're smarter than that, aren't you?"

Harry's mouth had gone unbearably dry.

"…goodnight, Tom."

"Goodnight, Harry."

It took rather a long time to shake his sudden chill.

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Lydia Theda, for her birthday. Happy Birthday! Thank you for being a fantastic beta, and putting up with all of my rambling. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Sorry that it's not very birthdayish?

Chapter 45
Harry Potter was a complicated affair.

On a surface level, it would have been easy to simply crush the boy into place, into the mould of the perfect soldier. But that had its costs - costs of rage, resentment and rebellion. Though difficult, Tom believed his own paths of balanced threat and affection were better. More viable in the long term, and with Harry's position as a Horcrux it had to be the long term that he considered.

He had a companion for eternity: that required careful shaping. Tolerating people for an extended period could be difficult, let alone forever. He refused to impose a mask on himself when faced with his own soul, but...

Of course, once Harry was fully settled he would be happy to show him only affection.

Yet whilst he sincerely did want the boy to like him, to come to trust and rely on him if only for the convenience for it...he also couldn't afford to let Harry believe that he could rebel against him. Threaten him.

It was nothing personal. In the long run, it was even kind. He couldn't indulge such a thing now, when he knew the costs Harry would face if he did fight against him.

There had to be boundaries.

It was for both of their good, really. Harry would only set himself out for misery if he insisted on playing the hero.

It would work. He'd seen that with the owl – and if Harry was so swayed by an owl's death, he really wasn't going to risk the lives of his best friends or anyone else so easily. And, if he did, maybe it was a marker that he should be listening to explanations for why Harry would tip his hand so.

If Harry behaved nicely, then Tom honestly did intend to try and keep him as happy as possible. He wasn't unreasonable, as he'd said. Harry was perfectly safe so long as the strength he yielded wasn't in opposition to Tom's own.

That was true for most people.

He adored and respected power, obviously he didn't want to kill off the most talented wizards and witches out there, if he didn't have to. That would hardly do anyone any good. But he would, if he had to.

Sometimes, unfortunately, Sirius Black made him think he had to.

He had no idea how the mutt had managed to escape (again), and in other circumstances he would have been impressed. As it was…the bastard had been sighted near Duff Town.

He was obviously heading to find and protect his beloved godson, though it hardly came across that way when most people believed him to be a mass-murdering traitor.

Harry, certainly, was staring grimly up at the staff table, fists clenched tight.

Dumbledore stood gravely to give a dinner announcement, the next day.

"Due to recent events, and the ministry's request, until further notice the school will be playing host to the Dementors of Azkaban," the Headmaster said. A stir of unease ran through the students. "Until such a time that Sirius Black is captured, the Dementors will be stationed at every entrance to the grounds. I have been assured that their presence will not interrupt our day to day activities, but a word of caution…Dementors are vicious creatures. They will not distinguish between the one they hunt and the one who gets in their way. Give them no reason to harm you. It is not in the nature of a Dementor to be forgiving…"

Maybe Harry wasn't so far off when he likened him to a Dementor.

The air was even heavier now, students frozen in their seats. Dumbledore's face softened.

"But you know," the Headmaster continued, "happiness can be found in the darkest of places, if only one remembers to turn on the light."

Maybe Tom was the only one who thought that was a really pointed metaphor.

"Harry."

Harry turned, a little surprised (though maybe not, considering the circumstances) to find Tom so obviously calling him out as he headed back towards Gryffindor Tower.

His head was spinning with new information, both from their discussions of the day before and the knowledge of Sirius Black potentially coming closer to Hogwarts. To him? Finish what he started in getting his parents murdered? It was possible, and did nothing to reassure him.

Surely Tom could do something, though? He controlled the Death Eaters after all.

It still left a bad taste in Harry's mouth.

Ron and Hermione paused next to him, the former with an ugly scowl on his face as he looked at Riddle. The Dark Wizard crooked a finger to beckon him over, and Harry sighed.

"I'll see you guys in the common room," he muttered. "Save me a seat."

But the fear of yesterday had gone. Of course, thinking about Tom's parting comments too closely still made a cold shudder go down his spine, but…

He had some clarity on the rest of it.

With Tom, it was almost impossible not to be swayed by him during a conversation. He said everything so logically, chipping away at his responses. It wasn't like Harry had ever thought about this before to have some perfectly planned arguments and responses of his own after all!

With some space and time to mull things over, it got a little easier though.

Oh, he didn't suddenly disagree with everything Tom said – if he had been completely opposed to the notion, he would not have been convinced for anything. He didn't think. He hoped.

But whilst he could believe in Tom's lens of the world through power structures, where power, strength and dominance ruled as more important that morality, it didn't necessarily change his behaviour.

There was more than one way to be strong. That was Tom's way. Harry could still find his own brand of strength, of dominance and power.

Whilst strength did imply that somebody had to be weaker, that to him only suggested a greater need to help those weaker than him. To be kind and not abuse any possible authority.

He'd been in the position of the weak too many times before, to be able to just forget about it..,and whilst he knew now that he would fight to never go back to that way again, that didn't mean he should become the person he had once hated to be ruled by.

Uncle Vernon's dominion was a torment he would never wish on anybody.

Strength did not mean someone couldn't be good. Knowing you couldn't win the battle, didn't mean that you should just surrender without fighting at all.

Tom's hand closed on his shoulder, to steer him away from the stream of students and out of immediate earshot. Harry still shifted a little uncomfortably on his feet, but the blind panic had gone.

Tom was strong. But Harry wasn't weak either, and if he was then he could get stronger. There was no point fearing the consequences of his power, when there was equally as much to fear in being vulnerable.

It was Tom's power that he should take note of, and what the Dark Lord could do with it.

If Harry had been stronger first, none of this would ever have happened anyway.

"Can't you just call him off?" he said, immediately, in regards to Black. "You're the Dark Lord."

And then, the Dementors would leave too if Black was caught. Harry had yet to even see one, but he didn't want to either from what little he'd heard about them.

"I want you to promise me that you will not go looking for Black," Tom replied instead, giving his shoulder a squeeze. Harry blinked, brow furrowing a little, even if the hot surge of potential vengeance seared suddenly through his blood.

He hadn't considered looking before Tom said it, but…

"I mean it," Tom squeezed tighter, apparently catching something in his expression. "You're getting to be a good duellist, but you're not ready for that. As you said, I am the Dark Lord. Let me deal with him first, alright?"

Harry stared back for a moment, and Tom raised his brows a little demandingly.

"Alright?" The Slytherin repeated.

"Alright," Harry relented.

"Good boy." Tom gave a sharp nod, letting go of his shoulder. Harry rubbed it idly, still watching Tom for a moment. Feeling a familiar, damned warmth flare in his stomach at the approval. "How are you feeling?" Riddle continued after a few seconds too.

"Fine?"

"Did you think about what I said?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And I'm still thinking about it," Harry hedged. His mind was occupied with Dementors now, with the problem of Black temporarily solved. "How do you control them?"

"The Death Eaters?"

"The Dementors," Harry said. Tom's eyes flickered a little with surprise.

"The Dementors are not a threat to you. You're under my protection, you don't need to worry about them. I'll look after you, remember?"

Harry picked at a loose thread in the sleeve of his robes.

"…but how do you do it? You're not always there. It seems like a useful thing to know."

The one thing he'd become absolutely certain of during his acquaintance with Tom was that he didn't want to rely on anybody's protection. Not anymore. Being looked after was nice, but first and foremost he needed to be able to look after himself.

Tom studied him for a long minute, eyes narrowed slightly.

"There is a…charm. A Patronus charm, that acts as a defence against them."

"Can you teach me?" Harry asked eagerly. "Just in case," he added. Tom seemed rather pro independent learning, and independence generally, but Harry wasn't an idiot. Not as much as he had been at the beginning of summer. He knew Tom too well.

Tom didn't want him so independent that he no longer needed to depend on him for anything, that the ties between them broke. It was a careful balancing act, because he knew the Dark Lord liked to see him learning spells and using his power too.

Maybe it was the same with Dumbledore, though Dumbledore never offered him information at all in comparison to Tom who did actually answer his questions most of the time.

"It's Light Magic."

"So?" Harry blinked at the response.

"You remember I said that though dark and light magic is all about how you use it, but some people have more of an affinity to one than the other?" Tom folded his arms. "I'm a Dark Lord."

Harry stared, surprised by what could almost been a flush on the back of Tom's neck.

"…you can't do light magic?"

Tom seemed so infallible, that it seemed a shock to find anything that the Slytherin couldn't do. Tom's jaw clenched.

"I wouldn't go that far-"

"Is it a matter of if you learn Dark Magic, you can't learn Light?" Harry asked, curious and a bit nervous of the implications of that. "Like, you have to pick one? And you picked Dark?"

"It depends on the person. Regardless, you do not need to learn the Patronus Charm. I can handle it," Tom said. His tone was rather terse.

It would be horribly sadistic, vindictive of Harry to be amused…

He was amused.

Tom glared.

Once the swing of the new School Year had truly started, Harry got stuck in quickly.

If he'd thought he'd been busy every other year, it was nothing to how he felt now. It was extremely busy, especially considering he'd spent most of his summer in one place.

Honestly, he was exhausted. Evenings doing homework and socializing, or having Occlumency lessons with Snape, or having 'tea with Dumbledore' in his office as the man had become prone to inviting him.

Then, to top it off, he spent most of the day on the weekends with Tom, or rather Tom's Death Eaters, learning various different skills.

His duelling had improved massively under a combination of Bellatrix and Tom's teaching. Narcissa Malfoy had taken it upon herself to teach him more about Pureblood traditions and etiquette, which led to him talking more with Draco at school too.

Things with the student population seemed to be winding up and up, as opposed to settling. The other Slytherins hadn't particularly engaged him in conversation yet, but he was getting the feeling that they would soon as their initial period of assessment came to an end.

The tension was bound to snap soon somewhere.

He'd been at Hogwarts almost a month now – Halloween was fast approaching and Harry had to admit he was starting to crash a little bit.

On the plus side, he was slowly getting better at Occlumency, and all the extra work and studying he did with the Dark Side was paying off as a more detailed and better understanding of magic meant that his homework no longer took him so long which was a mercy.

He was starting to wonder about maybe learning some light arts too, but he wasn't sure who to ask. He was considering asking Dumbledore next time he saw him for tea and lemon drops. Just to make sure things remained even.

Except that was even more work, and less breathing space; though he knew it would do him good in the long run.

Still.

If Tom really did have trouble with Light Arts, then strategically whichever side he ended up on, it was in his best interest to learn it. Either to defend it as a possible weak point on Tom's behalf, or to exploit it against him.

Harry sighed, pushing the thought away for now. He'd never been so glad that he didn't have to choose a side yet, because he could feel the lines blurring like wet watercolours around him.

Not that he believed in Blood Purity…but some of Tom's ideas weren't bad, and it would admittedly be pretty great if magical folk could live freely and without secrecy.

He'd also ran into Luna again - the strange girl he'd met fishing in the river, who'd taken him to get ice cream sundaes with her father.

She was nice. Just as strange as he'd remembered, but nice; she didn't seem to have any particular judgement on his situation which was even nicer. Even Ron and Hermione judged him for the whole learning Dark Arts thing; especially Ron.

He'd been spending some time trying to teach Hermione some of the spells he'd picked up too. Ron would never stick around for that though.

Either way, it all accumulated to a whole lot of hectic but at least he had Quidditch today.

Maybe if they won, Wood would finally stop trying to murder them all with the amount of Quidditch practise he was putting them through.

And maybe the odd attitude of the Slytherins and the other houses would break when they beat the snakes on the field. Even in the terrible weather of the day.

He couldn't wait for the holidays and a break.

The weather was foul. Disgusting.

Draco could barely see his hand in front of his face, buffeted from side to side by vicious howls of wind and lashings of rain as he flew.

It was damn near impossible to see the snitch.

He was frozen to the bone, and sincerely wished he could have played another day. He could admit, privately in the recesses of his mind, that Harry Potter was a tough opponent to have in Quidditch. A very good seeker.

In weather like this? If Potter wasn't recently linked up with the Dark Lord, he was certain that there would have been plans to knock the third year Gryffindor straight off his broom, or to injure him beforehand. As it was.

All they could do was play, with too many time outs and the growing dread that the game would last into the stormy night.

He would have been quite happy to see Potter get hit by a bludger, or tossed off the broom because he was so skinny and light.

He would never have wanted what happened next. Especially not in the light of their truce. Besides, he wanted to beat Potter fair and square. To prove he could, without cheating, foul play or anything.

Such a stupidly Gryffindorish sentiment.

Everything went cold. Fear crept through his veins like ice, everything seizing up as they hurtled after the Snitch in the darkness. Surrounded by flashes of lightning, and…hooded creatures.

Was this one of the Dark Lord's plans?

It was overwhelming. The swarm of memories in his head, the ugly moments and the crushing sense that cheerfulness was lost forever. It had been bad on the train – he'd thrown up, honestly, then. But this was a million times worse.

The Dementors swarmed the pitch.

And Harry fell.

Tom hated Quidditch, frankly. There was no other way to put it.

He'd never been the greatest fan of sport, and Quidditch despite the magic involved was hardly inspiring. In this weather it was difficult to see the players, let alone the balls or any potential skills.

There was no skill to be had in this weather, with amateur teams. It was mind numbing. It would have been interesting watching Harry fly, except out of all the players the boy was probably least visible. Drowned out in cloud and rain and wind.

But either way, here he was – mercifully cloaked in heating charms and various other spells in a futile effort to get a comfortable viewing experience. Trying not to think of all the better things he could be doing with his time.

Dealing with the Death Eaters. Catching up with marking. Catching up with the modern world and its history. Honing his own skills further and studying the numerous fields of magic that enthralled and fascinated him.

The Dementors were a nice break to the monotony really: though he had no idea why they were there.

At least, it was quite amusing watching students scream as the Dementors glided and swooped through the air like phantoms of misery…

Until Harry fell.

His heart hammered, as he surged to his feet eyes widening with horror, wand already hitting the palm of his hand. To catch him, or slow his currently fatal downward spiral.

He'd blame the Dementors for the cold in his chest, for the sickening image of Harry crumpled on the floor dead, limbs broken and twisted in odd angles for a misshapen doll.

Would blame the Dementors for the lack of joy it gave him, the way that for a second he could barely think straight with the blood curdling sentiment of it all. Barely able to breathe through the sudden lack of air, and the bile in his throat.

Even as Harry started to slow, one of the Dementors swooped down…

Dumbledore was charging onto the pitch, Patronus already forming silvery from his wand-

And the Dementor caught him. Caught Harry right in its rotting, clammy hands, pressed against a hooded robe as it seemed to look down on him for a moment, a few metres from the ground.

Then it drifted over to him, arms out in offering.

He blinked. Of course, he'd allied with the Dementors, but this…what was this? And it hardly helped his cover, but he didn't want Harry to have crashed into the sodden ground either.

He held his own arms out automatically, to accept the unconscious boy. Felt the chill of him seep straight through his heating charms.

Harry was unconscious – though he had no idea what exactly had happened. Face lax. He seemed shrunken in his arms, smaller than he'd ever been and so terribly fragile all of a sudden.

"Thanks," he said, automatically, to the creature. Harry still had his soul, didn't he? He looked down at his charge, only for that rotting hand to catch his cheek, putrid mouth pressed against his cheek in some terrible mimic of a kiss. And he knew what a Dementors kiss did on the mouth.

He shuddered involuntarily at the sensation of it. It was as if someone had dragged their tongue across his soul, if he was to describe the sensation. An icy tongue, that slammed him with every bad moment he'd ever felt.

His knees buckled. It was only Lupin grabbing onto his arm - staring at him aghast and at Harry with a nauseous fear - that stopped them both from crashing into the stands.

Tom swiped drenched strands of hair away from Harry's forehead, mind spinning. His vision hazed around the edges. The Dementor glided away, the others chased off by the frantic Headmaster.

"Riddle – Tom?"

He realized distantly that Lupin had called his name more than once, that he must have if he was calling him 'Tom', if he almost sounded concerned…

His ears were ringing.

He looked up at the man, before back at Harry. Shoved the weakness in his limbs and the dizziness back with gritted teeth.

"I'm taking him to the hospital wing." .

He had a sinking feeling that he hadn't thought the Dementor situation over properly.

Why had they even been there?

Slytherin winning the match was hardly a consolation.

A/N: Enjoy :) Hopefully. Thanks for the reviews, much appreciated. I shall now retreat back to the hell that is my uni work and the screenplay I have due tomorrow. Wish me luck!

Chapter 46
Harry felt like he'd been frozen alive.

His mind was bleary, screams echoing in his ears.

"Not Harry! Please…have mercy….have mercy…"

His eyes opened to white. It took him far too long to realize that he was in the Hospital Wing. The last thing he remembered was the match – the hooded creatures and the spreading cold.

He sat bolt outright, drenched in cold sweat and feeling nauseous.

"Is she alright?

"Is who alright?" Ron caught hold of him, as if to ease him back into the bed where he'd sprang up.

Harry blinked, utterly disorientated as he looked around the room.

"The woman?" he clarified. "She was screaming."

Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the mud-splattered Gryffindor Quidditch Team were all crowded around the bed. Professor Lupin was standing to the side too, and he really had no idea what had just happened.

He saw Tom there too, leaning against the wall, looking dreadfully clammy.

They were all staring at him.

"…what happened, Harry?" Hermione asked after a moment.

Did none of them hear the screaming? He felt even more unnerved, shoulders stiffening, eyes darting around the room.

He had no idea what was going on here, and something of that must have shown on his face.

"The Dementors…came on the pitch. We don't know what happened to you. You fell off your broom and…" Ron shifted uncomfortably.

"And the match?" Harry demanded. "What happened? Are we doing a replay?" None of the team would look at him. Didn't say anything. "We didn't – lose?"

"Malfoy got the Snitch. Just after you fell."

Explained why Wood wasn't there. Harry's head was still spinning trying to figure everything out. Had those hooded figures been Dementors then? God, it was worse than he'd even imagined, and he hadn't had the pleasantest mental picture in the first place.

"Did…did nobody else fall off their broom or anything?" It wasn't that Harry wanted to see people hurt, but he suddenly felt rather pathetic. Pathetic and small and cold. Losing Quidditch didn't help.

"Perhaps it would be best to give Mr Potter some time to recover from his ordeal," Madame Pomfrey suggested. Harry's eyes darted to her, and consequently to Tom too.

"There's some chocolate on the bedside," Lupin stated. "Eat. You'll feel better."

"But who was screaming?" he asked again.

"Nobody was screaming, Harry," Hermione said softly, nervously. Harry twisted his duvet in his fingers, heart hammering in his chest.

He'd heard screaming.

Was he going mad or something? Automatically, stupidly, he found himself seeking out Tom's gaze, as if the young Dark Lord could somehow have the answers. He knew about Dementors and dark things, didn't he? He was the Dark Lord.

And bloody hell, what had happened to Tom? He really did look terrible, and that wasn't normal. Tom hated weakness; he would do anything to avoid showing it in himself.

There was no one crowded around the Slytherin Heir.
It made Harry wonder how bad he himself must look. Made him wonder again what had happened after he had blacked out.

"Dementors…invite you to remember your worst memories," Tom stated, causing everyone else to turn to look at him too. Look between them as well. "Even those you don't necessarily remember consciously."

"I don't understand. Why would I hear a woman scream –" His world ground to a halt. Realization hit. "Oh."

"What?" Ron asked. "Harry, mate, you've gone white as sheet, what-"

"My…uh…I would have heard-"

"He remembered the night his parents were murdered," Tom filled in. The room went very quiet, awkwardly so. Harry swallowed. Took a bite of the chocolate to distract himself and felt warmth start to spread through him again, quelling his shivering.

Lupin looked like he was about to be sick.

Eventually the room started to clear, after the whole team assured him it wasn't his fault that the match had been lost. That they still had a chance at winning the cup.

Thank god he had his Firebolt, because apparently his Nimbus had been destroyed. He felt a pang of loss, probably utterly out of proportion. Like he'd lost one of his friends. He shrank huddled further into his duvet, sipping the cocoa Pomfrey had thrust upon him.

Lupin had told him Dumbledore would be coming to see him soon, after he had the school settled and the situation entirely dealt with.

It was only then that he realized Tom had stayed behind in the room, unnaturally quiet and subdued in his corner. Harry only noticed him when he came closer, settling by the bed where he rested.

Harry studied his hands with great detail.

"Are you alright?" They both froze when they realized they'd said it at the same time, and Tom's jaw tightened a little, expression hard and cold.

It wasn't as intimidating as it should have been, considering Tom looked like even a summer breeze might have blown him over right now.

"I'm – fine," Harry said. "I think. What happened? You look terrible."

Tom blinked at him, eyes a bit dark at the comment and Harry grimaced.

"I'm fine. The Dementor caught you as you fell. I had believed I made it clear you were one of those people considered under my protection. It seemed they may have…been a little selective in their strict adherence to my orders."

What a strange thing it was, to be under the Dark Lord's protection. Harry ate some more chocolate, before offering a piece to the Slytherin. Tom stared at him for a moment, and Harry started to lower the bar feeling like he'd done something wrong, when the older boy accepted a piece.

Tom seemed to relax a fraction into the chair by his bed. Harry still felt mortified that he'd fainted.

"I never took you as somebody to sit by bedsides. I'd assume you would find it a waste of your time," he said, instead. Maybe because he sort of knew the comment would make Tom squirm.

Riddle shot him a foul look that rivaled the Dementor's chill, before he turned clinical.

"I said I would look after you."

Harry went back to staring intently at his hands again at that. Picking at the duvet. Nibbling chocolate. Anything that didn't involve looking at Tom seemed a good idea. He cleared his throat.

Of course, Tom had said that…but part of Harry hadn't expected him to mean it. Had expected it to be something said out of manipulation, whilst it was just them in the house. He didn't expect it to carry outside of mere words.

"Stand aside, you silly girl…stand aside…"

"He asked her to stand aside," Harry murmured. "Voldemort. She was pleading with him not to kill me."

He could feel Tom's eyes sharp and heavy upon his face, but he didn't look up at him. He could practically hear Tom measuring his next words.

"He was there for you." Riddle murmured the conclusion that had been lurching sickeningly through Harry's own mind. After all, if Voldemort told his mother to stand aside, it suggested she had never been the target…it suggested that it was his fault.

The chocolate felt like it was going to hurtle back out of his throat.

"Do you know why? I – you're him, too. A little bit at least." God, Harry didn't even know anymore, but he looked up at Riddle again finally. "Why did he do it?" He hated the barely noticeable crack in his voice.

"How is it that a boy manages to escape with nothing but a scar when the greatest Dark Wizard of the time was destroyed?" Tom countered, oh so softly.

Which basically came down to the fact that neither of them actually knew what had happened that night, despite their positions. Harry almost wanted to laugh.

"I suppose you're glad that Slytherin won the match."

"It's not your fault, you know." Tom's voice was even more neutral than before. Harry shrugged.

"Yeah, they told me. Dementors not supposed to be there, unexpected-"

"I'm not talking about the Quidditch Match."

Harry froze on the spot at the statement. His hands curled tightly into fists.

"You said it yourself – he came there for me. I was the target, just like I was with you in the Chamber."

People seemed to keep getting hurt because of him, and he hated it. He absolutely hated it and it was just another reason why he had to be strong and –

"Ow!" Harry rubbed his arm at the pain of the stinging hex, twisting to glare at Tom furiously. Tom glared right back at him, and Harry's shoulders squared defensively. "What was that for?"

Tom simply hexed him again, on the neck this time and Harry yelped, hand going for his wand. Fear crept up his spine.

"Stop it! Protego."

Tom thumped him on the leg instead - flicked Harry's wand out of his hand in a split second when he started to curse, growing increasingly terrified. Harry was about to scramble back as far away as possible from the Slytherin before Riddle caught hold of his shoulders, tight enough to bruise. His expression was hard, demanding attention and for a second Harry was back at the beginning of the summer.

"You cannot control my actions. What on earth thinks you – especially at the age of one when you would not even be able to tell me to stop – could possibly have any bearing or influence on my counterpart?"

Harry nearly gaped.

"I don't you – you – "

"The victim does not provoke attack. If they did, they would not be a victim, they would be a punished party and though god knows you can be an irritating little moron at the best of times I'm pretty sure that as a toddler it was not your fault. You were not old enough to have any active influence on the decision. To argue you that Voldemort's actions are your fault is deeply insulting. Or are you suggesting that I would be so weak as to surrender my personal agency to a child?"

Harry blinked.

"What's agency?"

"Free will. Autonomy. A being's right to choose and act independently."

"Oh." Harry chewed on his lip, eyeing Tom, not sure if he should be feeling wary or…comforted. Of course, Tom probably wasn't saying it particularly out of niceness but…

"Eat some more chocolate, Potter."

Of course, that still left him wondering why Voldemort had attacked a baby, if like Tom said he had been so generally powerless and not a threat to the man. His brow furrowed.

Then Dumbledore walked in.

Tom had immediately surged on his feet when the Light Lord entered, despite the wretched clammy weakness that insisted on pervading his limbs still.

The chocolate had helped though.

He felt Harry stiffen a little on the bed, gaze shifting between him and Dumbledore as if waiting for an explosion. Dumbledore stared at the two of them in turn, expression composed. Then he gave a kind smile, and seemed to melt into that friendly Grandfather persona of his.

Tom sat down again on his side of Harry's bed, just because he knew it would irritate the manipulative old coot.

"How are you feeling, Harry?"

"I'm fine, sir," Harry said. He was still looking between them. Tom couldn't help but rest one hand on Harry's leg idly where the boy lay on the bed between them. Harry's gaze shot to him at that.

Dumbledore's eyes didn't quite flash at the possessive gesture, the claim of inevitable victory, but he leaned forward a little.

"I have ensured that the Dementors will not be returning to the Quidditch Pitch. They should not have been so far onto the grounds in the first place, I am sorry."

"It's fine, sir," Harry said again.

"Hardly," Tom gave his leg a squeeze. "You could have been hurt. You nearly died, you fell from fifty feet high. It was irresponsible."

Harry gave him another look at the comment.

"You are, of course," Dumbledore said in a mild tone of voice that whittled to a barb, "the primary investor in Harry's wellbeing. You would never hurt him, would you Tom?"

Tom could feel the rage boiling inside of him, so tightly controlled, threatening to snap.
He would never have thought being a Dark Lord and a teacher would be such a stressful combination.

Harry grabbed hold of his hand, leaning in towards him.

"Only when I deserve it," the boy said.

They both stared at the boy. He knew what Harry was doing of course, trying to diffuse the tension in the air, to stop anything from happening before it started – the boy had proven himself to be surprisingly (or perhaps unsurprisingly, considering his position as a Horcrux) attuned to his emotions. He thought this would please him, cool his temper, it was obvious.

Manipulative, pandering brat.

Dumbledore was watching them both carefully. Tom carded his free hand through Harry's hair, delighting to see the old man suppress a flinch at the gesture.

"Nobody deserves to be punished, Harry," the Headmaster stated. "Least of all a child."

"Should have left him with different relatives then," Tom replied, not missing a beat. Harry sighed – with a rather pointed loudness.

"I'm still in the room, you know." The Gryffindor's temper and patience for power play seemed to have been stretched to a limit. Dumbledore's looked a little surprised, and Tom barely refrained from smirking. "So could you both stop it. It's getting annoying."

"Ah," Dumbledore said, gently amused it seemed once he got over his initial shock at Harry actually apparently fully following everything that was going on. "Sorry, m'boy."

Harry huffed, before looking at him. Tom raised his brows.

"If you're waiting for an apology, you're not getting one."

"Wow," Harry said. "Charming." Of course, the boy still seemed troubled, a shadow to his gaze along with a general air of exhaustion, but that was to be expected. The Gryffindor looked back to Dumbledore again, and Tom resisted the urge to tighten his grip.

Just about.

"Hermione said you made the Dementors on the pitch go away with a spell. The Patronus Charm, right?"

"Very good, Harry. That's advanced magic," Dumbledore began. Harry waved a hand as if to dismiss the praise of that as irrelevant, though Tom noted with some irritation that he was growing more cheerful.

He already knew Harry was susceptible to the lures of praise and approval, but it still annoyed him to see the boy eager to please somebody else. Especially when that somebody was Albus Dumbledore.

"Could you teach me?" Harry persisted with his original point.
The request came as no surprise, he'd expected Harry to ask and it was only a small consolation that Harry had asked him to teach him first before he went to the light side.

But that only made it itch more that the Patronus Charm was beyond his repertoire. He kept his expression even.

"Of course," Dumbledore said, warmly. "I know Remus – that is to say, Professor Lupin, would be happy to assist you too. He was good friends with your father, you know."

He could practically feel Harry perk up at that. It made him want to curse something.
For all the boy's apparent perceptiveness of power plays, he seemed infuriatingly oblivious to them now.

Tom had many advantages, he knew, but…

He did not have Light Magic. And whilst he could make some claims for Harry's desires for love and family, he could not so easily compete with Harry's family history and their position firmly on the light side.

Blue eyes twinkled at him, maddeningly.

"I didn't know that," Harry said. "He didn't tell me." The boy went thoughtful for a moment, before smiling. "Thank you, sir."

"It was no problem, my boy."

Allying with Dementors were supposed to aid his problems, not give him more!

He needed something to balance the board again.

Losing was not an option, no matter the cost.
Harry woke up alone in the silent, dark Hospital Wing – Pomfrey had insisted on keeping him there for observation.

Or rather, he should have woken up alone. He could hear a rustling noise, quiet footsteps in the dark. He stayed very still in his sheets, hand creeping towards his wand.

What if the Slytherins, or someone who thought he was going-dark-side-devil-spawn figured they'd attack him whilst he was vulnerable in bed?

Maybe he'd spent too much time around Tom. He listened again, forcing his breathing to remain heavy and even like he was still asleep.

No, definitely footsteps. He braced himself, eyes squeezed shut – trying to debate the best course of action. Attack, and alert them to his presence and consciousness. Stay still, risk that they'd curse him at a distance.

The footsteps entered his part of the wing, and Harry didn't hesitate to try and curse first.

The next second a hand had slammed over his mouth, muffling his spell and any possible yells, another arm clamped around his thrashing torso.

In the light of the moon, he caught wild dark hair, and glinting eyes that seemed somehow familiar.

A whisper in his ear: "I just want to talk to you. My name is Sirius Black, I am your Godfather, and I really think you will want to listen to me for just a minute."

Harry's eyes widened.

A/N: Muhahahaha. But no, seriously, was the talk with Tom and Harry too fluffy? Or Dumbledore and Tom too obvious and so coming across as a bit stupid?

PS: This story is still not slash.

Chapter 47
"Now," Black continued, in his ear. "Are you going to attack me if I let go of you?"

Harry shook his head against the hand over his mouth, even as he felt the tension spark in his bones. Fire spread through his limbs to combat the lingering cold of the Dementors.

Sirius Black betrayed his parents to Voldemort.

The second the bastard had let go of him, he'd twisted and slammed his knee into Black's groin.

There was no room for magic, the thought didn't even occur, nor did screaming for help. There was no room for fear either. The second Black doubled over, wheezing in pain, Harry lunged for his throat - sending them toppling to the floor.

It didn't matter that Black was a fully grown man, and he was a thirteen year old boy skinny by even those standards. He just started to squeeze, livid.

He could feel his blood pounding in his head.

Then he remembered his magic, his wand; starting to slash it down. For once, defence was the last thing on his mind. It wasn't like with the Death Eaters, he wanted to do it. He wanted to end the man's miserable life for what he'd done and could barely breathe with the hate of it.

The spell went awry as the man shifted beneath him, twisting and – and he was staring at a dog.

A very familiar black dog, with familiar eyes.

That was – how – Harry wasn't sure if he should be even more furious, or what. But the shock of it was enough to stop him from casting again so quickly, to hold him in place with a sudden thirst of questions too.

For a second, it felt like he'd simply been short circuited.

His mind cleared, just a little bit, as they both panted for breath.

Had Tom known? Considering how careful Tom was, he must have known. But Black hadn't attacked him then. He had no idea what was happening.

Black had said he was his godfather.

But he'd sold his parents to Voldemort. He was the reason they were dead!

Harry swallowed, as the dog – Timmy – Sirius – flattened himself against the ground in a sign of submission, looking up at him. Not whining, just waiting.

Now he knew why the eyes were familiar.

Harry was immediately disorientated; conflicted with everything he knew of Sirius Black, but also the other things that weren't making sense. He exhaled a sharp breath, managed to hold his hand steady enough to aim his wand at the ex-convict once more.

Noted that, despite opportunity then and now, Black had done nothing to attack him. Had gone out of his way, put himself at risk, to avoid attacking him now – even if it was to disarm him.

"Start explaining," he ordered, voice low. "Now."

Dog became man, and the words started to stream out. Peter Pettigrew. Secret Keepers and hiding. Animagus. Set ups. Riddle.

Harry felt sick.

"I think you, of all people," Sirius said carefully, "understand what it is like to be accused of a crime you didn't commit."

The whole incident with the Slytherin Heir flashed through his mind then. The way that people looked at him, how horrible it felt not to be believed.

Harry's hand started to waver, wand lowering, before he snapped it up again.
His head was spinning.

"Do you have any proof?"

He didn't know much about what had happened, about Peter Pettigrew or anything, but…

He knew best of all how people were not always what they seemed on the surface. Bile wedged in his throat.

Black shook his head.

"Only my memories until I find Pettigrew. I could show you them, but-"

"How do you show someone memories?" Harry asked, distracted for a split second, before he dismissed it. Studied Black warily where he stood in front of him, in the darkness.

He believed him. Harry came to that realization, abruptly.
But just because he believed him, didn't make the situation easier. Actually, it did the opposite.

How could Dumbledore let an innocent man rot in Azkaban with the Dementors for twelve years?

"Why wasn't there a trial?" he asked, instead.

"Voldemort was gone. The war was over. People didn't want to linger on what had happened," Sirius said, quietly. "I was in shock, and Peter had set up the evidence convincingly against me. That, and I do believe my family history worked against me. The Blacks exactly don't have a history of supporting the light."

But that didn't explain why Dumbledore hadn't done something.

"Why didn't you tell me who you were before?" Harry's voice cracked a little. Alone, with Tom, it would have been nice to have someone he knew was on his side.

He'd heard the story, or at least a story, of how Sirius had come to be his dog. He didn't ask to see the man's left arm, though the thought of it only confused him more.

Sirius tugged a hand through greasy, tangled hair, looking tired. Exhausted, really.

"Given your situation, it didn't seem wise," Black stated. "Being a dog was the only way I could reliably be there for you."

Harry's throat tightened at that, fingers flexing at his sides. His bare feet had gone cold against the floor of the hospital wing.

"Tom would have killed you if you interfered."

Sirius said nothing to that, which suggested it was true – though Harry had always known that. Riddle had shown himself to be ruthless in getting what he wanted, unkind to those who got in his way.

Tom, to some extent, shared him with the Light side right now but Harry didn't think he could expect that tolerance to last forever.

It was obvious it wouldn't, in the way Tom's possessiveness seemed to spark around Dumbledore…and, honestly, he was terrified what would happen when Tom finally snapped on the matter.

He exhaled another sharp breath.

"You're doing well, Harry." The words made him look up again, surprised by how Sirius' expression had softened entirely. "I'm sure James would be proud of you. Lily too. I know I am."

Harry's chest seized, and all of a sudden he couldn't breathe. He didn't think anyone had ever said that to him; definitely not now, when everything was so uncertain.

It was awkward, coming from Sirius Black, in the middle of the night when he'd just met the man and his thoughts were still reeling from all that he'd learnt, but..

"I'm just doing what I have to do," he muttered. "Anyone would do the same."

"No, they wouldn't. I was in that house with you, Harry," Black stated. "I know what it was like. It is remarkable how strong you've stayed and someone should say it."

Harry's cheeks coloured, and he folded his arms across his chest.

"Tom's not so bad."

He said it half to see how Sirius would respond, and saw the hesitation easily. The urge to protest, to preach the utter immorality of the Dark Lord in everything he had done.

"…I suppose caring about him is a natural response to your situation. You shouldn't feel bad about it," Sirius allowed. Now Harry really was staring; not sure if he was more shocked at the whole traitor-twist or at Black's attitude towards current events.

His head tilted. Sirius obviously caught something in his expression, and grimaced.

"I didn't say I think he deserves it…but I know why you would. I'm not going to shame you for something you can't help," the man added. "All my family was dark. I know what it's like."

Harry's mouth felt unbearably dry. He swallowed again, the words echoing in his head. He didn't want to consider them, or how things were with Tom.

The lines between manipulation and something more real had blurred horribly in his mind, though he couldn't help but persist with the method now that he'd started.

"Why are you telling me now then?" He remembered the question suddenly, and for a moment Sirius appeared startled. "You must be here for a reason."

"I..." his godfather suddenly looked about as awkward as he himself felt. "Well, your situation has changed, and considering everything going on I imagined it might make you feel better to know I'm not actually trying to kill you."

Had…Black been worried for him?

"And," Sirius hesitated, "I thought maybe if I could prove my innocence to you and everyone else…well, I don't know if anyone ever told you, but James…uh, I'm your legal guardian."

It was too much all at once. Harry's eyes widened.

Confusion, hope erupting in his chest, and then fear and everything else.

"Of course, you don't have to," Black continued quickly. "You have your Aunt and Uncle, and-"

"I can't leave Tom," Harry interrupted, shoulders hunching defensively. "We have a deal." It was best not to even think about it. He couldn't leave, even if he wanted to, no matter what people said on the matter.

He'd come to the conclusion that Tom Riddle was not someone he could confront so directly. Not yet. It would be like punching concrete – he'd do more damage to his own fist, than he would do to Tom.

Magically, he was not at Tom's level. Physically, he was not at the older boy's level.

He couldn't win like that. He could learn to, but to try now would be stupid.

This wasn't a Gryffindor fight; he'd known that since the start.

"I'm just saying that you have options," Sirius said. "You don't have to be alone in this. You don't have to stay with him, if you don't want to."

Harry wanted to laugh. Awfully. Options? Maybe. But it wasn't that easy, and whatever else he felt, he felt alone in this.

He wasn't at Hogwarts because Dumbledore had found and rescued him. He was here because Tom wanted it, and because of his own skills of negotiation.

But Tom didn't care about the collateral damage.

"I'll look into Pettigrew. Not in the least because I'd like to see the real traitor punished," he said, not looking at the man now. "You should go before they catch you."

Sirius hesitated again.

"Be careful, Harry. He can transform into a rat, and he's missing a toe. Don't do anything stupid. Leave it to me."

After a while, he was left alone with his ringing thoughts and the silent Hospital wing.

He didn't get a drop of sleep.

"Miss Granger, if you could stay behind," Riddle called out.

Hermione went rigid on the spot. Harry was still in the Hospital Wing, about to be released tomorrow once Pomfrey and everyone was sure that the Dementor's had left no lasting damage to him, considering the severity of his reaction.

She suspected Pomfrey just wanted to make sure Harry got some time off too – her best friend had seemed increasingly tired of late.

But that really wasn't her priority this second.

Ron had turned puce next to him.

"Don't," he said.
Hermione hesitated.

Of course, he was a Dark Lord known specifically for hating and killing muggles and people like her…but this was a school. The teachers wouldn't just let him kill a student.

Well, he had managed to get away with killing Myrtle, and with the whole basilisk affair last year too.

But it was different now. Dumbledore wouldn't stand for it, given the new situation. Harry wouldn't either. Too many people knew Riddle's true identity now. He was a teacher, she couldn't just ignore him either.

She didn't know.

"Miss Granger," the Dark Lord repeated, with some more steel behind his friendly façade now. "It's about your academics."

Apparently she knew exactly what she was thinking, what she was wary about.

She was a Gryffindor! She shouldn't be standing here terrified to talk to him outside the safe parameters.

But to talk to him outside of those was to talk to Lord Voldemort, and that was a stupid thing to do!

Insulting a Dark Lord unnecessarily seemed idiotic too.

"Wait outside?" she whispered to Ron, nervously.

"I'll come with you," Ron said, shoulders bolstering. They both made their way over to the desk, and Riddle didn't even grace them with a glance.

"Just Miss Granger." The classroom was all but empty now. "I won't harm her, I assure you."

"You harmed her last year," Ron spat, chin jutting up. "You harmed Ginny too."

Riddle simply blinked at the boy.

"Means to an end. It was nothing personal - she agreed to help me."

She saw Ron's chest swell, bristling with indignant rage as Riddle's eyes gleamed with an all too cruel edge, and she grabbed hold of his arm tightly to keep him from punching.

But all she knew was that Tom Riddle was an isolating sort or presence in his threat – sure, she could let Ron punch the horrible man, but that wouldn't really help anything.

Which left her alone, to protect him where she seemed to have failed Harry so.

"Ron, wait outside. I'll be alright," she promised, eyes fixed on Riddle. "If I'm not there at dinner, alert Professor Dumbledore." She forced any reluctance out of her tone.

"Hermione, I'm not leaving you alone with him," Ron protested. "Don't be stupid."

"I'm not going to kill her, or attack her. If I didn't over the summer, it would hardly make sense to do so now – a rational that Miss Granger is well aware of, even if your own test scores, Mr Weasley, show that you are far less inclined to using the fluff between your ears."

Ron glared, furiously, opening his mouth.

"Ron, please! You're not helping," she said, squeezing his hand.

He had every right to be angry, of course. She could only imagine how difficult this had to be for him, knowing what Riddle had done to Ginny. But Tom was clever, that much was evident from his classes. Going up against him without a clear head was like asking for a disaster, in terms like this.

Ron's wand was in his trembling hand, and Riddle's gaze had fixed on it. He radiated danger.

"I would not recommend such a foolish attempt," the Dark Lord stated. His posture hadn't shifted to even recognize any possible threat; Riddle continued to simply gather up his papers for his next class. "You cannot hope to beat me, Ronald. Nor should you want to, when my death would leave your sister trapped forever. I hardly think you would like that, after you failed to save and protect her once."

Hermione's eyes widened – and the words stung even when they weren't aimed at her, so Ron must have felt like he'd been slapped. His face drained of all colour, as he visibly wrestled with himself.

Riddle watched him with a terrifying, clinical sort of calm. No other expression on his face. It would have been easier, in a way, if he'd been smiling mad in his cruelty, but he wasn't.

He was just…implacable. Hermione swallowed, clenching her fists.

How had Harry endured this, for a whole summer?

When they were left alone, he studied her in silence for a moment, before plucking out one of his files and handing it to her.

She blinked, accepting it.

"I'm not sure if you're simply attempting to ensure that I have no time for my…shall we call them extracurriculars…but nonetheless, here are all fifty of your recent essays, marked and graded," he stated. "Including the ten that focused solely on Blood Purity."

She stared back at him with something like defiance, at that last bit. Okay, she knew writing him a ridiculous amount of essays wouldn't change anything, and that the Blood Purity ones were a little pointed, but…really.

Writing essays was a tiny thing, but it was something she could do and was good at.

Though he looked far too amused, actually, which hadn't been the point.

She was surprised he had actually marked, sat down and gone through all of them.

"Did they sway your opinion at all?" she asked.

His brows arched at the question, but she stood her ground as firmly as he could, heart beating in her chest like a trapped bird.

"You argue that muggles – despite being unable to do magic, where wizards can do anything a muggle can if they learn – have the potential to become magic, leading to the presence of muggleborns. Because muggles have the potential to produce muggleborns, it cannot be argued that they are inferior because they cannot use magic."

"Yes," she said.

"Does that not still make muggleborns inferior because they come from inferior stock? It's much the same as cooking. If you have higher quality ingredients, you will get higher quality food. You can make the same food with bad ingredients, and it will pass, but that won't make it as good as the pure ingredients."

She was practically spluttering with indignation.

"People aren't ingredients," she protested. "And even on that analogy, there is no proof that Purebloods are any better than Muggleborns at magic. As I said. To assume they are fails to consider that Purebloods grew up with magic, and thus have a sociological advantage. It's nothing to do with genetics and blood! You – you're a halfblood."

"Who came from a very strong pureblood line, compensating for the unfortunate other side of my family history," Riddle stated. "Much like Harry."

"I'm a lot better at magic than many Purebloods I've met," she stated. "There are plenty of powerful muggleborns."

"That is because purebloods are getting weaker than they used to be, and so sinking to the level of or lower than muggleborns, rather than the other way around in which muggleborns were always on the same level. The world is generally being clawed down into the mud as the natural order is destroyed."

"The natural order!" She snarled, outraged. "You can't possibly know that. You have no proof. Blood Purity is archaic. It's about power and oppression, not about any proven genetics."

"If you look at the trend of magic throughout the ages, wizards nowadays are significantly less powerful than they were in the times of Merlin. The lack of wizards capable of wandless magic attests to that," Riddle said, with that same infuriating calm. "Regardless, I did not ask you to stay behind to debate Blood Purity with me."

"In other words," she replied hotly, "you're evading the argument by changing the subject, because you know you're wrong."

His magic flared, rather ominously.

"You demand proof. Do you have proof that it is a matter of muggleborns being naturally more competent, as opposed to a weakening of pureblood lines to disprove my theory? I imagine you would have mentioned it in your essay if you did."

She thought she must have been scarlet with rage.

"So neither can be proven – but you don't see muggleborns advocating for the death of all purebloods on some sick, prejudiced faith!"

"I am not advocating for the death of all muggleborns," he stated, taking a step towards her. "Which is another thing I noticed in your essays. You do not engage with Blood Purity itself, you engage with the presumed ideologies of certain people who advocate Blood Purity."

"There is no pure 'Blood Purity itself'," she said, stubbornly. "It is utterly linked to social influences like any prejudiced rhetoric. As you saw in my essay-"

"Your essay on the social history of Blood Purity, and the potential reasons behind it. Yes, I did read it," he cut in. "Which is a different argument entirely, as that is to do with muggle-magic relations and the statute of secrecy as opposed to the genetics of magic."

"Even if you're right, which you're not, Blood Purity would act as a viable reason for weakening pureblood lines. Incest does not have good health benefits," she folded her arms.

"Magic is decreasing, due to the increase of muggle technology," he said. "By the pollution and the filth. Magic is fuelled by the natural world, which is what I meant by the natural order."

"You have no proof that's the reason!" Hermione snapped.

"You have no proof it's not, and that incest is the reason," he countered.

"Incest is known to have detrimental effects on health, and is strongly historically linked with concepts of keeping the bloodline pure-" she began, confident on academic topics at least.

"Circumstantial," he dismissed. "That is no stronger a correlation than the correlation between the decrease of magic, and the rise of technology, Miss Granger."

"Even if Blood Purity was valid, it does not give you a right to genocide!"

"No, but genocide does act as a shockingly efficient cure to the current social problems and tensions. The muggles certainly tried it with the witch trials." His eyes were hard, searing into her.

"Society has moved on from the Witch Trials." Hermione felt horribly like she might cry, out of fury, which was just infuriating because it did nothing to help a logical argument. She gritted her teeth.

"Harry's Aunt and Uncle might argue against that," Riddle murmured. "Different method, same end game."

"You can't hold a whole race accountable to-"

"-Is everything alright here?" The door burst open, McGonagall entering, wand in hand, Ron hot on her heels. Hermione jumped out of her skin; only noticed then that she'd moved closer to her, hands trembling fists as she stared up at him.

Riddle was still sitting calmly at his desk, though his posture had straightened from laziness. After a few seconds, he seemed to relax again.

"Fine," he said, smiling pleasantly. "We were merely engaged in a rousing academic debate, placed into a real world context."

"You're still wrong," Hermione muttered, unable to let it go. How could she? He looked at her, sharply.

"A rousing-?" McGonagall started, before seeming to realize what debate this might be, paling.

"As I said to Harry, Miss Granger," he said, straightening out his jacket and standing, looming over her with his height. "Find evidence to disprove me, and I will happily concede on the error of my ways."

She could feel the blood rushing in her ears, but even then the words themselves surprised her. Though he was probably just saying it. She could barely get words out, she was fuming so much.

"Miss Granger, maybe you want to come with me now-" McGonagall stepped forward, eyeing Riddle with a vicious, cold sort of neutrality. He merely broadened his pleasant smile in return, placed a hand on Hermione's shoulder.

"I was distracted from my initial conversation plan. A moment more, and she is all yours, Minerva."

Hermione jumped at the touch. She'd expected it, somehow, to be freezing but it wasn't. It seemed so normal, so human, that it startled her.

"Oh like hell," Weasley began.

"You seem curious about the world, Hermione. Your essays show that," Riddle just started talking, jaw tight. He'd let go of her shoulder again, just as quickly as he'd squeezed it initially. "Harry mentioned over the summer that you would be interested in learning more magic. Are you still?"

McGonagall swelled.

"If you think you can teach students Dark-"

"I never said anything about the Dark Arts, Minerva," he murmured. "The Ministry would hardly allow me to teach if they thought I was breaking the law…though, of course, laws can change.
Regardless. Miss Granger is obviously not challenged in her classes, and I understand the feeling of wasting my magical education because the rest of the class takes a month to comprehend a spell I mastered within a week. So – Miss Granger?"

She looked between them. Wondered if this was how Harry felt, all of the time. It was horrible. She looked down, before at Riddle.

"If you believe in Blood Purity, why would you waste your time teaching a Muggleborn if you believe I am naturally inferior?"

To her surprise, Riddle smiled. Or, at least, it was something in the shape of a smile that mimicked such things.

"Because you ask questions like that. And, as I said – weakening of magic. You get muggleborns on the same level as purebloods now. Think about it. There's a war coming, and I don't think an extensive knowledge of Grindylows and Hinkypunks will save your life when it does. Congratulations on the essays, you scored very highly as academically your logic was sound."

He turned and strode out of the room.

Harry was thoroughly surprised to leave the Hospital Wing and find Draco Malfoy, of all people, standing against the wall.

He stared at the blond for a moment.

They were in the middle of a truce, but they were hardly friends and this seemed a little odd. It distracted him from his thoughts, for a moment, however.

"I see you're feeling better," Draco said stiffly. Harry nodded, coming to a halt.

"Congratulations on winning the match."

"It was hardly winning properly," Malfoy sniffed. "You were unconscious."

Something like a smile crossed Harry's lips, despite everything.

"Well, maybe we'll have a rematch sometime. Merlin knows, I'd hate to leave the current record standing," he said.

Malfoy didn't crack a smile; just continued to stand in front of him. After a moment, however, Draco thrust an expensive looking card into his hands. Harry stared down at it, blankly.

"What's this?"

"It's an invitation," Draco muttered, staring at a spot just over his left shoulder. "To the Malfoy Yule – Christmas – Party."

Harry felt like he'd been punched in the stomach, mouth drying.

"Oh." He stared down at the expensive card. "It smells like Lavender."

Malfoy gave him a slightly scathing look, pale skin pinking.

"It's a formal affair, so you'll need to buy dress robes. I assume my mother has told you what-"

"-Yes I know what dress robes are," Harry interrupted, not sure if he should be irritated or not. "Right, well – um – thank you. Is Tom-?"

"I have no idea."

"Right," Harry repeated. He continued to clutch the scented invite for a moment, before giving his best attempt at a smile and tucking it into his pocket.

He could feel Draco examining him carefully, in a matter alarmingly reminiscent to his father in the few times he'd met the Malfoy patriarch.

God, he could only imagine how Ron would respond to him being invited to the Malfoy's for Christmas. He had no idea what he was even supposed to be doing for Christmas. Normally he just stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays.

"There is also a Halloween party," Draco cleared his throat.

"How many parties do you Malfoy's throw?"

"What?" Malfoy blinked, before shaking his head. "No. A Slytherin Party."

"If you're feeling guilty about the Dementors-" Harry was starting to feel rather uncomfortable with all of this.

"Just turn up, alright? People want to meet you. You don't have to stay. It will be after the feast."

"I..I don't…" He really didn't like Halloween, and its looming presence the coming week left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Potter. It will come across like a rejection if you don't make an appearance."

Harry muttered something foul under his breath, and Malfoy raised his brows.

"Is this some kind of Slytherin politics thing?" Harry sighed, checking after a moment. Draco stared at him like he was stupid, and Harry huffed again. "Right. Fantastic. Halloween party in Slytherin with all of the baby Death Eaters."

Harry had never seen someone's face change so quickly. One second, Draco merely looked a little uncomfortable with everything, and his no doubt position as messenger – now he looked livid, and the next second Harry found himself shoved up into the wall, the other boy's pale face shoved near his own.

Harry's wand was instantly in his hand and at Malfoy's throat. Draco's fingers flexed at his shirt collars, but the blond nonetheless took a step back, eyes flickering.

"You can't just say stuff like that, Potter." His eyes widened, when Malfoy's voice actually cracked a little. "Death Eater carries a lot of weight. You really should be more careful, and keep your voice down."

Harry's brow furrowed. Malfoy didn't just look angry, he seemed to be shifting scared.

"I – I'm sorry – I didn't-"

Draco just shook his head, some colour starting to return to him as he looked around; checking if anybody had overheard them.

"Anyway, turn up or don't turn up, Potter. It's your choice. But you must have noticed you…you can't do what you used to do. Things are changing."

"Yes," Harry said, softly, after a moment of staring, "they are, aren't they?"

Things changing was the only fact of life he was certain of anymore.

He went to go and talk to Lupin about Dementor lessons.

A/N: Not much Tom and Harry in this chapter, so I hope I still did okay :P Like, my god, you would not believe how difficult that blood purity talk was. I have like three different versions on my laptop. Anyway. Thank you for your reviews so much, they really do mean and help a lot. And huh, apparently I am not skipping third year?

Chapter 48
"You're a Slytherin…"

Tom looked up at the statement. It was Saturday Evening – Halloween tomorrow, and the date had left him contemplative.

Specifically about his young charge, who was currently picking at a thread in his sleeve.

"Astute of you to notice," he remarked dryly, causing Harry to flush a little. Bolster his posture with gritted teeth, as he pushed on.

"There's a party tomorrow," Harry said, glancing up at him briefly. "A Halloween party. In Slytherin."

Tom tried to think where this was going; why Harry was telling him this. His head tilted a little as he studied the boy.

"Yes," he replied, after a moment. "They've been throwing the post-feast party for as long as I remember. It was there even when I was at school. What of it?"

"I've been invited."

Tom blinked, continuing to examine him for a moment. Was this small talk? Were they at the small talk stage? Of course, they talked a lot, even more so on the summer when Harry hadn't had anyone else to talk to, but…well, they didn't tend to engage in idle chatter.

Well, Harry had done so before. When he talked about his birthday. Or was this…his eyes narrowed a little at Harry's slightly flushed features, the boy's awkwardness, and a smile twitched his lips.

"Are you asking for my advice?"

"No!" Harry protested, tugging a hand through his hair, shifting his weight, before grimacing. "I'm – okay, yes, sort of. I can't ask Malfoy, but he's kind of giving me the impression that this is a big deal. Like, Slytherin politics style test or…whatever you'd call it."

Tom considered his options.

"What outcome do you want?"

"What?" Harry's brow furrowed.

"Outcome," Tom repeated. "What do you want from the Slytherins?"

"…I don't want anything from the Slytherins," Harry said, starting to look confused. Tom nearly sighed.

Sometimes, Harry could be incredibly 'Slytherin' in his nature; he'd certainly exceeded Tom's expectations over the summer with his potential and growth. There were times when he was honestly proud of the adolescent.

And then sometimes, he was a blunt, oblivious Gryffindor and he had no idea how Harry had survived the summer.

"You didn't want anything from me either, by your judgment," he pointed out. "Remember?"

Harry grimaced.

Tom continued. "You need to learn to recognize your own desires, consider what you want out of every interaction, however small. It's a matter of impressions. Do you, for example, wish for the Slytherins to leave you alone? Or do you wish to break off your seeming truce with them?"

Harry was staring at him, eyes wide, before they turned thoughtful in turn as he chewed on his lips with a soft 'huh'.

"What do they want from you?" Tom posed the question, watching Harry's mind turn. "Have you thought about that? What do you intend to do to ensure you get your way, if your interests conflict with either the Slytherins as a whole or with individual members of the house?"

"I'm guessing they're not going to just tell me what they want, like you do," Harry sighed heavily, looking exhausted. Tom raised his brows at that comment, though he didn't contest it.

To some extent, he was quite open with Harry, of certain manipulations and desires. He had no issue with explaining Harry's position to him – be it the status of a prisoner, or otherwise.

Of course, there was a lot he didn't say too. It was always interesting to see how much of the unsaid and hidden Harry picked up on.

"I would imagine not. I also wouldn't recommend outright asking."

He wished he could be there. See how Harry played his agendas; it was bound to be fascinating. He could track how Harry behaved and developed in their interactions, but this was something different. Similar, but different.

He supposed it was natural to want to see how his protégé turned out.

Certainly, he was less inclined to let Harry experiment on his 'social skills' when it came to the Death Eaters. This was better. Curious.

He couldn't have been more pleased. Still, Harry seemed troubled by the matter, and though he was prone to dropping the boy into situations for the sole joy of seeing how he'd react, Harry's relationship with Slytherin would have greater ramifications so he should probably pull the strings a little more closely now. Just like he had with Miss Granger.

After all, the reasons for Harry's remaining ties on the Light side was because he'd made his friend there. The easiest way to undermine that, was to simply bring Harry's friends to the dark, giving him further reason to convert.

Harry making friends with Slytherins, the sons and daughters of Tom's own followers in particular, only increased the chances of his victory. How could he not be delighted by this development and even more invested in its outcome?

Still, Harry wasn't secure enough in his loyalty that Tom could remove the weight of his influence; uncup his hands from around the teen, and not risking seeing him fly for ultimate freedom.

Oh no, he didn't come this far to carelessly do that.

Tom reached out after a moment, noting how Harry startled at his touch on his shoulder, before going to a visible effort to relax despite it.

"You'll do fine," Tom stated, watching Harry's eyes flicker with surprise even as he perked warily at the veiled praise. Harry just as quickly stiffened at his own reaction, looking away.

Tom nearly smiled.

"You're being suspiciously nice recently," the boy mumbled.

"I'm always nice." Tom gave the shoulder in his grip a squeeze. "Providing you don't cross me." The shoulder in his grip tensed even further, and Harry's face had immediately gone carefully blank.

"Like you said," Harry replied softly, "I'm not that stupid."

Tom let his hand drop back to his side, continuing to study Harry for a moment. His eyes had narrowed.

Harry was avoiding his gaze.

Now, for most people, Tom wouldn't have picked up on it. But from the very beginning, when the boy should have been the most afraid, he'd never been evasive in this way.

Harry's fear wasn't of the timid sort. This was something else. Tom wetted his lips, and Harry cleared his throat, turning away.

"Well, thanks for the advice," the child flashed him a smile.

"Harry." The boy froze on the spot at his tone. "You seem troubled," Tom continued sweetly, taking a step forward. "Is there nothing else I can help you with?"

"Uh…My Potions homework isn't too great. Snape is going to kill me," Harry replied, facing him once more. This time, he looked him in the face.

Tom's head tilted to the other side, and he took a step forward. Harry's jaw clenched.

"Oh, well. I'd be happy to help you with that. I mean, like you said, you're not stupid. And you wouldn't lie to me, would you? You know better than that, Harry. Just because we're at Hogwarts now, doesn't change things."

Fists clenched next, at the boy's side. A flicker of panic.

"I know that!" Harry snapped at him.

"Good," Tom murmured, stepping forward once more. Slowly, deliberately. Most people would have shrunk before him, but Harry again made a visible effort to bolster himself, shoulders squaring.

"-My parents died on Halloween. You know that." Harry blurted the words out, before he could open his mouth to speak further. Tom was brought short, halting on the spot.

"Yes, I do."

"So I guess I'm just not in a party mood. And…asking you about advice…so close to when…I mean I know you didn't personally…but…" Harry's gaze dropped to the floor again. Ah.

Tom relaxed again, completely.

"I understand. Did you still want help with your Potions homework?"

Harry honestly did feel sick at the Halloween feast.

He poked at the food, delicious as it was and always had been. Even the treacle tart – his favourite – didn't have the same appeal today.

Not only could he feel the weight of his…whatever it was, with Tom…and Tom's position as Voldemort more than ever today, when all he could think about was that Halloween…the screaming from the Dementors in his ears….he also couldn't stop his other Halloween's at Hogwarts spinning in his head.

The first attack with the Chamber of Secrets. The troll in the dungeons.

It made him half paranoid that something terrible was going to happen this time too – especially with the party in Slytherin.

Ron and Hermione weren't too thrilled about the idea of him attending a Slytherin Party.

Ron wasn't thrilled generally. Hermione was in a state of distraction, after Tom had apparently made an offer to teach her some magic related things after they apparently got into a huge argument about Blood Purity.

Harry would have paid to see that debate go down; though he couldn't help worry for her. Of course, he knew that he and Hermione had talked about the possibility of Tom teaching her before, so it didn't come as a complete surprise or anything, but…

He didn't know.

It…bothered him.

Tom was a dangerous. Maybe Harry was dangerous too – he certainly seemed to have an awful knack for dragging his friends into situations that could get them killed.

His stomach churned.

He couldn't help but feel, especially now, that the people who got close to him would end up dead first.

He'd managed to keep the secret from Sirius from everybody so far. He hadn't been able to tell Ron and Hermione. He hated himself, but he'd been scared that they (maybe Ron, especially) would have accidentally let it slip.

That Tom would find out.

He swallowed Pumpkin juice thickly, the sound of celebration ringing in his years.

Sirius had said they would be proud of him. Harry wasn't so sure.

But it was Tom's pride that would keep him and the people he cared about safe. He'd come to the conclusion in Tom's garden, what seemed such a long time ago now, that civility was his best weapon against the Slytherin Heir.

He had to learn. Learn to fight, and fight like a Slytherin himself for now. Let Tom believe that he was not a threat. That he would never ever be a threat. Get close, indulge the man.

And maybe…maybe if he was lucky, being close would let him start pulling strings in turn. He didn't know.

But he'd gotten away with lying to Riddle once. Manipulated him once – as much as it was true that the Halloween thing bothered him as well.

He was dreading this party.

"Potter."

Draco Malfoy was certain that his life used to be more simple. He'd been led to believe, too, that the Dark Lord's return would have been a simple thing.

The roles were defined, to kneel before a god, and be ascended to a new order and a new world where magic ruled entirely and without restraint.

Harry Potter and 'Tom Riddle' was a phenomenon he didn't think anybody had anticipated. He didn't grab hold of the Gryffindor's arm, simply letting Potter weave out of his crowd of lions and over to him.

He didn't look nervous. But his face was very composed, so maybe that was a sign in itself. Certainly, he'd once made a two year career of tormenting the other boy as his rival, he knew his reactions well.

Or he had once, anyway. Potter had changed a lot over the summer. Crabbe and Goyle lurked at his sides, Pansy just off, along with Zabini, Greengrass and Nott aside from them. They were all studying Potter too, as he stepped towards them.

Weasley seemed like he was about to have an aneurysm. It made a small smirk cross his lips, involuntarily, and the blood traitor coloured as red as his hair in response.

Potter shot him a look, and he wiped his expression in a split second.

He didn't know how or when Potter had managed to make a simple glance so frightening without being explicitly threatening, or glaring.

Clearly, he'd spent far too much time around the Dark Lord to start picking up his mannerisms.

The look was gone just as quickly, as Potter gave him a bright smile.

"So, shall we get this party started?" He swept off towards the Dungeons. The third year Slytherins had surrounded him first – though Pansy stayed back, a somewhat mulish expression on her face.

Nott, too, seemed reluctant to get himself involved in proceedings. Zabini too, though no doubt for different reasons.

Draco half wanted to put a possessive hand on Potter. He'd been rivals with him first; he'd been the one to approach him. Potter had spent more time at his home than anybody else's.

If anyone had a claim – it was him.

He couldn't help but notice that Potter didn't seem too lost on the way to their common room…which was ominous, to say the least.

The party was already starting when they entered; bottles of Firewhiskey being passed around the older students, and occasionally sneakily the younger though it was mainly Butterbeer.

Nobody wanted to incite Professor's Snape's wrath. Their Head of House, despite his favouritism, could be intimidating at the best of times and on Halloween he always turned downright nasty.

Everyone went silent for a few seconds as Potter paused on the threshold.

Maybe it was the low light in the dungeons, the green glow of the lake, and the flickering candles…but Draco was suddenly struck by the similarities between Riddle and Potter.

In the half-light, Potter's features seemed sharper, older. Draco's throat tightened, fingers flexing at his sides. The expression too, appeared similar as well.

A cold, assessing sort of neutrality.

"Ah, Potter." It was an older Slytherin Prefect, someone Harry had never even spoken to. "Welcome to Slytherin. Firewhiskey?"

It began.

It wasn't as bad as Harry thought it would be.

That didn't necessarily mean it was good, but it wasn't terrible. He was busy trying to figure out what everyone wanted, whilst trying not to insult anyone either because he didn't think that would do him very good.

But really, it wasn't his type of party. It wasn't outwardly political or anything, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being passed around and inspected.

He wasn't the only non Slytherin there, but he was notably the only Gryffindor.

He thought he was doing alright though. They discussed Quidditch, he turned down Firewhiskey because he didn't know what specifically it was, but it had whiskey in the title so he could make assumptions and avoid it.

He wasn't entirely sure what Butterbeer was either, but he'd vaguely heard of it even though he didn't think he'd ever tried it.

Still, maybe he'd spent too much time trying to read Tom, but he couldn't help but notice some things.

Namely: who was avoiding him, who seemed to be going to some effort to engage him, and those who seemed to actively dislike him.

He was currently standing near the fire, clutching a drink that he wasn't really drinking, with Daphne Greengrass making pleasant small talk with him.

She seemed nice. Very sophisticated. Very pretty, too, and she kept brushing her hand along his arm as she laughed.

Draco was largely on his other side – and he appreciated that the blond seemed to be watching out for him a little.

Flint, the trollish Quidditch Captain, had made a jab about the match as he knocked past him. But most people, if they disliked him, seemed far less aggressive about it. At least, not yet.

He honestly didn't know how Tom could stand doing this all the time.

It must be a terrible life, to live among vultures and predators. Then again, Riddle was the largest predator by far, so Harry supposed he must rather enjoy it.

He surrounded himself with these types of people normally, from what Harry gathered.

Harry was having trouble enough remembering the names of the Slytherins not in his year, or on the Quidditch Team.

He was rather glad to have taken those etiquette lessons from Mrs Malfoy though.

Still, it was rather annoying to dodge around all the important questions, everyone evading or only poking at everything that they really wanted to talk about.

"So how is that someone like you managed to survive summer with the Dark Lord?"

Harry wished they could have stuck to the small talk. It felt, for a sharp few seconds, that all the air had been sucked out of the room – even as his brow furrowed with confusion as he looked at Parkinson.

She looked like she had something foul under her nose, as she glared at him.

"Someone like me?" Harry repeated, in a delicate tone of voice. His expression had hardened, and he had a sinking feeling in his chest that he knew where this was going. "You mean not pureblood." He certainly didn't need the explanation.

She gave him a brittle sort of smile.

"Among other things. Or has the Boy Who Lived gone dark?"

He suspected that the other Slytherins weren't saying anything, was because even if they didn't necessarily believe in approaching the topic bluntly, they wanted the answers too.

God, he knew he hated Halloween. Harry resisted the urge to fold his arms, straightened his stance instead. Like Tom would – because for all Tom's cruelty, all of his hate and all of his flaws – Harry knew Tom was good at this.

"The Boy Who Lived," he said the title with a mocking sort of lightness, lip curling as he looked at her, unflinching. "Is on nobody's side but his own, if that's what you're asking. And if you're wondering why I'm not dead yet, why don't you try asking Voldemort yourself?" There was a round of flinches and hisses at the name, which gave Harry a grim, vindictive satisfaction. "Oh, wait…the only time you'd have the courage to bring up the topic is in the safety of your common room, to me when I'm surrounded by Slytherins and the children of Death Eaters, right?"

He didn't look at Malfoy. Had gathered that bringing up Death Eaterism or Blood Purity would be dangerous as it was bound to end badly…but then again, bringing up Blood Purity didn't sit well with him either and he had no intention of standing there and letting them insult him or his friends.

"Hey, easy now Potter," the Prefect from earlier, who Harry had since learnt was called Gemma Farley, taking a step forward.

"No, please," Harry smiled. "Let her continue. We might as well do this some point. I mean, that's why you invited me here. Figure out where I stand. What I can do for you."

Tom would probably cry in despair at his complete lack of subtlety, but the blood was pounding in Harry's ears and maybe Tom Riddle was impossible to fight openly, but he did not hold Pansy Parkinson in such high esteem.

It wasn't that he held their opportunistic natures and ambitions against them; they were just trying to figure out the future as much as he himself was, but…

"I just don't see how you're still alive," Pansy said. "Or are you the Heir of Slytherin after all?"

Harry nearly wanted to laugh at that, hysterically. Instead, he took a step closer towards her.

"Oh, I don't know, Parkinson, am I? I hope for your sake I'm not. You might have failed to notice that your common room is covered with snakes. Bit stupid to piss me off when I can control them, but I suppose I never had the highest opinion of your intelligence."

Halloween, Harry was starting to think, wasn't a good day for diplomacy.

"If you think you can threaten-" her wand appeared in her hand, and the Slytherins seemed about to stir now.

"-Pansy, for Salazar's sake, stop it," Greengrass cut in, stepping forward to put a restraining hand on Parkinson's arm.

"-I'm trembling," Harry said, his smirk only broadening. His heart was lashing in his chest, but still the smile didn't falter and he took another step towards her. "Really. I mean, summer with the Dark Lord, clearly you're the one I should be watching out for. I mean, by comparison, you're just terrifying."

"You filthy little-"

People were laughing. Harry really had no idea if that was a good thing or not, and he had no idea where it started.

"Potter's got a point," Montague snickered. Harry wasn't sure what to think of the way they were looking at him, either way. Not everyone was laughing.

Was he supposed to laugh and just let it all go? As if them calling him 'filthy' didn't make him completely uncomfortable? Harry drew in what he hoped was a calming breath.

"And yet he never answered the question of why the Dark Lord kept him alive, if he really is back, like they say," one of the older Slytherins persisted, stepping forward, looking at Harry – hard, something in his eyes. "Is he? Or are you just lying? What exactly happened at the end of your second year?"

Harry could have got whiplash, but sensed, suddenly, that the laughter had been intended as a diffusion of the situation by whoever started it. A failed diffusion, because the air seemed tenser than ever.

But Harry knew how to deal with a tense atmosphere.

He looked around at the Slytherins, carefully – the party at a standstill, if it was ever a party and not a battlefield.

He tried to put himself in their shoes.

What did he want? What did they want? What was the best way to get what he wanted, out of the situation?

Obviously, they and their parents would want to know if Voldemort was really back. It was a game-changer, and they weren't all inner circle to know and speculate on the situation more closely.

There was merely a lot of rumours flying, after the attack on the train station, and the changes to his own behaviour.

They wanted to keep themselves, and their families safe. Figure out how they were supposed to be treating him – whether to irritate him, was to risk the wrath of the Dark Lord. Whether, if he was still enemies to the Dark Side, they should behave accordingly.

Maybe some of them weren't even on the Dark Side. To be able to talk to him at all, in a world of shadows instead of light, they needed to know his position.

If it was safe.

He forced himself to soften. Because Tom Riddle was many things, but he wasn't safe. So maybe he couldn't act like Tom right now, however much it made him feel invulnerable.

Obviously, he didn't want to come across as weak. Not with the Slytherins. Not with anyone. But…

"I want the same thing as all of you want, I think," he said, carefully. "I want me and the people I care about to get through this okay. I don't want a war. No one ever wins in a war."

"You don't think the Dark Lord can win?" Somebody immediately pounced. Harry nearly gritted his teeth.

"I didn't say that."

"So do you think he will? You've met him," Daphne said softly. Harry noticed that the older years were now the most silent.

"It's too early to say," Harry said honestly. "He's powerful. So are plenty of other people."

He had no idea. Realized, suddenly, that he'd never considered who would win. And what would happen depending on the outcome. He set his drink down on the table, disturbed.

Even Parkinson had gone quiet.

"Thank you for the invite. I hope you enjoy the rest of your party."

Hermione didn't know what to do.

Harry had yet to come back to the Gryffindor common room, and Ron was all for going in after him seeing as they knew where the Slytherins were.

Hermione wasn't sure. Of course, she wanted to ensure that Harry was okay, and if something had happened the longer they waited the worse it could get.

On the other hand, if everything was fine, she didn't think a 'mudblood' and a blood traitor magically knowing where the Slytherin common was, and intruding, would help with whatever it was Harry was trying to do.

But Ron had been insistent. Maybe that made her a better friend than she – or maybe he was being stubborn and stupid, because it was Halloween and he had reached the limits of his patient endurance.

She definitely wasn't letting him go on his own though.

Which led to them standing outside, realizing that none of them knew the password as they stared at a blank wall.

"Pureblood," Ron tried.

"It's not going to be the same as last time," Hermione said, exasperated. She bit her lip. "Maybe we should alert Professor Snape. If something bad is happening, he's the Head of House-"

"Snape? The greasy git? Are you bloody mad?" Ron replied. "Snape hates Harry. He'd probably be first in line to help murder Harry. Especially now You-Know-Who is back!"

"McGonagall then!"

The door slid open before them.

Harry had gone to see Lupin, because the man had known his parents and…and maybe he wouldn't mind if Harry came to see him.

The man wasn't there, and Harry had no idea where else to look.

Of course, it was ridiculous to think that Lupin would have been in his office, but…

He remembered the map Fred and George had given him, suddenly. Lupin, Black. At this point, he just wanted to…well, someone who understood, the loss, a little.

He felt sick with the thought of going back to Gryffindor, and celebrating right now. He could still hear the screams of the Dementors in his head.

It hadn't bothered him as much in his first two years, but he supposed there'd always been something much bigger and more present going on during his first two Halloween's at Hogwarts.

But thinking, actually wondering, if there was going to be another war made him cold. Made him wonder if had all been pointless. If all the people who died the first time, to stop Voldemort, died for nothing.

Maybe he was a traitor to their memories.

Or maybe he was just feeling morbid.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The map bloomed before him, and he studied it with as much curiosity as he had the first time.

He spotted Ron and Hermione first, simply because he instinctively sought out their names in Gryffindor.

Except they weren't in Gryffindor, which led him to…

His mouth soured, and he lurched to his feet. The second after that, he'd frozen. Because there was another name on the map. Harry's insides lurched.

Peter Pettigrew.

A/N: Huh. My chapter length seems to be creeping up. One day I will be one of those people who updates once a month with 10,000 word chapters. :P I hope the Slytherin Party was not anticlimatic. I have a lot planned in that regard, but obviously it wouldn't all happen at once.

And crap, when did this get so near 50 chapters long? Considering how much story I have vaguely plotted in my head, this might make my other stories feel like a oneshot in length :/ We shall see. Hmm, maybe I should do something to celebrate 50.

Chapter 49
Hermione froze as several rather large and burly Slytherin older years loomed over them, with folded arms and aggressive postures.

Her hand itched to creep to her wand.

"Well, what do we have here?" Flint gave a nasty sort of grin. "Lost little lions, separated from their pride. You should growl less loudly when you're outside the snake pit."

Hermione gathered her courage.

"We're looking for Harry, and last we heard he was with you. Is he still?" She gave a polite smile.

"Worried about him?" Montague said. "Do you think the evil Slytherins did something?"

There was some laughter, and not exactly the nice kind.

"Have you?" Ron demanded, bluntly – Hermione sort of wanted to kick him, and squeezed his hand. Ron was one of the kindest, most honest and loyal people she'd ever met, but sometimes he could just be so unbelievably obtuse.

"Maybe we did. Maybe we didn't. How did you find our common room? Potter tell you, did he?"

This was not going well. Even Ron seemed to be starting to pick up on the growing tension.

"He didn't have to," the redhead said, watching the Slytherins more carefully now, chin jutting up. "So, is he here or not? We'll let you get back to your party."

"We just wanted to make sure that he was okay," Hermione said. "He hates Halloween."

Flint looked about to take another bullish step forward, when one of the other Slytherins caught hold of his arm. A woman.

A look passed between them.

"Potter's not here," Flint said. "He left a while back."

And yet he hadn't returned to Gryffindor, by all accounts. Or had they just missed each other? Was this a coincidence or was something wrong?

"Do you know where he went?"

"Oh, so you do think we did something to him." Montague gave an unnerving grin. Even the girl who had stopped Flint seemed to be growing increasingly hostile. Aggressive.

"We didn't mean it like that! Bloody hell," Ron snapped, fists clenched. "Though now I'm wondering-"

She stomped on his foot. Hard.

She wondered if this was what happened when one was sorted into a house that everybody immediately hated and thought the worst of – house unity had never been worse after the 'Heir of Slytherin' last year.

Things escalated, and snakes bit and spat venom in an aggressive defence, forever expecting an attack. And lions growled and pounced on the certainty that such things would never change, and were justified by repeated experience.

Hermione swallowed, counting heads and considering their chances as she took a small step back.

"Now you're wondering?" the Slytherin girl said coldly. "Please, finish that statement. Or are you a coward?"

Ron's jaw was tight too, his eyes ablaze with a furious, stressed sort of mistrust and suspicion. She could practically see the explosion building; could only imagine how much Ron was dying to lash out at some surrogate for Tom Riddle, when cursing the Dark Lord hardly seemed a viable option.

She could see the accusation of cowardice sparking like a lit flame to a trail of petrol.

She tried frantically to think.

Ron's chin jutted up, and –

"Attempted diplomacy is not the same as cowardice. Or would you call me a coward too?" Harry's voice rang out, blessedly, from behind them. She turned, watching as he walked towards them. His gaze was entirely fixed on the Slytherins. "Would you call the Dark Lord a coward too, for not flat-out murdering me when he had the chance?"

The tone was clear, but had something soft to it, something calm and different to what she had seen in him before. Or maybe it was his stance which was different. She couldn't pinpoint what exactly it was, considering he wasn't glaring or even standing threateningly, but the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end…

"I thought you left, Potter," Flint muttered.

Eyebrows arched in a manner alarmingly reminiscent of said Dark Lord.

"I came back. Just in time too, apparently."

She couldn't believe the vibe of discomfort coming off from one of the younger Slytherins lurking near the door, behind the slightly tipsy older years.

"Did you forget something?" The girl countered, watching him carefully.

"No, I heard a commotion and had to see for myself." Harry smiled. "Some type of misunderstanding, right? I mean, I don't know how many of you want some kind of truce with me, but I thought it went without saying that my friends are off-limits. So, you know, obviously this is just a case of crossed wires and wrong impressions, isn't it?"

Flint didn't look like he wanted a truce. He looked like he wanted to go for Harry's throat.

The silence stretched a moment.

"A misunderstanding," Montague muttered. "Yes. Terrible things, misunderstandings. It would be a terrible misunderstanding if lots of Gryffindors started realizing where our common room was too, wouldn't it?"

Harry's head tilted in an almost reptilian fashion.

"Maybe we should all try and avoid further misunderstandings."

"None of us are going to say anything about where your common room is," Hermione added quickly, for clarification. Slowly, the tension started to…not disappear, but diffuse. For now. Spark blown out, though the gas remained.

Ron gave a terse nod. The Slytherins were looking at Harry, though. Harry offered up another smile.

"Well, that's settled then. Enjoy the rest of your party, for real this time."

All sense of that strange…aura…whatever Harry had been giving off, was gone. He looked as unassuming as he always did – small, with dishevelled hair and eyes bright behind tatty glasses.

And suddenly she couldn't help but wonder how things would have worked out if Harry had been in Slytherin from the start. .

"Harry, what can I do for you?"

Lupin looked surprised to see him as Harry hovered outside of his door.

He'd gone down to the dungeons again, instead of chasing down Pettigrew – or at least the dot of Pettigrew – on the map, and the what ifs still left a bad taste in his mouth.

Maybe it had been a blip. Maybe it hadn't.

But Sirius had said that Pettigrew took the form of a rat.

A rat, missing a toe, and Harry could have kicked himself for not seeing it before. Scabbers, inconveniently enough, was nowhere to be seen considering Crookshanks had been terrorizing him all year so far.

After returning to the Gryffindor Common Room, he'd spent the rest of the night going through the photo album Hagrid had given him; tracing over the photos, noting how different Sirius looked back then compared to the wreck he was now.

"Dumbledore said you might be able to teach me the Patronus Charm…after what happened on the pitch…" he started.

Lupin's expression cleared, and he smiled. A tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"I'd be happy to, though I will need a little time to set the lessons up."

Harry gave an eager nod.
"After Christmas then, maybe?" he suggested. He honestly wasn't sure he physically had time before then, with all of his other lessons and Wood's attempts to kill him with Quidditch Practice. Especially after the last match.

"After Christmas, then," Lupin agreed. Harry hesitated, and Lupin must have caught something in his expression.

"What is it?"

"You were friends with my father, weren't you? Dumbledore mentioned it," he said. Lupin's face seemed to soften entirely, even whilst it remained shadowed and haggard.

"Yes. Yes, I – James was – he was one of my best friends, in fact. I knew your mother too. An uncommonly kind woman, Lily…"

Harry wetted his lips.

"You knew Sirius Black too, didn't you?"

Lupin appeared startled for a moment.

"What makes you say that?"

"Nothing – I mean, I just knew that they were friends at Hogwarts too. Him and my dad."

The man's face relaxed.

"Yes, I knew him," he said shortly. "Or at least I thought I did."

"And Peter Pettigrew," Harry insisted, taking a step closer. For a second, Lupin almost seemed wary once more, before his head bowed and he sighed softly.

"Yes, Peter too. It was the four of us – your father, Black, Peter and I." A broken sort of smile twitched the man's lips, before he seemed to shove it away just as quickly.

Harry sat down in front of Lupin's desk, utterly rapt.

"What were they like?" he asked.

He spent the next ten minutes listening to stories; of pranks, and how his father would always be trying to impress his mother, but how they didn't get together until seventh year until she deemed his father's head suitably deflated. About how his mother was kind, and a talented witch, friends with everyone.

It was…nice, to hear about them, to learn about them though he couldn't help but note how carefully Remus was trying to avoid mentioning Sirius or Pettigrew.

But maybe that wasn't the only thing bothering him.

"If you were so close to my father…how come I've never met you before?"

Lupin froze. Harry's stomach dropped, hands clenching in his lap. Lupin suddenly looked more old and tired than Harry had ever seen him.

"There were blood wards around your residence, and Dumbledore thought it best to give you a normal childhood. Away from the magical world, and all that had happened. The Death Eaters were still being rounded up, it wasn't safe."

"You never even visited," Harry said, voice a little hollow. "You didn't introduce yourself when I did join the Wizarding World either. You could have written me a letter, anything!"

Something shifted in Remus' expression.

"I did write to you. I never received any reply."

Harry stared, and his insides twisted.

"You…you wrote to me? I never got them." He wanted desperately to believe that Lupin was telling him the truth, and he could certainly believe that if mail had arrived to him from the Wizarding World that the Dursleys would go out of their way to ensure that he never received it, but…

They stared at each other.

"Mr Riddle," Lupin was obviously treading carefully now, "implied that…the situation with your childhood may not have been…ideal, considering the seeming lack of concern from your relatives this summer."

This time, it was Harry who froze. His expression went blank, calm, and he could and would have hit Tom were he there.

"Tom is somewhat biased on the topic of muggles," he gave a small smile, heart hammering fast. "If something was wrong, Dumbledore wouldn't have let me go back there, would he?"

He didn't know what made him say it but…he couldn't talk about it. What difference did it make if it did? Because Dumbledore had sent him back, just like he'd sent Tom back to the Orphanage despite how he knew Tom had expressed desires to stay at Hogwarts in the holidays.

He could see the lines of tension ease from Lupin's face. He trusted Dumbledore. Everyone seemed to trust Dumbledore's words and explanations, more than they'd ever trust his. It was always the same, and adults were useless.

"No," Lupin murmured, watching him, "I don't suppose he would…"

Harry's throat felt thick. It was definitely time to change the subject.

"Pettigrew, he's dead now, isn't he?"

Lupin's gaze only sharpened.

"Yes."

"But there was never a trial, for Black? Why not?"

"I-at the time things were-it was obvious that Black-no one thought that-the evidence was-where are you going with this, Harry?"

"I'm just curious, Professor," Harry replied. "He sold my mum and dad out to Voldemort. I want to know what he was like, why he would do that. Why do people think that it was him?"

"There was a charm, used to hide your parents," Lupin's voice was distracted, "it required a secret Keeper-"

"And Black was the secret keeper."

Lupin nodded. Harry wetted his lips.

"So why did it take Voldemort a year to attack? Surely Black would have told him immediately, if he was a Death Eater."

"Harry, where is this coming from?" Lupin asked, standing up. "If you know something…"

Harry stood up too.

"I guess I'm just trying to figure out why anyone would betray their best friend like that. It doesn't make sense."

Remus' expression cleared once more, though something lingered.

"Betrayal never makes sense. If it didn't come from those we least suspected, it would not be a betrayal in the first place," the man said quietly. "I wish I had more answers for you, Harry."

Harry forced a smile.

"It's fine. Thank you for telling me about mum and dad."

"Any time." Lupin's smile was warmer in turn. "My door is always open to you."

Horcruxes were never supposed to be this much trouble.

Lord Voldemort had been observing the events in Britain carefully, from the moment he realized the possibilities of what might be happening.

He'd never expected it to escalate to this.

Of course, the diary held a large part of his soul and he had fully anticipated being able to use the shard as a weapon if necessary….but this was something else.

As was Harry Potter.

"My lord," Alecto sank to her knees before him, face strained. "I have brought you what you asked for."

It was an infuriating feeling, to be so dependent on his own followers, unable to do anything for himself despite the magnitude of his power.

But that would change soon enough.

If his sixteen year old incarnation could find a body and success, then with greater experience and knowledge, so could he.

And then the whole world would fall to his feet.

It was only a matter of time.

"How did your meeting with the Slytherins go?" Tom asked.

He was sitting in Tom's office, and hell knew why he was doing that when he had so many other things he should probably doing. Practising Occlumency, practising spells, getting ahead on his homework or even just spending time with his friends.

But this was important. Besides, for all of his flaws – Tom had gone to significant effort to make time for this in his schedule. If they weren't equally busy, then Tom had even more on his plate than Harry himself did.

A holiday couldn't come sooner, really; they both looked exhausted.

But Harry couldn't afford to relax and take a ho#liday just yet, so at least there was a satisfaction to the feeling of growing stronger every day.

"It was…alright," he replied. "I mean, it probably could have gone better, but all things considered…"

"I'm pleased to hear it," Tom said, with a small smile. "I'm sure you did just fine. I'm sorry to have missed it."

He could only imagine the Slytherin Heir would be delighted that he might be making friends among the potential dark. Still, for all he was certain of manipulation, it was quite relaxing just sitting here.

It was idle, or seemingly as close as either of them ever got to idle anymore.

Tom's pride was as dangerous a thing as it was gratifying.

"Have you discovered anymore about Black?" he asked. "You said you were looking into it."

Tom's head tilted marginally.

"Not yet. I have a team trying to track the man down though – I wouldn't see harm come to my favourite Gryffindor, would I?"

Harry pinned a smile to his lips and snorted.

"Yeah, well, keep me updated, will you?" he leaned in a little closer to the man, only to find himself under rather close scrutiny. He willed his expression to remain even, innocent.

Forced himself not to look away, even if staring back seemed like a liquid transference of everything he was thinking and feeling. Tom had pounced time the last time he felt Harry was being evasive, so maybe he had to work on having nerves of steel instead.

He had never been more grateful for the fact that his palms didn't sweat when he was nervous. Still.

"Will you sign my Hogsmeade slip?" he changed the subject. "I mean, the Dursleys didn't, and you're the closest thing I have to a…well, I don't want to say parental consent but…"

Damn it. Tom's eyes were still searing into him – normally guardianship, or acknowledgement of how they had come, appeased Tom. At least, Harry had always thought it did, considering how Tom had behaved in the Hospital Wing, when Harry catered to him then instead of Dumbledore.

He really wanted to swallow.

"I'll see what I can do. Though I doubt anyone is going to be eager to let you roam around outside the safety of the castle walls, with Black on the loose," Tom murmured.

Well, that was inconvenient considering how much he really needed to talk to Sirius. He'd kept an eye out for Pettigrew on the map ever since yesterday, but he couldn't do it too much without it coming across as suspicious.

He was certain Tom would 'borrow' the map if he knew Harry had it. Same with his cloak.

"Thanks. Is this is a staring competition or do you just never blink?" he blurted out. "I swear, you're like a snake."

Tom's lips twitched in something suspiciously like amusement.

"People blink a lot when they're nervous. Are you nervous, Harry?"

Oh, this was not going well. Maybe he'd got cocky, thinking he could get away with asking about Sirius. He was half convinced Tom already knew everything, and was just toying with him.

"I have a mass murderer trying to kill me and finish the job he started when he sent my parents to be brutally murdered," he huffed. "It's not nerves, it's self-preservation."

Tom finally blinked.

"As I said, I'll do what I can about you going to Hogsmeade with your friends. It would be a pity if you missed out on the experience. I'm sure something can be done to keep an eye on you safely during your visit. I'll have a chat with our esteemed Headmaster."

"Thanks," Harry said again.

"And how are your Occlumency lessons coming along?"

Harry's gaze snapped back, heart pounding.

"You know about that?"

"You'd be surprised by the things I know, child."

He wondered if Tom meant that to sound ominous, or if he just suffered from a guilty conscience to think it did. He cleared his throat.

"So, if I do get to go to Hogsmeade, does that mean I get the weekend off from Bella?"

Tom looked like he was barely refraining from rolling his eyes.

Whilst it was…interesting to see Harry's skills at manipulation growing, along with his consequent awareness of himself and his surroundings…Tom wasn't sure if he should be amused or not by Harry's seeming confidence in manipulating him.

At the beginning of the summer, Harry had been an open book in many accounts. Now, things were a little more complex. The lines between both of their manipulations and the truths wound tight among the omissions and lies, were growing blurred. Twisted up.

It was difficult to tell how much of Harry's affections were genuine, and how much the boy played into the roles of their growing dynamic as a way of getting what he wanted.

Then again, he could hardly hold such lack of emotional purity against his charge, when by all definitions Harry had simply started doing the exact same thing that he did. Mimicking his behaviour, and reflecting his own tricks back at him – whether consciously or not.

It was fascinating.

Fascinating, but something to keep an eye on. He had no intention of being played by a thirteen year old boy, and it was more than obvious that Harry was hiding something.

But maybe it was a test to see what his Gryffindor did with it.

When a rather familiar black dog met Harry on Hogsmeade weekend, he was more than ready.

Perhaps everyone needed a reminder on who they were dealing with, and of the consequences of trying to deceive a Dark Lord.

A/N: I am terrible, I know. I'd say I'm sorry but...well, next chapter will be up soon enough? And should be better for the fact its set up properly? :P Midpoint climax of third year! Woo. You'll miss these days later in the story ;)

PS: HAPPY BIRTHDAY! ;) You know who you are. Hope that the chapter was satisfactory, and that you have an awesome day.

Chapter 50
"Sirius." Harry grinned despite himself, at the wide, delighted smile he received from the man. He took a few steps closer, hesitated – only for Sirius to close the gap and tug him into an embrace, arms wrapped tight around him.

Harry couldn't remember the last time someone had been so happy to see him, when they didn't think he was dead and tortured in his absence.

He wondered if this was supposed to be what family felt like; then dismissed it as absurd, like the warmth in his chest. Too soon in their knowing each other. Though he supposed Sirius had known him for a while, to grow so affectionate.

"Hogsmeade weekend?" Sirius checked. "You're not sneaking out, are you? Does anyone know you're here?"

"Hogsmeade weekend," Harry confirmed. "I left Ron and Hermione at Zonko's. Said I'd see them at the Three Broomsticks after I sorted something out. Sirius," he pressed on, with far more important things to consider, taking a step back. "It's Pettigrew. He's at Hogwarts. My friend Ron – his rat-"

"At Hogwarts?" Sirius' whole posture had shifted, to something far more unstable. Something far more like the notorious convict he was reputed to be. There was a wild gleam of murder in his eyes, that was frankly worrying.

But Sirius' thinness was worrying too, and Harry tightened his grip upon alarmingly emaciated arms.

"I thought you'd want to know. But I've got a plan-"

"-Oh, I have no doubt about that." This time it wasn't Sirius who replied, and Harry whipped around on heart-hammering instinct. His wand hit his hand, the stunner lashing out in a split second as he moved.

Tom ducked it all too easily, and sent his wand clattering out of his hand and to the floor of the cave. Harry's eyes widened.

Sirius had transformed, hackles bristling as he took a snarling step forward, to stand protectively between them.

Riddle's lip curled at the sight.
Harry swallowed, and reached out, pressing a warning hand to the scruff of Sirius' neck. His gaze fixed on the wand in the Slytherin Heir's hand.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

"We've done nothing to betray you. You have no reason to punish either of us."

Riddle took another slow step towards him, and Harry wanted desperately to lunge for his own wand in turn. But to do that was like a scream of guilt, and frankly the more Tom thought he had the upper hand here…the more chance there was that he wouldn't lash out.

Sirius growled even harder.

"And yet you felt the need to deceive me and go behind my back?" Tom raised his brows, giving a breathtakingly terrifying sort of smile.

Unlike Tom's normal façade of pleasantness, this smile was all teeth – the bared fangs of a viper just waiting to strike.

Harry refused to let his legs give out and turned jellied. He would have shoved Sirius aside, but he just knew the man would immediately get inbetween him and Tom again, and that would immediately escalate the situation to something worse.

"You seemed busy," Harry began, instead. "I didn't want to trouble you further with something I-"

"My, when did you become such a pretty liar, Harry?"

Harry's mouth clicked shut again. His fists clenched a moment, before he steeled himself once more.

"I learnt from the best. You can hardly lecture me for lies, be they lies or simply things I didn't tell you, considering your own behaviour. You brought him home and let me believe he was just a dog."Harry's voice was quivering with a quiet rage. "You hypocrite."

It took him a moment to even realize that they'd slipped into Parseltongue in the first place...which meant that whatever was at the core of this, was to do with him, and not Sirius. If it was Sirius, Tom wouldn't exclude him by talking in a language that the ex-convict couldn't understand. He pressed on regardless, heart hummingbird fast.

"Sirius is just trying to look out for me," he continued. "He's not a threat to you."

"No?" Tom continued to walk forwards, to the point that one step more and he was in the danger zone of Sirius' jaws. "Are you?"

Harry's insides plunged cold.

"Me?"

"Are you a threat to me, Harry?"

Harry shook his head mutely, and tried to think. Fast. It had been some time since he'd seen Tom like this. The last time he had, there was death involved. He didn't want that here – but if Sirius dared to lunge at Tom, if he got involved, Harry had an awful feeling that there would be.

"You said it yourself, I'm not that stupid," he whispered. "I just want the man who betrayed my parents caught. Pettigrew. It's not about you."

"Oh please. Your parents' murders are intrinsically linked to me," Riddle laughed softly.

"You had no personal hand in it, you were in the diary, you couldn't have-" it suddenly struck him what this could be about. The specifics of the current situation were irrelevant; it was the fact that he'd lied, proven himself capable of deceptions and manipulations. Because if he could do it now, he could do it in the future when Tom did have far more stake in the matter.

Even now…Tom viewed Sirius as a threat. Sirius' existence was a threat. It didn't matter to Tom that Harry wasn't going to leave with his godfather, the mere possibility of it was something Riddle found difficult to bear.

For all of his hedonism and enjoyment day to day after the darkness of the diary, Tom Riddle was a being whose mind operated in the future. In plans and possibilities, ideologies.

You're so scared people will leave you that you would never give them the choice.

He'd said it himself! The playing fields of Hogwarts or the cottage didn't matter, their bargains didn't matter when at the core of it all was the fact that Harry had been desperate to leave. Their whole relationship was built on prisoner and jailor - the fact that he would have done anything to escape the man in front of him.

How many more have to die for the famous Harry Potter?

Sirius collapsed to the floor, stunned; and Harry looked down at his hand. The singe of accidental magic that maybe was only half accidental at all. Tom's gaze dipped to his hand too, and for a moment Harry was hopeful, hopeful that the display of power should prove sufficiently distracting and impressive.

Then Riddle's eyes moved back to his face.

This wasn't going to be that easy.

Harry stepped around Sirius to stand deliberately in the path of the man's wand.

His owl. His dog. His godfather. No.

Recklessly, he caught hold of the wrist of Tom's wand hand, staring up at the incarnation of the young Dark Lord.

"Tom, he is not a threat to you," he said, again, softly. "And nor am I. I care about the collateral, remember? Besides, I'm your…" he swallowed, "your soulmate." That was what the Slytherin Heir had said, wasn't it? "We're tied together. Where the hell else would I go except back to you?"

If Pettigrew was caught, and Sirius became a free man…he was Harry's legal guardian and could challenge for custody. Tom's claim on him outside of their games, was a fragile thing in the eyes of the law, all things considered. Especially if Tom intended to maintain some form of cover as a teacher, however thin.

And yet, how could he allow his godfather, an innocent man, suffer for crimes he hadn't committed?

He kept their gazes locked.

"You seem awfully desperate to save him."

"I don't like people dying because of me," Harry snapped, before forcing himself to try and remain calm. "Tom, please. You don't need to prove anything."

"Don't I?" That awful smile was still present, and fingers gripped his chin painfully tight, tilting his head up further. "I once thought you were smart enough not to lie to me, especially after I expressly warned you on the matter. It makes me what else you're not smart enough to comprehend without further reminder."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

"You can't punish me for something I haven't done yet. For something I might do in the future. That's not fair."

"Of course it's not," Tom said. "Punishment for an act that hasn't been committed yet would be unreasonable. You know I'm not an unreasonable man." Harry allowed himself, warily, to hope. "No, if I did anything to you or your mutt it would be a matter of reinforcement on how to behave." Almost all hope vanished.

Harry's grip squeezed tighter around Tom's wrist.

"Look, let's just go back to the castle, alright? Or the cottage, if you want. We can talk about this properly. You're exhausted, you've been working non-"

"-Are you telling me I'm too unstable to know what to do with you?"

Before, it had just been the smile that was vicious, now the tone was too. Harry suppressed a wince.

"Punishing me, or – or punishing reinforcement or whatever it is you're thinking of, is not going to help," he said. "You know it's not."

"You'd say that regardless," Tom murmured. "To get out of the fact that you are a manipulative, two faced liar."

"So what, I should do as you say and not as you do?" Harry's voice cracked. "For god's sake, make up your mind on what you want out of me. Maybe I shouldn't have lied to you, but how can you expect me not to when you react like this?"

Riddle stared at him, flatly. Harry's jaw clenched.

"Trust is a two way street," he muttered, not sure what else he could say. "I can't stop you killing everyone I get remotely close to outside of you, but it wouldn't do any good if you did. Not if you actually want me to stay on my own free will."

"And there was me thinking we were soulmates and you had nowhere else to go," Tom mocked. Harry glared at him.

"Are we? Are we soulmates or am I still just your prisoner with no rights to speak of?" Harry snapped. "You don't get to have both. It doesn't work like that!" At least not in his definition of soulmates, and what it meant to promise to look after someone. Frankly, he had no idea what Tom's definitions were, and his breathing grew heavier.

He ripped his chin away from Tom's hand, stepping back though he stayed between Riddle's wand and Sirius.

His stomach was tied up in knots.

"Move out of my way," the Slytherin Heir murmured, eventually. Harry's gaze shot up.

"What?"

The Dark Lord made a gesture with his free hand that Harry should step aside. His head was spinning. He rooted his feet even more firmly into place, and pulled Riddle's hand up so the wand was pointing straight at the lightning bolt scar only half hidden by his overgrown fringe.

"Harry."

"I'm not betraying you," he replied stubbornly. "But I'm not just going to step aside and let you kill the people I care about either. If you want to, you'll have to go through me."

Sirius was starting to rouse on the floor now behind him, from his not-all-that-strong stunner.

"And if torture you?" Tom's head tilted. "Or if I take your senses, decide you're too much trouble and just leave you like that in the cottage, making sure that you don't die and can't get into trouble…?"

Harry felt like he'd been punched in the throat. He shrank in on himself.

"I'd wonder what kind of monster you were to do that to me when you know what it's like, and I would never forgive you," he said coldly. Despite his best efforts, his voice went a bit unsteady. But he didn't move. "And I'd tell you, my lord," his eyes grew wild, "to just finish what you started instead of taking the coward's way out in case killing me doesn't go like you expect."

"Harry, just move," Sirius rasped, having transformed behind him, staggering to his feet, putting a hand on his shoulders. "This is my responsibility. I won't see you punished by that bastard for my-"

"Come along, Harry," Tom turned away. "I believe we have a rat to track down."

Tom felt distinctly unsettled now, and it was doing nothing to make him want to slice Black up less.

If he'd known the importance of the mutt, he would have murdered him before he ever introduced him to Harry. As it was, all he could do now was pull the strings of the situation he'd gotten.

He turned slightly to watch Harry pick up his wand, give Black a look and hesitate a second longer, before hurrying after him quickly. Lest he change his mind on his seeming tolerance on the situation.

He wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders as the boy reached him, head still turned to see Black stiffen rigid at the sight. A smirk flickered across his lips, before vanishing.

"Go back to Malfoy Manor, Black. I've got a handle on things here. I'm sure Harry will update you with any developments, and at least in my care you won't have to satiate yourself on rats."

Harry pressed further against his side, looking up at him with obviously careful scrutiny.

He took the opportunity to apparate them both.

The living room of the cottage was a comfortably familiar sight, though Harry tensed, all things considered.

"…why are we here?"

Tom could practically hear his racing thoughts, even without the use of Legilimency.

"Put the kettle on, and make us some tea."

He flopped to sprawl on the sofa, gaze still fixed on his young charge. Harry was blank-faced, neutral in that way which showed how desperate he was to affect no-expression at all, to hide his nerves.

The quietness with which he slunk to make the tea only reiterated the point. To the boy's credit, his hand was steady when he handed the cup to him five minutes later. Tom smiled, and patted the sofa next to him.

Harry sat down, fingers white-knuckled around his own drink.

Tom took great glee in letting the silence stretch taut as he blew gently on the hot tea, before taking a sip. Harry looked like he might start twitching at any moment.

"I thought you said we were tracking Pettigrew down." The boy broke the silence eventually, seemingly unable to stand it with the combination of his unfaltering study, and the threats from earlier.

Tom hummed. Said nothing, still, and merely sipped some more of his drink.

So it continued in silence broken only by the clinks of fine china, before Harry snapped again and surged to his feet, slamming his cup down, fists clenched at his side.

"I'll be in my room if you're not going to bloody well doing anything."

"Sit down." His tone remained pleasant, and he even smiled again. Harry swayed on the spot, breathing heavy.

"Stop this, Tom."

"Sit down, Harry."

They stared at each other. Slowly, Harry sank to sit on the other end of the sofa again. Tom finished his tea calmly and without speaking, before eventually setting the cup delicately aside.

He curled his fingers over his wand and twirled it idly, and watched Harry itch towards his own, hands flexing before-too-still in his lap.

"What do you think I should do with you, Harry?"

Harry bit down on his lip, before turning poker-faced again just as quickly.

"I'm sorry I lied."

"That's not what I asked, Harry," he all but sang the words out.

"I don't think you should punish me for the same crimes you commit so frequently that they're your everyday mode of conversation," the boy said stiffly. "It would by hypocritical. Hardly make you a good role model."

"I thought I wasn't a good role model?" he raised his brows once more.

"Well you definitely wouldn't be if you did that."

"And if I asked you to get down on your knees for me now?"

"What?" Harry startled.

"Would you do it?" Tom asked sweetly. "If I asked you to."

"Stop playing with me," Harry hissed. His eyes were starting to get that wild look again.

"It's a simple enough question."

"Are you asking me to?"

"Would you?"

Harry looked away, taking several deep breaths, fingers flexing in his lap again.

"If you're trying to remind me how horrible you can be, you're doing a great job. Not that I was ever in danger of forgetting." The boy's tone was clipped, as he stared across the living room. He seemed to be making an active effort to calm down again.

Tom's thoughts were racing.

After a moment, Harry turned to him again – and edged closer despite all of the odds.

"You like games," Harry muttered. "Let's play truth then." The boy's gaze fixed on him, edged with something awful and desperate. "You think I'd pick Sirius over you, and leave."

He was silent for a few seconds, eyes flickering. The unexpected turn of events threw his mood and plans off completely, his fingers relaxing around his wand. He supposed he should have grown used to Harry surprising him.

"Truth. You would pick Sirius over me, and leave."

"Not truth," Harry said fiercely. "He already bloody well asked me to, when we first met him. I told him no, and that I couldn't leave you. Because if I did, there would be nowhere we could go that you wouldn't hunt as down and slaughter him. Truth?"

Tom's mouth had gone strangely dry, and he hated it. He leaned in.

"Truth. You're mine."

Harry's throat bobbed.

"Truth. If I'm yours, you aren't going to kill anyone else because you feel…threatened. You feel threatened, don't you?"

His head tilted the other way. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so honest a conversation with anyone, or been so plain in his emotions or manipulations.

"Truth."

Harry blinked, after a moment.

"…was that truth you feel threatened or truth you aren't going to kill anyone because you feel threatened? Or both?"

He offered up a smile, but it was somewhat less vicious this time - even if not exactly kind. Harry sagged, rubbing his eyes.

"I would destroy you if you ever dared betray me for real."

Harry's gaze moved across him again.

"Truth," the Gryffindor confirmed quietly.

Oddly, the silence splintered to something unnervingly companionable. Not quite, but…he reached out a hand once more, watching as Harry stiffened like he'd stopped doing for a while. He turned the younger boy's head to face him again, waiting until his gaze was met.

"I am not in the habit of trusting people," he said. "I don't know how to. It is against everything I know. You cannot be betrayed by somebody if you never trusted them in the first place, that's why you're no doubt left wondering why Pettigrew would have betrayed your parents. Trying to find the reasons why."

"If you can't trust someone," Harry murmured, "You can't ever really have their full loyalty either. It's not loyalty without the choice."

"I don't have your loyalty. Truth?"

He'd expected uneasiness, but Harry laughed, the sound startling in the hush of the otherwise empty house.

"Tell me when you figure it out. I am…between loyalties," the Boy Who Lived said, before his expression turned dark. Serious. "But killing or hurting the people I like won't gain you it. Truth. Help me catch Pettigrew, and see Sirius free," Harry persisted. "And then I suppose you'll find out for sure."

He studied the boy for a long moment, resisting the urge to frown.

"I'm starting to think I'm a bad influence on you, Harry Potter."

It was never supposed to turn out like this.

Harry snorted, and any sense of maturity or wisdom had gone.

"You're a Dark Lord. What the bloody hell were you expecting?"

Tom rolled his eyes, dropped his gaze and stood up.

"Tell me about Pettigrew."

A/N: Official Chapter 50. I personally thought it was suitably dramatic? Woo! Wow, this fic's come a long way. At least in my opinion.

PS：我决定10章一楼了，太长看的不方便。这篇文章其实我有翻译，目前在16章。但是不幸的是，一开始我没放在猫爪，所以为了不和他人冲突，这个我就不放了。在乐乎你们可以看到它。谢谢。

SNAKE979 · 发表于 2017-12-31 23:19| 字数 233,335

Chapter 51
Harry wasn't quite breathing easy.

Tom's expression was still too calm; he'd managed to act as something of a buffer, and wind the older boy down from murder, but that didn't mean everything was safe.

It meant that Tom was calm and level-headed, and that anything that happened from now on was calculated.

Tom was sly; Harry already knew that the Slytherin Heir was capable of waiting and striking at the opportune moment when he was calm like this. For all Harry knew, he could have stored this whole incident away for later.

It was difficult to tell if he had actually gotten away with anything or not.

But he could hope.

He'd filled the young Dark Lord in on the situation and all that had happened with Pettigrew anyway, receiving a quiet hum in response.

And, all too soon, they were facing the rat as he tried to flee the borders of Hogwarts.

Tom Riddle had formidable tracking skills, especially combined with the map and magic. Harry was half convinced Riddle did it just to prove how utterly screwed Harry would be if he ever tried to run and disappear somewhere.

Peter Pettigrew quivered before them, pasty faced and sweating, seeming to be trying to shrink into himself as much as possible. Harry could feel something dangerous coiling up inside of his chest, hot and threatening to strike.

Then the rat bolted, and Tom had him twisted and strung up in a split second, trapped.

If possible, Pettigrew grew even paler.

"Well now," Tom murmured, settling a hand on Harry's shoulders. "What are you going to do with him then now that we've got him?"

Harry blinked.

"I'll give him to the Ministry. Then they can set Sirius free. After that…after that the Dementors can have him." There were few fates he could think of that were worse than spending time with those things, however much they were supposed to be Tom's allies.

Tom's fingers flexed and pressed groundingly into his shoulder.

"No – no, Harry – you look just like your father – let me explain-" Pettigrew whimpered.

Tom flicked out a silencing charm, gaze not even shifting to the rat.

"And you will be satisfied with that as your vengeance?" the Slytherin Heir spoke softly by his ear. "He's not going anywhere, after all."

Harry glanced at Riddle, a little startled, his mouth running dry. Then he looked back at Pettigrew again, that something twisting in his stomach again. That tingling blood lust in his palms that had him lunging for Sirius' throat in the hospital wing.

"He's the reason your parents are dead, after all," Tom continued. "He betrayed those who trusted him and considered him their friend. Once he's at the ministry, it's out of your hands."

"They'd know I did something," Harry replied, hollowly. He didn't know, himself, if he was using getting caught by the Ministry as an excuse not to, or if he was asking for a legitimate way around that issue.

Tom's hand settled on his other shoulder, as if bracing him in position, before a wand was slid into his grip – arms still hanging with loose numbness at his sides.

He looked down, to see a familiar yew wand pressed against his palm. Tom's wand.

His heart hammered.

"Come on, show me what you can do," Tom said, breath warm against his ear, hands settling on his shoulders again. "He deserves it, you know he does. Maybe I'll teach you something new as well."

Harry's head was spinning. Pettigrew thrashed in front of him, mouth open in silent plea and scream.

Tom's wand was almost thrumming in his touch, as if it was eager too. Hungry.

Tom didn't seem the type to offer his own wand up lightly either, and the thought sent a thrill through his veins. Maybe this was a peace offering. Maybe it was a sign of trust. Maybe.

Certainly, when he was already on thin ice he wasn't sure how wise it would be to refuse. It wasn't like they were killing the rat, was it? His blood was pounding, boiling at the mere sight of the traitor.

It would, no doubt, be easy. But maybe that scared him more.

And yet…Tom loved teaching him Dark Arts, doing this would mellow his mood the rest of the way for sure! Then, no one he actually cared about would get hurt.

The nausea that had started when Tom stepped into the Hogsmeade cave, only grew stronger. His knees felt jellied all over again. A twisted, torn set of instincts between kindness and vengeance.

Despite the fact that Riddle's fingers were kneading comforting circles into his tense muscles, somehow he felt even more under pressure than ever before.

Sure, he used Dark Arts with Bella – but that was duelling. It wasn't torture, however arguably justified.

This was a step. And not one he felt entirely ready or right in taking. He could feel Tom pressed against his back.

Harry swallowed, pointing the wand with a sickeningly steady hand, though he felt all scrambled up inside. He tried to think of the right spell.

"Lacero."

He was glad that he couldn't actually hear the screaming, but he could see the effects well enough as tears streamed down the rat's face, and he bucked and twisted on the spot; skin tearing and bones breaking.

"Very good," Tom breathed. There was something obscene and awful in the fact that the praise still warmed up his insides, and the spell sputtered out.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. Of course, there was a satisfaction to seeing the man who betrayed his parents howling out in pain, but that just made it worse. He was pretty sure from, what everyone had told him about them, that James and Lily Potter were not the type to encourage this type of behaviour. They wouldn't want this.

"I won't do too much," he blustered. "The Ministry would get suspicious."

"Why don't I show you one?" Tom suggested. Harry nearly froze, but passed the wand over as the Slytherin stepped around him. "After all, I'm most curious about our friend here too. I'd like a few questions answered, if he is amenable."

He gave Pettigrew the very same chillingly pleasant smile he'd given Harry earlier.

"First though, what happened the night of Halloween?" Tom asked, flicking his wand to cut the silencing charm as Pettigrew squirmed. The rat's eyes were nearly popping out of his head with terror.

"I-there was a Fidelius-"

"Yes, we know all about the secret keepers, and your treachery." Tom sounded bored. "My concern is…why did the Dark Lord go after the first place? And did you know that doing so would bring about his downfall?"

"What?" Harry's head snapped to Tom at that question, before to Pettigrew. He'd never even considered the possibility of Halloween being a trap for Voldemort.

Pettigrew was now distinctly the colour of gone off porridge, as he looked between them. Harry folded his arms, chin jutting up.

He wondered if the rat knew who he was talking to, specifically. He'd lived as Scabbers, he must do. Which was why there was absolutely no way he could give the right answer to that question either way.

"Actually, I'm quite curious about that too." Anyone looking at him would be disturbed by the pleasantness of his smile too. "Why did you sell out your friends?"

"The Dark Lord - he would have killed me – you have no idea what he's capable-"

Harry laughed at that, teeth baring in what just about passed as a grin, however vicious.

"I think I have some idea, actually." He glanced at Tom.

"Please," Pettigrew began.

"I think it's time for that demonstration," Riddle murmured, with an aside to him. "I would be impressed if you could pull it off already – crucio."

It was one of the worst things Harry had ever seen. So terrible that it was almost fascinating, in a grotesque sort of way. His whole body stilled, staring wide-eyed, bile clawing up his throat. The scream was the most piercing, awful thing he'd ever heard.

The spell – the curse – left no physical marks, but the pain it caused was obvious.

"Unlike most spells that you have been taught," Tom said, "you need to mean this one. You need to want to cause pain." The young Dark Lord still wasn't even looking at Pettigrew, posture relaxed as if he were teaching Harry how to cast Wingardium Leviosa and not how to torture someone. "Although I wouldn't recommend casting it in lighter companies. The Cruciatus curse, is one of three unforgiveable curses. The use of any one of them is enough to leave you in jail for life. But…nonetheless, they are effective."

Harry knew this now to be an interrogation, but how could Riddle be standing talking so calmly?

"Maybe it's safer not to use it then," Harry managed, over the noise of the warded area. Tom laughed, turning his gaze to Pettigrew as he began to twitch.

"You know how I feel about limitations, Harry."

Eventually, he just couldn't stand it, grabbing the hem of Riddle's sleeve.

"That's enough," his voice was hoarse. He knew…he knew why Tom was doing this, and it was far more than just revenge, but…bloody hell.

"Is it?" Tom's, by comparison, was mild. Thoughtful in consideration; but the look that speared Harry was the same dark one from earlier again all of sudden. Harry squared his shoulders.

"Yes."

"He either betrayed your parents or betrayed me. Neither one deserves to go unpunished."

"And Voldemort killed my parents." He held the Slytherin's gaze. "I doubt you would be ad-" what was the word? – no, it was gone – "telling me to treat him in the same way if we caught up with him."

"You seem to be getting into the alarming habit of trying to give me orders when it comes to mercy," Riddle commented. Harry resisted the urge to wet his lips, nervously, and he tugged on Tom's wrist to force the curse to cut.

Pettigrew slumped in his bonds, retching and shuddering miserably.

"He's going to the Dementors," Harry muttered. That's not merciful. If I was feeling merciful, I would kill him."

"And yet you would not see me kill the dog?" Tom's brows arched. Harry could feel that sense of entrapment tightening around his throat and chest again.

"That was different! He hadn't done anything to deserve it."

He couldn't tell what the expression on Riddle's face was, whether it was amusement, or something far more sinister.

"And yet either way, your sudden confidence to give me orders remains."

Harry was getting a bad feeling, because Tom was giving him that smile again now. He tried to think of what the right thing to say in this situation was again, and hoped if he thought of something that he'd actually manage to get it out considering how dry his mouth had gone again.

The silence stretched, and Riddle's eyes gleamed. Maybe it was supposed to be amusement still, but Harry found it more ominous than anything else. Then Tom turned to Pettigrew once more, flicking the wand once more.

"Nonetheless, is our friend here feeling more co-operative?"

Pettigrew looked between them, something desperate in his eyes.

"It was Dumbledore's – Dumbledore's plan. I don't know why. He didn't tell us, but he knew why…why you-know-who was after the-after James and Lily. He – he keeps things close to his chest."

Harry's insides dropped out, eyes narrowing. He had no idea if the rat was telling the truth or not, considering suggested already that he could be deceitful…but the implications of if he was left him cold. And yet, there was a strong chance that Pettigrew was just saying that in the face of Tom, if he knew in anyway who he was talking to. In which case, he'd simply judged Tom to be the greater threat in the face of Harry's own capabilities for mercy.

And what did that then say, if everyone would cater to Tom because they thought it was safer to do that, then giving Harry what he needed? His head spun at the thought. And yet…wasn't mercy a good thing? Now was hardly the time to think about it.

Riddle hummed, before the wand twisted in his hands again.

"Legilimens."

It was the first time Harry had ever seen Tom attack someone with mind arts, and it made him beyond grateful that he was learning Occlumency because he could practically see the rat's mind crumbling under the force of the onslaught.

He withdrew within a minute, and Pettigrew hung limp. Harry's attention was on Tom now, just as hungry for information even if he was perhaps a tad less ruthless in his pursuit of it.

"Anything?" he asked, softly.

"He doesn't know why my counterpart went after your parents," Tom said, guessing rightly that was the part Harry was most interested in. Harry did wonder though, how much the man was potentially leaving out.

"And?" he prompted, hopefully. "Was it a trap?"

"That remains to be seen." Tom's eyes were narrowed as he considered their panting prisoner. Harry swallowed.

"So you didn't find anything?" He had no proof Tom would tell him, even if he did. "Truth, you'd tell me if you did, right?"

Tom looked at him for a moment, quietly, before back to Pettigrew.

"I believe we should be getting him to the Ministry for now."

There was an uneasy feeling in Harry's gut.

Sirius lurched to his feet, the second he saw Tom Riddle again. His eyes narrowed, and he wished more than anything that he had a better wand for himself to use.

"You'll be pleased to know," the Dark Lord said, in a deceptively casual tone of voice. "That we located Pettigrew. You are on your way to becoming a…" Riddle's lips twisted, "free man."

Except with that disgusting mark on his arm, he didn't feel quite so free at all.

"Is Harry alright?" That had to be his first concern. Riddle already knew it was, considering however much time he'd spent as a dog, he had nonetheless spent half of his summer in the man's home.

It was rare, but in the evenings when Harry was asleep, he would occasionally change back. They would talk – largely about Harry, but still. Not that he would ever like Riddle or anything. The bastard wouldn't lift a finger to help anyone if it didn't benefit himself.

"You should be more concerned about yourself."

Sirius's eyes flashed.

"If you've done something to-"

"That would bother you, wouldn't it?" Riddle questioned in a honeyed tone, stepping closer to him. "Your godson being hurt because of you."

Sirius's jaw clenched. He hadn't wanted to break somebody's face this much since Halloween.

"I'm his godfather. It's my job to look after him. It's your self-claimed job to do so too, so clearly you should have just as much stake in ensuring he is unharmed as I do."

Riddle laughed, apparently seeing straight through the attempt behind that comment.

"It would hurt Harry rather a lot to see you punished because of him, too," the Dark Lord continued, twirling his wand in his hand. "Seems a fitting system to get you both to behave. Anything you do wrong, and I'm sure he'll happily offer to accept punishment for you. He already did so once today. So, just to clarify." The spell sent him writhing to the floor, trying not to howl in pain.

Riddle reached down, grabbing a hank of hair to pull him roughly on his knees, face bent low, expression purely venomous.

"If you ever dare challenge me, or go against my orders, this is what he is going to feel. And he will be grateful for it because he will choose it. Back off, he is mine. Are we understood?"

Sirius glared, furiously.

"I said," Riddle all but sang. "Are we understood? Or do we need a lesson?"

"Excellent." The curse cut, and the Dark Lord straightened. Sirius shoved himself up too, however wobbly he felt.

"I could just show him this."

"…and hurt him further," Riddle returned, lip curling. "You know he'd only blame himself. What good would it do? You asked him to come with you, and he picked me."

"Because he's trying to protect the people he actually cares about," Sirius replied. "Hardly the victory you're looking for, is it?" The lack of immediate response told him the blow had hit, and he grinned wildly, eyes manic. "You're as tied to seeming in his good graces as I am. That's why you're doing this now, instead of in front of him."

"The point stands," Riddle said stiffly. Sirius nearly laughed, amazed, delirious and giddy almost.

Of course, Harry was in great danger of succumbing to Riddle, and to some extent he was being drawn closer and closer like a fly trapped in a spider's web…but, for the first time, it clicked that maybe it was more complicated than that.

For all his doubt in Dumbledore for letting him rot in Azkaban for 12 years, he had to believe that Light Lord (even if for selfish or manipulative reasons) would have acted to pull Harry away from the Dark Lord's area of influence if he didn't think they could still win.

Harry could win.

…the problem was the cost of such triumph.

Riddle's head tilted, as he examined him in greater scrutiny than he had before. Looking at him for the first time as if he was more than a mutt or a pawn, a toy to keep Harry deceptively content with life on the dark side.

"Halloween night," Riddle begun, seemingly on a different tangent. The giddy feeling plunged into icy depths. "Did your precious Light Lord, know, do you think? He put the Potter's under protection. Obviously he knew of something that he didn't share with the rest of you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"There are sacrifices in war, and something happened that Halloween when the killing curse backfired. Of course, there are such things as coincidences, but…" Riddle shrugged.

"Dumbledore is a good man. He wouldn't sacrifice the Potters," Sirius snarled. The mere thought left something rotting inside of his gut.

Riddle merely gave him that pleasant smile that he was growing to hate so much.

"Maybe you should take the opportunity of your freedom to investigate why you were wrongfully imprisoned in the first place."

The git left the way that he came, as the first snow of the season began to fall.

A/N: Holy fuck, I actually have a plot? :O Open arc 3 soon enough? But nonetheless. Next up, Christmas! is here! And why the hell do I never get to Christmas at Christmas? Like, seriously. I have the luck of always writing Christmas in the height of summer? How does that work!

Chapter 52

Harry supposed he should have expected this.

He was sat on a chair in Dumbledore's office, a steaming mug of cocoa in his hands that he didn't much fancy drinking. Lemon drops hovered by his left knee.

His spine was prickling with all the staring. Professor Dumbledore sat behind his back in the steepled-fingers pose that Harry was beginning to view as characteristic, Professor McGonagall was standing by the bookshelf, Snape dour and considering by the door, and Lupin sitting exhausted in a chair to the side.

Harry swallowed.

He'd just finished explaining about Pettigrew, Sirius, and (with some obvious omissions) what had happened to lead to a Ministerial investigation on the matter. The Prophet was abuzz with the whole matter, and Harry suspected the only reason he hadn't been thoroughly interviewed and questioned was because he was at Hogwarts.

"Maybe you should ask Professor Snape about it. He met Sirius over the summer," Harry said, chin jutting up. The Potion Master's eyes narrowed at him, just a fraction.

Of course, Tom's presence and involvement in any meetings with the Light side seemed a disaster waiting to happen, but that at present moment in time Harry wouldn't have minded the company. Though he stood by his actions, either way.

"He what?" Lupin growled, low in his throat.

Everyone's gaze turned to Snape, giving him a blessed moment of reprieve from scrutiny.

They soon turned back to him, however.

"Is Mr Black going to be asking for custody?" Dumbledore asked. Harry's mouth dried.

"No. I told him not to. Tom would slaughter anyone who tried," he said matter-of-factly. Lupin turned even paler at that.

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore began.

"Don't tell me it's not my responsibility. Sirius already tried, and he's wrong," Harry snapped, fists clenching in his lap. "You told me it was best I didn't know too much about what the Light side was doing during the summer. You can't use me against him now, and expect me to go along with it without a care. I care about what happens to people, even if you don't!"

Ever since Pettigrew said it, the doubts had been nagging at him. That Dumbledore had sacrificed his parents to stop Voldemort. He didn't even think it was true, necessarily, but he couldn't stop thinking about it.

"Mr Potter!" McGonagall looked scandalized.

Dumbledore's eyes flickered.

"I would leave not caring about my allies to Lord Voldemort," the old man said quietly. "You know you can't believe everything he says, Harry. We talked about this."

Harry let out a shaky breath, hands flexing in his lap. He nodded tightly.

He'd joked that things felt like a custody battle over the summer, but it was even worse now.

And stuck in the middle of proceedings, there seemed no real way to win sometimes either way. Pleasing Tom tended to mean aggravating everyone on the Light side, and helping them led to the dangers of Riddle's wrath.

Honestly, he could see why Pettigrew had picked pissing him off, over risking angering Tom. He knew Dumbledore was a powerful wizard, and very clever – he knew too, that he was said to be the only one that the Dark Lord was afraid of.

But Harry didn't think Dumbledore would start killing people for his disobedience.

"Harry," Remus leant forward. "You're not on your own in this. You should have told me about what was going on with Sirius. That was why you were asking me questions, wasn't it? And because you're not on your own, if you feel you or anyone else is in danger, you can tell us that too. We'll help. The Order will keep them safe."

Harry's jaw clenched.

"Like you kept me safe? Like you kept my mum and dad safe?"

The silence that followed could have swallowed him whole. Dumbledore's gaze sharpened.

Harry wished he hadn't said anything at all, but it was all spewing out. Bubbling out of him because it was really hard keeping it back.

Everything was just building and building and getting more complicated and he couldn't breathe.

"You feel abandoned by us?" the headmaster verified softly. Harry couldn't look at that wizened old face, but the sense of sadness in the room seemed enough to suffocate him.

What could he even say to that? His head hurt. It had been aching since yesterday.

"No, sir. I know you'll do everything you can to help me," he mumbled. But he also felt that maybe that wasn't enough. He'd needed help this summer, desperately, and it hadn't been available. It had been him, and Tom. And the Fidelius had been supposed to protect his parents, but look how that turned out.

He could feel them studying him.

"Could I have a moment alone with Mr Potter for a moment…" Dumbledore requested.

Everyone left. Some with more reluctance than others. Harry stood up, turning his attention to the spindly and fascinating instruments around the man's office. Fawkes cooed gently at him.

He felt a hand settle in his shoulder, and it reminded him painfully of Tom. He stiffened a little.

"Do you know why we haven't entirely removed you from Mr Riddle's influence?" Dumbledore asked. Harry's eyes widened, startled, and that conversation definitely took his interest. He turned to face the man.

"Because I have a contract with him. There would be magical … stuff. You can't," he said.

"You're a minor, Harry. Your magical vow is not to the same effect and responsibility as that of a fully grown adult." Dumbledore smiled gently. Harry's eyes nearly bugged out of his head now.

But Tom had said … Tom said … well, Tom said a lot of things, but still. Really, such reptilian manipulations should not surprise him. But somehow every time they still did. His chest tightened.

"Then why?"

"Because I believe you could end this war before it even began again. And you are strong enough to endure him."

Harry stared, heart hammering. Dumbledore gave his shoulder a squeeze, before his hands dropped to fold neatly behind his back.

"I don't think I can do that," he admitted, barely audibly.

The Light Lord continued. "I believe in you. But as our dear Professor Lupin told you, you don't have to be alone in this. I have known Mr Riddle since he was a boy, and I know his tricks. He will do everything he can to isolate you. Someone who is fighting alone will never be as much of a threat to him as a group. He cannot understand love, or friendship. You can."

Harry shook his head, laughing without humour.

"He understands it. He just doesn't agree with it. Caring is a liability when everyone will just use –"

"Your parents cared. Were they weak?" Dumbledore's head tilted.

Harry hesitated. "They're dead because they trusted the wrong person."

"And do you believe they would be happy alive without love in their lives? Alone without each other? Without their friends? Without you?"

There was a thick lump in his throat.

"I – I don't – they –"

"You're allowed to rely on people, Harry. You're allowed to feel lost. The people who truly matter will still be there to welcome you back. It is not a weakness to care, whatever Lord Voldemort would have you believe. There is hurt, yes. But it is this that makes us human."

"Tom doesn't think much of humanity either," Harry muttered.

"Tom is frightened of anything he believes can hurt him. He would rather survive a thousand years, than live a single day freely. For all the pain caring can cause, it can give the same amount of power. A power and support system that Mr Riddle will never tap into. He is alone. You do not have to be."

Harry's head was spinning faster than ever.

It would have been easy to accept, if Tom was only ever cruel. If he was only the fear Harry felt, of his friends dying and of sense deprivation. If he was only everything dark. But he wasn't.

He felt like he was going to be sick again.

"If I don't have to do it alone, why is it me that has to stop this war from happening? Why do I have to be your piece at his side?" Harry's voice cracked. "I'm just–"

Why was it all about him, if this was a group effort?

Dumbledore was silent for a few long seconds. The nausea rose.

"Professor Snape tells me you've been making great improvements with your Occlumency."

Harry's brow furrowed.

"He said that?" He had to admit, he was sceptical that Snape would ever say anything nice about him, even if the looks he'd been receiving from the greasy dungeon bat had been more considering as of late. Of course, they had something like a truce as he had with a lot of Slytherins … but that didn't mean Snape would ever say anything nice about him.

He could have sworn Dumbledore's lips twitched in amusement at his expression. But the old man looked as placid as ever, but for the sudden twinkle in his eyes, there for just a second.

"Indeed." The amusement faded. "Would you mind if I gave you a brief test?"

Harry's eyes narrowed.

"You want to check if I can defend against Tom before you tell me anything," he concluded. "Must be something important." Something important about going it alone and why it had to be him. He squared his shoulders. He had to know. "Go on then."

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't what he got when their eyes met.

Tom's legilimency from all he'd see was vicious, just like Snape's which always left him with a headache.

He didn't even feel the gentle whisper of Dumbledore's intrusion until the man was in his head. He supposed it was something that he noticed it at all – the tell-tale bloom of memories that he might not have been thinking about otherwise.

He was immediately fighting.

He'd initially, in his first lessons, tried brute force of will to knock Snape out. Like he would use to overpower a spell. It had limited success.

It was after the Boggart that he first started to truly get a hang of it. It was still a slow process, to get used to the method and to sustain the right amount of concentration, but…

He thought about sense preservation. The darkness. The nothingness. It wasn't the type of clear mind that Snape had tried to teach him, and when the man first faced it he recoiled. It was a frightened blackness, a memory without taste or sound or smell.

By most standards of life – an impossibility. He felt Dumbledore jerk back. The office came back into focus.

He staggered back, nearly knocking something over as he grabbed the edge of a shelf for balance. Dumbledore smiled at him, and he felt the warm weight of Fawkes settle on his shoulder.

The phoenix nibbled his ear, before hopping onto Dumbledore again after he'd stroked him … her?

"Very impressive, Harry," Dumbledore praised. He could feel blue eyes searing through his skin. "May I ask after your method? It's not something I have come across before. I thought I'd seen everything by now – but the mind is a fascinating thing."

Harry suspected Dumbledore had gone easy on him too, and that the attack could have continued. It had been a probe, nothing more.

"Memories of sense deprivation," he murmured. "Tom wouldn't be able to stand it," he added, pointedly, maybe even defiant. "What were you going to say?"

The silence stretched, with his blood rushing in his head. Fawkes' wings fluttered, as the phoenix cooed softly again.

Dumbledore seemed hesitant, and Harry's fists clenched.

"Tell me," he insisted. "I'm in this now. I deserve to know! I'm not a child."

"No," Dumbledore said, very quietly. "Perhaps you're not anymore. But do you trust me, my boy?"

There was a right answer here, Harry knew. "Of course, sir."

Dumbledore rounded his desk slowly, settling down, with fingers steepling once more. Harry considered his options.

What he wanted. What Dumbledore wanted. How to get what he wanted.

Tom's trio of considerations for every opponent and situation. He swallowed and stepped forward, sinking into the seat opposite, back straight and posture perfect.

"We're in this together, sir," he said, giving a small, hopeful smile. "Aren't we?" His head tilted, like he knew Tom's did when he was confused about something. As much as Tom was ever confused about anything.

Dumbledore had gone still in turn, suddenly, and Harry nearly held his breath.

The Light lord still seemed to be hesitating about something – perhaps the lasting strength of Harry's occlumency skills when under the Dark Lord's assault.

Harry could understand but … surely he had a right to know? This was his life. Ignorance was not going to help him, when he had enough of a disadvantage to Tom already.

"Has Mr Riddle told you anything about Horcruxes?"

The days sped closer and closer to Christmas – hectic, but Tom revelled in that after fifty years of stasis. He'd always been at his best under pressure.

Harry seemed to be coping well, though the boy seemed tired and distracted. He did his lessons, handed in all the essays even when Tom edged up the number again just to see if the teenager would adapt to an even more increased workload.

Maybe it was because they were both so busy as to barely find breathing space, and thus saw each other far less than they had to some extent grown used to, that it took a while for him to notice the distance in Harry's behaviour.

Polite, unfailingly. It pleased him at first, that maybe some of his comments had finally sunk in as the boy learned how to behave. Now he was starting to think that there was something wrong here.

Dutiful, always – all his reports said excellent progress, and even Lestrange was impressed.

It was probably just thirteen. Turbulent age, Narcissa had taken it upon herself to comment 'idly.' Perfectly normal, to strive for independence. And he had far more important things to concentrate on then his errant teenage Gryffindor.

He'd started noticing more and more discrepancies in the behaviour of some of his Death Eaters. Additions to raids that he hadn't organized, but which could have been enthusiasm. A shiftiness.

Maybe just something in the air.

And yet…

"Are you all packed?" He caught Potter as he was leaving his office on a Saturday night, just before the end of term. Winter had fallen, with thick planes of snow on the ground and the smell of ferns in the Great Hall. Lights and baubles and Christmas decorations appearing one night.

If he was a nostalgic man, he would have felt a twinge then. Hogwarts at Christmas was a beautiful thing, even considering his own distaste for the season. He had some … fond memories, it could be said. But by the comparisons of his childhood, that wasn't hard.

"Packed?" Harry paused by the doorway, fingers tightening around his bag. He looked more confused than he had any right to.

"Christmas holidays starts tomorrow."

"I always stay at Hogwarts for Christmas," Harry said. It shouldn't have irritated him as much as it did, the assumption. The boy was staring at him now – and Tom couldn't help but think that six months ago green eyes would have been bright and wide with surprise. Now, there was barely a flicker of expression at all.

The messy hair was the same as ever.

Now he really was starting to sound unnervingly like a nostalgic man. It wasn't like Harry wasn't shaping out well, he should be happy. Everything was, as far as he could tell, on track for his ultimate endgame with the boy.

But maybe he'd acclimatized. Got used to the space of Harry in his life, as he was.

He was so dutiful and obedient that it threw Tom's plans off, even, considering he always left time anticipating the boy's defiance.

Faced with it, or at least a version of it in that comment, the nostalgia vanished.

His eyes narrowed.

"Not this time."

"It's the holidays," Harry was starting to sound agitated. "Give me a break, for Merlin's sake! You don't need me at the cottage. You'll probably just be in your room plotting anyway whilst I practice magic. I don't want to go."

"I wasn't offering a choice. Get packed, we're going."

"No."

He couldn't believe this. He took a step forward, and Harry's posture turned rigid. But the Gryffindor didn't step back.

"Excuse me?" His voice turned very soft, velvety, as he crowded the boy's space inch by inch.

"I want to stay at Hogwarts." The firmness of Harry's voice was both accented and ruined by the shifting deepness of his voice. "All my friends are here. I'll see you at the Malfoy's Christmas party."

Some alone time in the cottage was sounding more and more perfect. He'd been concerned about this happening. Of course, he liked to think it wasn't as bad as it could have been, considering Harry hadn't been entirely out of his influence. Obviously it was merely that, and nothing else.

But it was unacceptable nonetheless. He smiled, reaching out and ruffling dark hair into something even more untamed, before his grip tightened.

He'd been dealing with Death Eaters all day, it was a commendable effort not to curse the living daylights out of the little brat. To crush all resistance away with an iron fist.

That, as he'd learnt in the very first days of their acquaintance, inevitably made Harry lash back at him even worse than before. The boy's expression was already taking an edge, regardless of the shadow in his gaze. The bob of his throat.

"I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement," he said sweetly. "Just like last time.

Because I'd hate to think you were being unreasonable just as we were getting on so well."

Harry looked away, mutinously, jerking his head unsuccessfully away from his hold.

"What type of arrangement do you want?"

Tom studied him, considering his options. Of course, it was difficult to tell if this was Harry being Harry, or if he had a serious problem on his hands. But he couldn't say he appreciated the attitude either way.

"You know our contract, Harry." He brushed hair away from the boy's forehead, hand sliding to grip the back of his neck merely to gauge his reaction to the gesture. "Three nights with the Light side, situation dependent."

"So I'm still your prisoner then."

There was something in Harry's tone – and Tom could feel the tension in the teenager's muscles too, beneath his fingers. Harry had made this comment before too. Soulmate and prisoner, as if he truly believed them to be a dichotomy.

They didn't seem so mutually exclusive to him.

"Oh, always," he breathed. "One way or another. People do tend to form the most convincing prisons after all."

Harry glared at that.

"Spend Christmas on your own then," the boy spat back. This time, when Harry pulled back, it was roughly, with a sharp twist until the space between them grew. This time, when Tom stepped forward, there was nothing slow and stalking about it.

One second, the thirteen year old was turning in a huff, the next second Tom had him pinned up against the office door like a seventh year's fantasy. Potter just looked annoyed.

"You're being unreasonable, child." He almost sang the words out, and the more lilting and playful his voice grew, the colder the look in his eyes. Harry swallowed.

"I'm not a child. Why do you even need me there anyway?"

"Maybe I simply want the pleasure of your company again. I can kidnap you again if it makes it easier for you?"

Harry let out a sharp breath, dropping his gaze.

"Fine. We have a deal then," the boy muttered.

"Are you sure?"

"I said we have a deal, so just stop it." Harry's voice was barely audible this time. "What time are we leaving tomorrow so I'll have my things packed in time?"

Tom smiled with satisfaction, stepping back. Short term satisfaction, at least. His bad mood lingered like a headache, despite the rush-relief of an oncoming break. However short.

"Good boy. And after lunch sometime, I'm sure you can enjoy a good lie in."

Colour rose along the teenager's skin, teeth gritting.
"Kind of you."

"Cheeky."

Harry glanced at him again, something considering in his eyes.
"So can I go now or not?" he asked, far too sullenly. Tom kept smiling back, stubbornly, teeth bared. Conclusion: something had definitely shifted. He didn't like it, and it required investigation.

Really, trophies were never supposed to be this high maintenance. But souls had their prices, he supposed.

He was half tempted to say no, simply out of spite.

Instead, he gestured indulgently at the door and turned away as he heard it open and slam.

A familiar diary rested warm and nearly-quivering in his pocket.

A/N: Deleted that annoying A/N chapter of mine, in case you're wondering about the shift around in chapters haha. Enjoy!

Chapter 53
The familiar interior of the cottage offered no comfort.

Harry's breath was caught on a hook somewhere in his chest, and he felt cold and hollow. Hollow and yet heavy – like he had the bones of a bird, but all the emptiness had been injected and swallowed up until there was no space at all and he could explode for the sheer press of turmoil in his insides.

All in all, a mess.

Horcrux. He was a Horcrux. He had a piece of Tom's soul, of Voldemort's soul and he'd been left tainted by it. More so, he knew now the reasons for Tom's attention. The vows of protection, and of looking after him. Not him. All Tom wanted to look after was himself, with Harry merely as the unwilling vessel to the Dark Lord's immortality.

That soulmates was not quite the caring connection Tom had tricked him into believing it was.

The taste of bile hadn't left his mouth for months.

He still remembered the pity in Dumbledore's eyes – the pseudo affection in Tom's and the warm reassurance of the Dark Wizard's touch that now seemed like burn marks against his skin.

He affected a blank expression. Wasn't sure how convincing it was, and so held his battered trunk of belongings in front of him like a shield. Riddle, the bastard, seemed perfectly at ease with his surroundings.

Shoes were the first thing to go, followed by socks, and he was once more greeted with Tom's bare feet as he padded to stow his own bags into the bedroom upstairs. Harry swallowed, watching pink and ridiculously harmless looking toes flex against the floor, and disappear from sight.

He could practically see Tom relax; let out his usual personas like an exhaled breath. Before, Harry may have felt trusted, honoured somehow however reluctantly…now he felt sick. Sick, but electrified by startling realization.

He'd thought that he'd have more of an upper hand at Hogwarts because he had all of his friends and his life was not entirely under Tom's influence. But that wasn't true. It was here, between them, that he had a chance, because it was only here that he didn't have to sit there terrified of his actions bringing harm to someone else.

Malfoy manor – the Malfoys were under threat. Hogwarts – his friends were. But here? In this prison of a cottage where time stopped and his whole world narrowed down to the young Dark Lord's whims? Here, he had exactly the same resources as Tom did because here, he didn't have to worry or fight for anyone but himself.

He had the advantage of knowledge. Tom didn't know that he knew about Horcruxes.

Really, he should be happy. Empowered.
But the sickness lingered too.

His own weapons hurt to hold, and wasn't that just pathetic? That he didn't want to face the blunt unflinching truth of manipulation, and possessiveness. Didn't want to face, most of all, that maybe that was all there was and would ever be, and he'd made such a little fool of himself grinning back and ever thinking otherwise. Most of all, he was an idiot for wanting it. For wanting Tom to care for reasons other than his own immortality.

He was an idiot for feeling even for a moment that whilst he and Tom were not friends in any manner of speaking, that there had been times of intimacy and closeness. Of something like that. Of feeling that for once someone was invested in him, as he was. Just Harry.

Stupid.

Harry didn't unpack his own belongings, simply leaving them on the bed. He poked the wards at the window, feeling them buzz against his hand and push back – the steel doors of his cage visible once more, despite all pretences of his fragile freedoms.

When he turned away from the window, he nearly jumped out of his skin to see Tom standing in his doorway and didn't that just bring him back to the start? He felt dizzy with it. His hand dropped back to his sides, almost guiltily.

"I was just going to go and take a look at the garden," Harry said quickly, before the other could speak. "Preferably without a blindfold." The hated request for permission, the need for that, rested nauseatingly between the words.

Tom's head tilted, gaze sharp.

"Of course. Though considering the season, I'm not sure how much it would entertain you. Nonetheless, I have extended the wards to include the grounds. You can come in and out freely."

Harry looked down at that again, heart fluttering strange. Oh god, he couldn't do this. Ignorance had been far more blissful. He had to do this. He forced a smile.

"Thanks. Appreciate it." He reckoned he'd stay in the garden either way, because the house felt stifling. He squared his shoulders, moving to brush past the older boy. A hand pressed against his hip, holding him in place. Harry's insides jumped, and he glanced up at Tom. The dark wizard was studying him still, something inscrutable in his gaze.

"Everything okay?"

"Does my answer actually make a difference?" Harry stepped around him, fingers flexing tight into fists. "Because you didn't seem to care much earlier when you dragged me here." It was better to focus on that, than anything else. Distraction worked better than lying.

The air outside was cold and wintry, snow packed thick over the garden and all of their plants. Harry blew gently on his fingers, before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He regretted, now, not grabbing his scarf and some gloves before coming out, however worn the garments.

He heard the crunch of Tom's shoes behind him, after a few minutes.

"You've been behaving strangely," the Slytherin heir insisted. Harry snorted, shoulders hunched protectively against the chill.

"Because it's strange that I would want to spend Christmas with my friends. Who even does that?"

He heard Tom chuckle, and felt something warm wrap around his throat. He looked down, to see a thick green scarf winding around his neck. His fingers rubbed over the soft wool, something tightening in his gut all over again at the heating charms.

Maybe Tom did know he knew, and was just messing with him more.
Or maybe he just did it because he didn't want his immortality threatened.

"You can still see your friends, don't be so overdramatic," Riddle murmured. "Is that really what this is all about?"

Harry managed to catch himself from stiffening.

"Yes!"

He felt Tom's hands settle on his shoulders once more as he stared determinedly across the snowy expanse of land, to the wall that marked the end of the wards.

"Would you like to leave me, then?"

This time, Harry couldn't stop himself from stiffening from the question. There was no right answer that he could give, surely? Something lodged in his throat, sensation flooding to the press of pale fingers into his shoulders. And of course, Tom wasn't wearing gloves despite the cold either.

"I don't like being a prisoner," Harry allowed instead. It was better when he didn't have to look at Tom, didn't have to feel those dark eyes assessing him with the precision of a surgeon.

"It's easier when you are, for all the unpleasantness." Tom spoke with more seriousness than Harry was expecting, more softly though softness meant nothing with a creature of such tender cruelties. Harry's head tilted to look at the Slytherin over his shoulder.

"For me or for you?" His own voice had gone quieter too. "You told me once that to be a prisoner was to lack rights completely. That everything I do is due to your mercy." He certainly felt like that now, with everything closing in on him. When Tom had shown him now just how easily he could pluck him from the illusion of freedom, from Hogwarts and life. "You told me I would hate being a prisoner to Lord Voldemort, so you can't be surprised to find that's true."

"My, I'm flattered you listen so carefully to me." The teasing made Harry's scowl deepen, and he turned his head back around, heart aching. His gaze slid over the mounded area of Hedwig's grave, and rage swelled in his belly. Maybe that helped. And maybe it fogged his mind with an even greater turmoil.

Tom continued, sounding amused. "And yes. You also said that control is not ownership. That only those things that you offer up willingly, can ever truly be mine. Or do you care so greatly about what I think of you after all?"

"I-" Harry steeled himself. He was getting the feeling that Tom was testing him, but for the life of him he didn't know how or what for. "I couldn't care less. I just want the right to choose where I spend my time. The freedom to come and go. And not just into the garden."

What he wanted. What Tom wanted. How to get what he wanted.

"And yet, you have also told me that I would never give someone the option of leaving, in fear that they would," the Slytherin replied. Harry grimaced, not sure how to respond to that immediately. It did ring true for Tom's behaviour. Still. He had a feeling he was being tested for something, though for the life of him he didn't know what.

What he wanted. What Tom wanted. How to get what he wanted.

Tom wanted control. Tom didn't want him to leave. Tom wanted his Horcrux safe, and thus firmly in his own hands.

Tom had helped him free Sirius – to test and see if he'd run, but nonetheless, so it wasn't as simple as that.

Harry wetted his lips.

Tom wanted his loyalty, or he wouldn't be bothering to play this game at all. He would straight out keep his Horcrux locked up and safe, like he'd threatened to do. Loyalty required choice. Choice and freedom, because Tom could only own the things Harry gave willingly, and ownership gave a far greater power than mere threats. Especially when Tom had made it clear that he viewed caring as a weakness, a weapon to use.

But that just convinced Harry even more that all of this was manipulation, a honey-flies trap of affection and he felt sick to think that he'd ever allowed himself to walk into the strands.

What he wanted. What Tom wanted. How to get what he wanted.

"It's easier for you if I'm a prisoner, and maybe it's easier for me too because if I'm the victim I can't be held responsible for my actions," Harry ventured, oh so carefully now. "But I don't want that. You don't even want that, not really and you know it. So why are we still doing this? I said things, you said things; people change. We don't have to stay what we started out as."

Tom stilled. It gave him a rush of vindictive gratification.

"You base this on the mistaken assumption that you are not mine already. Because you are, Harry. And you always will be-"

"No," Harry interrupted, more fiercely now, frustrated, fists clenching. "I base it on the assumption that if we're soulmates like you said, then you must belong to me as much as I belong to you. And if you belong to me, I can't be your prisoner, can I? Or was there something you weren't telling me about this soulmate business?"

Maybe he was giving Tom the opportunity to come clean. To just tell him, to be honest and genuine, and maybe prove that there was more to this than lies and shackles.

"I'm actually a magical creature. Soulmate actually is romantic," Tom said, with perfect innocence. "When you turn sixteen, we require a mating ritual to cement our bonding."

Harry nearly choked on thin air, and gave Tom a foul look as the Slytherin's lips twitched.

"I hate you," Harry growled. The disappointment bloomed, and he quickly looked away again so that Tom wouldn't see it. "This is serious."

"As I was going to say, before you rudely interrupted me…" Tom's arms slid forward, relentless, so they wrapped around his torso instead, chin perched upon his head in a mockery of such sentiments. The grip squeezed just a little too tight. "There is truly no reason for you to concern yourself on the matter of our souls. You're always going to be mine, so there's no point in you tormenting yourself feeling guilty and confused about it still. I told you that over the summer, if we're talking of past conversations now. And you know you could be happy with me, if you let yourself."

How could Tom say such things so carelessly? How could he come out with these things in everyday conversation as if it was a matter of the weather? Bastard! He had to know that Harry knew, surely? To be able to attack with such vicious efficiency. To have the audacity to act like this wasn't all a meticulous lie! His happiness was used against him as much as his terrors were. How was that fair?

And he'd forgotten how tactile the Slytherin Heir was too, considering the parameters of the man as his teacher. Harry supposed it was like the preferred lack of shoes here, it all rose to the surface. The incessant need for contact, validation of existence. Harry could even understand. He did it too, a little. The constant seeking of sensation. He'd never forgive Tom for making him understand.

Maybe that was why it was so easy to fixate on the breath fanning his cheek. To sights, and sounds, and the smell of Tom's cologne on the scarf around his neck. A woollen, protective hang-man's noose.

This conversation was a mess too.

"We were talking about you not being such a controlling git," Harry backtracked tightly, breath stuttering.

"We were talking about a lot of things," Tom said. "Mostly because you have about as much of a compulsion to evade as I do to take." The Slytherin released him. Harry's blood ran cold, and he turned to face the other.

"I'm not…evading anything," he muttered. Tom raised his brows.

"You haven't been behaving strangely either."

"I haven't!" Harry folded his arms.

"Such lies…"the hiss was crooned sweet, and some of the generally indulgent relaxed air around Tom had vanished again. Harry swallowed. "But I'll find out either way. You know I always do." The Slytherin smiled at him.

Harry was beginning to think he liked it a lot more when Tom smiled with his eyes. Those were the only real ones. His mouth-smiles were a threat, always.

"Why did you bring me here? It can't just be because you like my company. You never do stuff like that."

Tom's expression flickered at his words, before that smile broadened even more friendly.

"Oh, so I really can't just enjoy your company without ulterior motive? How low an opinion you have of our acquaintance…"

Harry's stomach seized.

"Well," he huffed, smiling back as if he wasn't looking into the bared fangs of a viper all of a sudden. "We'd probably get along better if you ordered me around a bit less. Be less of a controlling git, basically. Bribe me with sweets and presents."

He nearly melted with relief when the tension diffused. A little.

"I'm not giving you sweets. You're already hyper enough most of the time."

"But it's Christmas! You need to get into the spirit of festivity," Harry pressed, keeping the grin up even when his cheeks ached. Tom's head tilted, and he nearly faltered. "Make a snowman with me. Snowball fight. You know, the normal type of captor-captive bonding. I mean, if you have no other motives except spending time with me."

And now Tom was staring at him. Harry stared back, and practically held his breath. The Slytherin's gaze was far too contemplative, even if the worst of whatever it was before had dissipated. The silence stretched, until Harry wanted to shift with discomfort.

"You're hardly one to talk about evasion," he reminded again, softly. It reminded him of their conversation after Hogsmeade, too. He wasn't entirely convinced this wasn't Tom getting him back for it now too, in some way.

"Do you always complicate everything in your life, or am I a special case?" The question made Harry's eyes snap up again in astonishment. It seemed to come entirely out of the blue!

"I-what?"

"I don't know what's wrong with you, and I don't need to offer you the courtesy of not reading your mind to practically feel the confusion coming off you. Honestly, you have more mood swings than I do." There was something to Tom's tone, but Harry couldn't place it. "Perhaps I can do something to ease it, because frankly you're walking on eggshells around me and, despite my reputation, the unusualness is enough to warrant my concern when it comes to you."

Harry struggled to unpack and untangle all of that. Tom's concern? His reputation? He blinked owlishly at the Slytherin. His mouth had gone dry.

How did this happen? He'd make all of these plans of actions, line up his missiles and his points, and Tom just devastated them every single time?

Their gazes Harry locked and…and…and Harry dropped his again.

"It's cold out here. I'm putting the kettle on."

It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did.
Of course, Harry keeping secrets from him was ominous simply from a logical self-preserving perspective…but it wasn't that.

It shouldn't have bothered him how obviously Harry was trying to edge distance between them. It shouldn't have enraged him that the boy didn't want to be here with him. It was even understandable that he didn't, considering the general terms of their relationship.

It shouldn't have bothered him. It didn't. It was all a game, and what were blips and wrong moves when he would eventually win either way? Dumbledore could try and make his plays now, and sabotage the future, but the old man would inevitably wither and die with his tainted hand.

Even his own bloody soul didn't want to spend time with him, without coercion. If anyone would have had the capacity to understand, or to want to, surely it would be his most defiant Horcrux?

Stupid.

He hated Christmas. It always made him morbid, as if he had the time for such errant fantasies. He was sixteen for crying out loud, he was hardly a childlike Potter to still get effected by such things. As if he even cared. It didn't matter, when he would win nonetheless.

But his own maudlin insistence irritated him.

It wasn't as if it came as a surprise – Harry fell for the charmed act, just like everyone did, and baulked from the Dark Lord. Exactly how it was supposed to be. The world trembling at his feet, with him alone ascended to the heights of such greatness.

Let Harry has his faux freedom, and his fun holiday with his friends. The little brats were dust in the scheme of things, and soon Miss Granger would cease to be a problem. None of them would. It was early in the game still.

"I'll drop you off at Hogwarts by the end of the week, after the Malfoy party. I merely required your assistance with this." He plucked his diary, and consequently little miss Weasley, out of the pockets of his robes. "I do remember you pleading with me to ease her plight, or is it no longer your concern?"

He took vicious delight in the widening of Harry's eyes. The splintered shock, the bitten lip and expression suddenly slack. He saw the boy's gaze dart to the resting place of that infernal bird, before back to him, and somehow it just infuriated him more.

Little Ginny might be just what he needed right now. Harry was a child, he required childish things. Tom told himself that he couldn't hold that against him.

Then Harry's expression grew determined, and he leaned in – bait sinking in.
"What do you need me to do?"

Chapter 54

Sirius stared at his former friend, too many thoughts racing through his head.

He felt like he couldn't breathe, and that the clean and expensive robes he now had were only restricting him further.

Peter had changed a lot in the years that had passed, they had all changed - but there was enough of one his best friends left that it left a lump in his throat. A lump that wouldn't leave, regardless of how many times he swallowed. Swallowed around the fury, the lingering grief, the betrayal, the questions and the sorrow so sharp it was like ice in his blood.

There were too many things to say. The rat watched him with beady eyes, somewhere between shrewd and fearful.

"Why?" Sirius settled, eventually. The heaviest question. The lump.

Peter's face twisted, pasty.

"The Dark Lord, the things he is capable of - dark powers none of us are capable of-"

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Sirius interrupted, with disgust. "You always did like to have big friends out to protect you." But he was surprised. Even now, twelve years on, he was surprised. Could only comprehend the betrayal in abstract forms.

"What would you have done?" Peter hissed, nearly rearing where he was shrunken in chains, wrapped in spells to prevent his untimely escape. They were outside the courtroom. Sirius had begged for a moment of audience, even after he'd heard this at the trial.

Peter had been sentenced to death. He couldn't find it in him to be pleased - he'd wanted Peter dead, right up until the point that he would be. Then the sickening churn of memories began again, all the good times that they'd had.

Peter's timid but vehement attempts to comfort him after his parents kicked him out. Peter's part in their pranks, and though the other hadn't been the best spell wise - he'd always had the ideas. Maybe he had less magical part in creating the Marauder's Map, but Sirius would always remember who came up with the idea. Who came up with the idea of becoming animagi to keep Remus company. Peter had always been good at Transfiguration, regardless of his rather hopeless duelling skills and abysmal performance in some other magic areas.

But transfiguration? Maybe he should have somehow seen it coming, that so two faced a coward would be so adept at shifting forms. Morphing one thing to another, friend to foe, conjurer of identities and all manner of other things.

There was a bad taste in Sirius' mouth. His hands trembled at his sides.

"I would have died." Before, he would have roared the words, lunged for the bastard's throat. Now, it came out softer, exhausted. Ringing true, but with the poison of this whole situation behind it. "I would have died rather than betray my friends. "Because even if you somehow escape, even if your master for some reason decides to spare you-" which he doubted, considering Voldemort's apparent strange association with Harry nowadays, "-what do you have to live for now?"

What was power, when the people who had truly cared hated you? How could Peter not see that? That life without friends, without love, was meaningless? That to die was a far greater mercy than watching those people fall, because of your actions?

Sometimes, he felt they should have been born into each other's family. Peter had the rotting mentality of the worst of the Blacks.

Peter's eyes watered.

"Are you really going to let them do this to me? I'll be locked up with the Dementors - if not given the curse!" the rat rasped. "Sirius, you know what it's like. You once said - you said you wouldn't give even Snape to the Dementors, let alone-"

"Snivellus has proved to be more on my side, than you. Despite his no doubt overwhelming desire to see me suffer." Even the words sounded wrong, but it was true. Of course, it wasn't for him, he doubted it was even for Harry considering Snape's greasy infatuations...but Snape was looking out for his godson, in his own selfish way.

And now...with Harry and Voldemort...it didn't bear thinking about. He didn't think he would ever quite wrap his head around Harry and Riddle's convoluted relationship.

And yet, his chest ached. Too many things. Peter deserved to die, for what he had done - so maybe there was a bit of Black in him that he allowed it. They weren't a family known for second chances.

Remus hadn't been able to come, considering the general distaste the Ministry held for Werewolves, but he was waiting outside. It had, at least, been a monumental relief to reconcile with the man after twelve years of absence. Heart pounding, blood searing relief, that electrified upon a touch and reminded him of all the times before. Of lips and dark corridors, shared smiles and the things that had gone unsaid for too long. That remained unsaid, even now, in the light of greater crisis.

"Sirius…" Betrayed by Voldemort, of course the rat would come crawling back. It gave him no pleasure.

He imagined the pinched looking man husked, drained of soul and life. His stomach turned.

"Goodbye, Peter. You should have known this was coming."

Of course, every time Harry steeled himself, Tom had to do something to shatter his convictions and twist him up even more.

Ginny was one of the numerous crimes he held against the young Dark Lord - and whilst saving her now after months in no way justified Tom's initial actions, it did make it more difficult to be as venomous as he had been a few moments ago. Maybe because he knew with such excruciating detail why Tom had gone to such lengths to escape the diary.

He couldn't hold it against him completely, when he understood with such painful clarity.
But Ginny would be free now.

"We need to retrieve her body first," Tom said. "Dumbledore probably has it under magical stasis whilst he searches for other ways to save her. Lighter ways." The Slytherin Heris' lips quirked.

"You mean he could have saved her this whole time?" Something lurched in Harry's chest. Too cold and too hot all at once. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't leave an eleven year old to suffer such torment? "How bad a thing do we have to do to get her out?"

Some obscenity, some evil ritual, must be the explanation. Something unspeakably worse. It just had to be.

"Due to the nature of the diary and its...initial purposes, as a container of sorts, and of my own means of freeing myself from it, you can no doubt guess," Tom replied. Container, in another conversation Harry would have snorted at how deftly skipped around the whole truth. Right now, all he could feel was a rising nausea.

Riddle watched him, apparently waiting for him to connect the dots. Figure it out. Ever the bloody teacher.

So, Harry thought. Thought of Tom and the diary, and Horcruxes and what little he knew of the events of his second year and…

"She went in so you could get out. You used her energy...or whatever, her lifeforce," Harry said numbly. "We have to sacrifice somebody else and put them in the diary in turn, so that she can get out."

"Very good, Harry." Tom was still watching him. "And you realize that Ginny transferred the power through writing me her emotions. Her secrets? Her fears? Her soul, so to speak."

"You mean it can't just be anyone?" Harry felt exhausted. "I - surely - some ritual -" Did Tom want to put him in the diary, if emotional connection was required? Horcrux in a Horcrux to keep it safe and Harry could feel his breathing growing ragged with panic but he couldn't stop it and - Tom caught his arm.

"Easy," the Slytherin murmured. "You're fine." Maybe Harry was being irrational. God, maybe he wasn't.

Would he do what was necessary? Could he? He felt like he was going to honestly be sick now, even as he gasped in lungfuls of air. Objects around the room were beginning to rattle with his uncontrolled power and wasn't that just pathetic and -

"Harry." Tom grabbed hold of him more firmly, something flickering in his gaze. "All I need from you is a little blood. I'll take care of the ritual myself."

Harry sagged, mind racing.

"You're not putting me in there?"

There were few times that that he'd seen Tom visibly surprised. He was visibly surprised; if only for a few seconds.

"Of course not."

Harry felt dizzy from how fast his heart was still pounding.

"But - you said - emotional connection-"

Tom's expression cleared slightly.

"Yes," he replied, softly. "I did. But I wasn't referring to you. You're much too special for so trivial a sacrifice."

Harry's mouth had gone awfully dry again. Even if it was only because of the Horcrux, as he knew it was, suddenly and for the first time he was breathlessly relieved to have even that. That level of protection, of value.

It wasn't sentiment, but considering how little Tom obviously cared for everyone else, maybe he could fool himself that it might as well have been.

He was pathetic.

It was pitiful to be glad to mean even that much to somebody, to Tom. To be an exception to the rule, however selfishly. Harry swallowed, as Tom continued to scrutinize him. He could feel his blood rushing in his ears, and a peculiar mixture of longering relief and terrible guilt coming to settle in his gut.

"Who were you thinking of then?" His voice, at least, managed to remain perfectly even. If he went along with this, he was amning someone to sense deprivation. Knowingly. He half wished Tom had never brought it up, never told him.

More and more, he couldn't help but think that ignorance was bliss because, when he knew, he was responsible. Culpable.

"I'll leave it to the Weasley family to decide who I should perform the ritual on," Tom said. Harry let out a breath.

More people guilty. More people incriminated.

"You really are the Slytherin heir," Harry mumbled, feeling drained. "You know what making that choice will do to them."

For such a light family to be involved in such dark deeds...

Tom seemed to take the comment as a compliment.

"Do you not believe it is their right to make that choice?" the young Dark Lord raised his brows.

"I-" Harry faltered. "Well, yes." He knew if it was his family, somebody that he cared about, that he would want to have all the possibilities and choices to save them available to him, however dark.

Was he supposed to volunteer now? At the beginning of the summer, he might have done. Played the hero. What kind of Gryffindor was he if he wasn't brave enough to do this now?

Except...he wasn't brave enough. He couldn't get the words out of his throat, they'd lodged. He couldn't bring himself to actively confront that nothingness, forever. And he couldn't blame Tom for his cowardice, not really, though he wished he could.

Maybe they really were similar, but more than just circumstance. Maybe it was the effect of carrying the Dark Lord's soul.

Oh Merlin, maybe it wasn't.

He felt poisoned.

"There's nothing wrong, Harry," Tom leaned in. "With being selfish. The world is full of selfish people."

"Doesn't make it right," he muttered.

"And what exactly makes it so wrong?" The other's expression was too tender...or, not tender, something. Soft, maybe. But that wasn't quite right either. "To look after yourself is called selfishness. To like yourself - vanity, worse, pride. The worst of the biblical sins, that cast Lucifer from Heaven. Yet...what is truly wrong with either?" Tom paused for a few seconds. "The world would have you timid, loathing yourself, tearing yourself apart to give everything you have, until you're a husk with nothing left to offer."

Harry was frozen on the spot, nearly quivering in his stillness. His eyes were fixed on the Slytherin.

He'd never thought of it like that, but…

"Maybe if everyone in the world was a little less selfish, and gave back too, it wouldn't be like that," he murmured. "It's like that because people are selfish. Because they take, without giving back what is offered to them."

"So you believe there is something wrong with looking out for yourself?"

Harry felt like squirming. Of course, he knew the right answer was 'no', and yet…

"I think it sounds very lonely to look after yourself, and never rely on or help anyone. You were in the diary-" he pressed on despite the fractional darkening of Tom's face at the mere memory. "You would never get out without Ginny. You said yourself, she gave you her emotions. Her secrets. You weren't reading her mind, were you? You weren't taking. If she'd been more selfish, you would still be in there."

"And because she was foolish enough to offer everything up without looking for the catch, she is in there instead. I'd say selfishness wins, when I am free and she is not," Tom replied.

"This time," Harry agreed. "But next time? The time after that?" His head tilted. "Eventually you're going to run out people willing to help you, or give you your loyalty, if you just take and take. Like you said. You need to give back, like I said. For the system to work."

"You call that selflessness, I call that business," Tom countered, after a moment. "You make negotiations of reciprocity with me, offering what you have to only to get what you want. Selfish, no? You're looking out for yourself, aren't you? Would you say that's bad, then?"

Harry wanted to groan. Tom was tangling him into knots again, and he could feel a headache building. This wasn't even the point.

"So we get the body, and we ask the Weasley's to pick a sacrifice," he diverted them uneasily back on track. "Then what? You said you needed a little of my blood, why?"

"It will make the process easier."

Harry's eyes narrowed suspiciously at that.
"For me, you or Ginny?"

Tom's head tilted.
"For me."

"How so?" Harry fiddled with the kettle, and the growing cool tea that he'd forgotten about. Just for something to do with his hands, to mask his feelings behind. He could feel Tom's gaze burning into his back.

"The link between Ginny, myself and the diary is...complex. I do not wish for any untoward, unanticipated results. Your connection with mine will strengthen certain positions."

Harry thought over that for a moment, if it was the truth and, if it was, what that actually meant beyond Tom's preference for pretty phrasings and dancing around topics. Like Horcruxes, not that he was being pointed.

"Your position in reality?" he questioned, eventually. "If Ginny is...powering your physical form in some way, if a link is still there in some way, you want to make sure that you're not pulled back. You think my blood would ground you here."

"I always said you weren't as stupid as you look." It was almost pride. Harry took a sip of his tea, to steady himself, and so he could blame the hot liquid for the damned flash of warmth in his belly.

"Why didn't you take my blood before then?" Tom hadn't, to his knowledge.

"Initially, I was not aware of the connection." Harry could practically taste the care with which Tom chose his words.

"And when you were?"

"It's a powerful connection, and so is blood magic. As we are not yet aware of exactly how you survived the Halloween Night which you are oh so famous for, I'd rather not unnecessarily meddle with it before I have done a satisfactory amount of research into it."

"And have you?" Harry looked over, pressing the other cup into Tom's hand automatically. "Done enough research, I mean?"

Tom was giving him that considering look again. He stood his ground, and stared back.

"Not yet."

"But you're still going to use the connection," Harry verified, fingers clenching around the mug. "What if something goes wrong?"

"Trust me, Harry."

Ha, that was just laughable.

"You don't trust me," he muttered.

"I could have just slit your hand open at the time, without warning," Tom pointed out. "You would not have been able to stop me."

Harry grimaced.
"And that's all you need from me, a bit of blood for your ritual?"

Honestly, for all of his own studies into Dark Magic, this was beyond his understanding. His current specialism was in defense and offense. Duelling, charms...potions were not his strong point, and blood rituals certainly weren't.

"Yes," Tom said.

"Anything else?" he checked. Ignorance was bliss, but he didn't want to walk in blind now that paradise had already been stolen from him.

"It would be useful if you would approach the Weasleys with the idea. They do not take so kindly to me, and I doubt they would believe my assurances on the matter."

"You want me to vouch for you." Ironic, though he could understand the necessity. Worried, too, in case his assurances turned out to be misguided.

"If you wish to phrase it that way, yes."

"And that's it?" Harry's heart had slowed back to its normal level, at least.

"That's it. I will handle the rest."

"Truth?" Harry pressed, watching Tom closely. For any sign of deception. There was none, none that he could see. But Tom's face leaned towards a neutral calculation when he didn't have the charm turned on, anyway.

"Truth."

All of his plans were well under way.

There was, to Voldemort's mind, indeed no way that he could fail this time. Of course, there were problems to be dealt with after his proper body was restored to him, but his physical form had to be his priority.

Harry Potter, considering the boy's apparent new allegiances, would be easy enough to acquire.

Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy.

His form now was frail, weak, but soon his true strength would endure. Nagini coiled around his shoulders, hissing gently, as Carrow quivered before him.

Of course, his foolish counterpart would inevitably notice a faction of Death Eaters perhaps not as devoted as they should have been, but considering the boy's youth (however hard he pretended at complete control and maturity) would work to his disadvantage.

Tom Riddle was not, after all, Lord Voldemort by any means.

Before the holidays were over, it would be done.

Tom's eyes snapped open with a start - shaken in a way that he didn't care to admit, the strange dream flickering half distorted on the recesses of his mind.

He could hear Harry screaming.

A/N: I apologize if it's been a slow couple of chapters, more character than plot. Should be picking up again as I get a proper grip on Third Year and events happening :P Now that the whole Sirius/Pettigrew Prisoner of Azkaban kerfuffle is resolved, somewhat. Now, I need to sleep because I was up obscenely early. Hope you enjoyed the update! :)

Chapter 55
Harry's head was throbbing.

The remnants of the dream – the vision, whatever it was – flashed nauseatingly through his mind as he thrashed in his sheets. Frantic to somehow escape the trappings of the Dark Lord's mind, to reach fumbling for his glasses when it felt like someone had pressed a white hot iron into his forehead.

"Easy – here." The familiar voice came from somewhere beside him, blurry in the darkness, but more visible when the frames were slid over his nose. Harry panted for breath, able to discern Tom hovering by the edge of his bed, one hand on his arm to steady him. The Slytherin was pale, more pale than normal.

Harry swallowed.

"Did you …?"

"Yes."

Right. They'd both … felt it then, seen it. Whatever. Harry let out a sharp exhale and turned his gaze back to his sheets, picking at a thread, shoulders hunched. Not sure where to go from here. Honestly, he had no idea what Tom's stance on Voldemort even was. It wasn't like they seemed to disagree massively on policies … at least, from what little Harry actually knew about Voldemort's policies over Tom's. And it was confusing even thinking about it, really, considering that they were technically the same person.

"Are you alright?" Tom's tone was clinical, but maybe the fact that he even asked meant something. Harry's gaze flicked up again, as the Slytherin's hand brushed his fringe aside. A light switched on with the flick of a wand, and Harry blinked blearily, trying to adjust.

"Yeah, I'm – I'm fine," he managed.

Tom's gaze was flicking between his eyes and the scar; Harry couldn't help wondering if it looked different somehow. Inflamed. It felt like it should.

"You were screaming."

Great. Just fantastic. Harry's throat thickened, colour rising to his cheeks.

"Oh, you heard that," he said dully. He pulled his head away, embarrassed by the … he wasn't sure if it was fussing or intellectual curiosity.

"I'll get you a glass of water." Tom straightened. "Sit up."

Harry watched as Riddle disappeared out of his room, returning not even a minute later, thrusting a glass into his hand.

"Take slow sips," the Slytherin heir advised, studying him closely. Harry brought the water to his lips, doing so. If only because at least then he didn't have to talk. He felt a little calmer now, though his head still hurt. He'd closed his eyes and tried to remember what Voldemort had looked like, but all he could remember was the spasm of horror that had engulfed him.

The last time his scar had hurt, it had been because Voldemort was nearby. Surely he couldn't be now, could he? He shivered.

His other hand flexed against the duvet with agitation. His thoughts were racing. Did that mean that Voldemort was coming back? He wasn't sure that he could handle that.

"Are you going to keep staring at me?" he muttered, about halfway through the glass. His palms were itching, with the urge to – he didn't know.

"I am wondering why being in his head would you cause you to cry out like you're under a cruciatus," Tom said, in a remarkably casual voice. His eyes weren't casual. Harry met them briefly, trying to gauge Tom's reaction to the whole affair. What he was thinking. He imagined there was a 'when that doesn't happen to me' silently tagged onto the end of that last sentence – except that he wasn't supposed to know about the bloody Horcruxes. Know that they were the same.

And now he wanted to throw the glass across the room.

Tom seemed to appear almost concerned.

"I don't know." He eyed Tom. "It always hurts when I'm around him. In my first year, he was possessing my Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Quirrell. I have no idea how I passed." He tried to joke. It apparently did nothing to ease the situation, for all that Tom's voice remained light as he replied:

"Ginny did mention something about turbans and the beginning of your habit of getting into dramatic fights at the end of the school year. Let's hope that pattern doesn't continue to repeat itself."

Harry snorted.

"Your head doesn't hurt in the same way around me," Tom continued. Harry drank the rest of his water, and spun the glass in his hands, before responding.

"You're not him though, are you? The … connection between us is different. I've never been pulled into your head. Well, I've never been pulled into his head like this before either. Mostly I just know when he's near, might get a flash of his emotions but … but nothing like this."

Was the connection getting stronger? Surely it should fade, instead? He'd been practising his Occlumency really hard and everything! It wasn't fair.

Tom's head had tilted. Harry set the drink aside and stared at his hands. Willed them to go steady – to stop fidgeting with the glass or the duvet, because the need for distraction revealed far too much.

"No, I suppose you haven't," Tom murmured. "You say this hasn't happened before then?"

"Has it to you?" Harry asked, shaking his head in response to the question. "I mean, when you were in the diary?"

"Not like this."

"Great," he mumbled. If that wasn't ominous, he didn't know what was. Tom's hand reached up again, once more examining the curse scar with something akin to fascination. The same fascination as when he'd started manically flipping through books what felt like ages ago, when he said they were soulmates. "You can stop looking at me like I'm an interesting lab experiment any time you want," Harry added.

Tom's lips didn't curl, but a brief amusement flared in his gaze.

Harry folded his arms, instead, clutching them tight to his chest because maybe then he'd stop feeling so shaken inside. He hated it, that even that small dream would have his mind tripping over itself. He didn't bother shoving Tom's hand away – told himself it was because he was tired and it was an unnecessary struggle, but maybe Tom's fingers, cool as they cradled his burning head, just felt nice. Really nice. Still.

"What?" he grumbled. "Has it turned green or something?"

"No … it looks much the same as ever. I am merely considering the possibilities behind your extreme reaction to coming in contact with my counterpart," Tom replied. "And if there is anything I can do to minimize the negative effect."

It took Harry, sleep-deprived and trying to cling to the details of his vision, a second to register.

"You … want to minimize the negative effect," he repeated, slowly. He didn't think Tom had any right to look so offended by his skepticism.

"Of course. I would not have you in unnecessary pain." Simple words, really, but they sent Harry's guts tumbling upside down and all over the place. Again. Tom kept saying things like that. As if they were nothing.

If Tom was truly in this only for the Horcrux and his own immortality, surely he wouldn't need to go to these lengths? It wouldn't matter to him if Voldemort's psychological presence hurt or not. All he needed was for Harry to be alive for the stipulation to be covered.

Or maybe he was clutching at straws.

"You seem continually surprised by this fact," Tom remarked. The hand on his head dropped again, and Harry scowled. He opened his mouth to say something, resisted the urge to swallow, and wished he had the glass in his hands again. Or Tom's hand on his forehead. And the fact that he wanted Tom's hand on his forehead again was infuriating.

He could go and get a bloody icepack if he wanted something cold and generally uncaring!

"What are we going to do about Voldemort?" he asked instead.

"Dodging the topic again?" Tom raised his brows. Harry frowned.

"You don't find the topic of Voldemort regaining power to be a lot more important? I mean, small fact, minor niggle really … but he's probably going to try and kill me."

"I'm not going to let him kill you."

"Then we need a plan to stop him, don't we? I mean, if you feel that way." It wasn't, perhaps, his most discreet form of manipulation. But if it worked, it worked. Harry honestly wasn't picky if it was obvious he didn't want Voldemort around. Everyone probably already knew that he didn't want the Dark Lord to rise again.

Unless, of course, they were in the fluctuating minority who thought he was devil spawn and Voldemort's right-hand man.

And … Tom was studying him again.

"Do you know why your head hurts around him?"

"Is that really what you want to focus on right now?" Harry gaped. "Really? Not plans to stop him?"

"I'll handle it," Tom dismissed. "You won't die."

"What," Harry said, "because you'll tell him we're soulmates, and he'll give us his blessing and not hate for me accidentally blowing him to oblivion for thirteen years and not-so-accidentally thwarting his plans again?"

"Thwarting his plans," Tom repeated, mouth twitching.

"It's not funny."

"Harry," Riddle seemed to make an effort to grow more serious again. "I'll handle it."

"Instead of killing me, he'll put me somewhere I can't die, and put you back in the diary. Then it really will be bloody hilarious," Harry snapped. The panic bubbling in him still.

This time, the silence was ringing, and any entertainment Tom had got from his word choices before had vanished. Harry refused to look away. Even if the whole room suddenly felt stifling.

"Somewhere you can't die," Tom repeated.

Oh. Harry realized his mistake abruptly – he'd assumed it was the comment about returning to the diary, but…

"I mean –"

"So you know then."

"I know a lot of things. I assume you're referring to something specif–"

"Horcruxes," Tom said flatly. Harry swallowed.

"Right. Those things." He'd expected … he'd expected Tom to be disdainful, amused, somehow smug at the knowledge that he didn't have to pretend on the whole soulmate issue anymore. Any of those things. He didn't expect the almost tangible fury chilling the room. The … fear.

"Let me guess …" Tom's voice was once again too sweet, as he advanced closer and Harry nearly fell off the end of the bed from scrambling back so fast. He made a lunge for his wand, because that honeyed tone never boded well. "Dumbledore?"

Harry wondered if there was any point in lying. He didn't think so. Tom didn't mean it as a question, even if he'd phrased it like one. It was a trap, and he'd come too far to not see it. So he stayed silent, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Who else knows, Harry?" The look on Tom's face was kindly. Coaxing. Absolutely terrifying.

"I haven't told anybody." It occurred to him, not for the first time, but maybe the first time with the full severity sinking in outside of his own feelings…that Tom probably didn't want people knowing about his immortality. Because if they knew, they could start doing something about it.

"And I suppose Dumbledore has," Tom smiled, rounding the bed. Harry considered his options, edging towards the door. Not that he could actually leave, with the wards. It reminded him of the mornings where Tom woke up incandescent with an almost insane fury, and he'd bar the doors to avoid him.

"I wouldn't know - Tom just," Harry licked his lips. "Just calm down, alright?"

"Calm down?" Oh god, now he was doing Parseltongue. This was bad. You might get a sense-deprivation spell thrown at you in the next sixty seconds type bad. "I am perfectly calm, Harry."

Tom didn't look calm. The glint in his eyes was enough that the most hardened veteran would quiver in their boots and cry.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. This was either going to go very well, or make things even worse than before. He took a step forward. Let his hand curl into Tom's arm and thought it was ridiculous that the young Dark Lord could appear so menacing when he was in pajama trousers and a silken dressing robe. And it was times like these, considering he was only in boxers himself, that he remembered that Tom had grown up in the 1930s and 40s.

"You already said you were going to look after me, and you already knew what I was to you," Harry said carefully. "Why are you so worked up? Shouldn't I be the one annoyed here considering you lied to me and deliberately mislead me to … think a certain way."

Tom laughed.

"And you imagine, knowing what I am, and what you are, that Dumbledore is going to let it rest? He'll kill you. He'll kill me. He'll kill Voldemort. You are a fool to be so taken in that you think that's not true."

Harry couldn't believe he hadn't thought about that. He'd … he was keeping Voldemort immortal. Just like Tom was. His insides roiled. How had he not thought about this? He'd got so - Dumbledore hadn't mentioned anything like that.

All he'd said was that he was holding a piece of Voldemort's soul, which was why some of the Dark wizard's powers had transferred so that he could speak parseltongue. Maybe the rest had been an obvious assumption. He felt like such an idiot.

He'd been worrying so much over what the truth meant in terms of him and Tom that he hadn't thought … hadn't considered what it meant for anyone else.

The colour drained out of his face.

"Dumbledore wouldn't do that," he whispered. Tom didn't even say anything, he just gave him that expression which seemed to reduce Harry's arguments to nothing. His fists clenched at his sides. "He wouldn't - he - he -"

"He?" Tom repeated, mockingly. Harry could have slapped him. He let go of Tom's arm, stepped back and looked away. "No, what were you going to say, Potter?" the bastard continued. "Tell me. What would your precious light side do instead? What would your friends think, if they knew? What happens when this war starts getting big, they know, and decide the best way to end it is to end you."

"Stop it."

"Is that why you didn't tell them? Because you know they'll look at you and see me? Because they'll-"

"I said stop it!" Harry panted heavily, as the wardrobe began to rattle. He knew Tom was scared, scared of dying because there was no other reason to chase immortality so, scared of death being an eternity of nothingness….and Harry knew he was lashing out because of it but bloody hell. He couldn't do this right now. Not straight after that dream, when everything was up in the air.

"I'm just saying," Tom said, still awfully saccharine. "You won't want to go about talking about it, or letting Dumbledore spread it. If you do, there'll come a time when nobody wants you except me and then where would we be?"

Harry shot him a glare of utter venom, even as he felt the words sink like an ice cube to the pit of his stomach. He turned away, rubbing a hand over his still stinging scar. It would have been easier if he hadn't thought of variants of these things himself, before.

"And there was me thinking you'd just love that. I mean, it's only when someone has nobody else to turn to that you become their first choice, isn't it?" His own voice dropped to the same level of sweetness. Tom went abruptly rigid. Harry felt a dreadful guilt and why should he be the one left to feel guilty over the truth?

Because he'd suspected that the words would wound Tom in some way, and he'd gone and used it as a weapon anyway. Maybe they really were a horrible influence on each other. He couldn't even scrape up the right amount of vindictive satisfaction...he remembered too clearly what Tom had been like earlier.

Merlin, how did they go from Tom comforting him - in his own way - to do this in the same conversation?

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "That was mean."

"Oh, no," Tom said. "Get it all out. What else have you got? Your delusions that I'm secretly lonely?"

Hermione always told him to count to ten when someone was goading him.

He got to maybe one and a half.

"No. I've got rid of those," he said coldly. "We both know the only reason you're doing any of this is because of your precious immortality."

Something shifted in Tom's expression. He looked about to say something, that mad glint still in his eyes. His lips twisted cruel and - and he didn't say anything. Tom Riddle. Didn't have some witty and punishing comeback. Harry's heart dropped out of his chest. The Slytherin's jaw worked, fingers clenching around his wand.

"Of course." It was the softest he'd ever heard Tom's voice go. "Why would it ever have been anything else?"

They were at the Weasley's hovel, and Tom had no idea why he was still bothering with this act of generosity. No, it could only corrode the light side further. Generosity, Christmas spirit or anything so quaint had absolutely nothing to do with it.

He hadn't gone back to sleep the night before. He had too much going on, and as much as he enjoyed the busy life after his fifty years of nothing, sometimes he missed having a moment's peace.

Harry hadn't been wrong. It was just the Horcrux. That was the only reason he started it. It was the only thing that really mattered. Of course it was. It was merely...irritating that apparently the importance of their soul connection went so heavily one way, it seemed. Maybe because Harry had his soul, but he was...nothing to Harry. Nothing except his jailor.

Had he mentioned that he hated Christmas?

"...So Tom agreed to help restore Ginny to her body." The boy was rubbing a hand through his hair, as the redheads surrounded him, suspicious and yet unable to stop themselves from hoping.

He knew himself well enough to know that he didn't share power, even with himself, so he had to ensure that his own blooming empire was secured before his counterpart could take it away from him.

"...HE WANTS US TO WHAT?"

The conversation drifted in and out of his ears, though he could feel their hateful stares on the side of his face as he made (coded) notes in his planner.

Still, their horror did entertain him - the thought of making this choice, in making it. It was these types of things that could act like poison, corrosion. Small things, that changed the game before any battles could even begin.

He wondered who they would pick.

"I'll do it," he heard Arthur Weasley volunteer, immediately. How brave. How naive. That was an exact example on why caring about anything, meant that it could be used against you. If people knew.

It was far better to stay above such messy things.

He could practically taste Harry's turmoil too, at the thought of this sacrifice. At the knowledge of what the man would be facing. He turned his gaze over. Their eyes met, and Harry's desire for some get-out-clause, some easier solution or sacrifice, was almost tangible.

"No - I will," Molly interrupted, fiercely. "It's not fair that you-"

Arguments upon arguments. Resentments and self sacrifice.

"Can't we all just pour a bit in?" One of the twins tried. "Does it have to be one person?"

This time, they all looked at him for a different reason - seeking his knowledge of such things. It gave him a glorious rush of power.

"Have you decided?" he asked, innocently.

"Can we do that?" Harry asked breathlessly. "All just put a bit-"

"No. There needs to be one placeholder." Maybe they could, but Tom had no desire to risk such a thing when it came to the possibility of being dragged back into the black hole of his container again. Harry looked crushed all over again.

The children were ruled out by their parents, though they foolishly attempted to play hero on the matter too.

The bickering began all over again.

This might take a while.

The Malfoy party was at the end of the week.

Chapter 56
Everything had changed, more quickly than Ron knew what to do with.

His parents were arguing across the kitchen table – and sure, he'd heard them argue before very rarely, but never like this.

Fists clenched, faces set, raised voices that cracked at the crescendo. And Riddle just sitting unshakeable, implacable, in the corner of the room as if none of this mattered to him at all. Which it probably didn't.

But that, at least, meant that he would have no problem going for the easiest option for him, no matter how bad it was for everyone else. He didn't want anyone else to go in that diary, not when he had even an inkling of what it would be like. And because he had an inkling, that meant there was absolutely no way that they could leave Ginny in there.

He wished they could just put Great-Aunt Muriel in there. Nobody actually liked her, and surely she cared about Ginny enough? She was really old anyway. A shudder of guilt spasmed through his stomach at his own dark thoughts.

None of this was right!

And he knew he shouldn't resent Harry for how he was dealing with the situation, he certainly didn't want to – Harry was his best mate! But it had to be said, that half the time Harry seemed more in cahoots with Riddle than against him. He could understand pretending to be on the bastard's side, that was just good strategy, like chess.

He just wasn't sure that Harry was always pretending anymore.

Percy could see the possibility of it in everybody's eyes. The thought that they should be the one to volunteer. Mum and Dad had said no, but he didn't think that necessarily counted for anything with the Dark Lord.

He obviously didn't care if children got hurt by his plans or not.

But he wasn't brave enough to do it. He couldn't bring himself to step up, and tell Riddle to just do it, and it made him feel rotten to the core. He didn't want Ginny, his baby sister, in there…but he didn't want to go in there himself.

He didn't want to give up his life, and everything he'd planned for himself, up. Maybe that made him a dreadful person. Selfish, when he knew Ginny would do this for any of them in a heartbeat. She'd always – no, not past tense. She always tried to help everyone around her. She was good like that.

He could see the sickness looming behind his parents' faces. Behind everybody's faces.
He saw Fred surge to his feet and march over to Riddle, just when Ron seemed about to do the same.

The diary was left in the middle of the kitchen table.

"Put me in there," Fred demanded. He stared the devil in the face, with complete seriousness, even if he felt like all he wanted to do on the inside was crumble up into a tiny little ball.

But this wasn't about him. This was about Ginny being terrified in nothingness, and of the fact that he'd spent most of her first year teasing her and making jokes, but never helping and never even noticing what had gone wrong.

Maybe, if he'd been a better brother then, none of this would ever have happened. He couldn't blame Harry – the boy looked utterly miserable with the whole situation, and since when had it ever been Harry's job to save his sister anyway? It was fantastic that he'd tried, it meant a lot. But it was never supposed to be Harry's responsibility to save his family.

Riddle's eyebrows arched at his demand, gaze flicking up cool and calculating from the myriad of notes and spellwork and – and student Christmas essays – that he'd apparently busied himself with.

Harry stared at him, before his gaze moved to Riddle too. A raw sort of plea, that the Dark Lord didn't even acknowledge.

"No," his mum began, surging to her feet. "Sit down." She whirled on Riddle. "If you even think about sacrificing another one of my children …" The air around her seemed to crackle, a storm warning.

"Fred, don't –" his twin began too. He turned to George, half-betrayed and indignant. He couldn't believe that he was hearing this!

"You can't seriously expect –"

"I will go by the majority vote. Judging by the large stream of protests in your defence, Mr Weasley, I would say that you are not the majority vote of the family. And as Harry told you, this is your choice."

He felt like the world was collapsing around him.

A majority vote.

George wanted to hate the Dark Lord for the cruelty of that, but as far as methods went, it was actually fair. A dreadful, wicked fairness that sucked all the air out of the kitchen.

Self-sacrifice was not enough. Self-sacrifice didn't even have to be the issue…it was about who they picked to take her place. Someone with an emotional connection. It would have been easy to turn on somebody else, on a Death Eater or a criminal that served the world better anyway…

But to have to all betray one person? To make the decision, at least, to allow them to do this?

Bile clawed up his throat.

He could practically feel the tension radiating off of Fred. Could remember, too clearly, the look of betrayal that he'd already received from his twin…a look he never thought he'd see on that face, so similar to his own.

But he couldn't bear the thought of it being him. Of being alone. Did that make him…bad? If they could both go, then it would have been better, and he would have stepped up with him in a heartbeat. But only one person to bear this? For only one of them to go was inconceivable.

He swallowed, thickly. Tried to think, of someone, anyone, in his family that he could do this to.

"I could do it," came a very quiet, shaken voice. "Not like I need parental permission."

Molly Weasley had seen a lot of terrible things in her life.

She hadn't seen her brothers die, but she'd seen the bodies. Mutilated, destroyed. It took five Death Eaters to take them down, and a day didn't go by when she didn't hear the memories play through her head. Especially when she looked at her twins – so similar to Gideon and Fabian that it was like a physical ache.

This was maybe the worst thing.

Her daughter, trapped and frightened because she was too kind for the world she had been born into. Her sons, throwing themselves up to death when they should have been too young and too innocent to even have to consider a thing like this.

There had to be someone…anyone…who wasn't one of them, so that her family could just be safe.

But when the option came, it broke her heart.

Harry looked so small. He'd always looked so small, so malnourished and shy and under-cared for. Honestly, nothing at all like what she'd expected considering the reputation which preceded him.

She couldn't breathe.

She'd been good friends with Lily Potter, by the end. They hadn't been in the same year, but she'd been charmed by the younger woman when they met. So young. Lily and James had been twenty-one at their deaths – practically still children!

She'd promised to herself, then, to look after her son. Because she knew if anything ever happened to her, that she'd want someone to do the same thing for her children.

She knew she hadn't known Harry for very long, but he was just as lovely as his mother had been before him.

He was just a child. He didn't deserve this! But nor could she ever put her own blood second.
She hesitated, helplessly. Their family would be whole, together again, if she did this. Agreed.

For a second, it was like a sly voice whispering in her ear. How easy it would be. He was even offering! And he had no one else to look out for him, to miss him. It wasn't like he would have six siblings to mourn the loss and carry it like a dead weight every day for the rest of their lives…

"No."

"Yes."

She looked at Percy in shock, at his words. His thin shoulders squared, and he pushed his glasses up his nose – looked at them desperately for some understanding, even if they didn't agree with his choice. "Well, why shouldn't he!" he continued, voice drawing brittle. "He offered. He knows what he's getting himself into."

The silence was smothering, and Harry's face was completely blank as his eyes flicked feverishly between them all.

"Don't be such an arse." Ron was bristling all over.

This was tearing her family apart.

Arthur felt exhausted. A soul-deep level of tired, and it felt like nothing could ever make it better.

He wondered, briefly, if it would have been better if this choice was never available to them. Many times, over the last months, he'd been livid with Dumbledore's inability to fix the situation. To get his daughter out of the hell that she was suffering, the torment she had walked into straight under his hands.

She'd been at school. In his school. Dumbledore, he couldn't help but think, should have noticed. Somebody should have noticed. He should have noticed, and been a better father to her.

Maybe Dumbledore had attempted to be kind, in not giving them this awful choice. In sparing them from having to turn against one of their own, so that they could throw their blame at him in grief.

This wasn't kind….but, he was grateful. Any good parent would always want to know if there was a way to save their child, however dark. He could say a lot of awful things about Tom Riddle, but he couldn't say that he hadn't been fair in this.

He didn't force them to take part in the ritual, he merely let them know that the option was there. Even if he was the one behind this in the first place.

Would he sacrifice Harry Potter for his daughter? It was a terrible thing to even consider. Yet, he considered it. Rejected it as obscene, and then considered it again with a doggedness that reminded him too keenly of his own capacities for darkness.

And the boy sat there, visibly scared, awaiting their judgement. Maybe the stretching silence spoke something of a majority, or of the monstrous possibility of one.

He didn't want to do this himself. He didn't want to live his life in a nothingness so empty that it could drive a man mad in seconds. He almost couldn't blame Riddle for wanting to get out of it, now that he knew what it was.

But he could never forgive the Dark Lord either.

"No," he decided, eventually. Ran a hand over his hair – much thinner and greyer recently, it seemed. "I will do it. Harry, I appreciate the offer, but this is not your responsibility. You don't have to do this."

"Arthur –" his wife began, voice trembling.

"I will do it!" he repeated, louder now. Louder than he normally got, when Molly was the one known for her temper and her fire. "We all know who gave that infernal device to Ginny, and why. He didn't plan this –" he jabbed a finger at Riddle. "He took advantage of Lucius Malfoy's behaviour. We all know it! He wanted to get at me, so he gave my – my daughter a cursed object in the hopes that she would be framed as a muggle-hater. The heir of Slytherin."

His eyes felt raw.

"Arthur …" Molly's voice was a shuddering breath, as her arms wrapped around him. "It wasn't your fault."

But he would take responsibility, either way.

"Please just stop this." The words burst out of him. They were giving the Weasleys some time alone to come to their final decision. "Are you punishing me? For what I said?"

Tom was still flipping through bloody essays as if he didn't have a care in the world except that somebody just failed their History paper on the Effects of World War Two on Magic-Muggle relations.

"No," Tom said. "If I was punishing you –" and now those eyes speared into him, with a deadly gravity. "I would have let you do it."

Harry didn't need to ask, but felt like there was something stuck in his throat.

"I'll do anything," he persisted, "I'll – Tom, just –" he squeezed his eyes shut, got down on his knees before he could change his mind. "Fix this. You can fix this, can't you? It's your diary. See – look – I'm begging. On my knees for you and everything. So."

Tom set the book down, and hope surged in Harry's chest. Fingers stroked through his hair for a few long moments. He wondered if this was what surrender felt like, in all of its bitter, soul-crushing relief.

"Get up, Harry."

"… what?"

"Get up off your knees, you look pitiful. It's embarrassing to watch." He was hauled up, shaking, with Riddle gripping his wrists tight to keep him standing in front of him.

"So you're going to-?"

"There is no fix," Tom said, very slowly, and firmly, holding his gaze. "I know that isn't what you want to hear, but there isn't. Sometimes, no amount of begging or negotiation can change things. This is how it is, and the world is a horrible place."

"But – you –" Harry's heart hammered. "You always have a fix. You always have a loophole. A get-out clause! Something! You're Tom Riddle!"

"Not this time," Tom replied, studying him closely. "Sorry."

"No you're not," Harry spat. "You wanted this!"

"I wanted to get out of the diary. I didn't want this, that would require me to be something other than indifferent to whomever they pick."

Such a comment shouldn't even have surprised him any more – but his own envy did. A hungry, broken sort of envy to be able to think like Tom did. To simply not feel in the same way. To be able to detach, and not look at what was happening in the Weasley kitchen and feel like someone had wedged an icepick into his spine.

"There's a lesson to be learnt in this, you know," Tom said.

"Of course there is." There was always a damn lesson with Tom, wasn't there? Riddle gave him a look.

"Sacrifice is often depicted as something noble, and to some extent – it is. I can admit that. On the other hand, however – it is ugly, and selfish. Nobody out there is getting any joy out of it, be they the ones to take the fall or the ones who are left behind. Sacrifice is only noble so far as people do not think about those they are abandoning and leaving behind."

This wasn't something he ever thought he'd hear from Tom, and his brow furrowed. Fingers squeezed into his wrists.

"What are you trying to get at?"

"You have an alarming streak for self-sacrifice and playing the hero. I'm telling you that even if you do something stupid for the sake of the people you are foolish enough to care about, that it might not help them as much as you seem think it will. Sometimes, even when everyone wants the same thing and are working together, there is still a loser. There is always a loser. And there is always a winner."

Well, now they were back on familiar ground.

"Which one do you want to be, Harry?"

The door opened.

A decision had been made.

Give him a month back, maybe even a week or so, and Tom would have been delighted to have the Boy Who Lived prone on his knees before him. It would have been a personal victory. Something exquisite to be savoured, rolled in his mouth like fine wine.

He didn't know what he was now, but it wasn't delighted. Actually, it was something closer to the fog or rage that prickled his bones every so often. It was maddening that Harry could care so much about people who did not hold him to an equal level of priority.

What had the redheads done to deserve such a boy?

Ginny Weasley looked more or less the same as he had seen her last. Hair a little longer, perhaps, but lovingly maintained. Resting upon her bed like a modern day Sleeping Beauty.

"You'll want to sit down," he advised the Weasley patriarch. There wasn't enough room for everyone in so small a bedroom, a little girl's room quite obviously. Pink, with a picture of some Quidditch star on the walls.

"What exactly is involved in this ritual?"

Tom placed Ginny's hand upon the diary, and indicated for Mr Weasley to do the same. Harry stood awkwardly by the side.

"You merely need to focus upon giving everything you have to save your daughter. Think about her, think about all those secrets that you've never told anyone else," Tom murmured.

The rest of the clan were crowded in the doorway, to give them some space to form the ritual.

"Don't interrupt me once I start."

Molly was sobbing; somewhere between despair at losing her husband, and relief at seeing her daughter fully restored again. Ron's eyes had gone red-rimmed too and - and Harry couldn't look at them. He felt like he was intruding.

"Harry - your arm."

"What?" Molly demanded, quickly. Harry merely stuck his hand out, and Tom took hold of his wrist, dragging him closer and twisting so that he could press a knife between his wrist and elbow.

"Less nerve endings here than on your hand," Tom said, before he could ask. Harry watched with a clinical sort of interest, as thick splashes of blood dribbled onto the open pages of the diary, sinking into it just like the ink had.

He stared at Tom, aghast, as the Slytherin Heir also apparently took the opportunity to swipe his fingers through the cut, and then suck the blood of his own hand. He would have asked, because Tom definitely hadn't mentioned that bit when he'd said he needed a little blood, but he had already warned them that he should not be interrupted when the ritual started - when the first drop of blood hit the page.

The second after that, Tom was chanting. Harry wasn't even sure what language it was, but...he'd never seen Tom like this before. Never seen him performing any kind of high-powered magical spell or ritual.

But he could feel the Slytherin's power seeping into the room. It was exactly as he imagined it, from when he'd felt Tom's aura before. He felt it like a full-body shiver, and a caress at the same time. Something breathtakingly dark, and somehow seductive.

It was an...intimate feeling. Lit all of his nerves up from the inside out, until he was aware of every inch of himself. Of every drag of breath through his lungs.

Tom kept chanting. Harry didn't know how long he did it before, but the energy in the room was building and building and he was certain that the whole house was going to go up in a puff of flames and - there was a rush. There was no other way to describe it. It was like a strong breeze whipped through the room, except nothing moved to show it and…

Mr Weasley slumped on the bed, conscious, but looking like he didn't have the energy to hold himself up.

Tom went silent.

She could hear something - before, that would not have been anything to comment on. The world was full of sounds.

Ginny had never heard a sound so sweet before, even if it was the echo of a chant, very far away.

The first thing she'd felt, was not her own. It was familiar, like home, but distinct from her. Hidden shames, and dreams like feathers brushing against her mind.

Of course she latched on. Of course, she took it. Even when she realized what it was...the protective wrap of her dad's emotions, the secret things. All the things that she had once given away herself.

And, as they grew fainter, she could feel them filling her up. A meal, for the starving. Something salty in her mouth – that, she realized as she stared up at the ceiling of her bedroom, was her tears.

She watched as her father grew paler on the bed, thought maybe she should stop now. She could feel again, even if she was only halfway to solid it was better than the blackness before.

She couldn't stop. She wanted far away from the nothingness, so far that there was never any chance that she would slip back into it. She wanted more, and more, until she was bursting, searing alive.

She wondered if she looked like her father had done, pale, shrunken in a lifeless stillness. She reached out a hand in numb shock. He was so...so cold. A desperate sound caught in her throat, and the next second her mum's arms were pulling her close into a hug.

It took her a moment to even respond, to be anything but utterly assaulted by the rush of sensations.

Home. She was home.

But her dad - he -

"It's alright," her mum whispered, stroking her hair. "You're okay." The next second, they were all there, and she felt that she could almost faint.

It was a cacaphony of sounds. Of her family all trying to hold her at once.

Startlingly vivid. Life, heaving and messy.

Her breath was ragged.

"I'm sorry - I'm really sorry -" her voice stumbled hoarse from disuse. "I didn't mean to - I - I didn't want anyone to get hurt, I really didn't-"

"I know, I know," her mum soothed. "It's alright. You're safe now. It's all over."

But when she caught sight of Tom Riddle standing on the edge of her bedroom, she knew that wasn't quite true.

Her legs gave out.

"You got your body then."

Harry didn't know why it surprised him so much to see Ginny speak directly to Tom. Her voice quivered a little, but she stood firm and didn't flinch from looking at him. If anything, she was drinking in his appearance and Harry wasn't sure what to do with that.

Honestly, he didn't know much about Ginny. Before, she'd always blushed and fled whenever he came in contact before. There was nothing of that blushing girl now. One hand was clenched around her mother's hand for a physical comfort, and the other was clenched into a fist so hard that Harry was sure she must be drawing blood. Tired eyes, broken - but wild, fierce. Like a jungle cat's.

She'd survived Tom Riddle, after all, somehow.

"Yes," Tom smiled back at her. "Hello again, Ginny. Didn't I tell you that I'd come for you?"

She seemed uncertain again, at that, and Harry's insides lurched. Her shoulders hunched, before squaring again as she pressed closer to her mother who seemed to be in something like shock.

"Was it worth it?"

"Do you doubt it?" he returned, casting his gaze over the diary. Ginny swallowed, as her own skipped over it with a shudder, onto her father, to her mother, and finally back to Tom again. "In case you wanted to know by the way, Harry didn't stop me."

Personally, Harry thought that was an entirely unnecessary comment, and he gave Tom a look. Riddle's hand settled on his shoulder, and Ginny's hand followed the movement - eyes darting to him, before doing something of a double take.

Harry tried for a smile and was pretty sure that it fell flat.

"Weren't you going to set the Basilisk on him?" Ginny asked. Harry nearly choked. Tom blinked. She gave him something of a smile back. Harry's widened to a grin.

Tom was torture, and torment and everything dark in the world. Tom was help, and the way he could warm your insides with an offhand comment when he had the charm switched on.

She'd seen both, to the extreme.

She understood.

But Mr Weasley still lay all but dead on his daughter's bedroom floor.

A/N: So, um, apparently I'm on a crazy updating schedule again. Yay? God, it was so much easier when my chapters were only 1000 words. Anyway. I like Ginny, so I was excited. Anyway. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. Thank you for the reviews, they mean a lot! And I'm celebrating because my visa and flight tickets for my year studying abroad are finally sorted! Woo. I will stop rambling at you now. I think I may be slightly hyper. Just a tad.

Chapter 57
The Malfoy party dawned quicker than Harry would have liked.

Christmas was only a few days away, and Harry had never felt less festive in his entire life – and Christmas with the Dursleys had always been a grim enough affair that that was saying something.

It shouldn't have bothered him that he and Tom hadn't talked properly in days. No long conversations with Tom trying to convince him of some facet of his ideals, of strength and power, or any of the other numerous lessons the man was wont to try and impart.

Of course, they had talked briefly at the Weasley house, but even then he got the feeling Tom would have just ignored him and continued with his marking if he hadn't practically thrown himself on the Slytherin by getting down on his knees.

He fiddled awkwardly with his dress robes, unable to settle.

He knew Draco would be there, and he never thought Malfoy's presence would be reassuring, or god forbid, comfortable. That was odd.

"We're leaving now," was all Tom said, as he swept past his room. Harry wanted to kick him, and himself.

What did he care if Tom talked to him or not? It was better when the bastard wasn't twisting him this way and that over everything he'd once held true about the world. Talking with Tom was a headache. It was a good thing to avoid it.

It was easier to fight Tom, when they didn't talk to each other.

He'd spent most of his time exploring areas of the Wizarding world with Sirius anyway, in his newly freed position. Of course, there were complications and investigations going on, apparently, but it was enough.

It seemed best to let the Weasleys reconnect with Ginny for a while, to grieve and sort everything out. He didn't think his presence would really help, and he would just feel like he was intruding. As much as he was curious to talk to Ginny about Tom, and her experiences with Tom.

And really, for all Tom's insistence that he spend Christmas at the cottage, the bastard hadn't even done anything with him at all! He probably only dragged him here out of some control-freak tendency of his. Something.

God, he didn't want to go to this party.

"I don't feel very well." He trailed after Riddle. "Maybe I shouldn't go. You can leave me here."

"Potter."

Harry sighed heavily, and started shoving his shoes on.

"Are we supposed to bring, like, cake or something?"

"What?" Tom's eyes roved towards him in the reflection of the hallway mirror, from where he had been checking his appearance.

"My Aunt Petunia always brings people cake, or a bottle of wine, or something, when she goes around their house. It's polite to bring stuff to parties."

"Not in the Wizarding world." It was the first time in days that he'd heard Tom sound amused with him. He shouldn't even have paid attention to that fact.

"Really?"

"Really," Tom said, lip curling. "The Malfoys, in particular, would consider it an insult. To bring food or wine is to suggest that you think the party will in some way be lacking, that you would need to help out."

"Oh," Harry mulled over that. He'd always considered bringing people gifts to be a nice thing, or at least a courteous thing. He supposed it made sense though. In a snobbish, twisted sort of way.

Tom stuck out a hand for side-along apparation. No waggled fingers now, no expression on his face at all. Harry hesitated, studying the older boy.

He was too still. Neatly made up, hair combed – immaculate, and so very much playing a role.

Harry accepted the hand, and squeezed tighter than was really necessary.

Tom stared at him for a long time before he strode up to Malfoy manor.

Draco had always had mixed feelings about his family's annual Yule celebration.

On one hand, they could be quite fun and he got a thrill of pride because everyone who was anyone in their circles got an invitation. On the other hand, it required his best behaviour and there was no room for embarrassments or mistakes.

He was at the door with his mother, greeting people as they began to turn up.

His father held court in the main ball room, making sure that the conversation ran smoothly as per his mother's wishes.

These get-togethers were her invention after all. Everything was her, from the glistening crystal glasses for the drinks, to the delicate canapés and sprawling, tastefully festive buffet.

When the Dark Lord stepped up, Draco was assaulted with the same mixture of confused feelings as he was whenever he had to sit down for the man's class. As a history professor – he was charming, obviously knew his subject. Even seemed playful with the class.

Which made the memory of the man looming over him, darkness personified, a split second from removing his spine. He went rigid even by his close proximity, stuck in a flawless posture.

"I'm glad you could make it," his mother spoke without falter, smiling at him and stepping forward. Brushing his cheek in a kiss as she did with all of the guests. He saw her lips move quickly at his ear, as she spoke. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Riddle."

They had a separate gathering, currently preceded by his Aunt Bellatrix, around the back.
It wasn't as if the Death Eaters could turn up in civilized society. Not yet.

"The pleasure is all mine," Riddle replied, pressing his lips to her knuckles, before letting go. "You have a lovely home."

Potter stood awkwardly next to the Dark Lord, with his hands shoved into his pockets and a mildly bemused expression on his face as he watched the two adults. His hair as disgustingly untamed as ever. Draco gave him a nod, and Potter did it back.

"Hi," the Boy-Who-Lived greeted, seemingly entirely nonchalant to his present company. Maybe he should have expected that by now. Though the Halloween Party certainly hadn't gone without a hitch, he'd been, well…Harry had surprised him.

So maybe this one would go well too.
He could hope.

"Draco," his mother rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Maybe you could show Harry to get some drinks?" She glanced at the Dark Lord, who gave a small nod.

Draco's insides swooped, somewhere between pride and terror.

It was very strange, moving around the room in the guise – or even in the truth – of his persona as Professor Riddle, the current History of Magic teacher at Hogwarts. It was just as well that he'd revised his topics well, and continued to do so for the sake of his cover.

Besides, he'd always been fascinated by history. Perhaps not to the extent that the Dark Arts had enamoured him, but he'd always devoured it. How could he not, when to pass in Slytherin he'd had to try and absorb as much of wizarding culture as he possibly could in as short amount of time?

It was nonetheless strange.

He would have to make an appearance to his Death Eaters too, those who were gathered elsewhere. For now, he networked.

Unfortunately, Black caught sight of him from across the room.

He clutched his drink tighter in his hands. Though he wasn't really drinking. He hadn't, well…he'd never really consumed much liquor before in his life. It was funny.

He'd committed murder, split his soul and practiced magics that older wizards would never even dream of by the time he was sixteen…but he'd never kissed anyone or gone further (despite offers), and he had never had more than a sip of firewhiskey.

Abraxas Malfoy had some in the dorm room, and had been offering it around. He had partaken little, not wishing to allow his guard to fall or to shake their opinion of him in intoxication.

Respect lost, could never be gained again, and, alcohol, from what little he had observed was not the best tool for maintaining dignity. He could not afford to slip.

"Did you want me to get you some orange juice?" the man's lips twitched as he reached him. Tom would have cursed him if they were not in public.

"I'm fine, thank you," he said curtly.

It was going to be a long night.

Harry had thought that the Halloween party had been tough.

This was worse, a million times worse. There were all sorts of important people here, and half of them were still glancing at him as if wondering if he was the Slytherin Heir.

Harry didn't even know half the people who had come up to him to shake his hand. Or pat his back. Or whatever else.

Cornelius Fudge came over, smiling smarmy, about how he hoped there were 'no hard feelings' and all in all he'd been here for barely an hour and he wanted to go home and curl up in a ball.

It made him think, properly, how hard it was to be Tom and doing this stuff constantly.

Draco had, mercifully, whilst not stuck to his side – hovered near. So had Sirius, and the man had rescued him from a particularly unnerving conversation with a toad faced woman whose name he couldn't remember…

There were nice people, too, of course. He had a small chat with Amelia Bones about career choices. There seemed to be a lot of that. People he didn't know, but who knew him, asking him what he wanted to do and if he was seeing anyone as if it was any of their business.

Why would he even want to be 'seeing anyone' anyway? There were loads more important things to be getting on with. Carrow had been staring at him all night, and it was creeping him out.

"Just let it go," Daphne Greengrass whispered in his ear, giving his hand a squeeze.

"Stop smothering him," Draco muttered. "He can look after himself. Come, my father wanted to see you, Harry."

"You must be Harry Potter, I've heard a lot. I must say, it's a pleasure to finally meet you…"

And all over again.

It was easy, in the end.

Honestly, given how concerned her lord seemed to be about Potter and Riddle, she had expected it to be harder. But the fake Dark Lord had more enemies than even he knew, and underestimated them as his servants and followers.

She had Amycus deal with Potter; knocking into him during the rush of people wanting to greet their esteemed saviour, the curse ready enough. No witnesses in the following kerfuffle. There was so many of them, now. Getting Riddle was simple so long as she followed her lord's instructions. The so-called Dark Lord was just a teenager! Who could follow a mere boy, however powerful? It wasn't right.

"The Dark Lord wishes to talk to you, if you would be amenable."

She'd never seem someone snap to attention so fast.

Knowledge was power, curiosity was a dangerous thing, and her lord knew the boy too well apparently.

Harry was trying to think of other times when he felt this terrible.

Trying to think how this had happened.

His head was swimming, and he wondered if someone had turned the heating off because he suddenly felt freezing, and sick. He seemed to ache all over, not the type of ache fixed by a hot cup of tea and curling up on the sofa, a bone deep exhaustion that dragged at every inch of him.

His throat felt raw, and his skin was burning when he touched it.
He hoped he wasn't coming down with something for Christmas, though it seemed awfully, suspiciously sudden considering he hadn't actually had any symptoms before.

Water. Maybe water would help.

Bloody hell, he felt dizzy.

"Potter?" Draco was eyeing him warily now, with something that could be mistaken for concern. "Are you alright? You really don't look so good."

"I-" he swallowed, blinking. "I think I'm going to … get some air. Stand outside for a bit."

He started to veer unsteadily towards the drinks and the balcony, only for the Malfoy to catch hold of his arm. Let go of it as if he'd been scalded, only to take hold of him again, more tentatively.

"The balcony will be crowded," Draco murmured, near his ear. "Come on."

Harry hesitated only a moment, trying to get a read on the blond's face. But everything had gone double, and slightly blurry.

"Is he okay?" someone asked, stepping closer. Carrow. No, not Carrow. It just looked mightly like the woman who had been kneeling in this vision. "Is there someone we should call?" The man's hand landed on his arm, and Harry recoiled.

He shook his head, mutely, casting around the room for Sirius. But he didn't want to worry Sirius. Though he was beginning to worry himself.

Oh god, he really didn't feel so good, and he was in a room full of Death Eaters and what if he was dying? Or if one of them killed him? He didn't trust them, and clutched his wand tighter in a clammy palm.

He had no idea what had happened, or how this had happened!

The bile clawed up his throat, and he felt like everything he'd ever consumed was going to come hurtling out.

"I have him," Draco said, grip tightening, reeling him in closer. Harry had never felt more grateful in his entire life. "He's fine. It's merely a little hot in here, but thank you for your concern." He was steered past, Malfoy's arm wrapping around his waist as he stumbled. "Where's Riddle?" Draco hissed in his ear, as they crossed the room.

Harry's insides roiled.

"I don't need Tom. I just … need some air." He tried to make it sound convincing. He didn't think he'd ever warm up, but his skin felt so hot beneath his hand that surely the fresh air might help at least a little bit?

It was difficult to think straight.
One second, he'd been dancing and maybe slowly beginning to enjoy himself…but now?

Draco seemed hesitant, and muttered something to someone and it was all washing in and out of Harry's ears as he stumbled along and concentrated on not falling over.

He still ended up falling face first on Draco's bed, trembling all over as the blond hovered awkwardly near him.

"Please don't throw up on my sheets." Malfoy sounded pained. "I'm … I'm going to get you some water."

The party buzzed in and out of his ears like a bad radio connection.

When he came to, blinking, he had two Malfoy's studying him instead of two.

His head was pounding now too, like there was an explosion building behind his scar and oh not now…

"Tom."

"He's hissing." Draco's face was a bewildered sort of panic, pressed even paler than normal as he looked to his mother. Narcissa was a point of implacable calm, so Harry looked at her too, starting to sit up.

"Where's – Tom?" He managed English this time, with great difficulty.

"Just rest for now," Narcissa soothed.

He was going to be sick. The slightest shift, and he felt like he was going to pass out again and what was happening to him?

His insides squeezed.

"I need-" he sat up, urgently. The world swooned to black once more.

Tom's heart was hammering in his chest, more than he cared to admit.

There was a strange nausea in his gut, distinct to him, but not at the same time. He wondered if that was what nerves felt like. His head was pounding.

But he couldn't say no. Well, he could have done, quite easily. He could have stayed at the party, and simply walked away. He could have snubbed his counterpart, or gone at a different time. But he knew Voldemort wouldn't give away his location so easily otherwise…

Of course, he could have simply Legilimized Carrow too (she would have to be dealt with, anyway.) But he was…curious. It was better to meet the other Dark Lord now, when by the vision he knew to be in a weakened state, than confront him first time in a situation he had far less control over.

He may even be able to snatch the advantage, and half of his problems with the Death Eaters would melt away…

Perhaps, most of all, he just wanted to see him. See what had happened, what had changed and what he'd become, properly. Look another future in the face, and ask why the bastard had never even looked back at him.

50 years in a diary and, after the first few years, he no longer opened it all. He didn't write. He just left him there, in nothingness. He could kill him, just for that.

The second he stepped into the room, however - everything changed.

It wasn't like being bathed in sudden warmth; it was something so hot it almost felt like being burnt. It was a cold so fierce that seemed like fire too. And it didn't caress him, it overwhelmed and devoured him, but the tension was let loose from his body all at once. He felt dizzy.

It felt like home. Like himself, and belonging.
He released a shaky breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

Before, in the diary, it hadn't been the same. The words were like lightning to light up his existence, but there was no physical stimulus to truly judge by. Merely an abstract sense of companionship.

It wasn't this.

The Dark Lord was repulsive and breath-taking at the same time. A frail, hideous baby, the vulnerability of which made Tom's skin crawl, but those eyes…

They looked stained by blood. A livid scarlet that demanded respect and told everyone that whatever this was, it was not a child.

The air between them seemed to crackle for several long moments, as Tom's fingers flexed at his sides, around their wand.

Whatever plans he had were knocked out of him, and knocked out further as a huge snake wound around his ankles, hissing gently in greeting. He felt weak at the knees – like every single fibre of his being was straining towards the other fragment of his soul. Desperate to reconnect.

A few seconds, and the need was a fully-sprung ache.

He sat down before he could make an idiot of himself, affecting casualness.
Voldemort, damn him, seemed unbothered by the way their souls and hearts felt about to jump right out in gleeful reunion.

"You feel exhausted, Tom," Voldemort hissed, the sound far too tender in his ears. "Maybe we could help each other out a little bit."

A/N: Not my best chapter, I don't think. The party was surprisingly difficult to write. No doubt, you will the see consequences of it later, when they're both feeling less overwhelmd by names and faces. But hey, first meet with V, that counts for something, right? God, I'm so tempted to just take this chapter down. I'll sleep on it...

Chapter 58
"You don't look like you're in much of a position to be helping anyone," Tom said coolly.

He could reach out and snap the raw, grotesque form like a twig. And yet, his chest ached to see the pitiful thing that he had to some extent become. He took a step forward, then another, until he was standing over the chair.

Carrow came to a shuffling halt in the corner, twitching as if about to warn him not to get too close to her master. Neither of them so much as glanced in her direction.

Those scarlet eyes were still picking at him, ready to dissect him in seconds if only he let them. A frail hand waved in Carrow's direction in dismissal, and after a moment, she disappeared again.

"Perhaps not right now, but you know what I am capable of," Voldemort murmured. "And you seem to be having a little mutiny problem." A cruel smile formed over a lipless mouth. "I require a more satisfactory body, and you need to be me. Which, currently, you are not. You are a child playing dress-up in an adult's clothes."

Tom's fists clenched at his sides.

"I seem to be managing fine," he replied. "I got Harry Potter."

The air seemed to grow sharper at even the mention of the boy's name.

"And yet the boy is still alive?" Hairless eyebrows arched, tone too delicate. Certainly even colder than before.

Tom felt a surge of power, a smugness swelling at being able to impart the vital knowledge that his counterpart had so missed. A slow smile spread across his face.

"You didn't know?" he took relish in drawing it out.

"Know what?" Voldemort bit out.

"About what Harry is? Aside from a parselmouth, of course…"

"The brat can't be a parselmouth, that's not –" the expression on Voldemort's face slowly shifted. "No. It's not possible. No."

"Oh yes." Tom smiled, eyes gleaming wicked. "It is. He's your horcrux. He's one of us. You should be on your knees thanking me for commandeering him out of the hands of the light." He laughed. "And you really didn't know…" It was like rubbing salt into a wound. "So I suppose I cannot be doing too badly. I am not the child, here."

He looked over the babyish form pointedly.

Scarlet eyes narrowed, so at odds with the frankly harmless form.

"I know more than you could ever hope to. You need me. With my power, you would not have to fear being drawn back into your paper prison again."

Tom's expression blanked cold too.

"And yet you're the one who put me in there and left me to rot for fifty years." He smiled again, oh so sweet, this time. "I should let you rot. I should torture any scrap of information you have out of you – it would be easy. You are hardly in any position to be making demands of me."

They stared at each other in a bitter stalemate. Tom's heart was slamming in his heart more than he cared to admit, especially when by all ways of counting he greatly had the upper hand here.

And yet, he strained to connect. How could he not? Every inch of him ached for his own soul, though of course they would never fuse again. The cure of remorse was a laughable antidote to a man who chose to wilfully split his soul in the first place.

It was true that the man had knowledge – he would be a useful ally, if only Tom could control him. Control himself. Which was why he was absolutely certain that the other must have been thinking exactly the same thing. Plans of dominance and dominion.

"I made a tactical decision to keep you safe," Voldemort whispered, voice hoarse from disuse. Merciless. "You are considering the same decision now, to prevent any further realizations of our methods of immortality. You have considered it with the boy, to ensure the shard is adequately protected. It was nothing personal. Stop acting like a hysterical child."

"Harry is more useful as he is, for now. He is far more than just our soul," Tom countered the unspoken argument. "Of course I could lock him up. But a soul is forever, providing everything goes well, and he holds a key position in this war. He has already turned, a little bit."

Of course he could lock Harry up by traditional means – indeed, it would be a lot easier and simpler than the knife edge he was currently attempting to walk with the boy. But Harry would live a long time. Tom would ensure it in order to keep the Horcrux safe. And if one had an enemy they couldn't kill, it seemed far more tactical to uproot resentment before it could build, and corrode the reasons the boy would have to fight him in the future.

"And how exactly did you manage that?" Voldemort sounded curious, despite himself. Hungry.

Tom leaned in, scooping the baby up to an icy protest, settling on the chair himself. Cradling the man mockingly in his lap, as he took the opportunity to lounge. Relishing in the brush of contact, that seemed to warm him from the inside out. He even saw Voldemort's eyes flicker, before burning in an even greater anger.

It wasn't quite the same with Harry, remarkable as the boy was. The effect was muffled by Harry's own soul, closeting his close and keeping it safe. But here, it was pure. As obscene a word as 'pure' was, for something like this.

His fingers feathered over cracked and slightly weeping bloodied skin. And, of course, Voldemort couldn't do a thing about it anyway. This man, who Tom admired in reputation even when he didn't want to. Whatever else he was now, this shard of soul had made the whole world tremble in fear of him, afraid to speak his name.

And Tom wanted that, more than anything.

"Sentiment is a far more insidious trap then chains," he said softly. "His soul recognizes ours, and cranes towards it. Notwithstanding the circumstances of his life so far –" he speared the former Dark Lord with a look –"he craves somebody who understands him. A family."

"A family," Voldemort repeated, a little incredulously. Tom shrugged, recognizing the delicious and awful irony that he should be the one to offer something like that.

"I didn't technically kill his parents." Though that led to the question of how badly Harry would respond to the man who did, but…

"You will not let me rot," Voldemort said. "We are the same, you and I. I understand that you are … angered, by your time in the diary." There was a different set to the other's features now. "As if either of us could ever truly have anyone else. Or do you imagine that Potter will ever truly and willingly stay?"

There was something terribly knowing in those eyes, and Tom's blood pounded in his ears. He'd never considered himself to be a particularly sociable man, but the words sent a sharp paroxysm through his gut. Because he'd been alone in the diary.

He'd never connected well or truly with other people, and doubted he ever would with most (and nor would he want to), but with his own soul…

Voldemort gave a pitying smile. Tom's grip tightened on the baby – and how ironic, that they should be discussing this in these fragile forms.

"I will not see you kill him. You would need to take an oath on that foremost."

"Of course," Voldemort said almost dismissively. "He's mine, just as you are; why would I kill him? You have my word."

Tom hesitated.

"I will be in touch."

He was sure they could help each other out; he just wasn't sure aid and not betrayal was the language behind either one of their hearts.

Draco had been ordered by his mother to fetch Black, and honestly, going up against a dragon would have been less intimidating a task. The mass murderer went white as death when he heard about the condition of his godson. Draco had to sprint to keep up with the man's strides.

Harry was twitching on the bed, barely lucid as his body writhed against the sheets.
His mother was bent over the Gryffindor, pressing a cool flannel to his forehead. Green eyes searched the room blindly. Draco felt his heart slam in his chest. It just – maybe, once upon a time, he would have been happy to see the other boy tormented like this.

He wasn't happy now. There was bile in his throat. Everything about it was wrong.

"What's wrong with him?" Black's voice cracked, and he was at the bedside in a second. Cradling the young boy's head, smoothing sweat-plastered hair back in the hope it might somehow still comfort him.

Draco couldn't even begin to try explaining, didn't even know what explanation to give. One moment, Potter had been fine, the next second he'd barely been able to walk straight.

"If somebody poisoned him –" Black continued, in a rather canine growl.

"I have already tended to him," his mother said. "Whatever is affecting him now, it is no drug, poison, or potion that I have ever come across. I have called for Severus –"

"Snivellus!" Black's tone was one of disgust. His mother's lips thinned at his tone, and Black blanched. Even not directed him, the look made Draco shrivel in some secret culpability. Five years old again in a second.

Harry hissed something quietly, and Black tightened his grip. Snapping back to attention immediately. But there was nothing coherent, and though Harry seemed to recognize him, he seemed connected to something else entirely. Draco's hands flexed uselessly at his sides, chest aching with restless energy.

Riddle was the last person he wanted to see, considering last time anything happened to Potter he was in danger he'd been a split second from getting his spine torn out. This was just paying his debts – but, well … it would have been easier if Riddle was there. Potter obviously thought so, seeing as he'd cried out for the Dark Lord.

Sharing serpentine tongue, they would be able to communicate what was happening, at the very least.

Blood wept from the scar in Potter's forehead, and Draco's insides squeezed again at the sight of it. Harry renewed his thrashing again.

"Draco, help me hold him down."

The air felt even heavier than before.

He shifted over, tentative of Black lurking like a dark cloud of rage beside him. Grasped Harry's shoulders lightly, and then more firmly as the smaller boy flexed and struggled against him. Draco swallowed thickly.

Continued to hold on, helplessly, until the writhing pain faded again.

"Tom –" Potter said hoarsely.

Severus arrived with his typical bat-like swoop, looming over Harry as he still gasped for air, eyes wild. He too stilled upon glimpsing the insistent seep of blood. They had long since stripped Harry's tie and robe, and his muscles strained taut through his thin white shirt.

"What happened?" it was clipped. Severus turning Harry's face this way and that, inspecting him. Wand shining a light in his eyes, fingers grasping at a frantic pulse.

"It seemed he became sick very suddenly," Narcissa murmured. "He had been inflicted with the Enico Curse."

Draco had no idea what that was, but his heart quickened again at the reaction.

Snape blanched, movements becoming more urgent. "Had?"

"I managed to purge most of it from his body. His magic is fighting off the last of it," she said. He found his eyes kept moving back to Harry's face, green eyes searing vivid without the glasses to hide them. Seizing hold of his guts every time they swept blindly over his position.

"He'll be fine," Draco said. "You said he'd be fine."

There was no response. None of the adults were looking at him, focused on themselves and on Potter. Dabbing the blood away every so often.

"The Dark Lord?" Snape questioned. His mother hesitated, which seemed damning enough of her opinion. Draco shivered.

"There is no sign of him."

"He didn't do this," Black said. Now they were all staring at him. Snape's face had frozen in the perpetual sneer he wore around people he didn't like.

"… My, my," the man mocked. "I didn't realize that the rumours of your allegiance were –"

"Oh please," Black snapped. "I hate the bastard. I hate everything he stands for. But he didn't do this to Harry – he hasn't put this much effort into him to simply kill him. Certainly not with poison, from a distance without even being present to watch the Boy Who Lived die."

There was a moment of silence.

Draco wondered if he should feel reassured or not. Certainly, the relationship between Potter and the Dark Lord had mystified him from the moment he first saw it.

"Carrow." Their eyes shot to him. Draco wetted his lips, before drawing his shoulders back and jutting his chin up. "Harry – I mean, Potter – he seemed particularly averse to her presence. Maybe she did something."

Then the air filled with Potter's screams.

Harry came to, slowly. Torn between minds, head feeling like it might explode.

It took him a long time after that, to ground himself in his body. His bones felt heavy with a terrible helplessness, fragile like a newborn. He was in Malfoy Manor still, he had to be. He couldn't think of anywhere else that could be so ostentatious. Probably a guest … no. He was in Draco's room. In Draco's bed, with only vague memories of how he got there.

How embarrassing. He was never going to live this down with the Slytherin, was he?

The madness of Voldemort's mind clung to the crevices of his own like shadows and dust, coiling in his nerve endings like something rotten. Mad, but brilliant. Gleaming, shattered shards, hazed over with an all-consuming rage and hatred.

Harry felt like he was about to throw up. Like his heart had been wasted by some awful disease, with the husk left over for the carrion.

He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling shakily. Concentrated on moving his own fingers, searching out the room with his own eyes. Forming his mouth around more human sounds, as opposed to the sibilance of parseltongue.

Sirius was at his side, manic and disheveled. Hand stroking through his hair in soothing strokes, although they still made Harry's stomach lurch.

"Easy, kiddo," his godfather murmured, when he moved to speak. To sit up – anything! His hands clenched around the duvet. "You've been through a lot."

A hand braced his arms, and worried eyes searched him carefully. Harry focused on breathing, on the steady grip of Sirius' hand on his arm.

"Tom met Voldemort." The scene still played nauseatingly between in his head. A blurred and distorted tumble of perspective and thoughts that weren't his own, seizing his brain in a chokehold.

Sirius froze, staring at him.

"I was – I was in his head, I –" he tried to push himself up again. "I have to talk to Tom. Where is he?"

The movement seemed to jolt Sirius from his thoughts, as the man pressed a hand to his shoulder.

"Harry, you're more important right now," his godfather stated. "You were cursed. Do you know who did this to you? Malfoy said something about Carrow?"

"I – I mean, I dreamed of her talking with Voldemort," Harry said, mind spinning with too many things at once. "But I don't know. It could have been anyone at the party. I'm not exactly the dark side's favourite person." He laughed exhaustedly.

Voldemort had said he didn't want to kill him anymore though. Sirius was studying him again, closely. Harry shook his head, trying to order himself.

"I need to talk to Tom," he insisted again. "Now."

"Tom's not here," Sirius said. Harry squeezed his eyes shut for a further few seconds. Wondered, for the first time, if he could use the connection to actively seek him out. Maybe if he knew Legilimency, he could control it better? Occlumency only kept things out – though fat lot of good that did for him apparently!

He'd thought he'd improved, but he'd never felt the connection so strong before in his life. Burning through his every thought until he felt like he would go up in smoke. Every inch of him straining towards the situation in an effort to get closer.

It had to do with the Horcrux, it just had to be. Both of them, together – he just locked on. Powerless against the tug of it, like a magnet rattling in his body.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair shakily.

Killing him or not killing him, Voldemort couldn't return. He just couldn't! The very thought froze Harry solid.

"Harry." Sirius cupped his cheek, nudging him to meet his gaze. "It will be alright. I won't let him hurt you, I promise."

"You can't promise that," Harry said, before he could stop himself. Sirius looked like he'd swallowed something foul, before he sagged.

"No … no, I can't. And I can't promise that everything will be fine either. But …" Sirius's gaze grew fiercer. "I will do everything in my power to try and make sure it does. You're not on your own in this anymore, remember? We talked about this."

Harry hesitated a moment, before nodding.

"I know." But that didn't really help. It would be easier if he was, because then he could be like Tom and only worry about himself. Sirius would get himself killed trying to protect him, Harry was sure of it. He couldn't let that happen, no more than he could willingly let Voldemort return.

"Is there anything you can remember from before you were cursed?" Sirius asked. Harry folded his arms, eyes fixed on the silken duvet. He shook his head, jaw clenched.

"One minute I was fine. The next minute I wasn't. I'd just – I thought it must have been something in my drink." He looked up at Sirius. "You said I was cursed?"

Sirius nodded. "A dark curse, called the Enico curse."

"What does it do?" The name sounded funny, more than anything bad. But he felt like someone had shook him up and then stuffed his organs back inside of him in the wrong order. Tired, too.

"It's a life draining curse. It tortues and exhausts and, if left untreated, plagues the victim to death."

So someone … really had tried to kill him. Harry exhaled a breath, ribs aching.

"Explains a lot," he mumbled, trying for a smile. Sirius' expression remained flat and concerned. Harry let the smile drop. "Who do I, uh, who do I owe my life to?"

"Narcissa Malfoy. Though she says the debt is paid. Something about her son's spine?"

"Tom was going to rip out Draco's spine the first time I was out here, because I tried to escape and ended up landing in the middle of his death eater meeting."

Sirius blinked.

"I still haven't decided against it," came the voice from the door. Harry wondered how he could ever have even missed Tom's approach – maybe he was oversensitized. Desensitized. One of the two. But his eyes narrowed.

"You can't do it!" he said, immediately. "Tom, you can't."

"I forgot the bit where you tell me what I can and cannot do. Oh, wait…" The young Dark lord came to a stop by his bedside, ignoring Sirius completely as he reached out to inspect him. "What happened to you?"

"He's manipulating you," Harry pressed. "I was in his head. He's treating you the same way you treat me! He –"

"I asked you a question, Harry. You look dreadful."

There was no large shifts to Tom's tone, but … Harry's jaw clenched again, mutinously.

"Apparently it's called the Eneco…" He glanced at Sirius. "Enico curse. Drains life. And you can't hurt the Malfoys, they saved my life. Your turn," he dismissed impatiently, surging to sit up. "What the hell were you thinking of meeting Voldemort?"

Tom's head tilted.

"And how exactly do you know about that?" Tom's eyes darted to his scar, and Harry gave him a look. The how was obvious. "You shouldn't eavesdrop on private conversations." Definitely dangerous now.

Harry glared.

"You shouldn't scheme and meet up with bloody Voldemort. Besides, it's not like I had a choice in the matter –" Tom had leaned in to study the curse scar again, and Harry hissed as fingers brushed over the inflamed and sensitive skin. He recoiled, that flood of heat enveloping him again.

Saw his own face through Tom's eyes, pale as death with the scar a livid scarlet on his forehead, before he was sagging back against the sheets. Tom's eyes were wider too, just for a second.

Harry forced himself not to become distracted. Sirius' hand snapped around Tom's wrist.

"Stop it!" the man growled. "You're hurting him."

Ice slid over Tom's features, and he twisted free with a sharp moment, wand in his other hand and pointed in his godfather's direction.

"No!" Harry threw himself tiredly forwards. "Don't. Just stop it."

Sirius was breathing hard now too, staring back at Tom, defiantly. Hypocritical as it was, Harry wished his godfather would buckle down and behave nicely for once.

"Did you tell him what you saw, Harry?" Far too sweet a tone.

"No!" Harry said quickly. "I didn't tell him anything. I swear. I'm not that stupid."
God, he was an idiot. Tom hummed, fingers reaching for his scar again as he gently brushed strands of hair out of his face. Harry shuddered. "Stop changing the subject," he pressed on.

"Obliviate."

Harry didn't even have time to react to that, let alone to the Imperius curse that soon followed. Sirius marched out of the room with a blank expression on his face. Tom shot up warding charms as the door closed.

"You should know better than to speak of such things in front of others."

Harry felt a surge of frustration – even more so at the validity of the point. The protest that it was Sirius would probably only worsen the situation.

He grabbed Tom's wrist himself, heart pounding in his chest.

"Tom, you can't help Voldemort get a body again. He'll – he'll put you in the diary again, you know he will! And probably me too."

"You believe I cannot handle myself over a man who was destroyed by a toddler?" Tom raised his brows. "I seem to be able to handle said toddler just fine myself."

Harry flushed, teeth gritting.

"You don't get to have both of us."

There was a beat of silence, that thickened into something suffocating. Tom's brows arched further, as a slow smile spread on his face. That awful smile, far too much like Voldemort's.

"I think we already had the discussion that I can have you every which way I want," Tom purred. "You couldn't escape me over the summer, and you would not be able to do so now if I so wished it. You're mine."

Harry swallowed, drawing his shoulders back.

"You won't be able to have me working with you," he spat. "It's me or him. You pick him, and if I can't leave, I swear to god I will never co-operate with you again. You'll never have me the way you want me. You'd have to kill me."

There was a deadly silence.

"What would you do … if you left?" Tom asked, oh so softly. The bed dipped as the older boy shifted forwards, crowding him back against Draco's headboard. Hands on either side of his head, gazes locked. "Face me and Voldemort on your own? You'd lose, Harry. You lost in the chamber." Tom's voice grew sharper, fist clenching by his head. "You will lose again. And again, hero."

Harry's heart stopped.

"I–I won't be on my own." He didn't drop his gaze, refused to flinch. "Unlike you, I have friends. Plenty of people who care about me!"

Tom nodded thoughtfully, eyes vicious.

"Ah, is that why you ended up on your own with me, then? The support of your friends? You were in that Chamber on your own, Harry, remember? And you will be on your own again, when it really comes down to it. You always are, aren't you? I think, deep inside, you know that. They can't understand you like I do."

"I – that's not –" Harry floundered, something shrivelling uncertain in his chest. "Next time will be different."

"You may be my soulmate, Harry." Tom's lips twisted at the use of that word. Harry hated it too. Saccharine, so wrong for what was really happening here, a parody. "But you do not get unlimited chances. My lenience only extends so far."

"You'll keep giving me chances anyway," Harry said. "If you don't, it means you don't think you can tame me properly."

Tom laughed.

"Changing tactics doesn't mean an end to the game. Do you know what Voldemort thinks I should do?"

Harry's hair stood on end.

"… he thinks you should keep me locked up somewhere safe." Like the diary. But Tom wouldn't – there was no way Tom would do that, he knew what it was like – he'd – well, he'd done it to Ginny without hesitation.

But Ginny wasn't Tom's horcrux.

"You said," Harry continued. "You said I'm more useful than that."

"Think about it, Harry." There was nothing kind on Tom's face.

What he wanted, what Tom wanted. How to get what he wanted.

"… You said I could be grey." Harry's voice was brittle. "That was our deal."

"Last I checked, being grey doesn't mean sabotaging the Dark Lord's rise to power, hmm?" Tom talked like they were still in a damn classroom, only those eyes different. Cruel. Harry's breath felt far too quick in his mouth.

He couldn't just do nothing!

What he wanted, what Tom wanted. How to get what he wanted.

"We don't need him." He leaned forward, every muscle in his body protesting. "We're fine with just the two of us. You don't need him, there's only one Lord Voldemort, right? And you're the better version anyway. I mean … you beat me first try. He failed both times."

"Flattery, Harry?"

"Just stating the facts."

"Of course," Tom said, too lightly. "Simply not sabotaging is hardly useful. It's the base expectation. And he, as you no doubt know, is competing for my favour too." The bastard was enjoying this far too much, in some sick way. "It would be rather unfortunate if I decided to take his opinion on the matter of your safety to heart, wouldn't it? I mean, if you're not intending to be of any further use to us anyway. The Boy Who Lived is quite the double-edged sword in this war."

Harry recoiled, betrayed.

"That's not fair," he whispered. Tom stroked a thumb along his cheek.

"You're the one who started throwing ultimatums into the discussion. I am merely following your lead."

He'd taken Tom's greatest fears and rubbed salt in them. Told him exactly the things he didn't want to hear: about the diary, about the possibility of Harry leaving him if Voldemort rose. He should have expected a backlash.

Equal and opposing reactions.

"Merry Christmas, horcrux mine."

Chapter 59
The rest of the night was...tense, to say the least. The silence between him and Tom stretched brittle and hostile across the house, as bad as it had ever been right at the beginning of it all.
It was the least festive thing possible. They didn't have any decorations, and Tom didn't seem to care about doing anything to celebrate the holidays at all. Thankfully, as Tom had promised, he was leaving now that the Malfoy party was over.

It couldn't come soon enough, frankly.

Tom had begun searching into who could have performed the Enico Curse, but Harry privately thought he was more concerned with a security leak then anything else. Oh, he dutifully took note of Harry's slightly weakened condition, and made sure that health wise he could want for nothing and was soon well on the way to recovery, but…

Well, Harry wasn't going to delude himself that it was for his benefit. It was just for the immortality that he fostered, wasn't it?

Harry, for his part, did his best to ignore the conversation they'd had about ultimatums, though it was never really too far from his mind.

Obviously, helping Voldemort return was out of the question. He just...couldn't. He didn't care if he was supposed to be a clever Slytherin about it, he just could not bring himself to do that.

He couldn't even think about it without wanting to smash something! The very thought of Voldemort gripped him with an all consuming terror, matched only be the rage that boiled every inch of him.

When Tom dropped him off, he didn't even say goodbye.

The house was gapingly silent. Tom would never have thought the silence of just his own company would have bothered him - he'd always enjoyed it during his Hogwarts days, compared to the bustle of the Orphanage.

But now, it reminded him too much of the diary. He'd grown used to the sound of Harry wandering around the house, his not so-discreet discreet attempts at learning more about wards or escape plans. His rambling at the dinner table, just the noise that came from another occupant even if they were quiet.

He'd never been the fondest of celebrating Christmas, and he'd never been one to consider himself tied to the expectations of society. He saw no reason to surround himself with people just because it was the end of the year, out of some ridiculous tradition.

The silence stretched.

He went to go and find Voldemort.

The Weasleys, at least, seemed happy to see him.

Harry had initially intended to spend Christmas at Hogwarts, like he normally did. However, in light of recent losses and reunions, the Weasleys were making an extra effort to all be together at Christmas - and they'd invited Harry to join them.

It was lovely. On Christmas Eve, the house was lit up with lights, warm against the winter chill outside and - even with the heavy weight of Mr Weasley only being in the diary to talk to - everyone seemed to be making an extra effort to be cheerful.

There was a sprawling pile of brightly wrapped presents under the tree, and delicious smells in the kitchen of a large ham cooking.

Mrs Weasley had made them hot chocolate, and he was currently playing chess with Ron and things were better between them, more normal, than they had been a while. Complaining about Tom seemed to put Ron in a good mood, and Harry certainly had enough to complain about.

"He's an unfeeling git," Harry complained, drawing the blanket tighter around him.

"Don't do that." Ginny's quiet voice finally broke him from his reverie, and he glanced over. "Do you really think that?"

Harry's mouth suddenly went dry.

"I – uh – I don't mean unfeeling, I just…"

"He feels a lot. More than most, possibly, or at least more strongly when he does." Her fists clenched. "It's stupid, and you're underestimating him to assume he doesn't. Even if he puts a lot of effort into making it seem that way."

"I think the point was more that he's an uncaring bastard," Ron said.

"Well, that's wrong." She stood up, arms wrapped around her chest. "And you know it is." The silence rang in her absence as she walked out.

After a moment, Harry stood up and followed.

He knocked tentatively on her door.

She was lying on the bed, throwing a rubber stress ball into the air and catching it. Up, down. Up, down.

"Sorry."

"What are you apologizing for?" she asked, a little coolly. "Talking about him in front of me?"

"… I've offended you."

"I assumed you understood him better," Ginny swallowed. "You won't survive him if you don't. I was … I was so blind, and it cost too much." The ball hit her hand again, before she looked over, appearing worn beyond her years. "You can't do that."

Harry wetted his lips and stepped forwards, letting the door swing shut behind him.

"He's awful."

"Of course he is," she said. "And he's brilliant. He's charming. He's callous. He's ruthless in what he wants. You can't just take one bit, he'll use it against you … you know he's not that simple. You live with him, and I've seen it on your face."

Harry sighed, tugging a hand through his hair.

"What's your view on all this then?"

She shrugged, awkwardly sitting up. Her hair spilled over her shoulders like the sun setting on water.

"I don't know. I just know that he's very good at playing the game, so if he's … reacting intensely now, then something is up."

"He's just annoyed he's not getting his own way," Harry muttered. Annoyed, perhaps, that he couldn't just treat Harry however he wanted, without consequences for his actions.

Ginny watched him quietly.

"Tom has a habit of getting his own way, with time. He doesn't hold grudges like that."

"Tom does so hold grudges!"

"Probably," she said. "But not like that. He'll get revenge, and maybe he'll always remember slights against him … but it doesn't suit his purposes to wallow, or even let you know that you got to him. And holding a visible grudge shows too much of his feelings, doesn't it?"

Harry blinked in surprise, never having thought of it like that. But, if he did … then he didn't know what to think of Tom's behaviour then. Because by all standards of stoicism, it was strange in how obviously hostile a coolness it was. He wetted his lips, trying to think.

What he wanted. What Tom wanted. How they tried to get what they wanted, and how that might have clashed.

Obviously, Tom wanted his bloody Horcrux under control. Obviously, Ginny was just completely mistaken and didn't know the young Dark Lord anywhere near as well as she liked to think she did.

Harry was a prisoner – and, with Tom's behaviour and stubbornness, he had the awful feeling in his chest that that was all he would ever be. All Tom would ever view him as. A necessary prison, some precious trophy to be buffed to perfection and then displayed to the world like a jewel of his triumph.

"He really does hide his feelings very well," Ginny pressed. "You know how much he wanted to get out, and he had me utterly fooled. I was an idiot, but even so … my dad had warned me about magical objects. If he'd done anything suspicious …"

So what did it mean, that Tom was visibly on edge now? Visibly showing his hand with him?

Of course, Harry had already known who the man was. It had already been revealed, so … well, by a trap of honey and flies, deception was still necessary.

Tom could probably do honey and flies flawlessly, if he wanted to. He had, with Ginny. To some extent (although Harry didn't want to – wouldn't – admit it), he'd been just as taken in, considering the time that had passed and his greater reasons to be wary…

So, what was behind what Tom wanted?

Harry was a Horcrux. He had a piece of Tom's soul. He helped keep Voldemort immortal. Was there more to it then that, things that he didn't know?

Tom could have been lying, at the end of the summer, when he'd said that he didn't know why he had taken Harry with him. Yet, if Harry had to pinpoint a time when he most believed Tom was being honest, it would be then … so did that make it all a lie? Or did it mean Tom hadn't always known he was a Horcrux?

The conversation about soulmates hadn't happened on the first day. Tom had certainly seemed fevered with his realization. So had he found out then?

Harry had told Tom that he had taken him because he was lonely –

Harry's mind ground to a halt.

Tom took him because he was lonely.

And Harry consistently pushed him away. Harry, Tom's Horcrux, Tom's soul, pushed him away, generally called him a monster.

Ginny stood as the colour drained straight out of his face.

"Oh god," he whispered. His chest ached. It wasn't that Tom wasn't an awful person, it was … Harry could imagine the feeling of not being wanted by anybody at all. Had felt it himself, for many years, at the Dursleys. It was the very thing Tom was using against him – those promises of acceptance.

Tom came across as not caring about such things, so maybe he was completely wrong. But he didn't think he was … not completely, at least. There might be more to it, probably was, as he very much doubted that Voldemort – even at sixteen – was ever just a poor misunderstood orphan, but … oh god.

At least Harry had only ever been rejected by other people. He'd always had himself for company. Tom had himself for company – in the diary. Just him.

Alone then. Alone now. Alone now, at Christmas.

"I-I think I need to go," he said. He shouldn't feel guilty. He had no reason to feel guilty.

He felt horribly guilty.

Nobody deserved to feel like that! Nobody!

"Are you alright?" Ginny asked. "What is it? Did you figure out what's wrong – Harry!"

He'd distractedly charged away from her room, and stopped at the cry.

"Thanks!" he said quickly, before continuing down the stairs.

"Harry, mate –" Ron began upon seeing him.

"Mrs Weasley, I'm really sorry and I'm really grateful that you're having me over … but I have somewhere I need to be."

"Harry, don't be silly –" She turned around, brow furrowed, from where she'd been in the kitchen. All of the Weasleys were staring at him in bewildered astonishment, even Ginny who'd followed him down.

"Harry, I didn't mean –" Ginny started.

"Merry Christmas." And, for the first time, Harry twisted the wristband Tom had given him to take him home.

Nobody was home.

The cottage was completely empty, and maybe this had been a bad idea. He couldn't get out, after all, due to the wards, and he had no proof or knowledge about when Tom would be coming back. If he was coming back at all during Christmas, and hadn't swanned off to Malfoy Manor or wherever else he might go.

Harry swallowed. Absolutely refused to be intimidated, even as some of his determined bravado faded from him, devoured by the quiet darkness of the house.

He figured someone would come looking for him eventually, and Tom would presumably turn up before he died of starvation. It just…

Okay, he was not thinking about that for Christmas.

Hopeful thoughts.

He got to work.

It was surprisingly companionable, spending time with Voldemort. Once they got past the posturing and the grabs for dominance, at least. For all that people too similar to each other in conflicting ways could never get on, they also had all the non-conflicting ways.

They shared the same interests, after all. And Voldemort had a lot of stories to tell, that Tom enjoyed listening to. And at least it was an intelligent conversation, with someone who didn't judge his perspective. And, if they did, it was in the vein of an older version of himself. A more insane version of himself, perhaps, but…

It was hardly sentimental or anything.

Nonetheless, it was one of the better Christmas Eves he'd spent – though of course anything beat Christmas in a paper prison, even his own personal jailor.

His wand hit his palm the second he arrived at the cottage.

The lights were on.

Had someone broken in? The wards didn't seem to be broken, when he tested them cautiously. Though with Dumbledore, that didn't necessarily mean anything. Tom's eyes narrowed as he considered his options.

Approached slowly, silently letting himself in, a curse already on his lips in preparation and…

Oh.

Harry was curled up on the sofa, fast asleep. There was a book, which had evidently slipped to the floor whilst he'd attempted to stay awake. A dusting of … white powder, on his cheek?

Tom approached like one might approach a wild and rabid beast, until he was standing over the boy. His head turned this way and that, like a greyhound on a scent. His finger stroked once through the powder and down Harry's cheek, before he padded to the kitchen.

Food. All sorts of leftovers of a Christmas Eve meal in the fridge - Harry had been cooking. There was a cake too. He assumed now that the powder must have been flour, or sugar, or some other such substance for the work of art squashed between various other culinary items.

He blinked slowly a few times.

He was aware that he'd had the ingredients to bake in his cupboards, from his initial preparation for these holidays before things shifted, but…

There were soft fairy lights up and everything. Obviously conjured by magic, which was simple enough, but…

He moved back over to the sofa where Harry was still sleeping, eyes narrowed on the boy. He was up to something. He had to be up to something. What was he doing here? Did he want something?

He hadn't expected to even hear from the impudent brat until he returned to Hogwarts, in class.

Harry didn't look injured. He didn't look like he'd been poisoned again, or like anything had happened with the Death Eaters, which might compel him to seek Tom out.

Simply put...he appeared to have turned up for no reason at all. Tom's lips thinned.

He went and checked the Christmas cake for any poison, or suspicious curses. Nothing. It was just a Christmas cake and it made no sense to him at all! He supposed Harry had a tendency to be a little strange, but…

He walked back over to the boy again, head tilted to one side. Refused to let his expression soften, as he scooped his Horcrux up to put him in an actual bed because he didn't think that sleeping position was supposed to be possible for human beings.

Then he got to work.

Harry awoke to the sizzling smell of bacon. Blinked several times to find himself in his now familiar bed at the cottage, and figured that whatever else happened at least he wasn't going to die stuck in a house he couldn't get out of.

He padded downstairs in a state of anticipation, with warm socks on to ward off the chill.

...there was a Christmas tree now. There was a Christmas tree in the living room. A small tree, and modestly decorated compared to the Dursley and Hogwarts spectrum of fanfare. And then there was a present.

Harry swallowed thickly and retreated.

Tom had his back to him in the kitchen, but glanced over his shoulder with an unnerving accuracy to greet Harry when he appeared. He still had no idea how the young dark lord could track his movements quite so effectively.

"...Merry Christmas." Harry's mouth felt dry. Tom just nodded back.

"There's tea and breakfast, if you want some."

"Thanks."

The moment hovered, and at first they ate in a tentative silence. It was actually quite funny how hard Tom seemed to be ignoring the Christmas tree he'd put up in the other room.

"You got me a present."

"And there was me thinking you still believed in Father Christmas."

"I'm thirteen!" Harry protested, with an indignant huff. Tom's lips twitched.

"It might be coal."

"You didn't get me coal."

"Should I take your presence here as a marker of which side you've chosen? Did something happen?"

Well, that was a rather abrupt way to plunge them into a more serious conversation. Harry sipped his tea, carefully.

"I'm never going to support Voldemort. Not so long as he stands for what he currently stands," he said. "So...no. Still grey. If I get any choice in the matter at all. And nothing happened."

In light of Harry's realization, Tom's confusion as to his presence was just a little bit tragic. Harry pushed on stubbornly, despite the eyes narrowed at him from across the table.

"It's Christmas, okay?" he shrugged, holding Tom's gaze almost defiantly. "Nobody should be alone on Christmas."

"You pitied me?" A dangerous tone. Harry scowled.

"I know what it's like to have absolutely nobody to spend Christmas with," he snapped. "It's not pity, it's called having a sense of empathy. People who aren't psychopaths get that. Why did you get me a Christmas present if you're just going to be an arse? What, is it a severed head or something?"

They glared at each other across the table. Harry could just imagine the festive and cosy atmosphere at the Burrow at that time, for whoever was up. Still, maybe he was an idiot but he had got himself into this now, and he was damn well going to see it through.

Then Tom tugged a hand through his hair in a surprisingly human gesture.

"Go and open it," he requested. It wasn't quite an apology. Harry nonetheless returned with the small gift box, hesitating and watching Tom for a hint of anything particularly cruel, before warily unwrapping the present.

There was a magical textbook on Wandless Magic - and Harry had never even known that was properly a thing, though of course he'd noticed his own bursts of not-so-accidental accidental magic.

And there was a small key.

Harry's brow furrowed. There was nothing in the gift box that he could see it opening, and he glanced up at Tom.

"It's for the front door," the Slytherin Heir murmured.

Harry's ears were suddenly ringing, his heart pounding fit to burst out of his chest.

"The front door," he repeated, faintly.

"Well, it's not like you're my prisoner, is it Harry? You're my Horcrux."

Harry felt his face split in a grin.

A/N: Merry Christmas! xxx

Chapter 60
Harry awoke utterly disoriented.

Christmas Day with Tom had been surprisingly pleasant. The Slytherin Heir had been in a soft, if somewhat restless, mood – and okay, he stared at Harry even more than he normally did, but … it had been nice. Peaceful.

But now?

Pain exploded in his scar. The ropes cut into his skin as he jerked against them, knees buckling, stone cold against his jumper.

A graveyard stretched before him, bathed bloody by the setting sun. In front of him was a large cauldron.

The last thing he remembered was Tom handing him a tankard of Christmas-spiced butterbeer.

He struggled harder, breath quickening.

"Easy, Harry." Tom's voice sounded from somewhere to his left.

Right now, considering the throbbing agony in his head, that did absolutely nothing to reassure him.

"What did you do?" He hated how his voice pitched higher. "What the hell is this?"

The butterbeer. He must have put something in the butterbeer. Nausea clawed its way along Harry's throat.

"Try and relax." Tom appeared in his view, a carefully wrapped bundle in his arms and … no. No. No. No. No. This was not happening.

"Tom – don't –"

"Carrow," Tom called.

The water in the cauldron shifted, frothing and bubbling hot, giving off sparks. Glittering like starlight. Such a beautiful sight, when Harry's stomach plunged.

He thrashed harder against the ropes, eyes wide, fighting to wrap his head around everything.

Carrow shuffled forward, shooting Harry a rather nasty look, hovering by the cauldron. Tom caressed the bald head peeking raw from the bundle, looking down on it with a strange expression on his face.

Looking at Voldemort – and for a moment, those scarlet eyes, slitted as a serpent's, flashed to him.

"Tom –" Harry tried again, voice hoarse. Skin crawling clammy. "Please. Don't you dare –"

"Silencio."

Tom slid Voldemort free from the folds of material, lowering him into the seething liquid.

Harry heard his body hit the bottom with a thud. He could barely see straight, pain stinging his eyes until he had to screw them shut, muscles straining.

He was going to pass out, he was sure of it. Nothing seemed real, and merlin, don't let it be real. Let it be some terrible, hellish nightmare. Let him go down and find Tom working and drinking tea in the cottage…

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son."

Harry heard a sickening crack beneath his feet, stomach lurching all over again as dust rose and fell into the cauldron with an elegant flick of Tom's wand. He could feel that power in the air again – the intoxicating smoke of Tom's magic, crowding into every crevice of their surroundings and sinking straight into Harry's nerve endings.

The cauldron turned a vivid, electric blue, spitting more sparks.

"Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master." Now, Tom looked at Carrow.

Harry's eyes widened as she raised a glinting knife in the evening dusk. His scream caught under Tom's silencing charm.

It was only Carrow's voice that he heard. Pain, flayed off somebody's lungs, as her hand detached and plunged into the potion.

There had to be something he could do – some interruption – some wandless magic – anything. Let him die. Let Voldemort die.

Tom turned to him. Approached with a reassuring smile on his face, as Harry shook his head. Their eyes locked. His pleading, Tom's … something else.

"Blood of the enemy … forcibly taken … you will resurrect your foe."

Tom traced the blade gently along the side of his cheek, before pricking the blade into his weeping scar.

Harry spat at him.

The potion turned blinding white as Tom dropped the blood in and – sliced his own palm too, squeezing to let a few drops in after Harry's.

The pain in Harry's head faded.

The potion turned gold.

Voldemort rose skeletal from the cauldron.

There were only the smallest traces of Tom in Voldemort's face – something exaggerated in the aristocratic bone structure. Those eyes were nothing like Tom's at all.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, gasping silently in pain. Arms trembling in the ropes.

His wand – where the hell was his wand? He didn't even know. At the cottage, because he was the absolute idiot who thought that maybe there was something more to Tom Riddle.

Maybe this had just been the smoke screen from the start.

Those scarlet eyes fixed on, disregarding Carrow weeping on the floor and only giving Tom a passing nod.

Tom shifted slightly so that he was standing between them, even as Voldemort glided forward. Robes like shadow trailed behind him.

"I have your word –" Tom began.

Voldemort waved a hand, and Harry sucked in a sharp breath – realizing abruptly that he could hear it. The silencing spell lifted.

"State your allegiance," the Dark Wizard said.

Harry laughed then. "I'm not declaring loyalty to you."

Maybe he was supposed to play that a bit less like 'hell no' and a bit more like a Slytherin – or so the look Tom shot him suggested – but honestly he didn't care.

Voldemort studied him, a finger rising to trace the path that the knife had previously taken, breath cold on Harry's face. Harry braced himself and – no pain.

Only the slightest sting of the nails digging into his scar.

"You take a great many precautions to spare him pain, considering death is the only punishment he must be spared," Voldemort said - presumably to Tom.

Carrow sobbed still, clutching her arm, breath hitching.
"My lord – master, please –"

Tom fired a crucio at her, expression not changing. Gaze fixed on Voldemort as he did it though.

It was obscene to watch Voldemort's face light up in turn – as if the two of them were getting off on each other. Or...something else, considering Voldemort's nails bit even harder into his skin for a few moments, before withdrawing.

Carrow writhed along the floor, twitching helpless, blood smearing into the mud.

Harry could barely bear to watch, but was hyper-aware of Voldemort watching him . Picking him down to the bone with his gaze. Harry's expression slid instinctively to stone, shuttered.

"He amuses me. He's mine. I'll take responsibility for any discipline the boy does or does not deserve, seeing as you can hardly deal objectively with him." Tom cut the curse.

Harry had never been surer that he should be dead. The way Voldemort looked at made it very clear that the only reason he wasn't, was because of the Horcrux. And he looked like he might be tempted, even then.

Then Voldemort smiled, a terrible, lipless smile. "Lord Voldemort hears you have managed to gain an appreciation for the dark, Harry Potter?"

The ropes cut, slamming him to his knees between them.

Tom didn't even react.

Harry shoved himself to his feet, feeling utterly exposed. He squared his shoulders, tipping his chin up. "The dark, yes. Torture and genocide, no."

It was unnerving, seeing that look on Voldemort's face, that he'd seen so many times on Tom's that the similarity was both break-taking and sickening. It was the look of dissected curiosity, like Harry was a monkey in the zoo that they were waiting to do something clever.

Voldemort laughed, a high, cold laugh so at odds with Tom's smooth baritone that it was like nails running down Harry's spine.

His fists clenched.

Could he run? He could see something like a town at the bottom of the hill, and a large house not far from the graveyard … there had to be something.

"Fascinating," Voldemort said, oh so soft.

He was never going to bloody well forgive Tom for this. The younger Dark Lord's hand landed on his shoulder, fingers curling like talons into his skin.

"We have work to do, and I am sure you will be eager to reconnect with our followers," Tom said. "How about you two catch up later? And I'll put our favourite boy hero somewhere for safe-keeping for now."

He knew he didn't want to spend any time catching up with Voldemort though.

"You know what to do." There was something in those scarlet eyes. "What we discussed, for the best."

Tom's grip tightened vice-like and yanked him away.

Harry's left arm throbbed, and there was a hollow ache in his chest. He wasn't sure which was worse. He didn't want to say betrayal. He should have expected this, probably.

He hadn't. At all.

He swallowed, thickly, glaring at Tom with wild-eyes. Struggling viciously against the Slytherin Heir's grip as the cottage materialized around him.

A fresh prison, Just as he thought he'd finally left it.

He was such an idiot.

"You bastard –" the next second Tom had yanked the key around his neck, and they were spinning. The stench of grass in Harry's nose was sickening, but he was hauled up again a second later. Head pounding, ready to go for the throat when he saw where they were. The … Burrow.

He stared at Tom, wetting his lips. Really not sure what to think about anything anymore. Though he kept a tight grip on the git himself, not trusting that he wouldn't simply disappear. His head whirled as the key fell heavy around his neck again.

Tom had … gone against Voldemort's orders, considering Harry was pretty damn sure Voldemort's 'safe-keeping' was Harry being locked away from the light of day for the rest of eternity, and yet…

"How could you pick him over me?" Harry's voice cracked and he hated it. Hated the obviousness of it, the mortification of his emotions spilling over as Tom's face didn't show even the slightest hint of regret or shame!

Tom actually had the audacity to laugh at the question – like Harry was a fool for asking, like he should somehow know. Like he had no right to even ask.

Harry's fists clenched.

"Harry Potter," the Slytherin Heir said, oh so softly. "My Harry Potter, the famous Boy Who Lived. You have no idea what it is to build yourself up from nothing, do you? To be nothing. Everything I have, is him."

"You have me!" Harry took a step a forward, clutching hold of Tom's robes before the git could disapparate. "Didn't you just say that I'm yours?"

"But you are not me," Tom said. "And this is not about you."

"Sounds a hell of a lot like it's about me!" Harry snapped.

Tom shook his head, still smiling in that awful way like Harry was saying something funny.

"It was never a choice between the two of you, don't you understand that? It was always him, because why would I ever choose Tom Riddle?"

Harry's ears were ringing. The words stopping him dead. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let go, Harry. Before I curse your fingers off. I need to get back." Tom pressed the wand into his throat to prove his sincerity.

Harry's jaw clenched, he stayed put. "Answer me! Don't just look at me like I have no right to ask! Don't –" he could barely think straight. Too much had happened. He'd been so hopeful and … it was ridiculous to feel crushed. "You saw what he was like! He's mad. He's – he's not you – he's as much you as I am – he's –"

Tom lost patience. Harry's head cracked against the ground, and he was left panting staring up. Had his now broken hand strained forward in a split second, spell on his tongue.

"Accio wand."

In that second, he didn't question if it would work or not, he just wanted his wand back. Would take it with conviction, to feel less exposed.

Tom made a grab for it, eyes widening for a moment. Too late. Harry's wand had already hit his palm as he caught it deftly.

He stumbled to his feet, prepared to duel Tom for the first time too, if that was what it was going to damn well take.

Harry could hear the Weasley's stirring.

Still, the wandless magic seemed enough to pause Tom for a second, as they both instinctively shifted to a fighting stance. Harry's blood rushed through his head, a bad taste in his mouth.

The moment hovered, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

"You have no idea what a luxury it is to be afraid of your own power, Harry," Tom said quietly. "Because that means it's never been the only thing you have. If you would hesitate to put your life before someone else's, you have never had to fight with every inch for your next breath."

Harry exhaled a shaky breath.

Lord Voldemort was the name that Tom had built for himself. Clawed together, his life's work, however much Harry sometimes forgot to think of them as the same person in that precise way. Lord Voldemort was a name so powerful that people quivered and flinched to even speak it. It was the name Voldemort that controlled the Death Eaters, wasn't it?

It was the name Voldemort that Tom had been using, still, around everyone else.

He couldn't quite remember how to draw another breath in. "Don't do this," he said. "You don't have to do this. I like Tom Riddle – I came back for you."

Mrs Weasley charged out into the yard.

"Don't think of this as a goodbye," Tom said, with that smile of his. "We're not through with each other yet."

He disappeared with a crack as Harry lunged, hitting air and his knees. Reeling.

"Harry –" He could feel Mrs Weasley's hand, warm on his shoulder. The world spun around him, nothing seeming quite real. He couldn't stop staring at the empty patch of air where Tom had been standing, just a few moments before.

"He's back. Voldemort's back."

If he'd ever truly been gone at all.

A/N: End of Arc Two. Woo! :) Now it should get interesting :P

Chapter 61
"Can't I stay with the Weasleys?" Harry leaned in towards Dumbledore's desk, eyes imploring.

Dread coiled in his stomach, twisting colder with each second that passed.

Summer started tomorrow.

"Or I could stay at Hogwarts," Harry wetted his lips. "I promise I wouldn't be any trouble. I'd just sit and study, or something. I can pay for-"

"Harry," Dumbledore placed a gentle hand on his. "I'm sorry, my boy, but that's simply not possible right now."

Harry slid his hand away, fingers clenching on his lap, white-knuckled. "Why not?"

Dumbledore stayed silent for a moment, studying him. "Even if it would have been possible before, with Voldemort's return circumstances have changed. The protection in your mother's blood is more vital than ever. You will only truly be safe with your Aunt and Uncle."

Harry didn't feel safe.

"But...there are wards here too, aren't there? Hogwarts is supposed to be the safest place ever!"

"And who would keep an eye on you? Who would stay at Hogwarts with you?"

Harry wilted, staring at his knees. "I can look after myself. I always have. I promise I wouldn't be any trouble. I can make a vow!"

"I'm sorry," Dumbledore said. The Headmaster looked older, more tired, than he had ever been. White-haired since they met, but now everything about him seemed ashen and pale. Paling more and more until he looked unbearably fragile, like he could turn into a wisp of paleness and be gone completely when Harry blinked.

The blackened skin seemed a dreadful contrast.

Harry swallowed hard. "What about Sirius? Remus?" he would have taken anything at this point. He hadn't seen the Dursleys since the whole debacle with the flying car and breaking out of the window...who knew if they'd even forgiven him for that?

He couldn't live in a prison. Not again. Not with them - they made even Riddle seem like a dream companion!

Nothing he said could persuade Dumbledore differently.

Dumbledore returned him to Privet Drive personally, via a side-along apparition.

Nausea clenched in Harry's throat as he stared up at the house. It seemed unchanged despite the year since Harry had last been there. Cold seeped through his chest.

He'd done this before though, right? He'd managed to live here all of his life and he'd been fine. He could do it again. It was only for the summer…

Exhaustion tugged at his bones already.

Sirius had said, in his letter, that Harry could tell them about him to make sure he was treated okay. That his mass-murderer of a godfather would come calling if they didn't do right by him.

Ron had said they'd try and get him out as soon as possible, even without the car. That the Quidditch World cup was on, and Harry should come if they could get tickets.

He clutched hold of that, let it warm him.
Dudley didn't even look up at him when they entered, preoccupied with the TV.

Aunt Petunia's face pinched at the sight of him though, and Uncle Vernon had thankfully gone off to work for the day. "You're back then," she said. Her gaze raked over him.

Harry said nothing.

For the first time, he wondered how the Dursleys had felt last summer, not seeing him at all. Did even a speck of worry enter their minds, at the thought that he'd been kidnapped? He doubted it.

Aunt Petunia's eyes flicked to Dumbledore and back, a strange blotch of colour pinking high on her cheeks. She clutched her surface cleaner like a protective weapon.

"Mrs Dursley," Dumbledore nodded. "You've received my correspondence."

This time, she was the one who said nothing. Her gaze darted away.
"Go put your things in your room," she said.

He missed Hogwarts already.

Harry,

Is everything okay? The station was attacked by Death Eaters when we arrived. Everyone reckoned they were looking for you. Did you get anything on your end?

Nobody we know was too badly hurt, I don't think.
Ron

The letter came in the early evening, clutched by Erroll's feeble talons.

The Hogwarts Express would have arrived maybe an hour ago.

Harry's stomach dropped, ears ringing. He clutched the letter tighter, crumpling the edges with the force of his fingers.

Death Eaters? At King's Cross?
Voldemort had never wanted to let him go, he knew that, but…

He supposed it made sense, now, that he'd come straight here, but…

There went his chances of going to the World Cup with Ron and the others. Instead, he'd have to stay here among Dudley's junk, doing endless sit ups and crunches because he couldn't practice magic.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Selfish. That shouldn't have been his first thought - what of everyone who'd got hurt in the attack.

Tom was one thing, but was Voldemort out there, now?

Harry's scar throbbed.

A second owl swooped in through the window.

Harry,

Attached to this letter is a key for a room in Diagon Alley, at the Leaky Cauldron.

It has been rented out for you for the whole summer if you do not wish to stay with the muggles. If it makes you feel safer, you may ask your lighter associates to add additional wards and security measures to it to it (in addition to mine) to ensure a neutral space, or to have someone you trust to assess the room for you, before coming to any decisions.

I hope to see you over the summer, especially considering our negotiations of your remaining 'grey'. However, the choice is in your hands.

I told you that you are not my prisoner. You do not have to be Dumbledore's either.

Sincerely, yours.

Harry's mouth drained utterly dry. He'd picked up the key, then dropped it in fear of it transporting him somewhere once he started to actually read the letter. It had no name, but it didn't really need one, did it? His heart hammered.

Tom.

Harry poked the key again, but it lay unsuspecting on the floor. He could sense no malicious magic coming from it, no tracking devices, nothing. Of course, he could just be failing to pick up on any enchantments on it, and it could be doing something nasty.

Before, he would have believed Tom to be sincere. Tom hated muggles, Tom knew what it was like, Tom would do anything not to have him subjected to a summer with the Dursleys.

But that was assuming he knew anything about the treacherous bastard at all. He'd made the mistake of assuming he did once, and look what happened. Whatever strange thing he'd thought they had, he was wrong! And there was no accounting for Voldemort anyway…

He should hurl the bloody key out the window, report it to Dumbledore, and be done with the Slytherin Heir.

Tom had let him go, last time. He could have been Voldemort's prisoner.

Was it really worth putting himself back in Tom Riddle's orbit just to escape the Dursleys? Tom was only doing this for his own ends, even if Harry didn't precisely know what those ends were.

Harry's chest ached.

He stuffed the key beneath his pillow.

Tom Riddle had long since been aware of his own partiality towards obsession.

Lord Voldemort's obsession was of a single minded quality.

"I'm sure attacking a train full of school children helped our public image greatly," he said, turning another page in his book as Voldemort strode into the living room of the cottage. "Honestly, I have no idea why people are not more eager to surrender to your dominion."

Rage pulsed through his insides, lips pressed thin. Of course, his counterpart had done nothing to share these plans with him, if the attack had even been planned at all.

Voldemort speared him with a cold, bloody look. "Pretty words are pretty words, Tom. People will always answer to power in the end."

Tom's shoulders tensed, his own gaze still trained on his book. "If you start by attacking people's children, you have no threat to escalate to."

"Attacking school children is easy, there is plenty I can escalate to." Voldemort plucked the book from his hands. "Which one of us can control our own followers without revolt and mutiny? Which one of us had the power to create a name wizards feared to speak?"

Tom's jaw clenched, attention swinging up. Both of their magic bristled, twisting like vipers assessing the best weak point to attack.

To say that the last few months had been testing would be the understatement of the century.

"Not all wizards," he flashed Voldemort his best smile. "And I have yet to be reduced into nothingness by a toddler."

In the end, everything circled back to Harry Potter nowadays.
Obsession, funny thing.

"No," the room chilled. "You merely let our Horcrux and the Boy Who Lived go. Honestly, I have no idea how that might undermine the public image you are so fond of preaching."

Voldemort strode upstairs, leaving the air crackling.

Tom could feel a headache springing to life beneath his temples.

"What's the trick with the room?" Black growled at him. The fingers of his left hand flexed with thinly veiled violence, and Tom was certain Harry's godfather would rather chop off his arm than follow any orders Tom might see fit to give.

He needed Harry on his side because he could start changing that. Changing all of this. The boy was the keystone to this whole war, and it was only a matter of time before he knew how much that was worth.

Everyone would be trying to have his protege now.

Tom raised a cool brow. "There's no trick."

Black stared at him, eyes narrowed in a manner he evidently believed to be intimidating. It had nothing on his ancestors.

Tom considered his options - but it didn't take much. Even now, in all of his unbridled defiance, Black was easy to manipulate. "You do know how his relatives treat him, don't you?"

There, a flicker. "Because you are so much kinder to him."

"He can take it from me. I am not supposed to be his family. How is it then, that I am the only protesting leaving him in an abusive home?"

Black's eyes flashed wilder now. "I protested."

"Dumbledore obviously cares a great deal for what you have to say," Tom smiled, leaning in. "So much so that he let you go to Azkaban whilst he did whatever he saw fit with your best friend's-"

"-You don't get to talk about them!"

Tom could have reminded his Death Eater of the mark on his arm, of the 'my lord' that should have been at the end of that statement. He wasn't so petty.

He'd get Black back for his disrespect later, once he had what he wanted from the man.

Black's head tilted, cocked like an inquisitive mutt and wasn't that bloody fitting.
"I let you stay with him," Tom reminded, instead. "Did Albus Dumbledore? Or did he leave a child alone with those who hated him and his kind?"

He knew he'd won, then.

The room is safe, kiddo. I'll cover for you with Dumbledore, if you don't want to stay in that house. I'll see if I can come see you soon either way.
Remus says hi, and made you some more food (see box) to deal with the rabbit food diet.

Sirius

Harry stared down at the scrawled note and the parcel, a thick lump in his throat.

Of course, Sirius could be compromised, with the whole Tom blackmailing him into service because of Harry thing. He didn't think so, though. The Dark Mark didn't force Sirius to obey, it just hurt him if he didn't.

He unwrapped the goods Remus had sent him - a loaf of baked bread, packets of nuts, and crackers, dried fruits, chocolate bars and a tupperware container of baked pasta.

He went for the pasta and some of the bread first, stomach gnawing with hunger.

Since some rather pointed comments from the Smeltings School Nurse, Dudley had been suffering on an exacting new diet. Naturally, that meant Harry had to suffer even more just to make things fair.

Thankfully, his friends had been quick to supply him with all sorts of food so he didn't starve with the scarce scraps of grapefruit and carrot shavings allowed to him.

After breakfast, he turned the key over in his hand again, before clenching his fingers around it so hard that the warmed metal bit into his palm.

He sent a message off with Sirius' owl - it still hurt too much to consider getting his own, though his godfather had offered numerous times to buy him one.

Thank you.

A/N: Well, I guess I'm writing Solace in Shadows again. Bring on Arc 3, I'm sure you're all relieved arc 2 is over if you're still with me. Thank you all who have reviewed so far, you are the best :) hope you all have a lovely day/night.

Chapter 62
Harry snuck out of Privet Drive in the crisp early hours of the morning.
His trunk seemed to rattle too loud down the driveway, in the quiet. He glanced behind him, shoulders tensed. Expecting, at any moment, for Uncle Vernon to come charging out to prevent him from leaving.

He swallowed hard.

For the last week, he'd been trying to stick it out with the Dursleys. He'd failed, miserably. The summer after first year had been truly awful - but somehow it didn't compare. It wasn't like he was locked up, unable to leave with all of his food coming through a cat-flap in the door. It should have been easier.

It wasn't.

Somehow, knowing he so easily had the option to go somewhere else made it unbearable to stay. Knowing if he stayed, he was putting himself through the hell that was Privet Drive entirely by choice. Knowing that whatever happened, it felt like saying everything was okay because he chose it.

It was only the sheer force of Riddle's reaction, funnily enough, that made it sink in how it wasn't okay. And how, if things weren't okay, he should damn well do whatever he could to fight and change it.

Harry breathed out a sigh of relief as he finally managed to ease his way out from beside the huge car, and out into the street.

The first fingers of sunlight stretched over the horizon, and everything felt clear. A weight had been lifted from his lungs.

He picked up his pace, and wondered if he could call this Knight Bus here, in the middle of a muggle neighbourhood, without getting in trouble.

Maybe just around the corner by the park? No chance of nosy neighbours peering through the crack in the curtains.

"Going somewhere?"

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin, eyes wide. He whipped around, wand flashing out, a curse on his tongue.

A gnarled hand seized his own. "Easy, boy," the stranger growled. "Let's not go jabbing your wand around in public."

The man was grizzled, missing a chunk of his nose and an electric blue eye seemed to sear through Harry's bones and leave him exposed.

Wizard. But Death Eater or someone else?

Harry yanked his arm back roughly, breath quickening, and pointed his wand at the man again. "Who are you?" He kept his voice cold, expression blank, chin jutted up.

The man considered him for a moment. "Alastor Moody. Ex-Auror. I'm a friend of Dumbledore's. He asked me to help keep an eye on you, he didn't tell you that?"

Harry shook his head, not lowering his wand.
Freedom tasted so close, he couldn't risk it. And Dumbledore wanted him here, didn't he?

His heart leapt into his throat. "Prove it. Swear you are who you say you are."

He didn't expect the grin that split the wizard's mouth. "Constant Vigilance. Very good. I swear I am who I say I am."

Harry felt a rush of magic tingle up his spine. He swallowed again, wetting his lips and giving a sharp nod. Of course, that didn't really change much in the end. "Right, well, nice to meet you Mr Moody." He sidestepped.

Moody stepped with him, blocking the way. "Where are you going?" the ex-auror asked again, studying him closely. "At five O Clock in the morning with your trunk?"

"I could be wrong, but I don't think that's your business. I'm not a prisoner." Harry squared his shoulders, and flashed a smile. "Am I?"

"We're trying to look after you."

"I can look after myself. I did last summer," Harry said.

"You got yourself kidnapped and the Dark Lord was ultimately resurrected."

Harry's stomach twisted, his teeth gritting. "That wasn't my fault." He hated the fact that his voice cracked, just a little bit, at the thought and the topic – despite all of his best efforts to seem implacable and strong.

That unnerving blue eye didn't even blink. "Get some rest, Potter. Go back to bed. Let us take care of things for a while, wherever you were off to. We don't have to say more about it." Moody squeezed his shoulder – rather too hard, though Harry gathered the gesture was supposed to be comforting.

But the room in Diagon Alley called for him, and Privet Drive seemed a chill against his back. Could he pretend to go back in and sneak out again? They'd probably be watching out for it now.

Maybe if Remus 'took watch' or whatever 'keeping an eye on him for Dumbledore' was supposed to mean. Rage boiled thick through his belly, as his fists slowly clenched.

No.

"Am I prisoner then?" he stared the supposed ex-auror down hard. Because that was what it was starting to feel like. Bile clawed up his throat.

Moody's lips pinched. "Where are you going? I'll come with you. You're not a prisoner, Potter. But you can't wander around without protection."

The chances of Harry being able to take on a fully fledged Auror, however much he'd been training, were probably slim. And this Moody bloke seemed like he'd survived a hell of a lot. Like Bellatrix, they had something the same in their stance.

Battle-ready. Aggression bristling beneath the surface.

"Diagon Alley," Harry said, eventually. "I've got a room there. You can call Dumbledore and get him to ward it if it makes you feel better."

But most people would be embarrassed to do that, right? So he'd get away without fuss.

Moody reached out to take his arm and Harry dodged back. "I'd prefer to take the Knight Bus. I have no idea where you could apparate me, or portkey me."

The man's eyes were starting to gleam, and that grin really was rather alarming. Harry eyed it suspiciously.

A large bang echoed across the street as Moody stuck his wand out into the road. His eyes swivelled back into his head, until the whites were only visible.

"What-" Harry began.

A three-decker purple bus screeched to a halt in the street.

Harry stared, eyes wide. Of course, Sirius had described the bus to him, but he didn't expect…well…that.

A skinny, pimpled teenager jumped out.

They reached Diagon Alley in no time.

Harry felt hyper-aware of Moody's scrutiny as he craned up to talk to the barman over the counter.

The ex-auror had him pull the hood of his hoodie up, to conceal his features from anyone who might be easily be looking for Harry Potter. Harry wasn't quite sure if it just made him look more shifty or not.

Apparently he'd be getting a proper make-over in the room, with magic. Considering the man had only half a nose, Harry wasn't sure he trusted him to alter his opinion.

"Excuse me," he kept his voice low, nonetheless. The last time he'd been here, he'd spent minutes with people trying to shake his hand. He didn't care if they weren't out to harm him, he didn't want to put up with that all over again.

Since the return of Voldemort, and the increase in Death Eater activity, suddenly he'd started having far more people asking him for comments. Anywhere from the state of recent attacks, to saying which witch he liked best in witch weekly.

Tom's gaze turned to him, and he paused only for a moment. "What can I do for you?"

"I have a room here?" Harry wished he could sound more confident.

Something flickered in the barman's eyes, before he nodded. Setting a glass aside.

In the early hours just after dawn, the Leaky Cauldron was all but empty. There was one shuffling drunk stooped and rambling in the corner, and one harried looking witch clutching a cup of coffee.

No one else.

"Follow me, please." The barman looked more tired than Harry remembered, just like Dumbledore did. He wondered if the man ever slept, if he was even up at this time.

Harry glanced back at Moody, before following the man up the narrow hallway and to a small, comfortable room at the top of the house. It seemed more private and tucked away than some of the others, so maybe that was why Tom chose to rent it for him, despite its size in comparison to some of the others.

He had a brilliant view of Diagon Alley.

"Thanks," Harry said.

Tom the barman nodded, and left. Seeming to want to get out of Harry's sight as quickly as possible.

Nothing seemed wrong with the room.

Moody stepped in behind him. "I've alerted Dumbledore, if you're planning to stay here."

Harry should have just got Sirius to sneak him out. "You didn't have to do that," he said. "There's no need to worry him."

"Idiot boy," was Moody's only response to that. The next second Harry felt a frission run down the back of his neck. He whipped around to see the ex-auror in the doorway, wand in hand.

"What the hell did you do?"

"You can't wander around looking like Harry Potter," Moody said. "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

Harry heard muffled swearing through the wall, at the loud yell. He blinked. "So…you're actually letting me stay here? You're not gonna try and drag me back?" his throat thickened.

Moody gave him a look. "Drag you back? Not if you're not stupid. You'll keep trying to run away, and that won't do any of us any good trying to keep you safe."

Harry's mouth felt dry with his relief. He felt himself rather warmed to Moody, and beamed at him.

Moody shook his head, and flicked a wand to continue transfiguring.

"But…Dumbledore wants me at Privet Drive, doesn't he?" Harry asked, holding still now.

"Dumbledore wants you safe," Moody said. "Strategically speaking, your relatives' house is the safest place for that."

Harry's brow furrowed. "But…?"

"But wars are not always won by the safest strategies. Hold still and pipe down, I'm doing your face."

It happened a week later.

Harry was sitting eating ice-cream at Florean Fortescues, getting his summer homework out of the way, when the elder boy dropped into the seat next to him.
"Nice disguise, Harry," Tom said. "Did you think I wouldn't recognize you?"

A hand clamped down on his thigh before he could stand up and bolt.

He concentrated on scooping up the last strawberry in his ice-cream, keeping his expression even. Body tensed.

"It's the mannerisms," Tom continued, in a casual tone of voice – as if it hadn't been months since they last saw each other. "You drum your fingers a lot. Have a habit of ruffling your hair like you expect it to be different. Contort yourself to take as little space as possible on the chair. Small things. I think I prefer your normal look."

Fingers carded through his transfigured pale brown curls, sifting his fringe aside where the lightning scar would normally rest on his forehead.

Harry's hand shot up before he could stop himself, grabbing Tom's wrist.
His ears rang. "What do you want, Riddle?"

The younger Dark Lord had never returned to his teaching post after Voldemort's resurrection in the graveyard. Perhaps he knew that Dumbledore would never let him come back, after circumstances had so changed.

The castle had been rife with rumours and speculations for months. Each mention had lodged a lump harder into Harry's throat.

He'd have thought he'd got over it by now, but even slightly transfigured himself, Tom's voice remained the same. Devastatingly familiar, bringing a flood of memories with it for better or worse.

"I told you, I wanted to see you," Tom said.

Harry exhaled a shaky breath. "Is he with you?"

"Of course not," Tom said. "If he was, we wouldn't be sitting here talking over ice-cream."

Harry let his eyes dart to the side, to drink Tom in properly for the first time.
Another tired face., though a distinctly better concealed tiredness. But Harry knew.

A smile curled his lips, vindictive and cruel. "Oh I'm sorry, is that not working out for you as well as you planned?"

Riddle's nails dug into his leg hard enough to draw blood.

Harry took another scoop of his ice-cream, and concentrating on remembering how to swallow despite the young Dark Lord lounging next to him in the middle of Diagon Alley.

"You're welcome, by the way," Tom said.

The thank you note. The room. Harry stared at his textbooks so hard that his vision swam.

"There were kids at King's Cross," he said, very quietly. "First years who had nothing to do with anything. People were really badly hurt, I read about it in the paper."

"They would have been fine if they co-operated." There was nothing in Tom's tone.

Harry felt bile claw up his throat, and he swung in his chairs to glare at the Slytherin Heir. He'd thought, with the months, that he'd be ready if he ever saw Tom again. He thought he'd steeled himself. "Back in the summer, just sometimes, when you talked about all that you wanted it sounded amazing." His fists shook. "A world where people like us could be safe and happy. If this is what it actually is, then I think I'd rather die than be part of it. Leave me alone. You already chose him over me. You don't get to have both, I told you that!"

"And you need me on your side, if you want to have a chance against him." Tom leaned in, encroaching into his space. "You know you do. We can perfect a better vision, together, without bloodshed."

"Without Voldemort?" Harry dared, barely breathing.

Tom said nothing, studying him with dark eyes.

"Is this man bothering you?" Fortescue's voice rang out, interrupting the moment.

Harry remembered he needed air again, jerking his gaze away to the store-owner. Mouth dry. Still, he didn't do Tom the mercy of saying 'it's all fine' and make it easy, even if he wouldn't set the two up to an actual fight.

Riddle's smile tucked tight, fanged behind the charm. "I was just leaving."

Harry watched him disappear into the flagging crowds of Diagon Alley, not quite sure what to think of any of it anymore.

Tom choosing Voldemort should have made it easy.

Chapter 63
Once Tom said it, Harry couldn't get the possibility out of his head.
The thought of ending this all without bloodshed, without families being ripped apart...a better world without Voldemort...it was appealing beyond measure. Harry ached for it.

But Tom was the one who brought Voldemort back.

Harry threw himself in his studies over the next week or so - and rather blamed Tom for his inability to spend a summer lazing about like one realistically should. Yet, with Voldemort back, how could Harry reasonably do anything except try and get stronger?

He'd been helpless to stop Voldemort rising in the graveyard. He didn't want to be helpless ever again.

And yet, still Tom's words lingered.

It was something Dumbledore had said to him too, once.
I believe you could end this war before it even began again. And you are strong enough to endure him.

Except he hadn't been able to prevent Voldemort coming back, all he'd been able to do was strain against the gravestone and watch. Plead silently with Tom not to do it.
But if both Tom and Dumbledore were in some form of agreement, for once, that had to mean Harry could do it - that he had more power than he felt like he had over the situation. Was this what Dumbledore had meant and wanted all along?

On the other hand, Tom had his bloody chance for them to work together. To resolve the situation without Voldemort, without bloodshed. And he picked Voldemort. The betrayal stung like it was fresh, tightening in a hard knot in his belly.

If he had that much power, did he really need Tom at all?
He couldn't fight both Tom and Voldemort, Tom had been right about that though. Harry tugged a frustrated hand through his hair, as he considered his options. He still had no idea what this power supposedly was, if he had it, and how to go about using it.

If Tom was capable of going it alone, there was no way he would have approached Harry with any sort of offer in the first place, was there?

He couldn't outduel Tom, let alone Voldemort - that much had been obvious from their first meeting. He could train, but he needed time to catch up and he wasn't sure how much time he had. Voldemort wouldn't kill him because he was a Horcrux, but that wouldn't stop everything going to hell while Harry watched.

It had to be something other than soldiers or magical power.
He bit down on his lip, the spell book swimming before his eyes. He couldn't even focus on his reading so how was he supposed to catch up? Tom was better at teaching him when he could actually practice magic and not just read about it.

Maybe Moody could teach him. The man had been an Auror, hadn't he?

We can perfect a better world, together, without bloodshed.

Without bloodshed didn't suggest it was amazing duelling skills Tom had been referring to either.

Eventually, he just sent a letter to ask.

There was something shockingly familiar to waking up and finding Tom Riddle staring at him from the doorway of his room.

Harry still bolted to sit up, tugging his duvet up his chest. Heart hammering. "Merlin, don't do that! You're such a creep."

Tom raised a brow. "I took the liberty of ordering us breakfast, I have a busy schedule today."

A cup of tea floated over to Harry and he took it automatically, blinking. He had to look around and check that he was, in fact, still in the Leaky Cauldron and not back in the cottage. He swallowed hard.

"You could have sent a letter."

"Letters are easily intercepted," Tom said. "In future, it will be better if any discussions we have are in person. May I come in, you've had the Light side change the wards?"

"If you take a vow not to do me any harm or take me anywhere else, or plant anything that will do that later."

"Good boy." A smile flickered over Tom's lips, and Harry despised the flutter of warmth that still settled in his belly despite everything. "I vow to fulfill those mutually agreed upon terms, for the duration of my visit here. So mote it be."

"So mote it be."

Tom sauntered in and pulled up a chair like he owned the place.

Harry took a sip of his tea, and tried to get his head around the situation. About Tom's stupidly easy intergretation back into his life, after months of nothing. "This doesn't mean I forgive you," Harry warned.

"There is nothing to be forgiven," Tom said.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "You betrayed me!"

"If I betrayed you, you would be in Voldemort's prison cell."

"If you didn't betray me, Voldemort wouldn't be back." Tom was bloody unbelievable - if Harry didn't know better, he'd think Tom had to be joking. He wan't.

"Drink your tea," was all Tom replied to that.

"Fuck you."

"Language."

They stared at each other a beat, but this time Harry didn't back down. Squared his shoulders, refused to make a joke about it or anything else. He wasn't Tom's prisoner anymore. Tom was visiting as his guest.

Tom's head tilted, something flickering in his eyes. "Children grow up so fast," he said, with that same tone of soft mocking that always left Harry torn between wilting and feeling like they were in on some private joke together.

He jerked his gaze away, fingers tightening around the hot mug. Feeling the heat of it sting his fingers, frazzle through the clutter in his brain. "How would this work? I'm not working for you. We'll be equal partners."

"Equal partners."

Harry had known Tom long enough to pick up on the faintest hint of amusement hidden in his tone, and he glared. "Yes, equal partners," he spat. "I'm not one of your Death Eaters. If you want my help, and it's obvious you do, this isn't going to go like last time. I'm not your prisoner."

"No, you're my Horcrux," Tom said. The amusement faded, at least, from his expression.

He wondered if Tom had set this up in the early morning on purpose, when Harry's brain was still struggling to kick properly on line and he was dressed in his boxers, soft and vulnerable in bed, while Tom sat in sharp creaseless robes and radiated dominance.

Harry's jaw clenched and he set the tea down.
Worse, there was an equal possibility that Tom was genuinely busy, so Harry couldn't call him out on it when Harry was the one who'd messaged him in the first place. He couldn't tell him to piss off while he changed into something more...intimidating.

"I'm not mocking you, Harry," Tom said. His gaze rested intent on Harry's face, dissecting him all too easily just like he always did. Measured, clinical. "This is as new for me as it is for you."

It was a startling thought, but a true enough one and Harry relaxed a fraction. They were used to dealing with each other as anything other than equal partners - captor and captive, guardian and ward, teacher and student. Maybe things had got a bit fuzzy at points, but on the whole in hindsight matters had been more clear cut then than now.

"Why don't you just turn against Voldemort, if you're unhappy with the situation?" It took absolutely everything Harry had not to say 'I told you so', but something of the sentiment must have come across anyway because Tom's eyes darkened.

"I am not here to renounce Voldemort," Tom said. "My stance hasn't changed and I do not regret the decisions I made. I will not say it again, so stop being tiresome Potter."

Harry's cheeks flushed, spine stiffening. He might have thrown the tea at Tom except the breakfast arrived, Miss Miller sweeping sunnily into the room with great platters of eggs and beans and a shiny rack of toast.

Tom's expression immediately composed, and he offered the woman a singularly beautiful smile. "Thank you so much, it smells lovely."

It curdled in Harry's blood how quickly Tom could seem to shift, to change. For all he'd remembered, there were as many things he'd forgotten about navigating the unstable minefield that was the Slytherin Heir.

He watched as Miss Miller smiled back, charmed.
"Just call if you want some more toast or another pot of tea," she said. She beamed at Harry too - having served him most mornings for the last week. "Enjoy."

The door shut behind her and the air edged a little more tense again.
Harry stabbed at his bacon, abruptly unsure of himself once more.

"Aside from being my Horcrux, you're also The Boy Who Lived," Tom continued, after a minute of silence. "I'm sure you've noticed that you're rather uniquely straddled between both sides of this war."

Harry snorted. "Lucky me."

Tom's cutlery clattered against the plate and Harry froze under the young Dark Lord's glare. "If you want me to stop treating like you a child, stop acting like one." An Antarctic wind would have had more warmth in it than Tom's voice.

"You expect me to be happy about this?" Harry demanded, in disbelief.

"I expect you to stop whining about the situation and instead deal with it," Tom said. "I don't think you understand how privileged your position is."

"Privileged?" Harry's voice cracked. "If you're going to tell me I should thank Voldemort for-"

"-I told you once that you have no idea what it is like to build yourself up from nothing." Tom stared him down. "You've been the Boy Who Lived since the second we marked you, you're a figurehead who people expect to lead them-"

"-I never wanted that!" Harry set his food and drink aside, needing to move. Restless rage springing through every inch of his body as he surged to his feet. "I never asked for that!"

"You never asked for any of the power you have." This time the mocking lilt to Tom's voice was as sharp as a knife's edge, and definitely made Harry wilt now. "Such a terrible burden, I don't know how you can bear it."

"Voldemort murdered my parents."

"You're not the only orphan in the world. Voldemort has murdered a lot of people's parent's, last I checked you were the only one who got a voice and the power to change things out of it."

Tom grew up in an orphanage.
Harry swallowed, mind reeling. "And you think I can use that voice, the fact that I'm the Boy Who Lived, to...prevent further bloodshed."

"You can with me to guide you, to help you." Some of the hardness left Tom's features.
Harry sank to sit on the bed again, having rather lost his appetite.

Tom cupped his cheek and nudged their eyes to meet again. "Think about it, Harry. Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter working together, nobody would be able to stop us. Between the two of us we can have this entire war in the palm of our hand. "

Tom's fingers were warm against his skin.

"You're a Horcrux too," Harry said, heart pounding. "What of actual Voldemort?"

"I am actual-"

"-you know what I meant."

Tom considered him. "I can handle Voldemort, you don't need to worry about that. I'll look after you, Harry. Didn't I say I would?"

Harry gave him a skeptical look before he could entirely stop himself.

"Have I ever let someone hurt you?" Tom pressed. "Have I ever not come for you, Harry?"

"You act like you're not one of the things I need protection from." Last time, when he'd been stupid enough to let his guard down around Tom, he'd ended up bound to a headstone in the middle of a Dark Arts ritual. He ended up poisoned and nearly dead, while Tom swanned off to meet Voldemort. He'd ended up a prisoner, because everyone believed the words of a handsome boy in a diary.

Tom straightened. "Just think about it," he murmured. "I told you from the start that we could do great things together."

"You said you could make me a prince among wizards," Harry said. "I told you I don't want that."

"And I told you that you'd never have to be alone, never have to hide or pretend to be something you're not with me. You go a long way to acting like I'm the villain here, when Dumbledore would see you as a martyr and a tool for his cause. I haven't used you, Harry."

"You kept me prisoner."

"And you're not my prisoner anymore," Tom said. "You haven't been since last Christmas."

Harry's chest ached and he looked down at his hands, twisting his fingers in his lap.
"I don't trust you."

"Good. Don't trust anyone," Tom returned. "But you do know what I will and won't do to you, don't you? Isn't that better? You say I betrayed you, but I made my intentions perfectly clear before Christmas. I believe I am making my intentions perfectly clear now, unless there's something I can clear up for you?"

For someone who had always, actually, answered Harry's questions about his position - be it prisoner or Horcrux - Tom still had the amazing ability to make everything a hundred times more confusing the second he got involved with anything in Harry's life.

"What makes you so sure that I won't just pitch in entirely for the light side? I don't need you to be the Boy Who Lived. Seems you need my help more than I need yours."

To his surprise, Tom laughed at that. "I've told you before that you care about collateral damage far more than I do. I'm fine with bloodshed, if it must come down with that."

So why the hell was he even suggesting they work together?

Harry looked up at him again.

"I said I'd look after you," Tom reminded. "You're the only one who keeps assuming that's changed. Use the key to contact me next time - if you hold it and think about me, I'll know. And I'll come find you when I can."

He left Harry speechless and reeling.

A/N: So when you're near me darling can't you hear me SIS. I'm as shocked by this update as you are, though this story was never actually abandoned it's been a while, hasn't it? Anyway, gotta a question for you all that I've been wondering about. The Slash Question.

Obviously, this story is currently nonslash, mentorship. And it will remain that way for the moment because I don't ship thirteen year olds. But, what do you guys think of this developing into slash if it ever gets to a point where Harry is older? AKA, 16.

Chapter 64
Harry knocked tentatively on Ginny's door.
After an awkward start, since Christmas Ginny had become his general consultant on all things Tom Riddle. Certainly, he could try and talk to Ron or Hermione or Sirius about it, but they didn't really understand.

Sirius worried about him too much to be of help, and neither Ron nor Hermione really knew anything about Tom. Hermione tried. But Ginny understood.

She knew how charming and likeable Tom could be, just as she knew how cruel he could be too.

And after an even more awkward start, and him offering to tutor her for the school she'd missed, they were more or less friends. He thought they were, anyway.

"What is it?" she yelled.

Harry opened up, and she promptly straightened on the bed.

"Harry," for a beat, she sounded surprised. "If you're busy-" he began.

"No," She said. She flashed a smile, gestured for him to sit. Books crowded every corner of her room, to the point that it looked more like Hermione's bedroom than what he'd last seen of Ginny's. He scanned over the battered titles automatically – Defending yourself from the Dark Arts, Defense 101, A thousand hexes and curses, The Art of a Wizarding Duel.

Her chin jutted up almost defiantly as he caught her gaze.

He flicked open the nearest one, to find the distinctive markers of a Hogwarts library book.

"You should try Battle Royale," Harry said. "Madame Pince is going to kill you."

Ginny shrugged.

"I thought the teacher's decided you could go on to third year with everyone else," he said next.

"I can. This isn't for school." She ran her fingers over the cover, but Harry stood without her needing to finish. He sat down.

"I saw Tom yesterday," he said.

Ginny froze for a second, and he watched her throat bob, before she glanced at him. "Do the Order know?"

Harry shook his head.

"I'm sure that was fun," Ginny remarked dryly. "Did he stalk you down a dark alleyway?"

Harry snorted, and grinned, before the smile faded.

Ginny touched a hand to his knee, studying him carefully. "Are you alright?"

"He wants an alliance," Harry said. "Before everything turns bloody."

"Do you want an alliance?"

"I don't want everything turning bloody."

"He's the one making this bloody."

Well, that was true. Tom had at least made it clear he had absolutely no qualms about letting this turn into a proper war, with all the sickening casualties that came with that. The collateral.

Harry swallowed, twisting his hands in his lap. "Not if I take the truce, though." Sure, maybe Tom set it up so that he had to take the alliance to avoid people dying, but that still meant less people would get hurt if they worked together regardless. And Tom knew Voldemort, better than anyone.

Tom betrayed him. How could he trust him to keep any truce or deal they made?

"Did he say what he's planning to do with this alliance?" Ginny asked. "What are you working for."

"He said a better world." But that could be anything, without specifics. Tom's idea of a better world probably included all muggles being stamped out of existence with the callousness one dealt with an ant infestation.

Ginny raised her brow in a manner that perfectly expressed Harry's own ambivalence on the matter, and he grimaced. "Not to be too biased," she said, after a moment, "but if he wants an alliance, it will likely be to suck you dry and appropriate the Boy Who Lived name for Voldemort."

"We have a deal on my greyness."

"He doesn't need you to be dark for people to think you're siding with him."

Well, that was probably true too. Unfortunately. It was nothing he hadn't thought himself seeing Tom, to make it worse. Harry tugged a hand through his hair and sighed. Once again he hated himself, just for a second, for missing being Tom's prisoner. Everything had been simpler than it was now. "So fight to the death then," he muttered. Except he couldn't fight Tom to the death any time soon, and who knew what disaster and destruction could happen in the meanwhile.

"The alliance is only a problem if I can't control it," Harry said quietly. "If I can...if I can a lot of people could be saved." Tom and Voldemort together had been the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen, including the Dementors. He didn't ever want to see what they would to the world side by side.

But controlling Tom Riddle, matching him, was no easy task.
Dumbledore seemed to believe he could do it.

"You don't have to fight alone this time, Harry."

And maybe that made all the difference.

The chess pieces moved in a blur of movement, neither of them taking longer than a second to consider. Not needing to, with at least half the same brain and the absolute ability to guess what each other was thinking.

He was white, Voldemort played black. Companionable, despite their differences in broader battle approach. In chess, at least, they could agree.

"I saw Harry yesterday," Tom broke the hour's peaceful silence.

Voldemort's fingers stilled around his queen, tightening. A scarlet gaze flicked up, doing its best to pin Tom to the spot, before Voldemort finished his move and snatched up one of Tom's pawns. "I assume you have a reason for telling me this, aside from trying to irritate me with the fact you once again failed to capture him."

"There's more than one kind of prison," Tom reminded. But that wasn't why he brought it up, he had no desire to argue the matter over with Voldemort again, when they were clearly never going to agree. "I offered him an alliance with me."

"He would never work with us," Voldemort said.

"That's why I didn't say us."

Voldemort's head tilted to one side, studying him carefully. Trying to pick out the pieces of his plan and fit them together. "If you were planning on betraying me, our cause, we would not be having this conversation."

Tom swiped Voldemort's queen while he was distracted and smiled. "I told you," he said. "It's all about public relations."

"And I told you that I see no reason to cater to the public," Voldemort said. Disdain obvious. "They understand nothing of the importance of our work, they are fools, nothing more. They will turn to dust and I will live on."

"There is no point being the god of a new world, if the world is dust and dead," Tom said. He forced his voice to remain calm. "I am an appealing choice to Harry, he knows me. I can make him trust me again. And Harry is the appealing choice to all who currently stand against us. If we have his support, the world will fall to your feet much more quickly and smoothly. And, of course…" Tom slid his queen forward, holding Voldemort's eyes. "You get to keep your Horcrux at the end of it. You get to show the world that the Boy Who Lived is yours, that he cannot stand against you. If he fights you and dies, he will be a martyr and you will be one step closer to death. Don't think of it as a compromise...think of it as game. Sometimes you have to sacrifice a few pawns to capture the king."
He looked down at the board.

"Oh, and Checkmate."

He met Tom for dinner a few, research-heavy, days later. He'd wanted to get out of his little room, however safely warded and secure it was. To remind himself that things had changed, that he wasn't stuck anymore, that he had power. That however he felt about it all, nothing was simple anymore.

It still felt strange to meet Tom at all, to see him again after months of nothing, of trying to sever all connection between them regardless of what Tom had said about it not being a goodbye. The one thing he knew was that he didn't want to fight Voldemort on his own - and while he didn't quite trust Tom to help, Tom had at least proven that he didn't want Harry dead or locked up for the rest of his life.

If Voldemort ever caught up with him, he'd need Tom on his side still.

Harry exhaled a shaky breath and examined the buzz of worry on the streets around him. Diagon Alley seemed a grimmer, greyer place by the day. There were less and less people out in the evenings, parents clutched their children closer and didn't let them out of their sight, the air filled with a suffocating fog of fear.

It could only be more miserable if Death Eaters started patrolling the streets.

"How has your week been?" Tom asked, pleasantly, as if they were actually still doing small talk.

"You have a plan," Harry said. "About this alliance. What is it?"
The security wards still muffled their conversation, making the world feel even more eerily distant and quiet.

"Does this mean you're agreeing to an alliance?"

"I don't want people getting hurt if I can save them," Harry weighed his words carefully, a tight knot in his throat. "You knew that when you made the offer." A small smile curled Tom's lips, and Harry glared at him. "BUT," he continued. "I meant what I said, this is going to be equal. If we do it. I'm not going to be your puppet."

"You were never any good at being my puppet anyway."

Harry snorted.

"You need to start giving interviews, swaying public opinion, being proactive rather than allowing them to brand you whatever suits their agendas at the time," Tom said.

"I'm guessing you want me to have a specific opinion."

Tom didn't flinch at the accusation, merely raising a brow. "Obviously I'm not suggesting you say anything you are not willing to support, but if you are interested in preventing bloodshed I wouldn't recommend dividing this country further. If you encourage people to fight they will. Do not."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Voldemort's the one fighting and attacking people," he snapped. "Or have you forgotten the attack on the train station so quickly? But hey, all those kids deserved it, right? We should just lie back and take it!" Harry shook his head, cheeks flushed and fists clenched. "If you want an alliance with me, you need to get him in line. I'm not debating that."

He drew in a calming breath, and continued.

"I'm not asking you to renounce him," Harry said. He wished Tom would, but Tom had made it damn clear where his loyalties lay. "I'm telling you to control him. To stop him from killing more people and launching attacks, can you do that? Because if you can't, I really don't know what I'm allying with you for."

Tom stayed quiet for a moment.

"He attacked because he was after you, not because he has any particular interest in killing children. I cannot control his actions fully-" Tom held up a hand to forestall Harry's interruption. "But I can arrange and negotiate a meeting between you, and ensure that no harm or imprisonment comes to you if you wish to deal with him. I suggest you do. And I suggest you do it publicly."

Harry's heart hammered at the words - because dealing with Tom was difficult enough, he would be happy if he never saw Voldemort for as long as he lived. Let alone publicly in front of a bunch of reporters who not six months ago accused him of being the Heir of Slytherin! His relationship with Tom had always gone better privately, anyway. He wet his lips. "Do you really think Voldemort would listen?" he asked.

"Voldemort will do anything he deems necessary to fulfill his aims." Tom met his eyes, speaking evenly. "Regardless of if he tears the whole world apart doing it, regardless of bloodshed, regardless of what people think of him. He will obliterate any obstacle, and has very little tolerance or patience for compromise. But...coming from you, he will certainly agree to meeting you. And, if you give him a viable alternative to getting what he wants other than violence, he will listen."

Harry swallowed, cold creeping down his spine. Because that sounded less like an alliance to avoid bloodshed, and more like absolute surrender so Voldemort felt no compulsion to hurt anyone because there was no resistance. As if Harry could make everyone lay down arms anyway! As if he ever would, it wasn't worth it. He'd rather have bloodshed than a world with Voldemort in charge. "I won't stand for blood purity," he snapped. If Voldemort had no interest in compromise...there would be a fight, regardless, wouldn't there?

He looked down at the table, troubled but determined, as their plates were bought over and set down. He made no move to reach for his cutlery.

"Blood purity isn't the only issue Voldemort wants dealt with," Tom said. "Immortality is always a concern too."

Harry glanced up again at that.

"I'm telling you that we can stall him, Harry," Tom said. "Which gives us time. His network is a lot larger than mine, my Death Eaters were created by him, they know his face. All of the systems I was using were his. It is one of the many reasons I helped bring him back, however much you want to blankly deny any validity in my decision. The better the devil you know, remember? We both have greater personal influence over Voldemort than we do over an unknown power."

"So that's what this alliance is, a stalling tactic?" Harry's brow furrowed.

"It's many things," Tom said. "Think of it as a matter of public relations," Tom leaned in. "You do not like Voldemort, I am fully aware of that. There are many people who do not like him, which is why we are at the brink of war. However, if you publicly offer peaceful solutions and negotiate a path of less harm, if you offer protection to those who have not decided where their loyalties lie or indeed anyone who feels disillusioned by Voldemort's extremism...we can gain support fast. We can offer security, compromise. His unreasonableness, if it comes down to that, makes us look better. It makes us the more compelling choice to back."

Harry stared at Tom, trying to wrap his head around it all.

Tom smiled at him again, a gleam in his eyes. "The Boy Who Lived is an incredibly compelling story, Harry. People love the narrative in which the underdog wins. People love heroes. Wars are won by stories, by whichever side has more following before the fighting starts. Voldemort used to have an incredibly compelling story too. Magical pride. Not living in fear. I believe those are two ideas you can support too, yes?"

"Which means nobody needs to support Voldemort," Harry said.

"Which means they will support us. A grey alternative. And when Voldemort no longer holds power over the Dark side…then yes," Tom's smile broadened to a grin. "Then I can definitely control him. No more bloodshed, no more attacks unless we are attacked first. Just like I promised you. So, are you in?"

Harry's head spun, dizzy and giddy with plans.

"I'm in."

Chapter 65
Harry squared his shoulders with sullen trepidation.

After weeks without any word, Dumbledore had summoned him to the Headmaster's office.

"Go on," Hagrid said. His face twisted ruddy and anxious as he gave Harry an encouraging pat on the shoulder, so inadvertently hard that it nearly buckled his knees beneath him.

Harry managed a grim smile back but couldn't quite feel comforted.
Much like Tom pushing back into his life, Dumbledore's desire to speak with him seemed equally ominous, a marker of dark times to come. It wasn't, after all, like Dumbledore ever talked to him when something good happened in his life.

The staircase ascended, and he muttered the password - sugar quills - before stepping into the room. His fists clenched at his sides.
"I know what I'm doing-" he began, not giving Dumbledore time to speak. He stopped.

All of his bitterness, his carefully planned words, his hopes, crashed forgotten in an instant when he saw the old man.

Dumbledore looked awful.

Tired, waxen - all the more unnervingly so for the fact he hadn't conjured any magic to hide it. He seemed withered, dark circles gouged beneath dull blue eyes. His hand looked black and decayed.

Fawkes rested on the Headmaster's lap, scarlet head tucked against the crook of his shoulder.

Harry released a shaky breath.
"Professor…" his voice cracked.

"Please, sit down m'boy. Lemon drop?" Dumbledore offered him a gentle, reassuring smile.

Harry sat down before his legs folded and numbly shook his head.
"Are you alright?" he asked. "I - sir - what happened?"

"All in good time."
Dumbledore didn't look like he had much time left.

A gleaming bowl filled with silvery liquid sat on the table between them.

Harry swallowed down a bad taste in his mouth, his hands twisting in his lap as he struggled to get his mind back on track.
"You said you wanted to talk to me about my alliance with Tom." The stubborn venom he'd planned to infuse the words with refused to rise up his throat - couldn't get past the thick, cold lump of terror perhaps. "Don't you think I can handle him?"

He'd told Dumbledore about the alliance on the same day that he made it, even if Dumbledore never told him anything. That was yesterday.

"I have absolutely no doubt," Dumbledore said. "You are an extraordinary boy, Harry. I imagine if anyone can influence Tom Riddle, you can. Though I would not suggest it is an easy task, or a comfortable one."

Harry's chest seized at the warm pride in Dumbledore's voice, the high regard.

Yet, for all the vote of confidence, Dumbledore still seemed sad. Worried. Maybe that wasn't surprising when Harry was dealing with someone as treacherous as the Slytherin Heir, with Voldemort returned and the country on the brink of war.

Fawkes chirped, lighting Harry's insides.

"Then what's this about?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore stayed silent for a moment, as if considering his options. His stare, however old and exhausted, remained as piercing as ever as he studied Harry.

"You have wondered why Voldemort hunted down your parents and attempted to kill you."

Harry barely stopped his eyes from widening. His shoulders tensed.
"Do you know?" Of course, Dumbledore knew.

The real question was why was Dumbledore telling him now, when he'd never seemed to care much to tell Harry anything before?

Did it have to do with his apparent illness? With the Horcruxes? With the alliance?

Harry's stomach churned with unease.

What he wanted, what he needed. What Dumbledore wanted. How to get what he needed.

"Voldemort tried to kill you when you were a child," Dumbledore spoke evenly. "Because of a prophecy made shortly before your birth. He knew the prophecy had been made, though he did not know its full contents. He set out to kill you nonetheless when you were still a baby, believing he was fulfilling the prophecy's terms and ensuring his victory and power. He discovered, to his cost, that he was mistaken, when the curse intended to kill you backfired."

"Making me into a Horcrux instead," Harry said. A hollow chasm opened up in his gut. "But he's not trying to kill me anymore, is he?" Voldemort would have tried in the graveyard if that was the case, rather than demanding Tom hold him prisoner. "What did the Prophecy say?"

A prophecy was like fate, wasn't it? How could it be fate if Voldemort was no longer trying to kill him?

Harry felt like he'd been slapped around the face, struggling to keep up. The whole affair seemed to come entirely out of the blue.

How could Dumbledore not have mentioned this before?

"No, I do not believe he is trying to kill you," Dumbledore said. "But he will still seek to neutralize you, whether through imprisoning you or...by having you surrender yourself to him."

"The alliance." Harry felt sick. He leaned in, heart pounding. "What did the prophecy say? Does Tom know?"

Harry wasn't sure he could bear a second big betrayal from Tom.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."

The whole world ground to a halt in Harry's head. Nauseous and altogether too big. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood.

His ears rang dully.

"Does Tom know?" he asked again. Had Voldemort told him?

"I do not believe so," Dumbledore said carefully. "Though it is difficult to be certain. I imagine if he did, he would never have let you go now. Whether Voldemort has told him since, prompting him to attempt this alliance with you, I cannot say."

Harry sucked in a breath and surged to his feet in a bolt of restless energy. He pacing up and down Dumbledore's office. He wanted to hit something. The urge itched up his blood, in his palms, crackling in his magic and rattling all of the spindly objects in Dumbledore's office.

"Why are you telling me this now? What's gone wrong?"

Dumbledore's eyes flickered with surprise at that question.

Harry stared him down, hard. All the colour drained from his face. Did his best to control his breathing, to stop pacing, to seem calm and stable.

He didn't want Dumbledore to think he was too much of a child to be told anything after all, if he got all emotional about this. He had to handle this properly.

And he thought of Tom - of his cool composure in the face all of things, his power, and he borrowed what he could. His body settled, outwardly at least.

"What do you want me to do?" Cold. Tom's tone, strong and sure in all but the actually asking questions part. He answered the question a moment later anyway, because the answer seemed obvious even if he stupidly couldn't help but ask. "The Horcruxes keep Voldemort immortal. I have to destroy them before I can kill him."

Maybe, if he was fated to vanquish the Dark Lord, that meant he could do it.

But how was he supposed to vanquish the Dark Lord - kill him - whatever the prophecy meant - if he couldn't even beat a sixteen year old phantom in a diary. One Horcrux.

What if they were all like Tom? How many were there? What could he do against three Tom Riddles?

Maybe the Chamber of Secrets had been his one chance to defeat Voldemort and he lost. Because Tom came back, Voldemort came back.

And the panic swelled in his chest. Choking, sickening panic that clenched an icy fist around his lungs.
His magic rattled.

"Why are you telling me this now?" Harry asked again, feeling like a helpless broken record for all of his efforts to seem strong and emotionless.

The worst part - as if it wasn't all terrible - was that Dumbledore hadn't said anything. Merely watching him with that exhausted, determined sorrow. Grief. As if Harry was already dead to him. Maybe he was. Because he was a Horcrux too, he was just like Tom.

For either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.

Harry swallowed and bit back the endless stream of questions that wanted to spill out like vomit.
His fingers flexed at his sides again.

"I have managed to destroy some of the Horcruxes myself," Dumbledore said quietly. "But it came with a cost. Voldemort had them well-protected." He held up his black hand. A gold ring sat on his finger. Then he gestured at the silvery bowl before them.

"How long do you have?" Harry asked.

"Do not trouble yourself with it, Harry. Focus on Tom. I have the utmost faith in you, my boy."

Harry thought he might prefer Tom's rules. He only ever expected Harry to act like the best version of himself - not a saviour, nothing impossible.

Harry thought Dumbledore's faith, seeming so deliberately shared, might be crippling.

They talked a long time.

"Do you not consider that you might be underestimating him?" Voldemort questioned.

Tom paused in surprise at the comment, turning, halfway out of the living room.
Voldemort didn't look up from the documents he was perusing, stretched out across the sofa with bare feet, draped in silken robes with Nagini curled around his shoulders. The warm lamplight left his eyes burning even more inhuman than usual - hideous, but powerful. He looked like some ageless, terrible god and for a horrible moment Tom felt a familiar stab of envy.

"You are intending to visit him at the Leaky Cauldron, are you not?" Voldemort added into the silence.

Tom's spine stiffened at Voldemort's knowledge - most particularly of the specific location of the 'safe room.' But how did he know? Surely Tom would have noticed being followed? "I would not leave him in the influence of the light side unsupervised," he said, carefully. "It seems unnecessarily foolish."

Strangely, even after all the months, he wasn't quite used to not having Harry in the cottage.
It didn't help that the room that had once been Harry's, was now his.

"Releasing him was unnecessarily foolish," Voldemort said - and Tom wanted to hiss at the possibility of his counterpart bringing up that old argument again like an itch that refused to leave - "prisoners are easier to manipulate and control."

"He's not a prisoner, he's our Horcrux." He struggled to keep the frustration out of his voice. "He's mine." His to hurt, to heal, forever. His to unravel and make sense of and shape.

"You are arrogant with him, Tom," Voldemort snapped. "You managed to defeat him once and assume now that you are invincible. The chessmaster, the puppeteer, Yes he is our Horcrux. Do not mistake connection for kinship. A parasite and its host are not friends or allies."

That was not a conversation he had heard before, though he'd often felt some sharp edge of it scraping at him beneath Voldemort's scrutiny, and his eyes narrowed. Resentment prickling, ever growing. "Maybe old age, senility, and instability have simply left you incapable of dealing with him," he spat. "I seem to have done better with him than you ever have, lest you forget."

Voldemort had many uses - the Death Eaters took orders far more easily from his face, he inspired terror by mere presence where Tom had to rely on cunning, and his knowledge of the Dark Arts had grown breathtaking over the years - but it galled him how often Voldemort seemed to so often forget who exactly resurrected him. Rekindled his empire.

As if Tom was an impudent child who needed guidance! He wasn't the one defeated by a toddler.

Voldemort looked up, then. Unblinking. Stare a disturbing mixture between lethal lucidity and mania.
"I'm not telling you not to keep him. I am merely reminding you that pets can bite," was all the Dark Lord said. "You built a fantasy to lure him in, I do hope you haven't fallen for your own trap."

Tom walked out seething at the thought.

Paused, back-tracked, and stood outside the living room. Straining his ears for the rustle and flick of pages, the crackle of the fire, the sound of breath,

Voldemort had gone.
He was doing that a lot more, nowadays.

"Where have you been? Do you imagine I do not have better things to do than chase after you?"

Harry blinked, coming to a halt outside of his room.

Tom's expression darkened further from its already stony countenance at Harry's numb silence.

Harry's jaw clenched. "I didn't fucking ask you to chase after me, I never did. If you don't want to wait, make a goddamn appointment or something." He shoved past Tom into the room, head reeling with prophecies and Horcruxes and too many shadows.

Tom caught his arm, fingers flexing too tight. Grip unforgiving.

Harry felt a familiar flash of fear, of fury, heart skipping as he froze automatically for a beat. Then he yanked his arm back hard. Wand in hand in a split second.

They both studied each other for a few moments.
Tom's expression lost its edge as he took in the look on Harry's face, and he raised his hands in a brief placating gesture.

Harry tugged a hand through his hair - wishing he could do this any other day. When he felt less sick, less overwhelmed, less alone.

"Are you alright?" Tom asked softly.

Maybe the question shouldn't have surprised Harry anymore. The laugh startled out of him all the same.

Tom frowned.

"I'm not dying. You?"

"Not dying" Tom said. His head tilted, dark eyes drilling straight through Harry's skull. "Can I come in?"

"What's happened?" He assumed Tom was visiting him on business, to go over what reporters to contact or whose favour to curry or what to say in an interview or something. Nothing that Harry wanted to deal with, either way.

He rather wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again.
But then Voldemort would win.

"I need a reason to come and see you?" Tom shot Harry his most charming smile.

Harry shrugged. "You normally have one, you normally have a reason for everything." But sometimes, hadn't that reason been loneliness? Or some vague and distorted protective instinct? Once it became clear Tom wasn't about to do anything, or grab him again if he moved, he turned and unlocked his door. "Can we not do this today?" Maybe even that shard of weakness was something he shouldn't admit to Tom. He couldn't think of once that Tom stopped anything unless Tom wanted to.

But Tom looked after him, in his own sometimes horrible way.
He'd been the first to, and not out of pity.
Even if it all went wrong, even if it had all been wrong.

For either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.

Are you happy here, by my side?

Harry's knees abruptly wanted to buckle beneath him. His head spun.

Tom caught his arm again, steadying this time. Head ducking down, examining him closely.
"Harry, what's happened? Let me help you."

Harry knew he should tell Tom to piss off, especially today, especially forever. Piss off with his false concerns, his manipulations, his games.

"If you talk, I'm kicking you out the wards. You can sit and read in silence or something."

He didn't quite know what to feel when Tom followed him in and proceeded to do just that.

Chapter 66
Harry awoke to a warmth pressed against his back - to Tom curled up on the edge of Harry's narrow and rickety bed as if that was a normal occurrence for the two of them.

He'd never even seen Tom asleep. His heart quickened.

Tom, in resting, looked harmless. Maybe not quite soft - he had too many sharp edges in his cheekbones and his elbows and the jut of his collar - but fragile, perhaps. Like a pale and spindly creature spun from glass. He was no longer so piercing, when the force of his stare and the intensity of his personality was contained and hidden away from the world behind his eyelids and the dark fan of his lashes.

Tom, in resting, looked positively angelic.

Harry shifted, trying to think of the best way to dislodge himself. He couldn't just curl up again and go back to sleep, could he? However much he wanted to. Because if Tom was an angel, he would delight in being the fallen kind and either way Harry was fated to kill him.

God, he was fated to kill him.

He could do it now.

The thought struck him suddenly, like it belonged to someone else, catching in his throat. Killing Tom Riddle would never be easy, but now when he lay sleeping it would probably be the easiest time. He might never get such an opportunity again.

Why was Tom even still there?

Harry's mouth soured and turned dry, like something crusted and stale. His wand was on the side table - along with his glasses. He didn't remember putting them there, he didn't remember falling asleep either. Tom must have down it.

Harry remembered the words though.

Avada Kedavra, or Accio Heart or perhaps Diffindo Tom's throat. One Horcrux down.

Harry's stomach knitted, his palms growing clammy. He moved inch by inch, freezing at every creak of the mattress or sound drifting up the stairs, at every flutter of Tom's eyelids or shift of his body.

He struggled to reach over him and reach the wand, as it rolled away from his questing fingers. Harry gritted his teeth and leant over Tom some more. The wand skittered to the edge of the table as he fumbled, and he finally caught it - with the deftness of a seeker. He settled back, feeling like his heart would burst out of his chest.

Tom's stirred, making a vague noise of discontent at all the movement, before his eyes snapped open.

Harry's stomach dropped.
He had to do it now, if he was doing it.

Tom brought back Voldemort, he tormented Ginny, he hurt people and manipulated and killed Hedwig.
Tom looked after him, in his own way.

The words perched under Harry's tongue, clogging and nauseating.

Tom's eyes were, for a split second, unguarded and clouded with sleep.

"Avada Kedavra." Harry's voice cracked.

The room flashed green.

Sirius froze as he scanned over the morning papers, sickness rising up his throat. His coffee mug shattered.

"Remus." It came out too raspy the first time. "Remus!"
He stumbled to his feet, breakfast forgotten.

He knew he should have got Harry to stay with him, when he left the Dursleys, regardless of Dumbledore's protests. That Harry needed the blood protection awarded to him at his relative's house, that Harry couldn't stay with the Order because of his unique connection with Voldemort and Tom Riddle...

As if Harry would ever betray information to Voldemort!
...besides, even if Voldemort was a master legilimens, surely it was a risk worth taking that Harry might accidentally reveal something? It was better than leaving Harry alone.

He spent as much time with Harry as he could outside of order missions.

The newspaper lay open on the table, with the Dark Lord's face staring back with a terrible impassiveness. White, snake-like, unyielding.

I will grant the deepest desires of anyone who can give me Harry Potter. Give me Harry Potter, and neither you nor your loved ones shall be harmed.

Sirius didn't bother reading more of the article than that.

He apparated straight to Diagon Alley, and found it packed. Teeming with people speculating in hushed tones about the article they were still just reading and poring over - some, what they would ask for. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone wanted to know where Harry was, to be the first to find him, and so many people had seen him sitting at Florean Fortescue's the last week doing his homework.

He started to shove his way through to the Leaky Cauldron.

Tom snatched his wand in an instant, tearing Harry's out of his hand. Moving impossibly fast for someone who'd looked so groggy only seconds before. His fingers closed around Harry's throat.

Harry's mind reeled.

Tom straightened slowly to sit, keeping his wand aimed at Harry with a perfectly steady hand.

How was he not dead?

Blood trickled out of Tom's nose, but those eyes burned into him. Staggeringly, devastatingly, full of life and fire and fury.

Neither of them spoke for a moment - Harry panting like he'd just ran a marathon.

A nasty smile crossed Tom's face then. "You have to mean it, Harry," he hissed, almost as if this was still one of their duelling classes. "You can't merely point your wand and say the words. You have to truly want to kill, for that particular spell to work."

"Next time I'll remember that," Harry spat before he could stop himself.

"Next time? Next time?" Tom laughed. "You think you're getting a next time, Harry? Oh no."

"I'm a Horcrux, you're not going to kill me!"
But that didn't mean he wouldn't put Harry in the diary, or strip him of his senses or take him prisoner again or some combination of all three. The thought kickstarted him into action again - throwing his weight forward unexpectedly. "Expelliarmus!" Wandless, he'd done it before.

Tom surged forward right back, shoving him against the wall Harry's bed was pushed against.
Tom's wand, at least, clattered out of his hand, rolling onto the floor to join Harry's.

Harry did his best to kick, to claw, to dislodge Tom's hand squeezing his throat so he could sink his teeth into his skin if he had to. "Stupefy!" He tried another wandless spell. This time, it worked more like just yelling words.

Maybe someone would overhear.

The second after that, his body locked into place, arms and legs snapping together as he fell back in a full body bind. The panic exploded in his brain, white and hot and consuming everything.

Tom sat back, kneeling on the bed - hair still mussed from sleep, and now from the fight the normally perfectly coiffed locks curled loose over his forehead. The resemblance between the two of them seemed more vivid and startling than ever. Tom's cheeks had flushed. His robes were wrinkled. His first act, staring down at Harry, was to push his hair back into some semblance of order by dragging his fingers through it. To straighten and smooth out his robes. Then he summoned his wand back to his hand.

He barely blinked once.

Harry stared back, jaw clamped shut too tight to even speak.

He wondered if the hair and the robes bothered Tom, or if he was simply buying time before...before whatever came next. Harry suspected, with a sharp pang, that Tom had been doing exactly that. Hesitating, human, even after Harry tried and failed to murder him.

"Voldemort was right," Tom said, oh so softly. "I should never have trusted you, never indulged you so. It was a mistake to ever let you return to Hogwarts, let alone to let you walk away with any measure of freedom. To get...attached."

Harry had no idea if Tom was talking to him or himself, but the words felt like tiny shards of glass being shoved through his insides. His stomach cramped. His muscles strained uselessly against the spell, his heart racing in his chest.

Tom's face had shuttered carefully now, the initial fire simmering away to something icy and clinical. His hand trembled a fraction in Harry's line of vision. His head tilted.

Harry wanted to scream that turnabout was fair play, that Tom had abused his trust so many times before like with Voldemort's resurrection, like from the second they met and Harry assumed him a friend.

"Voldemort would certainly have me keep you a prisoner," Tom murmured. "Keep you like a declawed cat, for as long as we three live. He's very eager to see you again, I think."

No. No.

"Sensitivio Privatio."

The last thing Harry heard was that Tom's voice cracked too.

Tom stared down at the body before him - Harry's blind eyes darting desperately this way and that. His body unable to even thrash while still under the influence of the body bind curse.

He could imagine the horror Harry was feeling, could practically hear it picking at the corners of his own mind and nerve endings. The all consuming terror, the helplessness, the nothingness. Lesser than the meanest ghost, than the most ravaged spirit.

The worst punishment that either of them could think of.

Last time Harry felt it, he killed two men.
Last time Tom felt it...
He could feel Harry's magic straining now too, prickling and flaring and trying to tear.

He picked up Harry's wand with numb fingers, smoothed his hand through dark hair even if Harry couldn't feel it.

Why had Harry tried to kill him? Rather, why now when they could both find a dozen reasons to justify hurting each other?

Somehow, the fact Harry had obviously been about to murder him in his sleep made it worse than an outright attack. He could deal with Harry fighting him, he anticipated it even. But they didn't try and kill each other, he thought - certainly not in such moments of vulnerability.

He assumed it had been an unspoken knowledge between them.

Clearly, he'd been wrong.

Something had happened - Harry had been upset the night before. Close to broken-looking. So Tom had stayed, hoped to be a comforting presence keeping vigil. He'd watched Harry relax into his company as the night deepened, lulled by the rustle of pages turning and the easy signs of life without pressure to act.

It reminded him of the cottage, when Harry used to come down after nightmares, drink something hot and fall asleep at the kitchen table as Tom worked. They should have stayed like that. It had been simpler, with just the two of them. A haven to return to at the end of the day. Something that was entirely Tom's, that he didn't have to share with anyone else, like a bit of light he could tuck away in his pocket for his own private pleasure.

But he wasn't going to take Harry to Voldemort.

He should, he knew he should, but Voldemort would destroy the boy and despite everything he didn't want that. He said he'd look after Harry and so he would, just as he would hurt him if he had to. Just like Harry would try and kill him, if he felt he had to.

Harry had never tried to kill him before.
Even at the beginning, he'd tried to escape and wound, but never murder.

What had changed?

Either way, Tom couldn't stay. The urge to shatter was as overwhelming as the urge to help.

He watched Harry a beat longer, before grabbing a scrap of parchment and a quill. He was most of the way through scrawling his note when the door burst open.

Black stood pale in the doorway - freezing for a second at the sight of him. His gaze landed on Harry, imobilized with tears rolling down his cheek.

Tom deflected his curse, eyes narrowing.
The second later Black sunk to his knees, clutching his arm, a look of absolute hate on his face.
"Good dog," Tom smiled. It didn't really make him feel better. "I will remove the curse on him tomorrow morning, unless you do something stupid."

He finished his note and left.

Then he saw the papers.

A/N: Thanks for all the comments on the Slash question. I have decided that I will leave the Tom&Harry relationship as platonic. I don't even know if this story is going to be long enough for Harry to be sixteen, I don't think it is. I feel like I'm in the third and final or nearly final arc of the story.

I hope you're all still enjoying the story, thanks to those who reviewed I really do appreciate it and cherish each one!
PS：原文目前就到这里了，而作者也一年没有更新。

Stupidcat · 发表于 2018-3-17 19:14| 字数 56

好长啊望天.....贴吧推荐trhp追过来的，去fanfiction看看作者更了没[不可能
相爱相杀赛高！！！！！

科迪莉娅 · 发表于 2018-5-26 11:29| 字数 22

请问巨巨，这篇文章有翻译吗？可以在哪找到呢？

kamiqy · 发表于 2018-5-30 07:48| 字数 30

还是蛮喜欢黑化的梗的～毕竟大多数harry都是可爱的小狮子～

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[TR/HP] 【TR/HP】Solace in Shadows