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Chapter Text

Rapture

By TanninTele

 Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Fall 1949

A sixth-year was practicing charms on the Gryffindor fireplace, her wand aloft and brow furrowed in concentration. With a flick of her wrist, the flames erupted into different shapes and sizes. Harry stared into the flickering orange firelight, gruesome scenes of battles and duels dancing before his eyes, monstrous beasts howling in the moonlight, lovers meeting at dawn -

Harry flinched as heat licked at his fingertips, his hand unknowing having crept out to caress the flame. "Yep," Bertie Bott said next to him, bringing forward a rook. "Fire's hot. Your turn." 

Bertie was one of Harry's few friends, with a round, cheerful face and a slightly pudgy figure. He wasn't as sweet as he appeared, quick to the punch and fiercely kind; one of the reasons Harry liked him. 

"Sorry," he murmured. Shaking out his tingling fingers, he inspected the chessboard. He liked playing with Bott because the boy was predictable. Playing with Minerva proved to be a masochistic endeavor; the girl was too good. She sat near them, flicking through the pages of a textbook, occasionally glancing up to narrow her eyes judgementally at the chessboard. Harry could tell she was just barely resisting offering her 'help'.  

Harry didn't need it. He could see checkmate in two, maybe three moves, and moved his knight to take Bott's bishop. "Shite." The boy swore. "I had a plan for him." 

"Shouldn't have left him out in the open," Harry shrugged, unapologetic. 

Minerva interrupted, scowling. "Shouldn't you two be working on Transfiguration homework?" 

Bertie flicked his pawn forward a space. "Not all of us are prodigies, Minerva." 

She rolled her eyes. "Well, that's blatantly obvious. But it's fourteen inches, and if you don't get started now, you'll never get it done, Bertie."

"I know something else that's fourteen inches," Bertie muttered darkly. 

"Ugh, you're disgusting. And that's not even anatomically possible, idiot." 

"I started the essay," Harry perked up, hoping to keep them from fighting. "Just need a conclusion." 

Bertie sighed. "'Course you did. Come on, it's your turn. You always make me wait." 

"It's an intimidation tactic." 

"No, it's you being an arse." 

Harry rolled his eyes. "Checkmate."

"Arse!"  Bertie reiterated. 

"Are you going to the Quidditch match on Sunday? It's against Slytherin." 

Bertie wrinkled his nose, trying to see how Harry's rook had snuck past his Que - oh. His Queen had been taken. That was how. "When have I ever? If I wanted to see a group of people getting concussed, I'd join a fight club. Nothing good can ever come out of giving a group of teenagers - who, by design, already despise their opponents - a broomstick and a bat. It's just asking for - " 

"Come on, Bott," came a jeering voice from the stairwell.

Bertie jerked, nearly knocking over the chessboard, and Harry's shoulders tensed.

"Just 'cause you're too big for a broomstick to carry doesn't mean you have'ta drag the rest of us down." 

Rufus Scrimgeour's voice, gruff and sharp, had dropped before all of theirs. His scraggly shoulder-length hair was tossed into a hairband, revealing a crooked, broken nose and scar on his cheek from a Quidditch accident. He was tall and muscled for a fourth-year, one benefit of being Beater for the Gryffindor Team. He towered over Bott and Harry, looking down at them with a smug look in his yellow eyes. 

"Look out now," Minerva sighed, collecting her textbooks. "I smell something rank; must be all the testosterone." 

Yellow eyes snapped to her. "Come on, Minnie," the fourth-year teased. "You're on the team, too, why aren't you defending us? Maybe you're . . . sweet on Bott, hm? Oh, look, there he goes, stress-eating." 

Bertie flushed brightly, dropping the chocolate bar he had retrieved from his bookbag. "Shut up," he mumbled. 

Rufus swished a finger between Minnie and Bott. "How does that work," he asked. "Between you two? Are you on top, Minnie, because I'm afraid he'd crush you, otherwise."

"Shut it!" Bertie said again. 

"What? I'm just worried for her health." 

Bertie glared at the chessboard, hands in his lap, trembling. 

Harry was sick of this.

He stood abruptly, wheeling around. 

"He told you to shut up," Harry said, words barbed. "And it's not very sporting to bully your own teammate, Scrimgeour." 

They stood toe-to-toe with one another, Harry barely reaching Scrimgeour's chin.

The common room went quiet - as if they could feel the tension in the air, see how Harry's other hand was tucked into his sleeve, ready to unsheath at a moment's notice -  

"Oh," the boy said, placing a hand over his heart. "The mute speaks. Didn't think you were brave enough to stick up for your friend, Gaunt. You've always been so quiet - except at night, of course, when you're screaming - crying - moaning - "  

He released a moan of his own, flapping his face as if overcome with emotion. Giggles erupted throughout the common room; only Bertie and Minerva stayed stony-faced. 

"This is stupid. I'm going to fetch Professor Dumbledore," Bott whispered furiously, grabbing his chocolate bar and slipping out of his chair. Harry quickly stepped forward to keep Scrimgeour's attention on him. 

"You don't know what you're talking about." 

Harry kept his gaze on the older boy, green eyes narrowed, a headache growing behind his temple. Harry wasn't afraid of Scrimgeour, of a grade school bully - 

"No?" he tipped his head. "I have a right to know, don't I? Seeing as you keep me and the rest of us up half the night. In fact - " Scrimgeour lifted his shirt, revealing a flash of tan skin and a blonde trail of hair - 

He removed Harry's diary from his waistband. 

"I did a bit of reading on the subject. It was just left out on your desk," he explained breezily, inspecting the dark cover. "And I couldn't resist." Harry lunged for it, tripping over himself as Rufus smoothly held the book over his head. "Ah, ah, ah!" 

"It's - it's locked, anyways!" Harry said, breathless. "Enchanted. You'll - you'll be covered in boils if you try to open it." 

"Good thing Merrythought just showed us a powerful counterspell. What are you so afraid I'll find in your little dream journal?" Rufus jumped onto the cushiony couch, causing a little second year to yelp and dart away. 

"I wonder - what makes you moan at night, Harry?"

Pressing a wand against the cover, he hissed out a counter-jinx. Harry flinched as his enchantments - painstakingly cast over the leather - dissipated with barely any resistance.

Pleased, Scrimgeour licked his finger to flip the pages. 

"Boring, boring - a fire, huh? Oh, but what's this - " he raised the book again, shifting on the cushions, as Harry fruitlessly tried to summon the diary. "Tom? Tom. Who's Tom - your boyfriend?" 

Harry's face drained of color.  

"Oh, this is positively raunchy. Younger years better cover your ears!" He called out."Tom is leaning over me, his hand on my chin."

Scrimgeour hopped off the couch, sweeping over to lean into Minerva's side. He pressed himself against her, mock-whispering - "It feels like I'm on fire. Burning up, his gaze heavy and dark."

Minerva shoved him away, her own cheeks flushing slightly. Scrimgeour didn't mind, instead weaving through the crowd of students scattered across the room. 

Harry felt frozen, his heart hammering a loud, frantic beat. "A - a - acc - io," he tried, stammering through the spell. "A - accio - " 

The diary barely trembled in Scrimgeour's tight grasp. 

"He's whispering to me," the boy said, voice nearly a hush. The room listened, some enraptured, others uncomfortable - shame brewed in Harry's chest, a painful sting as he saw the disgusted expressions of his peers. "But it sounds like I'm ten feet underwater. I can tell, from the way he looks at me - that it's something possessive. He's calling me 'his'. I feel like prey. He leans closer and his lips . . . " 

Rufus cut himself off, gagging. "Merlin, this is practically pornographic!" he exclaimed, slapping the book shut. "It's filth, that's what it is. I might need to bleach my eyes after this," he told a red-faced third year seriously. 

"S-stop," Harry took a step toward him. His wand was raised, but the effect was rather negated by the redness to his eyes. "Y - you had no right to do that." 

"No? But it's for the greater good, really," Scrimgeour said, glancing around. "We have a right to know there's a poof in our midst - in our very own bedroom! What if he dreams about one of us! What if it's contagious!" 

Minerva slipped a hand over her mouth. 

"Shut up!" Harry screamed, stabbing his wand into Scrimgeour's chest. "Shut up, you prick! 

Scrimgeour grabbed Harry's wrist, dragging the wand to his chin. His yellow eyes sparked with dark glee, the thrill of the chase - 

He said two simple words. "Make. Me." 

Harry stared, wild-eyed, at his wand pressed into Scrimgeour's jugular. "L - l - langlock," he forced out, becoming frustrated as Scrimgeour stuck out his tongue, mocking. "L - langlock!" 

"W - w - what?" Scrimgeour mocked. "Spell too hard for you? Are you too n -  n - nervous?" He shoved Harry away in one solid move. Harry stumbled backward, back slamming into a wall, a portrait wobbling. Dizzy, he slid to the ground, wand falling from his grasp. 

"You know, this really ought to be destroyed," Scrimgeour held the book away from him, between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were a dirty sock. "I've probably contracted some heinous disease just touching it." 

In two swift strides, Scrimgeour tossed the book into the fireplace.

"No - no," Harry crawled forward. "Stop - please!" 

The flames jumped and spluttered. 

Harry released a weak, strangled noise. 

Scrimgeour wiped his hands together, pleased. "That takes care of that. Too bad they don't burn gays anymore, it really is the most effective way to handle - "  

"Silence!"

A swift sonorous had their head of house's voice echoing across the room.

Bertie stood nervously beside the professor, hands clenched together. Dumbledore's expression was utterly furious as he strode into the room. "I am severely disappointed in your behavior, Mister Scrimgeour!" 

"What!" Rufus threw his hands up. "I swear, it was just self-defense. He had his wand pulled on me!" 

Minerva and Bertie moved to pull Harry to his feet, standing as a united front. "Harry was only defending himself. We all saw it, professor - Scrimgeour was egging him on." Minerva glanced around the dorm, looking for support. She found none, but a few pitying faces and far too many cheeks turned the other way.

"I witnessed some of it too, Minerva. It was clear to me who the perpetrator was." The professor sighed, removing his glasses. "The lack of bystander intervention truly disturbs me. As punishment, curfew shall be two hours earlier for the next month," the room erupted into protests, someone slamming down a textbook.

"Disperse, please. Return to your classwork." Rufus took a few steps toward the dorms. "Not you, Mister Scrimgeour." 

The boy sent Harry a glare but kept his feet planted. 

"Mister Gaunt's - ah, hasty reaction to your instigations does not excuse damaging another's property," the professor said firmly. "Nor that utterly hateful, despicable language. I never took you to be intolerant, Mister Scrimgeour. Needless to say, I expected much better of you; especially considering you're in line to be Quidditch Captain next year. This is no way to be a leader," the man said, his tone soft.

"Do not forget, it is I that makes the final decision regarding Captainship." 

Scrimgeour's mouth fell open with a wet pop. "Professor, I don't think you understand - "

Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, Harry kneeled down in front of the fire. The diary's cover glistened, the fabric melting into the logs. The pages were burnt black; completely illegible. Harry nearly reached into the fire, but Minerva caught him by the wrist. 

"It's - it's gone, Harry. Not even magic can salvage that." 

"You can get another journal," Bertie said encouragingly, patting Harry's back. "It's okay." 

"That's not the problem, Bertie," Minverva sent him a glare. She spoke in a hurried hush, glancing at the professor. Dumbledore looked angrier than she'd ever seen him, as he listened to Rufus' paltry excuses. "That spineless prick just - " she didn't know how to describe it. "He - he outed Harry." 

Bertie looked at her, blank.

"Merlin, idiot." She shifted closer, hissing. "He implied Harry was a homosexual."

"To the entirety of Gryffindor House," Harry said, dully. 

"Oh! Well. You're not, are you Harry?" Minerva's elbow made impact with his spleen. "I mean, not that I'd mind if you were. Even if you like to suck - ow, I mean, it doesn't make you any less of a wizard - ow, stop. What I'm trying to say is I wouldn't care! Stop elbowing me!" he pushed Minnie aside.

"Th - thanks." 

"You know, in fact," Bertie jabbered. "I have an uncle on my mum's side that we don't talk about, but - " 

A hand settled on Harry's shoulder. 

He looked up, meeting eyes the color of the sky, the corners crinkled in a soft, supportive smile. "A moment of your time, Mister Gaunt?" 

Harry glanced around the dorm, but it seemed Scrimgeour had already headed up to their room. His stomach tightened. Tonight would be hell. 

"Professor - " he started, unsure. "I - I'm sorry for . . . having you come all the way here just for - a - a bit of bullying." 

"That was harassment, Harry," the man said softly, clenching his shoulder. "And Mister Scrimgeour will be handled appropriately. Instead of attending the Quidditch match this Sunday, he will be helping the caretaker mop up the mud and grass dragged in after the game, as well as every other game until the winter hols." 

Minerva frowned, swiping a dark strand of hair behind her ear. "We'll need to use Scrimgeour's substitute, then. But Broadmoor doesn't have the best swing, profess - " this time, it was Bertie to deliver a sharp jab to her side. 

Dumbledore's lips tightened in a suppressed smile. "I'm sure you'll manage, Miss McGonagall. You two have been good friends to Mister Gaunt today, as well as this past semester," he added.

"Ten points to you, Mister Bott, for fetching me when you sensed trouble was brewing. And five to you, Miss McGonagall, for standing up for what was right when your fellow Gryffindors were, unfortunately, not nearly as brave. You must be very grateful, Harry." 

Harry's gaze darted up, startled at the use of his first name. Minerva and Bertie didn't seem to notice. They were looking at him so hopefully, so kindly, he felt a surge of care for them - only to stamp it down. He pushed the emotion deep, deep into the back of his head. 

He pressed a hand to his cheek, wiping away an errant, annoying tear. "Y-yes. Very." His voice pitched. 

The professor's gaze was unreadable. "Indeed. It's excellent you have a support system here, Harry," Dumbledore eased Harry away from his friends, who took the hint and sat heavily.

Bertie tentatively started the chess game back up, already knowing he'd lose to Minerva. Even distracted, and distraught as she was, she took his pieces with vengeance. 

"You know I'm available for anything you need. As your head of house, I'm in a prime position to give you advice or counseling, or even - " he closed his hand around Harry's shoulder. "Easing up on your course load, at least in transfiguration." 

Harry bit out a laugh.

"Thanks for the offer, professor," he murmured, shaking off the grasp. "But I really don't think you'd understand." 

The boy disappeared out through the Fat Lady's portrait, unable to seek refuge in his own room. Once in the hall, he furiously rubbed his eyes, feeling a sob rise in his chest. 

Albus watched the portrait door swing shut, gaze defeated. "Oh, my boy. I understand more than you could ever imagine." 

Harry picked dully at his soup, the cacophonous chatter of Gryffindor table surrounding him.

A textbook was propped up against a water pitcher, and sunlight streaming in from the large window illuminated the tortured image of an ancient Salem witch being burned for her crimes.

Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises. 

The Witch Burnings truly were pointless, Harry mused, jotting down a few notes on his parchment. That spell, Flame-Freezing. seemed on the verge of orgasmic. He made a point of memorizing the enchantment. He had a love-hate relationship with fire, his sleep interspersed with dreams of fire and fear. Not that Harry slept much anymore, with the recurring torment of night terrors.

He closed his eyes, forcing away the memory of sneering faces and unwanted attention. His fist tightened around his quill. With an echoing snap, the shaft shattered, ink and blood cascading down his arm. Breath catching, Harry stared down at the blood. "Shite."

"You're bleeding out over my pork roast," Bott informed him, carefully moving his plate. 

Harry cleared his throat and tried to steady his voice. "Dare you to try it," Harry shot back, snagging a napkin. "I promise I don't have a blood-born pathogen." 

Shrugging, Bott took a slight nibble. He smacked his lips.

"Tastes like iron. Hm. Blood-favored food," Bott considered. He shrugged. "I'm sure there are vampires, somewhere, that wouldn't mind it." 

"Albania's full of vampires," Artemis Scamander said seriously, reaching across the table to grab the butter for his bread roll. "That's the one place my da won't visit; not for lack of trying. There's so little known about them, but Mum won't let him go." 

Artemis hadn't been in the commons room when Harry was outed.

He'd been helping the groundskeeper with a sick Thestral foal at the time, and only learned about the earlier curfew when he returned to the dorms at the normal time and was locked out.

Artemis didn't seem much affected by much; the boy took after his famous father and preferred the company of animals over people. He explained it succinctly, once.

"Animals don't judge." And neither did Artemis. 

Sometimes, Harry would wander the grounds with Artemis, just for some peace and quiet. With fall approaching and a cool chill to the air, that happened less and less.

"By the way," Artemis added, chewing. "You're bleeding through the napkin."  

Harry grappled for his bookbag. As his hand brushed against the spine of a book, a sudden jolt went through his system. He tugged it out, bewildered.

It was a diary. 

It was worn and cold to the touch. Property of T.M. Riddle was inscribed on the cover. His eyes narrowed into thin slits.

He flipped through it violently, looking for any hidden messages or listening devices. Inside, the pages were blank.

As Harry was about to toss the book aside, it became incredibly heated - burning, almost. He watched in morbid curiosity as a drop of his blood soaked into the page, disappearing without a trace. A few moments later, a sharp penmanship began forming, written in the same color as his blood. 

Who is there?! The diary asked. Why are you bleeding?

"Holy - " 

Harry tossed it onto the table, knocking over a glass of milk. That, too, soaked into the pages. Bott yelped, jumping up to save his robes. "Bloody hell!" 

"Didn't you see that?" Harry said, pointing at the book. 

"What?" Bertie huffed, vanishing the mess with a swish of his wand. "You, having some sort of convulsion?" 

"No." He plucked up a fork and prodded the book. "That." 

Scamander looked at the book. Then back up at Harry. "A diary."

"You got a new one?" Bertie asked. 

"I did not. That's the problem. Not to mention diaries . . . shouldn't write back." 

"They do if it's a penpal situation."  

Harry shook his head.  

"Well, I dunno!" Bertie threw his hands up. "Is it . . . cursed or something?" 

"Hell if I know." He poked the pages again. By all appearances, it was just a regular old diary. "Right," he hissed. "This is ridiculous."

He snatched his drying quill and dipped it into a bottle of ink. He flipped open the diary and hesitated, rethinking. Sometimes, he cursed the fact he was a Gryffindor. "Don't do it," Artemis whispered. 

"Do it," Bertie urged. 

A drop of ink dripped onto the book. It spread like a black spider's web, forming words, a sentence. A slightly menacing one. 

I know you're there. 

"Whoa, that is creepy." 

"Don't tell it your name," Artemis added. "Da says names have power." 

Harry bit his lip nervously, wondering how to respond. 'Who are you?' 

The book greedily took in his response like a man starving. It seemed giddy with its swift response. My name is Tom Riddle. 

He tore his hand back.

"Tom?" he murmured, pulse racing. 

"Ask him about its sentience," Artemis said, leaning forward on his elbows. Harry felt too many gazes on him. Bertie was pressing close, jabbing a greasy finger at the page as a response formed.  

My previous owner was a great wizard. He stored his memories within me of his first five years at school. 

"What a narcissist," Bott retorted. "Pass me the peas, Arty?" 

He hasn't written to me in a long while, and I am unsure how I arrived here. How did you come by my diary? Who gifted it to you? 

Harry watched under heavily-lidded eyes as his friends bickered over serving sizes. He took a deep breath and scrawled his response so quick, it was almost illegible. 'You did.' 

The diary didn't respond.

Harry, tentative, gave it a drop of ink. It was quick to suck it up, Tom's handwriting careful, slow to form. You must be very special, for me to have trusted you with such a priceless - 

Harry slammed the book shut, standing.

Bertie jumped, again. "So? What's the verdict?" 

"It's cursed," he said flatly. 

Flattery did not work on him. And he deplored being called special. Tom - the Tom he knew - would know that. 

Slightly hysterical, Harry made a split-second decision. 

The book would be burned. 

Harry flourished his wand, clearing his throat. "Incendio." 

Smoke fluttered from the tip; flames enveloped the book, a burst of heat - but it dissipated almost upon contact. As if, just like the ink - the book had absorbed the curse. He stared at the diary.

Harry felt as if he was unable to breathe, and sucked in a quick breath. Keep a straight face, he told himself. He resolutely would not panic here, in the Great Hall - he wouldn't allow himself to be so publically embarrassed again. 

He flicked the book shut with the fork, pulled his sleeve over his hand and tossed it into his bookbag. "I've got to go." 

"Visit the Hospital Wing!" Artemis shouted at his back. "For your hand!" 

Harry, needless to say, did not.

Tom was watching him. 

He had to be, for him to know Harry needed a new journal. Harry sat in the owlery, pressed tight against the cold stone wall, watching the birds swoop and peck and screech - 

He watched a downy feather float down, down, toward the dirty floor. He caught it between his fingers, pinching the shaft. He spun it idly, eyes lidded in thought. 

Tom was watching, but the fact remained - how? 

It had to be the older kids, the ones who attended Hogwarts while Tom was still here. Or, really, anyone who's come across Tom in the past few few years, visited Borgin and Burkes - or, well, it could be anyone related to Tom's old classmates. That could be anyone. And it wasn't only Slytherins Harry suspected. It could be someone in his own house; in his own dorm. 

Paranoia burrowed itself into his every waking thought. He felt eyes on him everywhere he went.

He had difficulty distinguishing the glares from those who hated him because they thought he was gay and those who hated him because he was a Slytherin heir posing as a lion. 

He went about his days as usual, and if his friends noticed a certain tension about him, a dark cloud over his head, they kept their distance. They were used to him being silent. But never this silent. 

Minerva knew a spiral when she saw one. 

Owls didn't like her for some inexplicable reason, and she didn't like them, but she was one of the most head-strong Gryffindors among them. She entered the owlery tentatively, one hand lifted to cover her nose. The smell, to be frank, was rancid. 

"Don't know how you can stand this," she told Harry, once he noticed her presence. "Nose blindness is a real thing, you know. Boys can withstand the smell of everything." 

Harry sniffed slightly, turning his head. "How'd you find me?"

The birds screeched as they caught sight of her, a flurry of small bodies darting higher into the rafters. Minerva sighed. 

"Scamander told me you'd run off. And I know you seek high places when you're - distressed." 

Harry paused, a temporary break from his wallowing. "What do you mean?" 

"Well, when Scrimgeour called you a freak in front of our entire charms class, you hid in the Astronomy Tower for hours. Almost got pneumonia, if I recall. It was mid-winter. And when you weren't accepted onto the Quidditch team second year, you took to the skies and proved to our captain that you were the better Seeker by catching a bird mid-air."

"Still didn't let me on," Harry muttered. 

"It's cause you're tiny - you'd fall right off. Too much of a liability. And then when Artemis' jaw broke because Scrimgeour tripped him in the halls, you climbed a tree and laid in wait to hex Scrimgeour on his way to Care of Magical Creatures. Seeing a pattern here? Doesn't take a sleuth, Harry."

A laugh forced his way out. "So - what, did you check every tower and every tree until you found me?"

Minerva, smirking, gave him a one-armed shrug. "Well, at least you're predictable, I'll tell you that." She slid down the wall to sit beside him. "And, also, Augusta Longbottom saw you in here earlier, when she came to send a letter to her mum." 

"She's always been a snitch," Harry sighed, scooting over. "So, what, are you here to tell me I'm overreacting? That I'm being sensitive or - " he flapped a hand around the Owlery. "That I'm hiding, instead of facing my problems." 

"Usually, Harry, I'd say yes. But this . . . " she trailed off, eyes becoming guarded. "This has been brewing since the Summer. It's not just Rufus that's upsetting you; he's always awful, but you've faced worse," her voice lowered, and she side-eyed him. "Far, far worse." 

Harry sent her a sharp glance. "Oh. That's what you're here to talk to me about? About my dear, departed foster mother?" he spoke bitterly. He almost wanted a bird to shit on Minerva's head, but she didn't deserve the trauma. 

"You haven't been dealing with her death well, Harry," she told him, point-blank. "I can tell." 

"W - what do you know?" Something in Harry crumbled. 

"You overdose on Dreamless Sleep before bed every night, if what Bertie says is true. Is it even working?"

"It's - " he couldn't even lie. "N - no," Harry broke, raising a fist to his mouth. "No. It's not. It's basically useless. I've become . . . immune to the effects."

"Have you spoken to Dumbledore? I - I really think you should." Her words caught in her throat.

"He can't help me. No one can. I - I can't sleep. I can barely eat - "

"Sounds like the symptoms of falling in love," Minnie smiled shakily, trying to diffuse his rising agitation. She leaned toward him, aching to comfort the boy. But he turned from her, stoic as a brick wall. 

Minerva remembered his dream journal.

"H - Harry?"

He made a small noise. 

"Who is Tom, Harry? The - the boy you dreamed about?" 

Harry closed his eyes. His lashes were dark against his bruised, pale skin.

"Is he older?" she continued, heedless to how he shook, trembled, quaked. He huddled into himself, feathers gently settling beside them, almost like a snowfall. "I don't recognize the name. Is he . . . someone important to you? Special?" 

Harry barked out a laugh. "Special? Yes. You could call him that." 

Minerva startled at his reaction. "Well, what would you call him?" 

"He's . . . " Harry's head shook, curls falling into his face, casting his expression into shadow. His voice was close to breaking. "Unlike anyone I've ever met. If you ever meet him, Minerva, run. I don't have that option, not anymore." 

Her lips split open. "Harry. You're making him sound like some sort of . . . devil." 

"Perhaps he was, in another life. I wouldn't put it past him. There's just something about him - " he cast his eyes to the ceiling.  "We're connected. Somehow, somewhere," An eagle owl swooped out toward the night sky. "Someone decided to stick the two most damaged beings in this world into each other's warpath."

Minerva chose her next words carefully. 

"This doesn't sound . . . healthy, Harry." 

"Doesn't it?" he breathed out, unable to even joke anymore. "I know he's bad for me, Minnie. I do. He's awful, but he made me - if only for a moment - desperately want to be with him. He's got this presence; even when he's polite and charming," he spat, clenching his robes in two fistfuls. "I get the implication that he's a cat - prowling, intelligent - and I'm a mouse. Small. Insignificant. Stupid. He's just indulging me. I'm nothing but prey to him - and he can ruin me in one fell swoop." 

"Has he hurt you, Harry?" Her voice was firm, chin lifted in determination to shoulder his response and carry that weight -  

But Harry knew she wouldn't like the answer. 

"Indefinitely," He choked out a sob. "Constantly. But he doesn't know anything else. All he knows is how to hurt people."

Minerva shifted closer. She pressed their shoulders together, skin-to-skin. Her touch had him gasping, wiping vehemently at his eyes.

"Merlin. I'm sorry. I'm such a - I'm so weak. I must sound like a fool." 

Brown eyes were soft. "You don't, Harry. You really don't. Tell me more. Please." 

Harry shook his head, the action aborted, as another sob broke through. "I know. I know I have to stay away from him. I'm not an idiot. He - he brings out a bad side of me. He makes me into someone . . . someone that you wouldn't even recognize," he said, his breaths staggered, halting. 

Because Rufus never finished the rest of the dream journal's entry. It wasn't a romantic dream; Harry wasn't being seduced. He was being ruined. 

Tom is leaning over me, his hand on my chin. It feels like I'm on fire. Burning up, his gaze a heavy and dark. He's whispering to me, but it sounds like I'm ten feet underwater. I can tell, from the way he looks at me - that it's something possessive. He's calling me 'his'. 

. . .I feel like prey. 

He leans closer and his lips - they're dripping in blood, the color nearly as red as his eyes.

In the next second, Tom is on the ground, convulsing like Hepzibah - and when I turn, I see my face in the shiny reflection of Hufflepuff's cup. I am terrified at what I've become. It's my eyes that are red. I am the monster of this tale. 

"He's in my thoughts, my dreams - If I let him have me, he would break me down and build me back up as some bastardized version of myself. He would wreck me." 

Minerva, although never one for strong emotions, seemed struck. Her bottom lip trembled before she caught it between her teeth. "Have you spoken to anyone about this? Anyone?" 

"Just you. I don't know who else to trust. I feel . . . I feel like he's watching me," Harry spoke in a furious whisper. "Every move I make. Everywhere I go. He's followed me here."

"Is he . . . stalking you, Harry?"

"I - I don't know. That's the scary part. He's burrowed himself so deeply into my head, it's like he's here, now, listening - even though, logically, I know he can't be. I feel like that mouse, backed into a corner. And something is just waiting to pounce."  

His quiet voice rang through the owlery. 

Minerva was a smart girl.

This wasn't love that Harry was describing - it was beyond anything she'd ever experienced, something that didn't even grace her worst nightmares. It sounded like an obsession.

"I've always had bad dreams, sure, and I - I wasn't happy, but I was doing fine before. Ignoring the situation. Surviving. Tolerating. I'm good at pushing feelings away, but it's all just bubbling to the surface. I haven't been able to stop thinking about him. Not for a second. Ever since - ever since I . . . I got - "

He faltered, tongue catching.

Ever since he got the diary. 

"Got what?"

Harry's fists slowly released his robes, flexing, stretching. He licked his lips, tasting salt and tasting blood, from his gnawed lips. Tom would like that. 

Bloody lips. 

"Nothing," he forced out, staring at the blank stone wall. "Nothing. Maybe - maybe you're right." It was rare for him to admit this. "I'm just overreacting. Paranoid. It's - " 

"A perfectly reasonable response," Minerva said tenderly, reaching for Harry's hand. "Considering all that's happened." 

Harry glanced at his friend, giving her a wry look. He squeezed her hand once, tightly, almost like a call for help - she pulled away. "You don't need to tiptoe around it, Minnie. You can say it." 

"Fine, then," she crossed her arms. "The death. It was only a few months ago. Have you even properly grieved?" Minerva hesitated, before taking the leap. "Does Ogden know about this?"  

Harry stood abruptly. 

"No," he said, voice hollow. "And he's not going to." 

Minerva staggered to her feet, trotting after him. "He's your guardian Harry, it's his job to - to help you, whether or not you like it or he likes it - " 

"He doesn't like it," Harry said shortly. "I can tell." 

He swept from the Owlery, bounding down the stairs - he didn't hold onto the rails, as if begging to accidentally trip and fall over the edge - 

"Yes, well," Minerva huffed, struggling to keep up. They entered the castle, "You're not always the most likable person, Harry. Slow down!" Wrenching at his arm, she tugged him into a dark alcove. 

Harry shook off her grasp, scowling. 

"He's never liked me, Minerva," he told her flatly. "They couldn't find anyone willing to take Slytherin's heir, so they stuck me with a man who is legally allowed to curse me if I start showing signs of - wanting to annihilate muggles or something." 

Minerva coughed. "I'm sure he's not - legally - "

"Well, he's an Auror. And he's met my father, so he knows what Gaunts are capable of. Did you know, the Daily Prophet theorized that I orchestrated Hepzibah's murder to get at the Smith fortune, seeing as the Gaunts are practically penniless? Scrimgeour knew. Waved it in my face. Practically framed the article and hung it up in our dorm room." 

"Well, did you? Kill your foster mother?" It was a joke. He knew it was, but sometimes he wondered that himself. 

Harry snorted, leaning his head back against the wall. "Never got the chance. Rat poison got to her first." 

"Still," Minerva said firmly, discomfited by the topic. She felt like it was flying out of control. Glad as she was to leave the Owlery, this defeatist, darkly fatalistic outcome was not preferred.  "Ogden agreed to take you in. And that's got to count for something. Maybe - " 

"Don't act like you understand, Minerva," Harry snapped, eyes flaring. "I know that's your whole - thing - being the wise, logical one amongst us reckless fools, but don't pretend that you understand this situation any better than I do."

Minerva's mouth popped open in affront, a furrow between her brows. 

Harry covered his face with his hands, pulling painfully on the roots of his hair. "Just, please, for your sake and mine - let's not pretend. I'm drowning, alright?" he threw his hands up.

His voice reverberated, and he cringed, lowering it. "I'm barely keeping afloat, and dragging you under with me isn't gonna help. It'll just make us sink faster." 

Minerva was thrown by the bitterness, the self-hate in his tone. But he was right; she, the know-it-all overachiever, didn't know all the answers.

"T - that's an awful analogy, Harry. But, to go along with it - " she straightened her back. Her voice was like steel. "It's a good thing I know how to swim. 

"Sometimes, Minerva . . . " Harry met her eyes. His gaze was heavy-lidded. Defeated. "That's simply not enough."

Harry really wasn't a fan of Rufus Scrimgeour.

The bully was one of Harry's least favorite people, likely second behind his beloved, meddling cousin.

This predicament was realized at half past midnight when Harry, restless, stepped into the dark, shadow-filled library. 

Harry couldn't fall asleep, his mind racing with thoughts of poisoned drinks and sibilant voices. He hoped to find something in the library about the diary's enchantment and was thoroughly surprised to see the broad-shouldered fourth year sitting alone in the darkness. 

The usually out-spoken boy was fast asleep on the desk, scraggly red hair falling into his eyes. A thick black tome was loosely held in his hand - a restricted book, Harry realized, as the leather cover warped and bubbled of its own volition. 

Beside Scrimgeour's head was a small silver artifact, glinting in the lantern light; Harry recognized the eye-shaped symbol on the casing. It was a genuine Dark Detector, rare and actually effective compared to its poor replicas.

Harry crept closer, his wand peeking out of his sleeve. Harry levitated the relic into his left hand, closing his fingers around it. Glancing around the library, Harry slid behind a bookshelf. 

With a twitch of his wrist, the book went jumped out of Rufus' hands, slamming nosily into the adjacent wall. Scrimgeour started, jumping to his feet. He pulled his wand from his pocket, casting Lumos to search for the silent caster.

From the hall, Harry heard the sporadic pounding of the caretaker's feet. The caretaker, an incorrigible man aptly named Rancorous Carpe had appeared out of nowhere, a toothy smile on his chapped lips.

Scrimgeour visibly paled.

"I wonder, which little idiot decided to mess with me tonight?" Carpe crooned, approaching the library entrance.

Scrimgeour was in a panic. His face was pinched, as though he'd just sucked on a particularly sour lemon. Then again, he always looked like that.

Moving quick, Scrimgeour put out his lantern light, hid it behind a bookshelf, and uttered a weak Disillusionment Charm. Harry was mildly impressed as the boy faded away into a menial transparency; if you weren't looking for an intruder, you'd never see the lad. But a strange reflection remained. A soft shimmer hung in the air, a visible outline of the boy as he pressed against the wall. A valiant effort, certainly.

Harry's lips itched to voice 'Finite Incantatum'. And so he did.

Carpe cackled as he snatched Rufus' ear, dragging him into the light. Scrimgeour swore savagely as he was pulled away.

Harry glanced down at the silver object in his hand. A slow grin crept across his face. As soon as the men were out of earshot, he grabbed the restricted book and slipped into Scrimgeour's chair - still warm, gross. 

Harry flipped to the index page and found a chapter titled; The True Nature of Dark Detectors and began to read.

Apparently, the eye emblem on the silver artifice required a personal activation phrase, one that Harry did not know. Frustrated, he began thinking of everything he knew of Rufus Scrimgeour. "Number Four," Harry said eventually, remembering the number on the back of Scrimgeour's Quidditch uniform. The Dark Detector remained still. "No? Bugger."

Suddenly, the artifact vibrated. The visor rolled back to reveal a flickering blue eye, pupils constricted and calm. Harry snorted. "Really? Bugger was the activation phrase?"

He tinkered with the object, learning that the dials on the side twist to reveal an object's Dark classification numeral. 'I' is the least dangerous, which happened to be the classification of Scrimgeour's enchanted quill. 'XXX' was the most Dark, and the Dark Detector would supposedly burn hot the second it comes in contact with one. 

Closing his eyes, Harry tried to rationalize it. "Tom would never give me a cursed object. Tom - " Tom was a psychopath. A murderer. Who he ended on bad terms with. 

He tried to avoid these thoughts, but they just kept circling. Maybe Tom just wanted Harry to have a . . . a friend? A literal memory of Tom to remember him by? Something to carry with him that said Property of T.M. Riddle?  He remembered what the diary said. You must be very special. 

Harry breathed harshly between his teeth. He removed Tom's book from his waistband and slammed it onto the desk.

The Dark Detector burned as hot as a bed of coals. 

Professor Dumbledore was, by far, the best professor at Hogwarts. 

Wearing bold orange robes with a golden hem, rivaling only the late Hepzibah Smith in fashion sense, he lectured in a sharp tone as the Gryffindors scribbled down names and dates.

Harry sat between Minerva and Bertie. Minerva's notes were more concise than the best Ravenclaw, and he found himself glancing over every few minutes to casually copy them.

As Dumbledore transfigured a piece of chalk into a spider, Minerva read ahead in the textbook, making comments on the margins. Minerva just smiled when Harry tilted his head curiously.

"My great grandmother studied the science of transfiguration," she whispered, twirling a strand of dark brown hair. "She wrote about three manuscripts to revise the textbook, but they were destroyed in the first world war. I'd like to recreate them from her notes, but I need to know more than just turning hedgehogs into pincushions. Have you ever considered human to mammal transfiguration? I read in - " 

"McGonagall," Dumbledore chastised, peering over his gold spectacles. "No chatting."

"But professor," Minerva smirked at the man. "I was just wondering about human-to-mammal transformation. Since we're on the subject of life-form transfiguring."

Dumbledore gave her a placid smile, crossing his arms. "We're on arachnids and insects at this moment, Miss McGonagall. Unless you'd like to theorize how it would be, trapped in the body of a creature that could be so easily crushed by one stray step?" 

Minerva paled. "N - no sir." 

"Me neither, frankly. I've had nightmares, just thinking about it," Dumbledore confided, giving her a conspiratorial wink. "Now - can anyone remind me of the lifespan of a transformed insect?" 

A hand darted up from the front row. It was Scamander. "They're immortal. Technically." 

"And you're technically correct. A chalk in animal form is also not restrained by the lifespan limit of the creature that they otherwise transform into. Because it can be untransfigured -  " he placed a hand on his desk and let the tentative spider crawl onto his ring finger. 

"We know for a fact that it's still, at its base, a piece of chalk. A well-transfigured chalk will adapt the characteristics and manner of a spider, including a beating heart and eight, nasty, spindly legs." He shuddered slightly as it tickled the tender skin of his wrist. "Here you go, Mister Scamander, you may keep that as a pet, if you'd like. It is, after all," he gave a secret smile. "Just a piece of chalk I'm lending you, after all." 

Harry lingered after class. "You alright?" Minerva mouthed, hoisting her bag over a shoulder. Harry gave her a tight smile in response. 

"I'm . . . going to speak with Dumbledore." 

Her grin was radiant. "Good! That's great. Best of luck." 

"Thanks. I'll need it." 

As the last of the stragglers cleared the classroom, eager to head to lunch, Harry tentatively approached Dumbledore's desk. "Mister Gaunt," the man greeted, but his eyes fixed on one of his classmate's essays. The parchment was stained with chocolate. 

Dumbledore hesitated, wanting to be nice, but gave it a solid P for Poor. "Your compatriot, Mister Bott, misspelled 'Transfiguration'," he grimaced. "Consistently. I'm sorry to say 'Transflaggeration' isn't his strong suit. Perhaps his talents lie in . . . confectionaries." He pried apart his fingers. 

"Maybe," Harry said in amusement. "Um." 

"Yes, my boy? Here, take a seat," he transfigured a chair from a small wooden button, one he often used for class demonstrations. His fingers stuck to the wand for a moment and he frowned, attempting to shake it off. "You haven't met with me after class since the . . . incident at Samhain last year." 

Harry cringed, settling his bag beside him. The chair was very comfortable, considering it was once a button.  "Erm. That's true." 

"Have you been practicing your Patronus? Like any skill, it must be polished to maintain it's corporeal form." 

"Um - " '

Help me, please,' he remembered whispering into his flickering patronus, Tom watching on in awe. 'It's my m-mother. S - she's dead. Poisoned. Please, someone, come quick.' 

"Yes. I have." 

Dumbledore must have heard the shift in his tone, for he set down his quill and watched Harry with considering eyes. "Lemon drop?" It was a peace offering. Harry took one, rolling it in his palm. Sugar powder dusted his black robes.

"I'm glad you've come to speak with me," Dumbledore said carefully, setting down the bowl. "As your head of house, I'm pleased to assist you with any issue. I understand you've experienced a loss this past Summer. I'm sorry I haven't been more persistent in reaching out to you," he said sheepishly. "The start of the year is often a busy time, especially as Deputy Headmaster. I'm afraid I've been shirking my other duties - " 

"No," Harry said quickly - splaying his hands on the desk. "It's fine. I've sorted out most of my . . . lingering difficulties with it. Mostly through mandated therapy sessions," he admitted. "But I've - I've grieved." 

The word came out so strangled, he doubted it was convincing. Hopefully, the keen professor would assume Harry was overcome with emotion. 

"Yes," the man said sorrowfully. "I'm glad you've found a foster parent so . . . forthcoming with your treatment, and aware of the potential trauma you've experienced. How is Auror Ogden? He was a good student in his youth, an excellent duelist, but I never thought of him as the . . . fatherly type." 

Harry jammed a lemon drop into his mouth to keep himself from saying something rude. 

"He's fine," the boy said. "Stern, you know?"  

Ogden had insisted that 'the boy' needed to be watched by someone trained to fight the dark arts. Someone to 'put him on the straight and narrow'. It was late at night, when Harry's muscles burned from the training exercises Ogden put him through - the man truly was an excellent duelist - that Harry almost wished he'd gone with Tom. Almost, but not quite. 

"It's only for the summer hols," Harry finished half-heartedly. "But that's not what I came to talk with you about," reaching down, he opened the flap of his bag and removed the diary.

Tom's name glinted on the cover, and Dumbledore went white as a sheet. 

"Is this diary . . . um, enchanted in any way that you know of? I tested in on a Dark Detector, but it was . . . inconclusive. But something about it just rubs me the wrong way. It's impossible to damage. I've tried everything. Fire, blasting charm, throwing it off the West tower. Even acid. From Slughorn's class." 

"Does it seem to cause any negative side effects?" 

"Well. Other than frustration, no. And, it - uh -  writes back." 

The professor's mouth shut with a click.

"May I?" Dumbledore asked tentatively.

"Careful. I don't trust it."

Using his wand, he levitated the diary so it's blank pages were illuminated by the sun. He peered at the cover, blue eyes narrowed. "Can't be in this profession for as long as myself and not be prepared for such things," the man said wryly, flicking his wand, the diary glowed, shifting between different hues, until Harry could see a faint glimmer of string-like spells wrapped around it. "You're quite right about its infallibility. It's under quite a tangled web of enchantments. Protection spells, largely." 

He settled it onto the table.

"Thankfully, other than it's invulnerable nature and - ah - ability to write back, it appears to be only a diary. I believe you could find something similar at a nearby Flourish and Blotts. A penpal diary, I believe."

"But - "  

"But, if your gut instinct is to be wary, I recommend not writing in it. May I . . . may I ask where you came across it?" 

Harry considered.

He swallowed. "I'm sure you can ask. Whether or not I answer is, well, up to me. Say," Harry leaned forward on his elbow. "Just for . . . curiosity's sake, what would make something have a really dark classification?" 

Dumbledore sucked in a breath.

"You're far too young to wonder about these things." 

Harry shrugged and made to stand. "Then I'm afraid your question was far too personal, and I won't be comfortable answering it." 

Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose, swiftly losing patience. "I forget, sometimes, that you are related to Salazar Slytherin," the man sighed. "Quid pro quo, yes? Well. There a scarce number of magicks that reach a Dark classification higher than twenty-five. Most items allowed on Hogwarts grounds are below ten," he paused. "In fact, I believe most books in the restrict section are exactly ten. Regardless." 

"I thought Dark magic was banned from Hogwarts." 

"Yes. Most of it is. Let me tell you - Dark magic isn't all evil. Indeed, the same goes for Light spells. The cutting curse, for example, could be considered lethal if used improperly. Other dark spells - the killing curse, although deplorable and still unforgivable - was once used in wizarding hospitals on patients beyond saving. The fact it is swift and as painless as falling asleep appealed to healers, especially during the first war, when most wizards - civilian and soldier - were often left mangled and dismembered."

Harry made a face.

Dumbledore raised a hand. "Forgive an old man's reminiscing. Let me clarify. The classifications are merely a measure of power, but the higher you get the more damaging it is to the caster. The Darkest magicks can range from life-saving to torturous. It is all about intent." 

"Name them. The magicks. Please."

Dumbledore grimaced. "This really isn't suitable subject matter for a fourth year - "

"You just told me about dismembered soldiers," Harry reminded. "And that the killing curse can be good. Surely, you can bend your morals a bit more."

The professor frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "The Sorting Hat must've been addled the evening he Sorted you," the man muttered, shaking his head.

"You won't hear any of your other professors talking about these kinds of magicks, and you won't find any decent folk studying them. Take necromancy, for instance - raising the dead or summoning spirits at the cost of your own mortality. That ritual you foolheartedly attempted to partake in last Samhain was one of them. You're lucky the caretaker found you and brought you to me," he said sternly.

Harry shrunk in his seat. He could tell the professor was enjoying himself, a bit, chastising the boy who was masterfully manipulating him. "If Headmaster Dippet heard about it," Dumbledore continued. "You'd have been suspended in a heartbeat. And that's no way to honor your mother, is it?" 

Although Albus' tone softened, Harry was still agitated. "My mother was a Muggle. She hated the fact I had magic, professor, so no matter what I do I'm dishonoring her." Harry - although avoiding eye contact - could still sense Albus' pitying gaze, and he snapped. "Please continue." 

He almost thought he'd squandered his chance, for how silent the room was.

"The most Dark of all," the man said softly. "Is soul magic."

Harry blinked. "Like . . . soulmates?"

"Muggle concept, heavily romanticized. You could be soulmates with your worst enemy if you did the proper rituals. No, Harry, I'm talking about tearing your soul." He threaded his fingers together. "Removing a part of who you are, or altering it with the intention of becoming immortal; leaving a part of your soul on this plane so you're stuck here. It's a punishment of sorts, as your body still ages and if you die by magical means, you're stuck in incorporeal form. It's very difficult to come back from that."

"How would one remove part of their soul?"

Albus' closed his eye, breathing out heavily through his nose. "I'm only telling you this," he said. "Because the information can be found in the library, or in the tale of Herpo the Foul. To create a Horcrux - derived from 'horror' and 'crux', meaning container - requires the ultimate sacrifice. Not only of your soul, but another's as well."

Harry's gaping lips slammed shut. 

"You must cast a spell too, I believe," Albus said absently, staring off into space. "The incantation is unknown to me. Most resources speaking of it would have been burned by the Ministry. No one likes to speak of these unsavory subject, not only because of the intended murder but because the massacre of a soul causes a slow descent into madness and a growing lack of empathy. Herpo the Foul, one of the Dark Lords before Grindelwald, is a prime example of a Horcrux's symptoms."

"I think for someone to even consider creating a Horcrux, they must be quite mad to begin with," Harry said grimly. He slowly tugged the diary toward him, holding it to his chest. His heart beat in tandem with it's soft, familiar thrum.

The man's eyes snapped downward, looking at the diary, as if beckoned. "By their nature, these objects are extraordinarily durable," he muttered, leaning forward. His eyes took a peculiar gleam. "And only very destructive magic and processes could truly destroy them. Damage the container and you damage the soul shard trapped inside."

He let the words settle, let them fester. Harry plastered on a smile, and made as if to leave - 

"Harry." Dumbledore's tone was soft. "Where did you find that diary?" 

"It was a gift," he said. He held it tightly between both hands. "From someone I thought had reason to hurt me. But I guess not."

Albus stood with Harry, his fingers unconsciously curled around his long, gnarled wand. "If - if you're truly uncomfortable with the diary, Harry, you may leave it here for me to . . . further investigate." 

Harry gave a weak smile, slipping the book away.

"Thank you for the offer, professor. But as you said, you're a very busy man. And I'm sure it'll be fine. After all, you said it yourself - " he turned, taking long strides toward the door.

"It is just a diary." 

People avoided the Black Lake at night because, in the darkness, the water looked just like blood.

Harry, however, stepped into it, treading the water.

He had shed his shoes and socks somewhere ashore, allowing the hem of his pants to be soaked. The water lapped against his ankles, before the tide pulled back, the sand bubbling beneath him. I'm drowning, alright? I'm barely keeping afloat. 

It was autumn, and the evening was chill. The water was cold and Harry could feel the slight brush of weeds against his toes. He held the diary to his side, as far from his heart as possible.

Harry spared a glance back at the castle and dug out his Dark Detector. Placing it against the cover of the diary, it scorched against his skin, the dials turning, twisting, until the dial hit the number 'XXVII'. Twenty-seven. 

He released a sharp breath. 

A dangerous classification, for a dangerous object, given to Harry by a dangerous man. His eyes hardened, the tired circles and his red-rimmed corneas making him look manic. Insane. 

Completely, utterly mad. 

Harry tossed the Dark Detector safely into the sand. 

With a guttural shout, Harry reared his arm back - and threw the diary as far into the lake as he could. 

An even angrier noise came from his mouth when he saw it, glinting in the moonlight. The damn thing floated. 

"Leave me alone!" he screamed, kicking at the water. "Please. Please."

He lifted his arms in the air, one bending down to yank at his hair. "I know you're listening. I know that you're . . . lurking in the shadows somewhere, waiting until I crack. Well, this - " he jabbed a finger at his chest. "This isn't me cracking. This is me, telling you to back off. You do not intimidate me."  

The wind whistled, howled. He thought he could see a long tendril of the Giant Squid flick out.

"Merlin, I sound insane," he realized, dropping into a crouch. He set back on his heels, covering his mouth with his hands. Harry glanced at the moon, only an effervescent crescent of silver in the night sky. Soft mist covered it, caressing, like a lover's touch.

"It's just like you," Harry forced out, quiet. "To give me piece of yourself, your soul - something with a damn 'property of' on the cover. Haven't you realized by now? I'm not yours," he shook his curls, a tight laugh bursting from his lungs. "I am not going to be made into your little bitch! I'm not someone you can play with, like a pet to amuse yourself. I've been through hell, Tom, a dozen times over," his voice, strong for a moment, hitched.

"I've felt fear before, and this isn't it. You either show your face now, Tom," Harry rose to his feet. He felt like he was shouting into the void. "Or you back off. I told you once before, this isn't going to end well for you." 

He sucked in a breath, his voice dropping - 

"That isn't a threat."

He has felt like this since he set fire to his childhood. Harry was a child once, wasn't he? Where had all that gone?

"That's a promise." 

His voice reverberated across the lake. 

He waited with bated breath, for - for something. A sign. A lily flower. A figure in the distance. 

But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

His exhale was a bit like a laugh, but passionless. Unemotive. Dead. "That's what I thought." 

Harry stood on the shoreline for a few minutes longer, relishing in the weight that had fallen off his shoulders. Impassively, he watched as the diary bobbed it's way back to his feet, it's power subdued, clingy like a child. He considered leaving it. 

Leaning over, Harry plucked up the diary and wiped the algae off the cover. It was dry to the touch.

"Alright," he breathed out. "Well played, little Horcrux. You're going into my trunk. For a long, long, long time."

And so it did.  

 To be continued . . .