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Chapter Text

 Rapture

By TanninTele

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

 Fate whispers to the warrior,

"You cannot withstand the storm."

The warrior whispers back,

"I am the storm."

Gaunt Shack, Little Hangleton 

Spring 1935

The winter season faded swiftly on Little Hangleton, the tall hawthorns spotted with green buds and the wind whispering with promises of a cooler spring. The uneven cobblestone streets were littered with piles of muddied snow and strands of grass. During the day, young children could be found running about the melting white layers, reveling in the warmer air, cheeks flushing with life.

Past the village bar, down a narrow path in the midst of the forest was a decrepit little home.  

Daylight slipped through the cracks in the wooden slates, illuminating the glistening spiderwebs and the band around Lillian Gaunt's ring finger.

She was only seventeen, slender and beautiful, but deathly pale.

Under the sunlight, Lily looked ill.

She fed the chickens and collected their eggs, lifting her dress to use as a basket. Fleas and maggots swarmed the makeshift coop, fluttering above the disease-ridden corpse of a hen that hadn't survived the winter. With a scrunched nose, the woman used a stick to lift the body. They were to be having chicken stew for dinner, then.

She watered the herb and vegetable garden, struggling to bend over. Hours passed slowly and Lily allotted herself time to rest and rub a bit of aloe on her swollen ankles. 

Staring out at the weed-run garden and cloudy skies, she placed a hand upon her heavily rotund stomach. The woman could hardly get up that morning, but she forced herself to stand, fearful of Morfin's reaction if he returned and her chores weren't done.

She wore a drab grey gown, stained with sweat and blood.  The clothing Morfin provided her were drab, full of mothballs and threadbare. The entire shack was in a state of neglect, smelling distinctly of mold.

There were three rooms in the shack; a small bedroom, a washroom (with only a washbin, chamber pot and a small rag) and a kitchen consisting of an oven and a sink. Standing heavily, the woman labored over to the stove. The fixings and pipes in the kitchen were old and rusted, the counter splattered with stains. Setting the stove and filling a pot, Lily idly stirred it until the broth began to broil.

As she scraped in chunks of the plucked chicken carcass, the little hellion slammed into her bladder. The child inside her had been causing mischief all day.

To be honest, Lily wasn't certain how far along she was. She'd been living with Morfin for nearly a year, constantly subject to his attentions, before Lily noticed her menses had halted. The fetus could be anywhere from four months to nine months along by now. Lily rather lost track of the time, hoarded here every day.

Her back tensed as the front door slammed open, the dank scent of death and soil stabbing through her melancholy thoughts. The heavy sound of boots and scrape of a chair was familiar.

She turned around, letting her long, scraggly hair fall before her eyes. Once, it had been a vibrant red that glimmered in the sunlight. Now, it was a dull shade of orange, almost brown with filth. 

Morfin lounged on the dining chair, lighting a cigar with trembling hands. His coat was unbuttoned, a long scar running across his pale chest. His nipples were erect against the off-white undershirt. He toed off his shoes and lifted his feet to the tabletop. His soles, Lily noted with exasperation, were caked with dirt from digging graves

"Drink. Now," the man thumped the table.

With impassionate, habitual movements, the girl prepared a glass of bitter whiskey. He took a sip and gagged, spraying it onto his wife. "This is rank, cheap shit! Don't we got any better?"

"No," the woman whispered, delicately wiping the spittle from her cheek. She didn't bother to tell him he'd drank it all.

Morfin sneered, muttering vitriol in that strange, serpentine language of his. His English was poor, but you didn't need to talk to bury the dead.

"I'm hungry, bitch," he finally elucidated. "What's a man gotta do to come home to a fully cooked meal from his wife?"

Lily flinched at the word. It reminded her of the pulsing band on her ring finger, the stone carved with an odd, triangular rune. It bound her to him, in a visceral, unconsenting way. They weren't truly married, not legally. She shuddered at the thought of anyone willingly marrying this beast.

She had been only sixteen when Morfin had stolen her off the streets, knocking her unconscious with some unseen force.

Lily had awoken in the dusty sheets of his bed, her favorite sundress torn. Morfin had leered above her, his mouth stretched in a grotesque bastardization of a coy smile. With swift movements, he hiked her dress up to her waist and ran a hand across her inner thighs. He didn't get much farther than that; Lily struck him hard, leaving deep, red scratches across his cheek.

Afterward, there had been a tense, hate-fueled pause consisting only of the two glaring at each other, his bulbous eyes flashing. With a hissed word, Lily's hands were bound above her head and he'd slammed into her, her screams ear-ringing. 

Eventually, Lily became numb to the sensations. The days faded into each other, full of pain, desperation, and exhaustion.

It wasn't as though she never attempted to escape.

In fact, her first few months had been wrought with half-hearted escape attempts - each plan more elaborate than the last. She'd knocked Morfin out with a chair once, but the moment she got to the treeline,  the wards seemed to flutter around her and Lily was flung backward onto the grass. She'd tried every angle, testing every square inch of the property - but it was as though there was an invisible bubble around the land.

It simply was no longer worth the effort.

While she was working - cooking, cleaning, pleasuring him with her pale skin and plump lips - Morfin liked to talk.

He'd launch into diatribes about sullying himself with a filthy 'Muggle' like her, how he was descended from Salazar Slytherin, a fore-founder of Hogwarts. He told a number of unintelligible anecdotes about love potions, curses and a place called Azkaban.

At first, Lily thought he was simply insane; but Morfin's stories revealed more about his life than she cared to know.

Several years prior, Morfin's little sister, a Squib whore, ugly as a horse's ass - had fallen in love with Thomas Riddle. Poor Merope had been infatuated with the man, working as a handmaiden in order to get close to him.

Morfin, smarter than he appeared, had noticed his sister's starry-eyed looks and came to the correct conclusion. Morfin cursed the Muggle with hives and had thusly been incarcerated for breaking something called the Statute of Secrecy. Along with his father, Morfin was brought to Azkaban to rot. 

After a three-year sentence, Morfin returned to an empty home. Merope had taken the chance to flee, leaving Gaunt Shack to crumble and decay further without even a bit of magic to hold it up. With his body failing and his mind clearly gone, Morfin discovered he had no idea how to care for himself. He needed a woman in the house, a wife to bear his brood, carry on the Slytherin line, and to maintain the shack.

Morfin always stressed that he had chosen Lily; he'd selected her from the number of other, worthless muggle girls from Greater Hangleton.

He was disgusted at the thought of touching any Muggle, but Lily was, according to him, too beautiful for her own good. It was her once luscious hair and bright eyes that endeared young Lillian Evans to him.  

She'd heard of the Gaunt family, the scandal between the young Riddle scion and the deformed Gaunt girl. The Gaunt family had once been an affluent, if not secluded family until the rumor of inbreeding and a tendency for violence tore their reputation to shreds. They fell into squalor, their bank account empty, with nothing left but their pride.

Morfin was hideously hunch-backed, rail-thin and nearly impotent. He was as ugly as he was mean, but he had a secret.

Lily knew the man had some sort of power over her.

He waved around a gnarled stick and things would happen. With a whispered curse, pain would ricochet through her body. When she dared to backtalk, Morfin would sew her lips shut and fuck her into the mattress, thrilled by her stifled screams and contorted features. As blood dried between her thighs, he would somehow seal the door shut - despite it being bereft of a lock.

Placing a hand on her stomach, Lily wondered if her child would be the same as it's father; just as freakish, just as cruel. It was horrifying thought. She wasn't a religious woman, but the girl prayed harder than ever that the child died during childbirth.

 April 1940

Five Years Later

When Lily went into labor on the thirty-first of July, Morfin doused her with alcohol, the nicest thing he'd ever done for her. Hours passed and Lily nearly bled out on the bed sheets. Morfin had stemmed the bleeding with a clotting spell.

At midnight, Hadrian Gaunt was born prematurely, with small, pale limbs and dark, squinting eyes - but he was alive. Lily weakly breast-fed her son and slept the next few days away, regaining her strength. This was a small reprieve.

Hadrian had been a troubled child, prone to insomnia, colic and sudden bouts of fevers; but Lily tried, damnit. She did everything she could to reduce Morfin's interactions with the boy, taking it upon herself to raise the child right in this small, diseased hovel.

She spent every day with Harry, hardly able to care for herself. Her stomach was wrought with stretch marks, her hair falling out in clumps, chest heavy with the weight of her breasts. The only good thing was that Morfin found her entirely unattractive.

Harry, too, was malnourished and skeletal, a sad sight for any mother. Lily knew that what little food Morfin brought home was hardly enough for a growing boy.

Still, she persisted. It was all she could do.  

Hadrian was nearly five now and in a constant state of anxiety. His heart thumped wildly, adrenaline soaring, thin, coltish limbs trembling in a barely-perceptible way. This restlessness was largely due to the influence of his mother, who always seemed on the precipice of paranoia.

On the nights Morfin disappeared to drink in the village, Lily would creep into Harry's cot - on the floor of the living area - and whisper promises of what might be.

She spun stories of extravagant journeys and exotic, fantastic worlds Harry could only dream of. Her arms would wrap around him, their bodies pressed close, but he could see in the woman’s skittish green eyes that she was thousands of miles away.

Lily recited the story of Rapunzel, a beautiful princess who was locked in a tower by a cruel sorcerer. She threaded her fingers through Harry's long, black hair, voice silk-like.

" -and Rapunzel's glistening golden curls kept growing, and growing, until one day she used her hair as a rope to climb down."

"Why didn't she just kill the sorcerer and take its magic?" the boy asked in that small, too-serious voice.

Lily grimaced at the casual mention of murder.

That man was fond of telling Harry about mudbloods and how they 'stole' magic from purebloods - only to point out Harry's own half-blood status. "You're filthy blooded, you know that, boy? If you weren't mine, I'd have my snakes choke you in your sleep."

"I don't know, Harry," Lily said tiredly. "It's just a story." 

Harry snuffled tiredly, too used to his mother's quiet dismissal of his questions.  "When's father coming back?" he murmured, bringing a thin blanket to his chin.

It was rare that Morfin made it home after a night drinking, even rarer that he returned even somewhat lucid. But the last time Morfin stumbled into the shack, close to midnight, he'd tripped over Harry's cot. In a fit of rage, the man held Harry and choked him in his sleep, just like he'd always threatened. It took Lily's screams and sharp nails clawing at him for Morfin to relinquish his grip. Harry's trachea had been damaged and the boy developed an awful asthmatic reaction to stress. 

"We've moved your bed since the last time, darling," Lily trembled. "It - it won't happen again."

With that consolation, the soft hissing of nearby serpents lulled Harry to sleep. The sporadic footfalls of Morfin returning home the next morning did not wake him.

Lily, however, was trained to the sound of her husband climbing into bed. Green eyes jerked open as she felt hot breath on her nape.

"So sorry," Morfin slurred, grasping her waist. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Sometimes, Morfin was a violent drunk. Other times, he was tender and careful - perhaps too entrenched in his addled fog to recall his core personality traits. This happened once in a blue moon, but his kindness was more torturous than Lily could handle.

She hated that he made her like it.

The man turned Lily on her side and gently pressed his thin lips to her collarbone. "You've given me such a beautiful boy," he whispered, caressing her stomach proprietarily. "He looked so very sweet in the moonlight."

Lily tensed, danger thrumming through her nerves. "Don't you dare touch him," her voice was small, but fierce, a hint of the girl she once was. 

Morfin smiled, yellowed teeth bared. "No need, when I've such a willing body here."

With that, he thrust into her, swallowing her screams with his lips.

The man scrambled for his wand a little while later, pressing the tip to her stomach. A burning heat spread through her, accompanied by the wet squelch of his release. Lily remembered this spell all-too-well.

Morfin was greatly infertile, but magic could fix anything temporarily.

Hot, wet breath brushed against her ear. "Give me a little girl this time."

 The Next Morning

It was raining.

The cotton blanket he'd been wearing had fallen away in the night, leaving him chilled to the bone. Harry sat up in bed, staring listlessly at the pool of liquid on the rotted floors. The shack was prone to leaks - usually, his mother was quick to patch them up, but she wasn't getting out of bed today.

It was one of her sleepy days. 

The boy glanced up as a cold drop fell to his forehead. A shiver traveled down his spine.

Harry pulled his knobbly knees to his chest and slipped them beneath his thin grey tunic, the fabric stretching.

His father clomped out of bed, half-dressed as usual. The man looked hungover today, his features twisted. Harry watched as the man downed a vial of hangover cure, the taste foul. Morfin was not skilled at potion-making, but the slop he brewed worked well enough.

"You'll be doing your mother's chores today, hatchling," he spoke in the serpent tongue. "Lillian isn't feeling well."

Harry nodded meekly. "Yes, sir," the sibilant response came naturally.

Morfin grunted and tugged on a coat. "Put a bucket under those leaks, won't you?"

Harry waited until Morfin left before getting up.

With soft footsteps, he peered into his mother's room, seeing her lying as still as a corpse on the bed. Fear coursing through him, Harry waited until she took in a shallow breath before he released a relieved one. 

He shut the door softly.

Taking a piece of yellowing fruit, Harry ate it absently, placing bowls and pots beneath the leaks. Slipping on one of his father's large coats, Harry collected scraps of food from the rubbish pile. Once outside, he fed the chickens and locked them in their coop. He had trouble reaching the lock, but climbed onto a wooden crate and fumbled with the latch until he found success. 

Raindrops fell from thunderous clouds, splashing onto the leaves of the dutifully-kept cabbage patch and carrot tops. The lengthy vines of a domesticated Devil's Snare reached out from the shade, stretching its limbs to soak in a nearby puddle.

Lifting his arms, Harry turned in a full circle. Streams of rainwater traveled, cold and wet down the contours of his face. Mud streaked through his hair, the hopelessly curly strands tangling with one another, plastering his long fringe to his forehead.

A tendril of the Snare flicked in annoyance, flecks of soil landing on his face.

Giggling, Harry wiped his cheeks and swooped down to cup a handful of dirt, molding it into a ball. Tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth, Harry pulled his arm back, aimed . . . and fired. His missile sailed toward the pile of Snare, splashing over the green limbs.

Underground, a long tendril crept towards him, wrapping around his ankle and yanking off his boot. Slipping, Harry hit the grass, frigid water soaking into his back.

"Why, you little -" he growled, pouncing up. As he made to pry his boot from the ground, the Devil's Snare attacked. He screamed shrilly, raising his arms as mud flew through the air, decorating his pale skin and catching in his hair. The assault ceased and, breathing heavily, Harry looked down at his body.

Wiping a bit of dirt from his lip, Harry glared playfully at the Snare, green eyes practically glowing the in grey lighting. "Now you're asking for it."

Face clenching, Harry concentrated on the dirt beneath him. A tingling sensation built up in the back of his head, giving him a slight migraine. Harry didn't let this stop him, and it paid off.

"Oh!" he gasped, startled. The ground had begun to shudder, the rain seeming to slow midair.

Swiftly refocusing, Harry urged the dirt to rise higher, collecting into a floating orb of dirt and water. The effort to move it even a few feet was tiring, but he managed to inch it over the tangled mess of Devil's Snare. Quivering, the plant braced itself as Harry let it collapse, mud and muck cascading across the soaked green limbs.

Defeated, the Snare slumped and curled in on itself.  

Harry let out a victorious shout.

A strangled noise came from behind him.

Harry twirled around, a delighted grin on his face. "Did you see it? Did you see what I did?"

Lily stood at the door of the shack, back stooped, arms squeezing her stomach. Her green eyes were lit with an emotion Harry had never seen fixed upon him before. Fear. Horror. Hatred.

Lily had been awoken from her stupor by the sounds of shouts and giggles from the yard. Sitting up in bed, Lily realized abruptly that she'd never heard her son laugh before. It was almost a relief to hear him acting so normal.

Then, she realized - this was no laughing matter.

Harry's smile fell away and Lily seemed to snap out of her daze. "I saw it," she said slowly. "Come along, Harry," Lily stepped forward, twitching as the rain dampened her shoulders. "Let's wash off that filth before your father returns."

A small hand tentatively clasped hers.

Lily walked with an imperceptible limp, wincing every few steps. She led him to the washroom and filled the basin with water. The grayish soap bubbles made it seem polluted. Harry stripped his dirty clothing and timidly stepped into the basin. "It's c - cold," his teeth chattered.

"Just get in," Lily said, sweeping up his legs and dunking him into the bath. A rough hand scrubbed a rag across his front, removing the grime and sweat covering his skin.

"Mummy," Harry hissed, writhing away. "It hurts. Please stop."

Harry was unaccustomed to this sort of aggression from his mother. Most days, Lily would clean him tenderly, washing the dried blood off his welts and avoiding the discolored bruises marring his small body.

"You shouldn't have been playing in the mud," she said unsympathetically, bringing the rag to his back. "What if I hadn't woken up and Morfin returned to see you tracking mud all over the place, hmm?"

Ashamed tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, mixing with the streaks of water falling like dew drops down his cheekbones.

Without warning, Lily ducked his head underwater. She lathered his hair painfully, Harry's neck pulsing with stretched muscles and blue-tinted veins. Harry's ears went deaf as the claustrophobic pressure surrounded him. Back arching, he writhed weakly, feeling his mother press down his scalp. He screamed underwater, bubbles rippling to the surface.

Lily's thoughts were running dark and rampant.

Harry was a freak, just like Morfin. He was unnatural, evil, devil's spawn. He was - 

No longer struggling.

His hair drifted in the water like a dark halo, his eyes slipped shut.  

Lily gasped and yanked her son upwards. Harry resurfaced with choking, tremulous coughs, his eyes bloodshot and throat sore from his muffled screams.

His naked body was pulled into his mother's lap, bath water soaking into her dress. He struggled to catch his breath, water spluttering from his lips. 

"I'm so sorry, oh, my boy - my boy - " she whispered frantically, rocking them back and forth. Harry didn't respond, green eyes wide and fear-struck.

There was no denying Harry was a timid boy, fearful of many things.

Harry was scared of his father, naturally, and the serpents Morfin often tormented him with. He was afraid of things that went bump in the night, of fire and belts, his arms scattered with cigar burns and his back laced with long scars.

Often, when the chickens snapped at him, he had to resist a startled yelp. He didn't like the crows that pecked at the chicken carcasses, or the hunting dogs that howled in the distance, or the sound of thunder cracking like a belt. 

He didn't like it when Lily told stories of wicked witches that trapped children and princesses in eternal sleeps, gingerbread houses, and castles covered with vines. He was raised to believe in monsters.  

He was terrified of being alone, Morfin leaving them to starve and waste away in this nightmarish shack. It was a legacy, a fear passed from mother to child. 

Lily was the one person Harry could rely on.

She was the woman who raised him, protected him, fed him, bathed him, cherished him, wiped his tears and cleaned his wounds - 

But until now, it never occurred to him to be afraid of his mother.

 October 1941

Seven Months Later

Yet another long morning crept by at Gaunt Shack, the shimmering sun disappearing into the horizon. Lily sat on a dining chair, pulled out to sit under the sun.

A tattered book was in her hands, the dirty cover nearly unreadable. The well-loved pages were dog-eared, open to a page somewhere in the middle. She read tiredly, her voice barely above a whisper, though the breeze carried it just fine.

" - the young girl, intrigued by the castle, wandered off to find a forbidden wing where she found the Beast's old bedchambers. In the bedroom, illuminated by moonlight, was a glass container holding a beautiful, enchanted rose. "

Harry has heard this story time and time again. He glanced down at his hands, the appendages buried deep into dry earth, specs of brown crawling up the pale skin of his arms. A patch of withered, grey petals sat on his lap. He sneezed lightly.

"Its petals had begun to fall, one by one, fluttering gently through the air before landing. Just as the girl was about to touch it, the Beast arrived, furious. The girl ran as far and as fast as she can, into the cold winter night. A pack of wolves appeared, yipping at her h . . . heels - " Lily grimaced, placing a hand on her stomach. Harry didn't look up, too familiar to his mother's occasional bouts of belly pains.

Lily told him he was to be having a little brother or sister soon, but Harry thought they were rather mean. The baby made his mother vomit every day for an entire month, doing somersaults inside of her tummy.

"Just - just then, the Beast came tearing through the forest," she forced out, breathing heavily through her nose. "He scared away the wolves, but was i - injured. The princess couldn't decide whether to run or - oh, shite." Lily gasped out, struggling to stand.

Harry looked up just as her book fell to the grass, a trickle of dark, thick blood staining the pages. The boy scrambled out of the dirt, darting over to his panting mother. Her face was pale with panic.

"What's happening? Is the baby - " 

Harry flew forward to catch his mother from collapsing. She was heavy on his small body, but her hands on his shoulders kept her from collapsing. The older woman hunched over, murmuring nonsensically. “Bedroom. Bring me . . . .bring me to the bedroom."

“Oh, mummy, ” he whispered, clasping her hands and pulling her inside. Lily's dress had begun to soak up the blood. “Come, let’s lie you down.”

The dark and musty room was decorated with a bed, a small desk and a bookshelf filled with leather-bound tomes. Daylight streamed through a yellowing windowpane, the view distorted by grime. Lily let out a delicate cough. As she laid back onto the tiled sheets, Harry squeezed Lily's hand tightly. "What's happened?"

Lily pinched her eyes shut. "The baby, it's . . . it's early. Too early." 

"I don't know what to do, mummy, I don't - "

The woman squeezed his hand, certainly leaving finger-shaped bruises. "Just . . . be with me."

The next few hours were a blur of red and echoing screams.

Lily's legs were spread and caked with fluids, her skin speckled with sweatdrops. Harry had to resist gagging at the smells. He knew this was very serious. And even though the wizard could've lessened Lily's pain, he was glad Morfin wasn't there. Morfin didn't deserve to be there.  

When Harry held the small body of his sister, he knew instantly something was wrong.

She was very pale, dark lashes closed over soft, smooth skin. Swallowing tightly, Harry pressed trembling fingers to the child's cool cheek. He tapped it lightly, stomach sinking.

"Mumma,  she's not . . . " He looked up. Lily's breathing had slowed, eyes fluttering. Carefully cradling the baby's head, he placed his sister into a pile of bloodied sheets. Harry moved to sit next to his mother on the mattress. "It's over, mummy," he said encouraging, petting her hair. "The baby is out, you can feel better now."

Lily raised a trembling hand, wrapping his fingers around Harry's wrist. She kissed his pulse gently, labored breath tickling the tender skin. "My good, brave, beautiful boy," Lily murmured. She was deathly pale, green eyes dull.  

It was then Harry noticed Lily hadn't stopped bleeding. The rivulets were still streaming, dribbling down the sides of the bed. Harry's eyes widened. He hurried to staunch the bleeding with a bunched up towel, chest heaving with quiet sobs. He'd never felt so helpless before. She wouldn't die. She couldn't die.

"I'll - I'll get you a doctor from the village, Mumma," Harry promised, stuffing the blanket between her legs. "I'll be right back, I promise,"

"Harry," she whispered, unable to reach toward him. "You are so loved. So loved. "

"No! Don't - don't do anything, I'll be right back," Harry backed away quickly. He couldn't just watch as she died, he had to try something. "Don't you dare die!"

Lily gave a twitch of a smile, her head tipping into the pillow.

Harry stumbled away as her eyes fell shut.

He stormed outside, unaware of the state of his clothing and hands. It was as though he'd been through a bloodbath. The boy looked like a wolf-raised child, back hunched and body tremulous as if prepared to launch himself at the nearest unsuspecting prey.

Thicks tree branches blew about the property, the sun barely visible through the tall branches. Sticks and leaves crunched under his shoes as Harry ran through the treeline.

He breathed heavily, feeling a sudden resistance.

A heavy weight tried shoving him back. Sweat pooled on his forehead as he took a pained step forward, hands in front of him. He pushed. The ward formed a concave and sprang back with an audible pang.

"No, no, no,"  Harry whispered frantically, shoving against the invisible barrier. "Please, please, I need to get through - " The wards reacted again.

Harry let out a wailing keen, landing painfully on his bottom. "I can't - " he shoved the barrier, tears and snot trailing down his face. He planted his feet into the ground, pushing at the air. He was desperate. "Please!"

His muscles trembled, vibrating intensely, before he was forcibly tossed through the air. Harry's head smacked against a rock, ears ringing as though an explosion had occurred.

Everything went black. 

Harry blinked the spots from his eyes, groaning. The sky above him was dark, the silhouettes of the trees looming over him like the spectre of death.  

Grief raptured through him like the blade of a knife. His mother was dead and he couldn't do anything. Harry couldn't go back. He couldn't see her dead face, her hair lank, hands forever clenched in pain. "Too late," he mumbled, helpless. "Too late." 

When Morfin returned a few hours later, it was to his son, sitting hunched on the front stoop.

"What're you doing, boy?"  Morfin barked out in Parseltongue, the sound harsh and grating. Harry slowly raised his head. He hid his bloodshot eyes behind long, tangled fringe. "Where's your mother?"

Harry let out a long, shaky breath. It was then that Morfin noticed the splotches of red on Harry's tunic. "She . . . she had the baby," Harry whispered dully in Parseltongue. "B - but it wasn't breathing. And mum, she wouldn't stop b . . .bleeding. There was so much blood."

He looked down at his hands as though they were foreign to him.

Morfin's beady eyes narrowed dangerously. He shoved past Harry in a rough rejection. "That stupid, Muggle wench - " His father was swearing. He kicked the wall of the shack in frustration.

Flares of hate shot through Harry. 

He watched Morfin march into the bedroom, mouth opening in an aborted protest. 

With a sickening crack, Morfin broke Lily's clenched fingers, removing her wedding ring. The purple stone glinted darkly. "You won't be needing this anymore."

There was a moment of silence, Harry's hands clasped over his mouth to keep from shouting, from raging, from sobbing desperately. 

"I ain't burying another body today. Incendio," Morfin whispered.

Smoke trickled into the kitchen, itching Harry's nostrils.

"No. No!" Harry dashed over to shove at Morfin's wand arm. "Don't touch her!" It was too late. Lily's body and the mattress were aflame, the scent of burning flesh overwhelming.

Morfin snarled at his son, lips pulling back to show jagged, yellow teeth. "Your mother was weak, boy. And she spawned a weak brat too,"  Flames licked at the ceiling, barely controlled by Morfin's wand. The boy closed his eyes, unable to watch as her body was consumed, the flames casting eerie shadows across a face he always found beautiful. "Get out! Out! Before I make you join her."

He shoved Harry to the floor, the boy landing next to the balled up bedsheets.

Without thinking, Harry grabbed the bundle, feeling the slight weight of the stillborn, and fled the room. It was too late for his mother, but Harry wouldn't let Morfin touch his baby sister.

Harry didn't return to the Shack that night.

Under the shrouded glow of the moon, he used his father's grave-digging shovel to make a small hole in front of a hawthorn tree. The small body was still wrapped, unmoving, but Harry took the utmost care placing her into the soil. He left his mother's book of fairytales on top, kissing the cover.

With shallow, shuttering breaths, Harry filled the grave and patted at the mound. The grave was so small, he doubted Morfin would notice. After a moment of consideration, Harry lifted a trembling finger to trace the tree bark. He concentrated with all his might, refusing to even blink. The words 'Baby Lily' burned into the tree, crude and nearly illegible.

Harry felt the sticky tingle of rain against his nape.

Heavy mist covered the night sky, droplets trickling over the upturned soil. Perhaps flowers would grow there, Harry hoped, imagining bright white flowers of his mother's namesake. As the rain picked up, Harry's body turned pink as the blood washed from his skin.

The rain revealed a peculiar scar on his forehead; he must have bumped his head when tossed from the wards. The pain didn't register, and even if it had, Harry wouldn't have cared.

He sat in the grass and lifted his face to the sky.

Tired and alone, Harry almost wished he could join his sister in the grave.

Every night, Morfin slept with his wand tucked beneath his pillow.

At a moment's notice, he could jerk awake and hex the living daylights out of whoever disturbed his sleep. Usually, this was Harry.

Harry loved nothing more than the days Morfin was pissed and hungover, sleeping deeply in his room without a chance of waking. Sleeping pills, that Morfin had stolen from the village pharmacy, were open and tipped over on his bedside table. Morfin was so fully unconscious that his fingers slackened from their iron grip, loose enough for Harry to take his wand.

The boy was tiptoeing, leaning forward on the soles of his feet, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboards. Keeping his breathes shallow, Harry's frail figure crept into Morfin's bedroom, eyes trained on his father's unmoving body. Morfin looked peaceful while asleep. The hard lines of his face were smooth, body relaxed and skin warm.

Was this what his mother woke to every morning, crawling out of bed early to make breakfast and do the chores, knowing that in the span of a moment, this vulnerable man could become a lecherous, cruel king of the house?

Harry wondered why Lily never tried to kill the man.

Harry wanted to, everyday day. And why shouldn't he? He had access to kitchen knives. The snakes that Morfin controlled were more found of Harry, simply because he didn't nail them to the door. He could do it. He could take his father's wand and - even if he couldn't cast the killing curse - stab it through the man's eye socket and pierce the mound of lard that Morfin called a brain.

He would be free, wouldn't he?

The magic dome around the Gaunt shack bent only to Morfin. Morfin had told him, time and time again, that if he killed his father, Harry would be forever trapped in this dreary hell. There would be no escape. No food. Just Harry and his father's rotting corpse.

Harry's breath picked up. 

He knew better to trust his father, but wouldn't anything be better than the alternative? 

With light touches, Harry removed the long, scratched cherry wand from Morfin's fist. The man grunted in his face, breath foul. 

Once I leave, Harry thought, his father will eventually drink himself to death or be killed in a bar fight. He could have a stroke and fall forward into one of the graves he painstakingly dug for the Muggles. The snakes could fight back one day and swallow his body whole. Morfin would meet his maker one day.

Too bad Harry wouldn't be there to see it. 

Every second that passed was tense, the only sound Morfin's deep snores. Harry was amazed at the man's insane ability to sleep, as though he had no troubles, no worries keeping him up at night.

Harry didn't have that peace. Harry rolled Morfin's wand in his hand, unsure whether to leave it behind or take it with him. He'd be leaving his father defenseless, powerless, and this was Morfin's greatest fear.

Feeling vindicted, he tiptoed from the room. 

It was so dark. It was so cold. He sat there, rocking back and forth on his little mat to keep awake, jerking at every creak of the floorboards.

From Morfin's bedroom, the man grunted loudly, turning fitfully on his side. Meanwhile, Harry's entire being, from nerve end to nerve end, lit up with excitement. 

Harry had few possessions of his own. They were stuffed into a burlap sack sitting on the kitchen table. Worn, ragged clothing. An old book of potions. A set of charcoal pencils. The baby blanket his mother had knitted for Baby Lily. A stag, carved out of wood. 

Harry's arms closed around the sack, his heart thumping wildly, his eyes burning.

With unsteady feet, he left the shack and followed a short, lavender-framed path to the edge of the wards.

There was a tree there, a hawthorn, its branches tall and reaching. Harry used to climb that tree and stare out over the fields, imagining that he could see the village far-off and unattainable. That was before Lily's death. That was before he buried his little sister beneath the shade of those branches. Spurts of grass had grown over the dirt mound, fresh green strands that were soft to the touch. Harry laid his head down in the dirt, staring up at the tree and the sun flares.

Watching the swaying tree branches and the billowing gold-lined clouds lulled Harry into a light stupor. He tipped his head, pressing his ear to the ground as if listening. He was so, so tired. 

He fantasized of phantom fingers threading through his hair.

'The princess couldn't decide whether to run or stay behind to help the Beast. She knew he would die here, left to be ravaged by the wolves. Some part of her wanted him to suffer, to make up for the pain he caused her. Another part, the part that led the princess to take her father's place, knew what was right.'

Lily spoke to him, her pale, freckled hand removing the tangles from his hair. In his dream, she was nothing but a red and green blur, her copper hair like a halo, illuminated by sunlight.

'She brought the Beast back to the castle and bandaged his wounds. As he healed, the Beast slowly opened up to her, like the petals of a flower that blooms only at night. She read to him from her favorite books and told him about her father, the clumsy inventor. In turn, the Beast told her about his mother, a beautiful woman that fell ill when he was but a babe,' red lips stretched in a wry smile. Harry peered up at his mother, feeling something tighten in his chest. 'When the Beast's mother died, he grew dark and bitter, a cruel heart masked by a beautiful face. After the witch's spell, the flesh finally matched the ugliness within. Only one thing could cure his bitter heart.'

'True love,' Harry echoed his mother.

She agreed. 'True love. The sort of love that every man aspires for, but few achieve.'

'But they fell in love, didn't they?' Harry asked his mother. 'When he was about to die, the princess stayed behind. She cried for him. She loved him. The magic made him turn back into a handsome prince.'

Lily's eyes were distant, her lips pressed in a hard line. 'Magic and true love - it's all just a fairytale, Harry.'  

Harry considered this briefly, before shrugging idly. He nudged her hand with his head, urging her to continue stroking his hair. 'I think he loved her,' he said. 'I wish I could find my own prince someday, mummy.  A knight-in-shining-armor to take us away.'

'Oh, Harry,' she sighed. She shifted, and soft lips pressed to his forehead. 'You're my little prince. Mummy loves you, darling.' Harry mumbled something indecipherable in return. 'Happy birthday, my love  . . . '

The memory faded. 

Harry ran a hand over his face, pushing away sweat-soaked fringe. He was still outside. And it was sunset. Sitting up, Harry leaned against the hawthorn tree. The bark dug into his spine, the words Baby Lily imprinted on the skin of his back. His fingers curled around his wand. 

"Bye, mummy," his murmured. "Love you." 

He was seven. 

And he was about to do something that might save or ruin his life. Closing his eyes, he remembered the spell Morfin cast to incinerate his mother. The memory was stained into his memory, burrowed into his worst nightmares. Raising the wand, voice trembling . . .

He set fire to the trees. 

"I - Incendio." 

To be continued . . . 

Chapter Text

Rapture

By TanninTele

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

 Little Hangleton, England

Spring 1925

A young woman by the name of Merope Gaunt sat on her haunches behind a tall bramble bush. Her lank brown hair was swept over one skeletal shoulder and tied with a tattered blue ribbon. Her frock was a similar color, her corset laced with green twine - the colors of the noble family.

Since last spring, Merope had been a handmaiden to the Riddle family in Hangleton. Lady Riddle had taken pity on the poor peasant girl when Merope’s mother died.

The Gaunts had never been well-liked members of Little Hangleton.

Marvolo Gaunt was a vulgar, incorrigible old man and his bastard of a son was as ugly as he was mean. Merope, too, wasn’t attractive in the least. She had bulbous, murky brown eyes that seemed permanently fixated on her dirt-smudged nose. Her skin was pale, often discolored with finger-shaped bruises that spanned up her narrow arms like shackles. There was a rip in her sleeve from a stray thorn, drawing a thin trail of blood.  

Merope practically trembled with anticipation, her long neck craning to peer over the brambles. Her eyes darted to the horizon.

With the clamber of horseshoes, a beautiful black mare came trotting out of the forest, it’s reins held by an even more beautiful man. His strong legs straddled the mare’s torso.

Lord Thomas Riddle was young, with aristocratic features and wavy black hair, currently kept back in a leather riding helmet. He had a chiseled jaw and a small smattering of a beard that gave him a roguish appearance. Dark eyes glinted blue in the sunlight as Thomas rode through the yard. He inspected Riddle Manor with a prideful expression, focusing on the glimmering fountains and intricately cropped hedges. His green overcoat matched the lush grounds, accentuated by the pale yellow tunic and shorts. The uniform shaped his arms and hugged his tapered waist in a way that made Merope’s stomach flutter.

"Thomas!" came an irritated call. "Be patient with me. This animal is impossible to control!”

Merope tightened her fists as Lady Cecilia, on her grey-spotted horse, emerged from the tree line. She looked distinctly uncomfortable on the large creature, delicate hands clenching his mane fearfully. Her legs were swung over to one side, a violet riding skirt draped over knee-length heeled boots.

As the horses sidled up beside each other, Tom carefully led them to the stables.

“Lord Thomas!” came a booming sound, causing Merope to flinch. A large stablehand met Thomas at the wooden door, pulling it open for the horse to trot through once its rider had descended. Cecilia wrinkled her nose at the stable-hand.

“You need help off tha’ horse, milady?” he asked politely.

“Not from you."

Cecilia waited for Thomas to help her down. He grasped her by the waist and lingered a bit too long, causing Merope to unwittingly snap the branch she’d been holding.

Cecilia, Merope spat internally, was everything she was not. Where the Lady was curvaceous and blonde, Merope was long, lank and dark-haired.  Cecilia probably hadn't worked a day of her life, while Merope was doomed to a life of servitude.

If not for the mistakes of her ancestors, Merope might've been the one riding with dear Thomas, sipping exotic teas on the finest dishware and donned in the smoothest silks. 

Her eyes slipped shut, desperation nearly making her sob.

She would marry Thomas Riddle, whatever the cost. 

After all, she had nothing else to lose.

In the cellar of the Gaunt Shack was a makeshift potions lab where, with a thump and a billow of dust, Merope dragged out a large recipe book. The paper was worn and yellowing.

Merope's books were her greatest possessions. They were filled with hundreds of pages of potions; antidotes, poisons, draughts, brews, elixirs - Merope made additions to the books, too, spells and ingredients that made the process smoother. Although her handwriting was shaky and her spelling poor, Merope's notes were invaluable. 

Merope dropped in the last of the sliced vanilla beans. She scraped the pulp into the cauldron with precise care before disposing of the skin. Scratching her nose at the sudden waft of cloyingly sweet steam, Merope covered the cauldron and let it brew at the lowest flame.

"Merope!" came a sharp tenor from above. "Getch yer scrawny arse up here!"

Gathering the recipe book and slipping it beneath her skirt, Merope locked the cellar door behind her. Green-stained hands smoothed out her hair, which had begun to gather grease and oil from the fumes. The lingering scent of vanilla made her smile wistfully as she glided across damp grass and cobblestone to the back entrance.

Her father, Marvolo, was leaning heavily against the doorframe of his bedroom, coughing into his sleeve. Blood dribbled from his lips. This was all too commonplace.

“Father,” Merope sighed, in the language of snakes. “You’re supposed to be resting.” The girl prepared a glass of tap water and placed it into his hands. She helped raise the rim to his lips and stepped back as he gagged, hacking violently. “I wish we could take you to the hospital." 

“Not the Muggle one!”

“Of course not,” she soothed. Internally, she thought any hospital was better than this. “But  . . . Saint Mungo’s is expensive.”

“Don't them Riddles pay you a damn thing?”

"A pauper's pittance," she admitted. 

"The blasphemy!”

“Yeah, but pauper ain't wrong,” Morfin interrupted as he entered the kitchen.

His long hair was disheveled and his boots caked with dirt from digging graves. He collapsed heavily onto a chair, slipping naturally into Parseltongue.  "I’m diggin’ holes for the bodies of soldiers and Merope is nothin’ but a handmaiden, simperin' and sweepin' after her beau. That’s what we’ve lowered ourselves to, licking the boots of Muggles for a few damn coins."

Their father snarled. From inside his shirt, he tore out a silver locket, it’s chain swinging in a hypnotic fashion. The coiled serpent carved into the heirloom’s face glinted in the candlelight, a lavish adornment to his rather dreary disposition. His hands were trembling.

“We’re descended from Salazar Slytherin, the fore-founder of Hogwarts!” he hissed out. “We ought’a be living like kings! You should be sleeping in silk bedsheets and adorned with gems, not scrubbing the dirt from Riddle’s floors and cleaning the dust from their relics . . . whoring yourself to those filthy Muggles!"

Wracked with a sudden coughing fit, his legs let out beneath him.

Merope flew forward to catch her father from collapsing. The man fought her off, heavy hands swinging. Merope deftly unlatched the locket from his neck. "Let me take that before you work yourself into a tizzy. Its enchantments are no good for your health."

The older man slumped against her, murmuring nonsensically. “It’s all I’ve got left, Merope,” he said morosely. “My wand don’t work no more, yeh know. It’s the only proof we have that Gaunts were once great.”

“I know, papa,” she pulled him towards his bedroom. “Come, let’s lie you down.”

The dark and musty room was decorated with a bed, a small desk and a bookshelf filled with leather-bound tomes. Daylight streamed through a yellowing windowpane, the view distorted by grime. Marvolo let out a whooping cough as Merope dragged over a chair and pulled the curtains closed, picking up dust.

As Marvolo laid back onto the tiled sheets, Merope gave him a light kiss on the forehead. “I’ll wake you for dinner,” she said softly and exited the room, his wheezing breaths muffled by the closed door.

Eyeing Morfin, who’d gained a rather fiendish expression, Merope went to check on the skillet, which she’d left simmering in order to work on the potion. She prodded at the limp noodles and the chunks of deer meat, curling a lip.

If Merope lived at Riddle Manor, she wouldn’t need to do all the cooking and cleaning. Pa and Morfin were right, this is servant work, she thought. 

Morfin came up behind her. “I know what yer thinkin' about.” He leaned against the counter, pinching her side. “That Riddle boy doesn’t give you a second glance, does he?”  Morfin grinned cruelly. “There ain't no way he's gonna fuck your ugly mug, not with that blonde tramp following him around."

Laughing, the wizard ducked as Merope spun around, kitchen knife slicing through the air and slamming into the wall above his head.

The shack’s foundation rattled, dust falling from the roof slates. Morfin gave a low whistle. “Damn, your aim’s gettin’ better. Almost hit me that time.”

“Almost,” Merope said through clenched teeth, stalking over to yank the knife from the wall. “Is not nearly close enough.” She pointed the knife at him, snarling. “You’ll see. He’ll marry me in a year’s time, I swear it!”

Morfin snorted. “The day that pompous little snit marries you, I’ll bed a Muggle. Neither one is bound to happen anytime soon.”

It was in less than a year that Merope and Tom were married.

Armed with Amortentia, Merope had met Tom on one of his rides, offering the man a ladle of refreshing water. He commented that the water smelt odd, like roses, but drank the entire dose. Merope caught him as he fell from his horse, the man’s eyes glazed and his lips parting with a soft moan.

They eloped out of town, Merope donned in pure, beautiful white, her husband staring at her, starry-eyed. It was a fairytale come true.

Until Merope ran out of Amortentia.

(. . . Morfin kept his promise.) 

Smith Residence

Summer 1949

25 Years Later

With shaking, gnarled fingers, Hokey the house-elf fumbled with the laces of her mistress' satin slippers. The leg fat jiggled obscenely, bubbling over and between the silk ties. 

Powder drifted through the air as she applied pink rouge to her cheeks. She hid pockmarks and wrinkles and age spots under layers and layers of make-up, her eyelashes fake and fluttering coyly. She smiled winningly into a jewel-encrusted hand mirror, mouthing to herself, "Oh, Tom." 

With a smack of her lips, she glanced down at Hokey. "Hurry up," she said imperiously. "He said he’d come at four, it’s only a couple of minutes to and he’s never been late yet!" 

Setting aside the mirror, she used both hands to adjust her perfectly curled ginger wig. It clashed awfully with her voluptuous pink robes. The hem was lined with faux fur, as well as the neckline and cuffs of her sleeves. 

"How do I look?" Hepzibah asked.

"Lovely, madam." 

The doorbell rang with a resonant, tinkling chime. 

Hepzibah erupted into flurried panic and the elf scurried out to fetch their guest. Hepzibah took several calming breathes, smoothing out her curls and checking her reflection one last time before tucking the mirror behind a pillow.

She lounged on an equally atrocious loveseat, the velvet cushion causing her fur hem to stand on end with static. She didn't notice.  

"Tom!" she exclaimed, joyful, as the man was escorted into the solarium.

His hair fell in sleek waves, one stray curl winding around his forehead. He maneuvered his way through the cramped room, carefully keeping his elbows to his sides so not to knock into any of the crowded shelves.

His eyes lingered briefly on an eerie mannequin head, crowned with a bronze and ruby tiara, its eyes hollow and porcelain face cracked. It was a fair sight prettier than Hepzibah, at least. 

Tom gingerly grasped Hepzibah's hand, his gloves a meager barrier between his skin and her sweaty palms. He brushed his lips over her knuckles, not-quite touching. 

"I brought you flowers," with a twitch of his wand, tucked into the sleeve of his suit jacket, he conjured a bouquet of red roses - very, very similar to the rose bush growing in her front yard. 

"You naughty boy, you shouldn’t have! You do spoil this old lady, Tom." 

With a pop, Hokey reappeared with a silver tray of cakes and sandwiches, the corners perfectly cut and the pastries oozing with sweet filling. 

"Help yourself, Tom," Hepzibah urged, biting into a pastry and delicately wiping the corners of her mouth. "I know how you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I’ve said it a hundred times - " 

She rambled on. Tom smiled dispassionately.

It was a charming smile, tight-lipped with a deep dimple denting his cheek. Hepzibah nearly swooned. "Well, what’s your excuse for visiting me this time?" 

He talked business, but Hepzibah was distracted by his eyes, and the way they sparkled intelligently in the sunlight. She latched onto the name Burke. "Oh, yes, yes. Burke. Forget him. I’ve something to show you that I’ve never shown Mister Burke. Can you keep a secret, Tom?" 

He could. 

"I had Hokey bring it out for me. Hokey, where are you? I want to show Mister Riddle our finest treasure. . . . In fact, bring both, while you’re at it," she gave him a sly wink.

The house-elf balanced the cases over her head as she navigated the room, nearly tripping over a footstool. Hepzibah hissed beneath her breath, beady eyes fixated on the leather cases. Hokey righted herself. 

Hepzibah flattened out the folds of her robes and patted her thighs for Hokey to settle the cases. "I think you’ll like this, Tom. Oh," her eyes raised to the heavens, her tongue trapped between her front teeth in an aborted prayer. "If my family knew I was showing you . . ."

Fingers settled on either side of the lid, she carefully opened it. 

"Have a good look," she said. "Don't be shy, now." 

In his long-fingered hand, Tom lifted Hufflepuff's cup out of its silk wrappings. The small, golden cup was delicately wrought, the handles twisting like vines. A badger was engraved into the metal,  with a wreath of gold winding down the stem. 

"A badger," Tom murmured aloud. "Then this was . . . ?" 

"Helga Hufflepuff’s, as you very well know, you clever boy!” Hepzibah leaned forward, corsets straining, and she patted his cheek. She found his curiosity adorable. "Didn’t I tell you I was distantly descended? I'm certain I did. This has been handed down in the family for years and years," she let out a small breath. "Lovely, isn’t it?"

But her eyes were tracing his handsome features. 

"Lovely," he repeated, holding the cup as though it were as precious as a child. Perhaps, leaning as close as she was, Hepzibah could see the avarice in his eyes. 

"I just keep it nice and safe in here." She returned the cup to its box, gently patting it down. "But I think you’ll like this even more, Tom," she confided. “Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see."

Tom hid a grimace but dutifully scooted forward. 

"Of course," Hepzibah said absently. "Burke knows I’ve got this one - I bought it from him after all. I daresay he’d love to get it back when I’m gone!" 

She slid back the filigree clasp and slowly opened the box, as if savoring the moment. Settled upon smooth crimson velvet was a heavy silver locket. Without invitation, Tom's hand darted out to lift it, breath catching in his throat. 

An emerald eye winked at him from the painstakingly engraved serpent. The locket swayed from it's chain, and Tom could swear the metal snake wriggled in reaction to his magic. 

"A fan of Slytherin, are you?" She asked, pleased by his reaction. "It's truly his, I had a lineage expert confirm it. And I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, too, but I couldn’t let it pass. I just had to have it for my collection," she boasted. "Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value -"

She reached out to take the locket back.

Tom gave little resistance, his jaw clenched tightly as it slid through his fingers. He closed his eyes, letting out a sharp breath through his nostrils. 

"I wouldn't wear it. As pretty as it is, it's got all sorts of enchantments I haven't gotten around to removing. But can you believe it?" Hepzibah prattled on. "Three relics from the Founders, all in my - oh, are you alright, dear? 

Tom blinked. He fixed a bland smile onto his features. "Oh, yes. I'm very well. Just . . . wait, did you say three?" 

"Oh," she flushed, fanning herself. "Yes. My most priceless possession, really. It's a bit controversial, but I suppose . . . you wouldn't want to see it, would you?" 

Clenching the armrests of his chair, Tom gave a charming smile. "If it's no bother." 

"No bother. No, no - none at all," she fluttered, struggling to rise. Tom stood and offered his elbow - "Such a gentleman." 

She led him through the house, past shelves and cabinets and cases filled with artifacts. Orbs and celestial globes were precariously held up by cushioning charms, their exteriors polished and pristine. Old tomes lined the shelves, likely untouched for ages. Hepzibah didn't seem the type to read in her spare time. There were dozens of overgrown potted plants with fruit flies buzzing above them. Gross, Tom thought. 

They stopped at a blank wall, unadorned with neither shelf nor curtain. 

"Watch out for the demiguise curtain," she said idly, batting aside an invisible barrier. The fabric lit up at her touch, revealing a furry white pelt. A hidden hallway was revealed, an entire other wing that Tom had no previous knowledge of. 

His lips parted.

The hallway was sparsely decorated compared to the rest of the house; Tom almost thought he'd entered another building, if not for the familiar putrid paisley wallpaper and the bronze plant pots.

"This way," Hepzibah dragged him along. The air smelled of something vaguely earthy and sweet, like a flower garden. Peering out the window, he spotted a small courtyard; a toy Quidditch bat was abandoned in the grass, and a child-sized broom was leaning against a closet door. Grandchildren, perhaps? Tom pitied the results of her procreation. 

"He'll be in the library, I suspect," Hepzibah knocked swiftly on a large wooden door, for propiety's sake, before wrenching open the knob. "Hadrian, darling? I've a guest I'd like you to meet." 

Sitting at a table, surrounded by stacks of books and scrolls of parchment, was a boy stained with ink.

His head was bowed over a parchment, a quill dutifully scratching out an essay. Around fourteen, Tom guessed by the textbooks - he'd been assigned the same during his fourth year - although the boy was smaller than even Tom was at that age. 

"I didn't know you were a mother," Tom said quietly. "You're far too young." 

"Oh, you," Hepzibah batted his arm. "Hadrian's adopted - he's . . . well. I'll let him show you. Hadrian, dear. Hadrian. Hadrian. " 

He was ignoring her.

Hepzibah sighed. "Pardon his manners," she reached for her wand. "His teenage years have made him inconceivably moody. Hadrian, darling." With a flick of her wrist, a stinging spell made him drop his quill. He gasped, jerking his hand to his chest, and raised his eyes to glare at them. 

Tom was struck. 

The emerald eye of Slytherin's locket was nothing in comparison to the Killing Curse green of the boy's gaze. 

Hepzibah tapped her wand impatiently against her arm. "Say hello to our guest." 

His nostrils flared. He barely glanced at Tom. "Pleasure." 

"Do the thing," she said earnestly. "Show Tom what you can do." 

" . . . I - I'm studying, Mother." 

"Hadrian." 

With that one word, Harry sealed his lips shut in resignation. Avoiding her gaze, instead glaring at her ridiculous ginger wig, Harry hissed; "Leave me alone, you stupid wench." 

Blood rushed through his ears. Tom felt dizzy. Although the words were uncouth, and a bit rude, the fact remained. The boy was a Parselmouth. 

Tom whispered. "Incredible." 

Tom carefully peeled off his gloves and placed them atop a bookshelf. He crouched down to the boy's level, greeting him with a firm shake. The boy's hand was small, nearly enveloped by Tom's long-fingered grip. His touch was nothing special - the boy's skin was cold, and his shake weak, but Tom could see the fierce displeasure in the boy's eyes. "Hello, Hadrian." 

"Harry," the boy corrected quietly, stealing his hand back. A plate of sandwiches and a cup of milk was at his elbow, the meat plucked out and uneaten. He took a quick sip, wiping milk from his top lip.

Tom smiled at the sight. Just a child. 

"Harry, then. My name is Thomas, but you can call me Tom." 

Harry ducked his head, the glare softening. Slowly, he picked up his quill and continued his homework. "Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Tom asked, settling down into a chair across from him. "That was my favorite coarse at Hogwarts." 

Harry scratched out another sentence before responding. "Mine too." 

Tom's lips quirked in the first genuine smile since his arrival. Fascinating. 

Hepzibah squealed a bit behind them. "My two boys," she fanned her face. "Getting along so well. This is excellent, Tom, you have no idea how difficult it is to get Harry to actually hold conversations like a proper wizard - " 

Tom tuned her out, as he was prone to, and focused his attention on the boy before him. He could see hints of Gaunt in the boy; with his dark hair, pale skin, and delicate bone structure. He could see it the astigmatism, the stubbornness, as well as the boy's affiliation toward Dark Arts. 

It was strange, though. He thought he'd seen the last of the Gaunts nearly a decade ago when he framed his Uncle Morfin for the murder of the Riddle family. 

"Let's leave Harry to his schoolwork," Tom cleared his throat, interrupting Hepzibah's chatter. "He's a very dedicated student. Best not distract him." 

Hepzibah agreed, giving Harry a quick pinch to his cheek. "My clever little boy," she cooed. As she turned away, Harry scrubbed viciously at the red mark left on his face. 

Tom could feel the boy's gaze on his back. 

As soon as they reached the hall, Tom burst. "Wherever did you find him?" 

"Ah," Hepzibah hummed. "Tragic story, really. A fire had started in the woods outside his home, and when Muggle firefighters came to put it out, they found him. He was trapped inside the wards around an old, ugly shack with his father. An abusive, drunken, violent man. Awful, just terrible," she sounded delighted at the tale. "What a brave little boy he was." 

Tom's nostrils flared.

It was funny, though; He didn't even need to enchant the woman to have her spilling her secrets. 

"Harry made quite the ripple, breaking the Statute of Secrecy a dozen times over. The Ministry was contacted, memories were erased, and he was taken from the home. A lineage expert contacted me," Hepzibah swelled. "They knew I was a lonely old woman," she sighed, as if world-weary. "With wealth to spare, and I thought; how amazing would it be to reconnect the lines of Hufflepuff and Slytherin?" 

"He was cheaper than the locket," Hepzibah added, puffing out the laugh. "But a hassle to raise." 

Front teeth scraped over his bottom lip. "You never publicized the fact you were a mother." 

"Well. Harry isn't an easy child. At first, he was a sweet boy, quiet, docile - but as he grew older, he began to test boundaries and - more than that - test my patience. Being a single mother is difficult," Hepzibah said sagely.

"No matter your flatteries, I'm not as young as I used to be. I do wish he had some proper male influence, though . . . " she side-eyed him, pressing her shoulder into Tom's. "A father figure, you might say." 

"Pity," Tom said shortly. He was anxious to pry himself from her sweaty grip, his mind reeling. 

They reached the sitting room and Tom sat her down in the loveseat. "I'm afraid I must take my leave, Miss Hepzibah. Burke will be expecting me."

Hepzibah frowned, disappointed. Before she could protest, Tom bent low to press another kiss to her knuckles. "This meeting has turned out to be such a boon. How grateful I am to have met you, Miss Hepzibah."

She crowed, running a fat hand down his face, caressing the sharp cheekbones. Tom resisted a disgusted twitch. "Anytime, Tom. Anytime. I'll have Hokey escort you out. Hokey!"

Hepzibah waggled her fat little fingers in goodbye while Tom let himself be escorted away. When they reached the front door, he detached his hand from the elf's and reached purposefully into his pocket.

"Oh, dear," he tsked. "I seem to have forgotten my gloves in the library."

Hokey stared balefully up at him, little ears perking up. "Hockey can fetch them for Mister Tom, sir."

"No need. I remember the way."

Hokey hesitated. "Hokey is just - concerned. Master Harry doesn't like to be disturbed."

"It'll only take a moment," Tom said, growing irritated with the creature. "He won't even notice I'm there. You know," Tom crouched down, squeezing Hokey's thin, frail shoulder. He spoke softly, conspiratorially. "Earlier, I noticed the rose bush outside was a bit . . . underwatered. You know how your mistress loves those flowers. She wouldn't be very pleased if they were to - wither and die, would she?" 

Hokey's bulging eyes went huge, her breath catching. "Oh!" she wrung her ragged uniform. "Oh, thank you, Mister Tom - Hokey has been bad, very, very bad, neglecting Mistress' garden - " 

"No need to thank me," Tom said magnanimously. "I can tell you're very loyal to your mistress, and I know you don't wish to cause her any unneeded stress. Go to take care of the flowers," he ordered softly. "I can see myself out." 

Bowing gratefully, Hokey disappeared with a pop, leaving Tom's hands to fall to his sides.

His nose crinkled, and he wiped his palms onto a lace tablecloth. Eyes shrewd, he could hear the faint hum of music from the sitting room where Hepzibah was likely working on her cross-stitch or whatever old ladies did in their free time. Balancing his weight and walking heel-to-toe, Tom crept through the building, trying to find the invisible demiguise curtain.

Seeing the same suit of armor twice, he had to backtrack, having gone around in a circle. Tom trailed his fingers against the wall, and hummed in triumph as they caught against something warm and furry. Peeling open the curtain swiftly, he ducked into the hidden wing. 

The library was the third - no, fourth door down, and Tom took a moment to merely rest his hand against it. He could hear the faint sound of steady breathing, a quill scratching against parchment, pages turning. 

Frustrated with himself, Tom blinked rapidly. Don't be a coward, he chastised himself, and opened the door in one swift movement. 

The boy didn't even look up. 

"I . . . seemed to have misplaced my gloves," Tom said to announce his presence. 

Somewhere, a clock ticked, filling the awkward silence. The boy sniffed. "They're on the shelf." 

Tom fought a grin at the boy's tone. He grabbed the gloves and lifted them in thanks. "Sorry to intrude." Tom turned his back on the boy. A book closed. His muscles tensed. 

"No, you aren't," Harry sighed, as if resigned. "And you're not as clever as you think you are. This isn't the first time someone's 'forgotten' a possession of theirs in this wing."

"O - oh. Have they?" 

"Professor Slughorn misplaced his monocle. Arcturus Black, the dumbass, dropped his wand and kicked it under the bookshelf. Madame Smethwyck lost an earring. You're not the first, and you're not the last to try to - ah, win the favor of Hepzibah Smith's favorite parlor trick." 

Tom coughed loudly, hiding a laugh. "Oh, really?" he said, asked. "Well - " slipping his gloves away, Tom gingerly sat across from Harry. The boy didn't object. Or react.

"What else did the others do, hm? Did they . . . " Tom lifted the corner of Harry's parchment, boldly turning it toward him. The boy's penmanship was atrocious. "Did they ask you about your schoolwork, in a vague attempt at relatability? Or did they tell you how fortunate you are to be raised by Hepzibah, surrounded by heirlooms and history?" 

The boy snorted. He tugged his paper out of Tom's grip, airing out the ink and rolling it into a tight scroll. "Yes. To both."

"Well. Do you feel particularly fortunate?" 

"Oh," he said scornfully. "Every damn day. 'Course, I'm not allowed to touch the heirlooms. Not since I broke a 17th Century teacup in my first week here." 

"Teacups can be mended with a flick of a wand," Tom noted. 

Harry gave a light shrug, eyes falling. "That's what I told her. And I was locked in my room for a week for my 'attitude'." He capped his ink well and made to rise. 

Tom cast around in his brain for something to draw the boy's attention, draw those eyes back up to him. "Not a fan of ancient artifacts, then? Hm. I don't suppose you could tell me what you think of this one, then?" 

Tom slid the Gaunt ring off his finger and laid it in his palm. The facets of the gem gleamed like blood. 

Harry physically recoiled. 

"W - where - "

Harry's breath picked up. He looked close to falling out of his chair. "Where did you get that?" 

"Oh, this old thing?" Tom held the ring between his thumb and forefinger, peering down at the ugly, scratched stone. "Family heirloom. Did you know," he said conversationally. "That symbol, right here? That's the sign of the Deathly Hallows? Ever read that story? No? Well, it's also known as the signet of the Peverells, an old, old family. Rich history, really fascinating, if a bit gruesome. If you asked Hepzibah, I'm sure she'd tell you all about them. She likes that sort of thing." 

Harry made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Tom might've been concerned, if not for how the boy leaned forward, unwittingly intrigued. 

"Where - did - you - get - that?" the boy hissed.

"Stole it," Tom said back, the language curling off his tongue. "From an old man in an old shack. My uncle." Harry's hand came up to clap over his mouth, as though he was about to be ill. "Your father, I'm guessing." 

Heedless to the awful pale color that washed over Harry's features, Tom pressed on. "Funny how he never mentioned having a son. Then again, he wasn't the most conversational. And it's not as though there were any family photos," Tom laughed, cruel.

"We didn't . . . " Harry breathed out. "Exactly part on the best terms. H-how is he?" 

Tom's response was cheerful. "Rotting in Azkaban for a murder he didn't commit."  Green eyes slammed closed. "Relieved?" 

"He killed my mother," Harry murmured. "Or might as well have. I-it's no less than he deserves." 

"Hm. And from what the bitch has told me, he wasn't quite the lovely father you'd expect, either." 

Harry didn't clam up like Tom half-expected he would. 

Instead, the boy sat up, nostrils flaring. "It's not a secret," he spat, in English. "But she doesn't need to tell everyone she meets how brave and special I am for surviving. How proud she is of her little boy - abused and meek and on the mend - when she's almost as bad as him. Almost."

Harry was being daring, Tom suspected. Just daring Hepzibah to hear him curse her out, walk into the library and see her special boys talking behind her back.

With barely a twitch, Tom cast a silencing spell around the room. 

Harry quieted almost immediately; as though he could sense the spell washing over them. He stared at Tom for a moment, affronted, before a weak sneer twisted his lips.

"'Course. Can't have sweet Miss Hepzibah overhear us." Knocking his chair back, Harry stood and grabbed his books. He put them away violently, but Tom could see the tremble of Harry's hands. "You're not here to steal me away like a knight-in-shining-armor, are you? You want something." 

"Doesn't everyone?" Tom spread his hands across the table. However, it wouldn't do to seem duplicitous, even playfully so. The boy was too perceptive. "But yes. Hepzibah has something of mine. My mother's really. A locket." 

Harry spared Tom a look over his shoulder, considering.

"You're Aunty Merope's son." It wasn't a question. "My fath - Morfin liked to talk about her. About how useless she was, an ugly, magicless Squib - "

If he was trying to rile Tom up, it wasn't working. Tom never knew his mother enough to be insulted on her behalf. And, after all, it was true. 

"He always claimed she was dead on the side of a road somewhere," Harry mused, staring down at a dusty tomb. "Discarded. Abandoned by that Muggle nobleman, Thomas - " Realization flooded Harry's face. Then amusement. "Thomas Riddle. You're named after your father, then? The Muggle?" 

A chink appeared in Tom's flawless mask, a hint of red in his eyes. 

"Not like I can judge," Harry flapped a dismissive hand. "My mum was Muggle too. She was," his voice cracked. "From the village. He t-took her, kept her. Like - like Rapunzel in a filthy, disease-ridden tower."  

And there's Harry's Achilles heel, Tom noted, although he felt no urge to abuse it. Yet.

"I'm n-named after my grandfather, on her side," Harry said, changing the subject. "Harry - not a very pureblood name, is it? Not going to strike fear into the hearts of men, that's for certain." 

"Planning on a mass genocide?" Tom asked, endlessly amused. "A tyrannical rule? Going to become the next Dark Lord, after Grindelwald?" he pronounced the name in it's proper German. Languages came easily to him. "Awfully young for that." 

"Dark Lord Harry Smith. Not that menacing, you see?" 

Tom laughed. "Could make an anagram of it, I suppose." Tom took the drying quill and quickly scrawled out his own name. "I am Lord Voldemort." 

Harry peered over the man's shoulder and resisted a snort. He pointed out the letters. "It could also be Mr. Tom, a dildo lover."

Tom's face turned bright, scalding red. He quickly flipped the parchment over and pushed it out of sight. "You get my point. If you don't like your name - make a new one." 

"Is that what you've done, Lord Voldemort?" Harry said, peering at Tom with an odd expression. "Why are you collecting ancient artifacts, Tom? The ring, the locket - "

"I simply have a professional curiosity. I work in the industry." 

"Right. And what about me?" Harry asked. His smile was more of a slash, a painful, jagged rictus. "Was it just professional curiosity that made you come back here?"

"Not quite." 

"It's a little late to be a family, Tom. I'm not a little boy - I'm not looking for a knight in shining armor anymore. Too much time has passed." 

"Time is relative," especially when you're immortal. "Is it so hard to believe I truly want to get to know you? I've never - " Tom wet his lips. "We're the same, you and I. My mother died, too. Right after birthing me. I never knew my family. I reached out to them, once."

"Didn't go over well, I'm guessing," Harry said sharply. "Seeing as you had to frame my father for a murder. Not that I'm not grateful." 

Tom eyed his cousin.

The boy was a mess of contradictions; shy in one moment, cunning in the other, then rude as a Gryffindor. "What house are you in?" Tom asked suddenly, needing confirmation. 

Harry peered at him, as though wondering it's relevance. "Gryffindor." 

Tom's mouth popped open, but Harry interrupted. "I know. Strange, for the Heir of Slytherin and ward of a Hufflepuff and blah, blah - the Sorting Hat thought I'd fit in any house. Ravenclaw appealed to me, simply because it was a fine neutral ground. But . . . " Harry shrugged. His eyes sparkled. "No one suspects a burgeoning Dark Lord in Gryffindor." 

Sometimes, Tom thought to himself, he couldn't quite tell if the boy was joking or not. 

"Here," Tom said, pulling the Peverell ring off his finger. His horcrux thrummed inside the ring, rattling anxiously. It had been the murder of his father that split his soul. "Take this. It's your birthright, after all," he said slyly. "Unless you don't want it?" 

Harry frowned at it, a furrow of indecision between his brows. "Not really," he drawled. "It was my father's ring." 

"And it's only fitting you be the one to wear it," Tom urged. "We're the last of the Gaunts, after all - Morfin is as good as dead. He can't stop you from taking what's rightfully yours." 

Harry hesitated. He reached out, slowly, before his finger graced the cursed stone. It was cold. The Peverell mark gleamed up at him, almost comforting in a way - 

He glanced up at Tom. "You won't want it back?"

He sounded so unsure, as though he wasn't used to things being truly his. Tom, once, felt something very similar. Tom expected the separation from his horcrux to be uncomfortable, or even painful, but he felt nothing but a slight contentment. Tom once had nothing; then he had a diary. A wand. A snake. And a ring. Soon, he will have more. A locket. A cup. And a boy. A boy just like him.

His boy, his kin. 

Someone to raise, to teach, to cherish to punish and protect. 

Tom tucked his hands beneath his thighs, fighting the urge to stroke Harry's fringe away and mark him. The ring was enough, for now. 

"I'll be back," Tom said, clearing his throat. "In two days time, for the locket. And the ring, if you decide you don't want it." He stood, taking his gloves with him this time. 

Harry's gaze darted up, meeting Tom's with an unnerving stare.

"You promise?" he said, voice small.

Tom, staring down at the child, was once again struck by how young Harry was. The boy absently slipped the ring onto his thumb, as the loop was too big for his ring finger. He'd grow into it. 

"I promise," Tom said firmly, in the language of the snakes. It was impossible to lie in Parseltongue. Snakes knew only truth, and fact. They knew only of solitude and survival and sometimes, of eggs and of mates, and of kin.

Tom paused at the door. "What's your favorite flower?"

Harry hesitated, "L-lilies. Does it matter?"

Tom nodded once, giving him a secret smile, and left without a goodbye. Because really, it was a hello. 

Harry stared down at his father's ring, his heart beating a tattoo through his chest. He was fourteen. And he had the promise of a family. 

To be continued . . . 

Chapter Text

  Rapture

By TanninTele

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

Ministry of Magic

1942

Harry scratched at the table in front of him, dull nails scraping over unpolished oak.

The room was decorated colorfully and with several bright, encouraging signs. Green eyes lingered on the poster of a beautiful biracial family smiling over a picnic blanket with the words ‘Family doesn’t have to match to love’.

He could hear voices in the hall. If he raised his head, he might see, through the skinny window in the door, the tip of a hair bun and the top of a black bowler hat. 

"He broke the Statute of Secrecy ten times over," the Auror said brusquely, his voice echoing down the cavernous Ministry halls. "With a stolen wand. Hell, if I did that, I'd be tossed into Azkaban without a second thought." 

"He’s just a boy," the Wizarding social services worker tried to defend him. “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?"

“Just - just a boy!” The Auror barked. He was quickly hushed, but his attempts at whispering were in vain. Harry could hear his voice pitching, speaking in tangents about 'cursed family', 'violent tendencies' and ‘inbreeding'. "I've dealt with the Gaunt family before. They're horrible, awful people. Blemishes on our society -"

"He's been victimized by them too, Ogden," the woman said softly, firmly. "He knows that fact better than anyone." 

The Auror's mouth shut with an audible clack. 

Harry ducked his head as the door swung open. The social worker walked in, looking somber. Before the door shut, Harry caught sight of the Auror. He was a plump man, with shaving knicks on his cheeks and a pair of round glasses around his shrewd, beady eyes. His lips were downturned, his body language almost fearful. 

Harry wasn't sure what was so frightening about a seven-year-old boy. 

“Hello again, Hadrian,” the social worker spoke softly as if warning a skittish animal of her approach.

She was very pale, this woman, with fish-like lips and white-streaked brown hair so tightly bound that it was uncomfortable just looking at it. Harry remained quiet as she sorted through the papers on her desk, hand lingering on the manilla folder labeled simply H.G. Her manicured fingers thumped over it, clicking once, then twice before calming.

Harry avoided her eyes, unwilling to glance into that too-familiar, faux-maternal countenance. The women sighed, used to his quiet manner.

"I'll get right to it, I suppose. We've gone over your options, and have magnanimously decided not to return you to your father. He's been deemed lawfully unfit to raise a child." 

Relief swept through him -

But then, she leveled him a disappointed look. "However, on the subject of the law - you've caused quite the stir, young man. Revealing your magic to the Muggles was . . . not wise." 

"I didn't know what else to do," Harry said quietly. "No one knew I was there. So I . . . I got their attention."

The woman winced. "Yes, you certainly did. Believe me, we're very sympathetic."

"What does that mean?" Harry tipped his head, green eyes wide. "Sym - path - etic." He recognized 'pathetic', but he didn't think she was insulting him. 

She smiled, gentle. "It means we understand how tough your situation was." 

Harry swept a tongue over his teeth, tasting mint. He'd never used toothpaste or a toothbrush before in his life, and he'd needed the social worker's help brushing his rotted, yellow teeth. She assured him his teeth would fall out, and within a few years, pretty new ones would grow, so long as he brushed regularly. He accidentally swallowed the toothpaste, though, and his stomach had hurt for hours afterward. 

"Onto the good news," she cleared her throat. "An old schoolmate of mine, a lovely woman has shown interest in fostering you. She's heard of your . . . circumstances and is willing to take full responsibility." Slipping open a file, she passed Harry a freshly-printed photo of Hepzibah Smith.

The photo moved, the woman leaning forward to bat her eyes. 

Harry prodded it. 

The woman's age was indistinguishable under all that make-up. Harry thought she looked a bit like a fat cat. Her hair was a bright shade of orange, almost like his mother's. Her arrogant smirk was dyed a bright red, matching the overflowing maroon robes she wore. Utterly average in looks, the only thing remotely interesting about her appearance was her shining, expensive-looking jewelry. 

The social worker droned on, and beneath the table, Harry clenched a fist. He had no desire for a new mother. Especially not one who looked so - fake. 

"Hepzibah has taken the initiative and prepared a room for you. New clothes, new toys. Books, anything you want," The woman said earnestly, slapping the folder shut. "She's very well off, and she's been lonely for a long time. This will be a great opportunity for both of you, I think - mutually beneficial." Harry didn't know the meaning of half those words. His expression twisted.

"Harry," she chastised. "I'm giving you the opportunity to start a new life. You should be grateful." 

"I - I am, ma'am," 

"Good. Would you like to meet her? I could floo her now." 

Harry swallowed. "Yes, ma'am," he said, polite. Just like his real mumma taught him. "That would be nice."

With a pleased smile, the woman grasped a handful of green powder and tossed it into the flames. She prostrated herself before the fireplace and leaned into the fire, arse in the air. Likely unaware of how silly she looked. He wanted to giggle at the presentation, but Harry hadn't laughed in so long, he'd almost forgotten how. 

With her face enveloped in flames, Harry's stomach took an awful turn. 

He remembered very little from the day everything went up in flames. 

The fire spread had faster than Harry expected. He'd darted through the flaming trees, dodging falling branches and ash, running towards the path Morfin took every day for work. The wards had shuddered violently, likely alerting Morfin to Harry's futile attempts at breaking the barrier.

Morfin was still asleep . . .  Harry hoped. 

The wind had helped the smoke to rise, higher and higher, high enough that someone from the Muggle village had to have noticed. They must've.

It didn't take long for Muggles to come in hoards with large, beast-like automobiles filled with water. But they couldn't get through the wards. Their eyes slid over it, confused, although they could definitely see the smoke and the flames. They just couldn't focus on it. He'd screamed at them, needing them to see him - how could so many Muggles be so clueless - 

He'd raised Morfin's wand. 

(Supposedly, over a dozen Muggles had to have their memories erased.)

There had been no spell, no magic words - just pure, raw grief and anger. He'd shaped the fire into a giant serpent, winding through the trees. The snake had a giant, flickering maw and scales made of ash.

The forest burnt, and the Muggles screamed and fought, attempting to extinguish the fire with their hoses.

But the damage had been done. They saw him; saw his diminutive silhouette lit by orange firelight, a shadowy figure amongst the hawthorns. They called him a freak and demon child, fleeing once Harry had collapsed in a boneless pile.

He'd watched, amazed, as a white owl - not native to the area - swooped down and dropped a letter onto his head. He didn't know how to read, but the red ink, the angry letters, was enough for him. Other wizards - the ministry Morfin hated so vehemently - were coming for him. To save him.

The child had laughed, gleeful, throwing his head back to let out a sound so unnatural, so shrill, it made the wards quiver and the spot fires to release sparks of embers. 

He hadn't laughed again since. 

1949

Seven Years Later

Hokey's elf magic was becoming inefficient with age, but years worth of finely-tuned instincts woke Hokey up at the crack of dawn.

She released a tiny groan, her little head cushioned by a balled-up, thread-bare tea cozy. She was nestled in one of her mistress' many cabinets, surrounded by Hepzibah's ragged old robes. The bedding was stained and smelly, but Hokey loved the soft texture and the bright colors. It reminded Hokey of her mistress. 

Nudging the cabinet door open, Hokey unfolded her tangled limbs and stumbled out. She landed in a heap beside a potted plant. Staring at her reflection in the polished bronze vase, she smoothed out her linen toga, flattening her pointed ears. 

As sun rays warmed her back, the sound of a distant call had her ears perking right back up. Hokey popped into her mistress's room without a second thought. 

Her mistress' bedroom was painted a pallid pink. It was the largest room in the house, fit with a fireplace and an enchanted wardrobe. The four-poster bed had flowing curtains, white silk that billowed and shimmered like the gills of a fish. 

"Hokey," Mistress hissed, relieved. She was struggling to get out of bed, arms stretched in front of her. "Hokey!" 

Hokey eeped, and scurried forward. There wasn't much the little creature could do other than tug fruitlessly on Hepzibah's bedclothes.

With a grunt, Hepzibah latched onto one of the bedposts and hoisted herself up. Her bald head glistened in the sunlight. "Humph!" the woman said, smoothing her robes. "Why didn't you come when I first called, hm, Hokey?" 

Compelled to tell the truth, Hokey's ears flattened. "Hokey was s-sleeping," 

"Well! Don't you think I'd like to be sleeping, too? But no, I have a house to maintain," the woman scolded, wandering over to her vanity. She removed a packet of moist towelettes and began dabbing under her eyes, where her mascara was smeared. "I have a guest to meet with today for breakfast." 

"A guest?" Hokey opened the massive wardrobe, multicolored robes spilling out. "Who is Mistress entertaining today?" 

"Tom, again," the woman puckered her lips in the mirror, applying a thick layer of lipstick. "Twice, in one week, can you believe it! Perhaps he's pining for me . . . it certainly seems that way. My, to be young and in love again. Young, pretty and skinny." She sat straighter, eyes narrowed at her reflection. "A corset today, I think, Hokey." 

"Yes, Mistress." 

Hokey set a stool behind her mistress' back and began the long, laboring process of lacing the corset. She had Hepzibah disrobe and lift her large arms to tuck the brace around her front. Hepzibah took a moment to fix her breasts, the mounds marked and bruised from frequent compression. "The things we do for beauty," Hepzibah sighed, releasing a soft grunt as Hokey tightened the laces. "Hokey! Gentle!" 

"Sorry," Hokey panted. "Mistress." By the time she finished, Hepzibah was purple in the face, with her hands braced on the vanity. Hokey was near collapse.

She began to tremulously levitate Hepzibah's favorite ginger wig from its mannequin head atop the wardrobe. The curls were intricately maintained and tucked into silver barrettes. "Hokey," Hepzibah interrupted. "Fetch me my - ugh, you clumsy fool!" 

Hokey flinched, the wig having fallen to the ground in a heap. The perfect curls were crushed, the carefully balanced beehive lopsided. 

"You've ruined it!" Hepzibah wailed, crouching down painfully to grab the wig. She shook the dust out, frowning deeply as the condition only worsened.

"Hokey - " the elf fluttered. "Hokey didn't mean to - " 

"Didn't mean too, maybe not, but that doesn't excuse your incompetence. Perhaps I should replace you, hm? With a younger, more capable house elf? Punish yourself." 

Choking out a sob, Hokey grappled for her Mistress' bedside lamp and began smacking herself with it. She nearly toppled over with the force."Bad Hokey, bad Hokey!"  

Hepzibah ignored the elf's self-flagellation, sitting back at the vanity, wig in her lap. She tried brushing out the curls, but wasn't pleased with the result. "Good thing I keep a spare. Stop making that racket, Hokey, and fetch me my brown wig. I suppose it'll have to do," she shoved the wig aside, perfume bottles and makeup containers clinking. She sniffed and leaned into the mirror, stretching back her cheeks. "I hope Tom likes brunettes." 

Still reeling from the punishment, Hokey stumbled to Hepzibah's bathroom. Another wig was placed on a high shelf, the faceless mannequin head judging with its hollow eyes and blank features. Hokey didn't trust her magic, and so she climbed onto the sink and reached with her short, spindly arms. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, wincing at the discolored bruise that was forming on her forehead.

Fingers finally snagged the mannequin's base, and tilted it until the wig landed on Hokey's head. She removed it, and carded her fingers through the brown ringlets. "M - Mistress will look lovely in b-brown," Hokey stammered out, approaching her mistress. "M - might Hokey s-suggest the olive green robes t - to compliment?" 

Hepzibah snatched the wig out of Hokey's hands, placing it delicately atop her head.

"Hm," she turned her head, this way and that, batting her false lashes. "Perhaps. They're Slytherin colors, so Tom will like that, I hope. We're trying to woo the boy, Hokey," she reminded. "Since I can't look my best, better make some of those cakes he likes, just in case. Mother always said the way to a man's heart was through his stomach!"

"Yes, Mistress," she lowered her head, fingers clasped. Her bruise throbbed.

"Oh, and wake Hadrian, will you? Inform him that if he doesn't get up to have breakfast with myself and Tom, he won't be having any. I won't stand for his surliness as of late. We must make our best impression on Tom! After all," Her lips curling into a wicked facsimile of a charming smile. "We may be family soon." 

Feeling sick to her stomach, Hokey disappeared with a shower of sparks. 

She appeared in Harry's room. 

The boy was wrapped in layers of quilts, always so cold. He tossed in bed, the blankets twining around his body in a way that couldn't be comfortable. A small, frayed blanket was balled up and hugged to his chest for comfort; menial as that comfort was. 

Hokey snapped her fingers, releasing a weak burst of magic. The blankets twitched a bit, giving a half-hearted tug, but refused to release the boy from their confines. Hokey sighed.

Climbing onto his bed, feet struggling to find purchase, Hokey settled atop the young wizard. "Master Hadrian," she whispered, voice creaky and kind. She shook his arm. "Master Hadrian, 'tis but a nightmare. Please wake before yous hurts yourself."

Harry awoke suddenly, jerking up as though having fallen from a great height . . .

And Hokey promptly fell off of him, landing with a heavy oof.

His eyes flickered open in surprise. The green irises were illuminated by a sliver of morning light streaming in through the window. The sunrays reflected off the dark ring sitting on his bedside table, casting an array of brightly-colored and strangely-shaped beams dancing across the wall. Next to the ring was a crudely carved stag and a framed photo of a Muggle woman. It was unmoving.

The room was decorated minimally compared to Hepzibah's cramped, over-flowing living space. He tacked drawings onto the wall, covering a hole that he once burnt into the wallpaper during a pubescent tantrum. In a corner was a desk, neatly organized with all his books lined up alphabetically. A diary was closed and locked, the brownish leather stained with ink. In it, he wrote of his dreams; his nightmares. 

Harry licked the salty wetness from his top lip. The lingering memory of a whip's slice and a looming, pale figure didn't quite leave him.

From the ground came a groggy voice; "Master Harry?"

Harry sat up straighter. "Hokey!" He rapidly wiping his cheeks. " . . . What're you doing on the floor?"

"Checking on Master," The tiny elf staggered to her feet, blinking rapidly as if fighting off a wave of dizziness. "He had a nightm - " Harry cringed. Her lips slammed shut. "Master . . . needs to get ready for breakfast." 

His stomach released another grumble. "Breakfast sounds pretty good right about now," he admitted softly.

"Master is to be attending the meal in the dining room. Mistress insists on it. There's to be a guest." 

Harry threw his head back. "Fine, fine," he grumbled. 

Cold sweat stuck to him like a second layer of skin as he peeled himself out of bed. The linens were plastered to his back. Harry threaded fingers through short black curls, pressing blunt nails into his scalp. Everything hurt, from his head to the curl of his toes against the cool hardwood, but there was no discernable wound.

Harry tore off his nightgown, tossing it onto the floor where Hokey dutifully collected it up. He remained in his cotton Muggle underwear; the boy stubbornly refused to wear any of the silk, embroidered, 'magically-enhanced' underwear Hepzibah bought him.

Shirtless, however, his past was easy to read. He was unfortunately stunted in growth, his limbs lanky and joints knobbly. Hepzibah had done well enough in fattening him up and administering a scar-removal balm, but invisible wounds still stung him with phantom pains.

After years of soaking in the sun as often as he could - no longer bound to a shack and the shade of a forest in a dreary village - he'd developed freckles up and down the expanse of his back. Gravitating toward the sun like a sunflower, Harry staggered to the window, releasing a yawn.

The window was already open, the curtains rustling slightly in the window. Harry leaned forward, relishing in the warm, summer breeze. It was a balm to his ache, ambrosia to the gods, and all sorts of other poetic shite.

He brushed his fringe back, allowing licks of fresh air to cool his damp scalp. "Good morning to me," he said, voice scratchy. He stared balefully out over London city. It was a lazy morning, with the sun barely peeking over the roofs of his neighbors. "It's a nice day."

Something white caught his eye.

Harry frowned, plucking a single white petal off the window sill. He brought it to his nose; it was from a lily flower.

"Yes, Master Harry," Hokey interrupted his thoughts. She ran her fingers over his day clothes. The lint floated up and shivered, before vanishing. Watching Hokey's sagging face tremble, Harry realized that even small, domestic magic would soon be too difficult for the elderly elf.

Harry let the petal fall from his fingers.

"Don't push yourself," Harry chastised, taking his clothes from her before she could do any more damage. "I can brush the lint off my own clothes, Hokey."

"Yes, Master Harry," she said slyly. "But yous not very good at it, is all."

Harry let out an offended noise, but his quiet smile betrayed him. "Have you started breakfast yet?"

Hokey fidgeted. "N - no. Will Master Harry be alright?"

"I can wash myself, Hokey," he said, amused. "I'll meet you in the kitchen," he dismissed, turning and shucking off his undies.

As she disappeared, he snagged a bathrobe and ducked into the attached bathroom. The air filled with warm steam, and the mirror glinted with condensation.

Fifteen minutes later, a reddened hand twisted the hot tap until the water trickled away. Harry stepped out of the shower. He avoided the gaze of his reflection. 

He knew what he'd find. Damp hair, hollow features, pink, raw skin. Water droplets slipped from his pale, stick-thin legs and onto the floor. As he toweled himself off, Harry winced in unspoken torture as the coarse material brushed against his raw skin. He had scrubbed perhaps a bit harder than necessary, trying in vain to rid himself of the sweat and phantom pains from the night.

Running bony fingers through black hair, Harry shuffled to the sink. By the time he finished his morning ablutions, his toothbrush laid ramrod straight on the vanity shelf and a black comb was shoved into a drawer.

Mouth tasting of mint and skin thoroughly slathered with lotion, Harry dressed himself in lightweight day clothes, shades of grey and green. He slipped on Tom's ring, tucking his thumb into his fist.

"Soon," he whispered. It thrummed in response.

Hokey had finally made it to the kitchen. Her shoulders sagged and her features were etched in a frown. 

Spotting dirty plates still in the sink, crumbs caked on the porcelain. With a click of her fingers, a scrub brush hovered a few inches in the air before smacking against one of the plates and dropping. Remembering her mistress' admonitions, Hokey wiped her eyes and forced herself to concentrate on breakfast. 

It had been a while since she last fetched groceries, finding herself more and more forgetful as the days passed. All that was left in the fridge was a half-empty jar of pasta sauce, a limp bushel of lettuce and a pitcher of pulpy orange juice. Scattered throughout the cupboards were some raw ingredients. Hokey muttered to herself; bad elf, bad elf!

Feeling disheartened, Hokey went through the motions of mixing flour, yeast, and sugar for some more cakes. Then, setting the stove for Misstress' morning cocoa, Hokey turned to the cupboard and abruptly realized that she had used the last of the sugar on the pastries.

"Oh, dear," she fluttered, tearing through her drawers. "Oh, no." 

She was close to tears when Harry arrived. 

"What's the matter?" 

"Hokey - Hokey needs to find sugar," she keened, slamming a cupboard shut. Her actions were erratic, fearful; Harry wasn't the only one familiar with Hepzibah's stinging spells.

"No sugar?" Harry asked. He sat heavily onto the barstool. "Odd. Have you - " his shoulder jerked, coming up to rub at his ear, as though ticklish. He mouth seemed to mouth without permission. "H - have you checked the top cupboard?" 

"The top - " the elf blinked, bulbous eyes confused. "Hokey never uses that cupboard." 

"It's the only place you haven't checked," Harry, a hand lifted to his lips, weakly rationalized. 

Sure enough, a jar of sugar was tucked into the topmost cupboard. Although confused, Hokey decided it was a stroke of luck. "Thank you, Master Harry."

Something in the corner shimmered, shifting positions to avoid Hokey and the floating jar. 

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Hokey - " he said, on alert.

The figure stilled. 

"Yes, Master?" 

Harry's lips pressed shut, eyes darting back and forth. He lowered himself back onto the stool. "Has - um, has mail come yet?"  

"Not yet, Master," Hokey said, carefully spooning out the sugar and adding a hint of vanilla extract, just how Hepzibah liked it. The cocoa bubbled and boiled, releasing a spout of steam. "Does Master Harry want a cup?" 

"I guess," Harry said absently. Something brushed against his mind. He bit his tongue. Hard. "I mean - no. O - orange juice is fine." 

Hokey poured fetched the pitcher and collected the pastries onto a silver tray, not confident enough in her ability to levitate it all the way to the dining room. 

It was difficult to maneuver the cramped halls with a shadowed figure following them. Harry kept the figure in his peripheral, fingers curled protectively in a fist. 

Hepzibah was sat at the head of the breakfast table, fiddling with the Daily Prophet. She wore a dark, hazelnut-brown wig, the curls long enough to dip into the crevices of her bosom. Teetering on her nose was a pair of golden spectacles, a pearl chain swaying on each side of her face. 

"You've got mail," she said dismissively, squinting hard at an advice column. From the picture, it seemed to be suggesting a darker hairstyle for the fall season. She appeared pleased. 

"Oh," he said robotically. "Good." 

Harry sat and unrolled the parchment, gold letters blinking up at him. It was the class rankings for third year. Harry's heart leaped in his chest. Most of the names were blurred away, except for the top three. Harry nearly gasped aloud.

He was second. 

The two names ahead of his was Minerva McGonagall in first and Barnabas Cuff in third. Minerva had been first ranking for the past three years, so it wasn't unexpected. Barnabas was a Slytherin boy who Harry once caught cheating, so Harry didn't give his name a second glance. 

The boy clenched the paper to his chest, letting out a breathy laugh. Hokey - pouring him orange juice - looked at him curiously. Harry splayed the papers onto the table. "I wasn't even trying, Hokey," he admitted, feeling something stir in his chest. It was pride.

Harry felt a phantom hand against his shoulder, squeezing tightly. He flinched at the sensation and glanced around. 

"Mistress will be so proud," Hokey beamed.  

"Hm?" Hepzibah looked up finally, as if just noticing the food in front of her. She dropped the newspaper and grabbed her fork, stabbing off a bite of pastry. 

"It's - um," Harry swallowed. "My grades from last year. Most - mostly Outstandings. I was ranked second in my class."

"Second!" Hepzibah exclaimed. "Very good. Not as good as first, of course, but we'll work on that. Pass it over, dear. Outstanding, outstanding, exceeds expectations - oh, but only a passing grade in History of Magic?" she pouted, peering at him over the parchment. "That was my favorite course." 

"Binns is boring," Harry defended. He picked at his food. "Since he died last year, his lessons have literally had the life sucked out of them." 

Hepzibah sniffed. "Doesn't excuse a poor attitude," she said wisely, tapping his nose. 

Harry clenched his fork in a death grip. "Right," he forced out. "I . . . I thought we were having a guest for breakfast." 

"You are," came an amused voice at the door's threshold.

Harry startled. 

"Tom!" Hepzibah exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. "How long have you been here? Did Hokey let you in?"

The man stepped into the light, dressed in simple, casual black slacks and a suit jacket over a soft-looking sweater vest. In his hands was a bouquet of lily flowers.

His eyes fixed on Harry, who squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "Not long," Tom drawled. "I let myself in. The house isn't very well guarded, Hepzibah," he chastised, settling beside her. "I took the initiative of locking your doors. You really should have better security, considering how priceless some of your possessions are."

His gaze never wavered. 

Hepzibah twitched, sending a glare at her house elf. "My servant has been absentminded lately."

Hokey blinked up at her, bewildered. "Well, I'm just glad it's you, Tom," Hepzibah let out a tight laugh. "Instead of some . . . ill-intended burglar." 

Tom gave a stiff smile. "Indeed. You look lovely as always, Miss Hepzibah," he laid the bouquet down on her placemat. "No flower in spring is as beautiful as you are." 

"Oh!" Hepzibah flustered, reaching out to touch the petals. "Lilies. Very sweet, but I prefer roses. Tom, you know this."

"Must have slipped my mind. Now. What were we talking about before I so rudely interrupted? Thank you, Hokey," he told the shaking elf as she dished him a still-steaming pastry. He placed a hand over his cup, refusing the cocoa. 

Hepzibah gleefully passed Tom the document with Harry's grades. "My boy is ranked second in his class!" 

"Incredible," Tom said, raising his brows. "It's a great honor to make the top three, Harry, especially so young. I didn't reach first place until I was sixteen. I spent a great deal of my time studying history of magic that year, actually, and it did me a world of good." 

Harry, to keep from making a sarcastic remark, took a deep sip of orange juice. 

"See?" Hepzibah told her ward. "Harry's barely passing it. Perhaps Tom could tutor you!"

Harry spluttered, throat burning as he coughed up juice. "No. No, I - I wouldn't want to take up too much of his time. He already has a job - " 

"It would be no trouble," Tom said, nonplussed. He handed Harry a napkin, ignoring the boy's glare. "I was once dedicated to becoming a teacher, actually." 

"A teacher! How commendable. Which subject?" 

"Defense. I applied right out of school, but Headmaster Dippet suggested I get some real-world experience first." Tom tilted his head in consideration, taking a bite of cake. "I daresay I'd be old enough to get the job, now. Professor Merrythought will be retiring soon. Slughorn, well, he's a stubborn man, otherwise I could take over potions. Maybe since old Binns has kicked the bucket, I really should consider history of magic. I do so love old things," he sent Hepzibah a coy smirk. His manner was different than Hepzibah was used to; less polite, more brazen, flirtatious. She found herself not-so secretly thrilled. "Did Harry show you his ring?" 

The boy, having grown bored of Hepzibah and Tom's flirting, jerked. 

Hepzibah peeled her gaze from Tom's, plastering on a politely interested smile. "Did you get a new ring, darling?"

Harry's fist unfurled as he spared her a quick glimpse of the ugly stone. "This? It was a gift from Tom, actually."

"A gesture of goodwill," Tom added. "It's of some value, not much." 

"A gift?" the woman crowed. "My, what a spoiled boy you are. You haven't given me any gifts, Tom," she pouted.

"Well. It . . . is hard to find a gift for the woman who has everything. Looks, charm, wealth." She batted his shoulder, flattered. "What I'd really like to give you is - controversial." 

Her hand stilled on his arm, nails digging proprietarily into his bicep.

"O - Oh. Really?" she was breathless, face a bright shade of pink. "What were you thinking?" 

Tom leaned toward her, lips brushing against her earlobe. "Not a conversation we can have with young ears listening."

Harry gagged into his orange juice. 

"You flirt!" Hepzibah giggled. She hid her blush behind her cup, taking a quick sip of the drink. 

Tom drew back, carefully unfolding his napkin and laying it across his lap. "How's your cocoa?" 

"Hm!" she hummed, taking a deeper sip. The foam stained her upper lip, and she licked it off sensually. "Delicious as always. Although - " she frowned, smacking her lips. "It does taste a little less sweet than usual. Hokey, have you run out of sugar again - "

Hepzibah's throat suddenly closed up. "Oh," she croaked. Hepzibah lifted a hand to her mouth. "Oh."

"Are you well?" Tom asked pleasantly. 

"F-fine. I just think I've b-burnt my mouth." 

"Mistress?" Hokey blinked rapidly, darting to her Mistress' side. "Mistress?" 

"I'm alright, Hokey, stop hovering!" Hepzibah glanced at Tom, who fixed a concerned look onto his face. "I'm alright, really. Although I wouldn't mind a bit of mouth-to-mouth," she tried to laugh, but it came out strangled and pained. 

Harry rolled his eyes at Hepzibah's hysterics.

He took a careful bite of his cake. "Maybe it's karma," Harry said offhandedly, licking sweet filling off his fingers. Hepzibah glanced at him, and he fixed a sheepish look. "Sorry." 

"Don't be," came a whispered hiss. 

The boy looked up, surprised. Harry's fork slipped from his hand. 

Just as blood slipped from Hepzibah's lips.

"You have a little something. Right . . . There." Tom passed her a napkin. 

"Thank you, dear. I, ah - " Hepzibah made to stand. She stared down at the red blots, stairing the lace kerchief. "I don't - I don't feel very well . . . Tom? T - Tom! Your e - eyes . . . " this was her last cognitive thought. 

Tom crossed his legs and leaned his elbows on the table, red, crimson eyes lowering as she collapsed into a heap on the floor.

Hokey squeaked, patting her mistress' cheeks as the woman seized. "Mistress! Wake up, mistress!" 

A sense of dread brewed in Harry's stomach. He held his breath, clenching the armrests of his chair, unable to move or to tear his eyes away. Bloody foam dribbled from Hepzibah's mouth, the woman choking on her own saliva. The corset, Harry considered hysterically, probably helped speed up the process.

"She's going into shock," Tom said off-handedly to Harry. 

"W - what did you do?" 

"I didn't do a thing," Tom lifted a hand to his chest, as if offended. "Hokey must've mistaken rat poison for sugar. Pity."

Harry could feel hyperventilation pressing in, his chest heaving. The corners of his vision blurred, but he refused to blink. His hands scrambled for purchase on the table clothe, closing around a butter knife.

"That won't help much, I'm afraid," Tom said regretfully. "Where is your wand? It's dangerous to be unarmed. Take deep breaths, now. Answer the question."

Between labored inhales, Harry spoke. "S - she took my wand from me, just for the summer." 

"As punishment?"

"Yes. I was . . .  caught. Doing a r-ritual last Samhain. It didn't work, but the school nearly suspended me. She doesn't t- trust me." 

Tom glanced at the sobbing house elf and the twitching old witch. 

"Should she? 

Harry gasped out a laugh. "C-clearly not." He threw his hands up. "Since I'm entertaining her killer. That was you, wasn't it? Creeping around. You snuck through my window and left that lily petal. And - you - " Harry stopped, looking down at Hepzibah's spilled cocoa. 

"You messed with my mind!" he shot up, affronted. "I felt you . . . in my head. You had me tell Hokey to check the top cupboard. You had no right to do that!" 

"Just a simple suggestion, is all," Tom dismissed the accusation. "It was necessary. Now Hokey remembers mixing that poison into the cocoa, and she remembers Hepzibah dying. Slowly. Painfully." 

"What if she's killed by the Ministry? You've framed her for manslaughter." 

This time, Harry plucked up the butter knife, brandishing it. 

Tom arched an unconcerned brow at Harry. "She's old anyway, isn't she? Pass me another cake, will you? No use wasting a good meal." 

Beside him, Hepzibah spluttered, blood spraying from her mouth. Hokey released a keening, desperate wail. Harry flinched violently. 

"Hokey," he spat. "Was more my guardian than Hepzibah ever was."

Tom, seeing that his cake was not forthcoming, sighed. He reached for it himself. "You're her master now, Harry," he reminded. He eyed Harry's half-empty glass of orange juice. "If you vouch for her, the Ministry may consider keeping it that way. You won't be finishing that, will you? No? Thank you." 

He took a deep sip, closing his eyes to savor the taste. "Sorry, I can't afford orange juice these days. That'll change soon. Speaking of, now that wench is out of the way, I would appreciate it if you ordered Hokey to fetch the locket and cup for me." 

Harry remained still, gaping, wondering if he could refuse. Tom glanced up. "Now, if you would?" 

Tossing down the knife in disgust and shoving his chair back, Harry stumbled toward the body. "Hokey," Harry kneeled, reaching for Hokey's flailing hands. The elf sobbed at his touch. "Hokey, please. Listen - listen to me." 

The direct order had the elf hiccuping abruptly, wild, watery eyes fixing on Harry. She glanced back to Tom, who was calmly buttering his pastry. "Master Harry," she gasped. "Mister Tom - he's . . . he's . . ." she couldn't find the words. 

"I know," Harry said lowly. "He won't hurt us, s-so long as you do exactly as I say. Can you do that for me?" 

Hokey, loyal to the end, fixed her intense gaze on her young master. She gave an aborted nod. 

Harry stole a glance over his shoulder. His heart thumped rapidly, lungs still aching from the near asthmatic attack. "I need you to remove the enchantments around Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's cup," he spoke quickly, hushed. "And bring them here. I need you to be quick about it." 

"B - but those are Mistress' prized - "

"I know they are," he clenched her hands. "But I'm your Master too, Hokey, and I need you to as I say. Can I trust you to serve me, as you served Hepzibah loyally for so many years?" 

Hokey's lips quivered. "Yous . . . " she straightened her spine, stepping away from Hepzibah's body. "Master Harry can trust Hokey." 

With one last glance back at her former mistress, lying prone and messy on the floor, Hokey vanished.

Harry let out a harsh breath and stood, knees knocking into each other. He started at his foster mother. 

"When you said you wanted the locket," he said, teeth gritted. "I thought you'd buy it off of her. Rob the place, worst case scenario. I never hoped - " he bit himself off, realizing his mistake. "Never thought . . ." 

"No, Harry," Tom sighed, wiping the crumbs from his face. "You wanted this to happen. It's obvious. Otherwise, you wouldn't have sat there and watched. You wouldn't be cooperating now." 

"C - " he faltered. "Cooperation is not acceptance." 

"Isn't it?" the man gave a secret smile. 

Harry opened his mouth, likely to curse Tom out - but Hepzibah, beside him, choked out her last breath. It splayed blood onto his ankle.

"Hm!" Tom finished his bite, holding up a hand. "Hold that thought. I need to cast a stasis charm, first." 

"A - what?" 

"Preservation charm," the man explained, standing swiftly. "Nothing to worry about." Tom patted Harry's slim shoulder, suppressing a smile at the boy's flinch. He stepped up to Hepzibah and pondered the massive, ugly feature before him.

Death wasn't pretty on Hepzibah Smith. Then again, not much was.

Tom unsheathed his wand. He crouched and  hissed out a spell, a cold air suffusing the room and chilling Harry to the bone. The boy shivered and embraced himself, feeling gooseflesh rise on his skin.

Hepzibah's skin became frigid to the touch, a frost growing over her skin before sinking down, down into her tissue and organs. She looked like a slab of meat kept in a freezer. Pale and blue. 

Harry shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his arms. "P-preservation charms are good for . . .  groceries and flowers. How did you - " 

"There are quite a few things Hogwarts doesn't teach in its curriculum, Harry," the man chided. "It's a simple charm, just on a rather massive scale," he laughed.

The longer he kept Tom talking, Harry supposed, the longer he had to live. "W - what motivation do you possibly have to cast a preservation charm on a dead body?"

"She's not dead yet," Tom informed, prodding her with his wand. "Mostly dead, but not quite. Slightly alive. Beyond saving, certainly, but I caught her right on the verge of crossing over."

"How . . . how can you tell?" 

"Practice. Lots and lots of practice. I have a ritual to attend to, you see. It requires some manner of control over life and death. The spell will keep her in this limbo state. The Aurors won't be able to sense it, not until it's too late. The spell will eventually fade once I've . . . completed the ritual. She, too," his voice softened. "Will fade."

Harry made a vague noise in protest. He felt rather . . . distant from the situation. 

"Well, it's either this - keeping my victim on the edge of horror, the edge of pain, trapped in the space between two planes - or necrophilia. Or cannibalism. I chose the lesser evil."

"Oh," Harry said, voice pitching with an edge of hysteria. "Please don't tell me any more."

Tom sniffed. "I wasn't going to. Now, what were we talking about?"

"How much I hate you." 

Tom's lips spread into a toothy grin, bloodlust making him recklessly exhilarated.

"Funny," the man said, hissing out through his teeth. "I hate myself too. You know," he tapped his nose with his wand. "There are strange likenesses between us."

He swept around Harry, inspecting the boy up and down. Harry crossed his arms tighter, feeling vulnerable and on display. His wide eyes met Tom's.  

"You must see it. Both half-bloods, orphans," he paused. "Well, mostly. Tragic childhoods. Traumas. Parselmouths. We even look something alike. It must be our blood." 

Harry huffed in disbelief.

"Blood!" he shook his head. "Blood. Merlin."

Tears began to form in the corner of his eyes, burning as he forced them back. He would not cry. He would not appear weak in front of this - this otherworldly monster that crept into his home and into, as much as Harry hated it, his mind. Crept into his trust, and shattered it like a broken bone. Sharp. Painful.

But Harry used to pain. 

"My whole life I've been told I was special because of my blood." Harry spat. "Different. Freakish. The boy could speak to snakes," he hissed. "The heir to a family that's done nothing for me." 

"We're family, now, Harry." They stood face-to-face. Tom grabbed Harry's chin in a bruising grip. "Look at me. Don't you see?"

"See what?" 

"We could be - god forbid - happy together. You could have someone to talk to, to teach you magic of all kinds. You wouldn't need to worry about me taking your wand away for something as small as a necromancy ritual on Samhain. You were summoning your mother, weren't you?" Harry stiffened.

"There are easier ways, you know," he said, soft, persuasive. "I keep telling you to read up on the Peverells - " 

Hokey reappeared, her face pale and sweating. Her eyes went as wide as saucers, seeing her Master's proximity to 'the bad man'. 

Harry didn't look at her. He couldn't. 

His voice shook. "On the table, Hokey." 

She lowered the boxes before clasping her hands, head lowered.

"You know," Tom cleared his throat, pulling away with a tight smile. "Hokey could come with us. I do like her cakes."

He opened the boxes and ensured the artifacts' integrity. "Perfect. Thank you for your compliance, Hokey," Tom murmured, holding the locket in his palm. He stroked the serpentine 'S' on the locket's surface. In his other hand was his wand. "Stupefy." 

The elf fell. 

But Harry didn't mind that. If she was unconscious, she was safe - she wouldn't fight back. Wouldn't get hurt.

Harry, however, didn't have nearly enough self-preservation to mind his own manners. 

Harry felt rage rise in his chest. Tom, he noticed, was looking at the locket in much the same manner as he'd watched Harry. Like a possession. 

"I've given you your two days," Harry wrenched off the Gaunt ring. He threw it at the dining table, where it rolled until it was nestled between the petals of a lily flower.

Tom looked up, surprised at the sudden resistance. 

"I've given you my foster mother. Your precious locket. Hell, you can even have the cup - not like I have a right to it. But you will not be taking me. I won't be trapped by another Gaunt." 

Tom stilled. His back muscles tensed, and Harry felt a wave of unease fill the room. Tom's eyes. They were burning. 

"You'll end up in foster care again," Tom tenderly set the locket down. "Or an orphanage. Or with one of Hepzibah's relatives, just as prideful, just as deplorable - "

"Maybe I will," Harry lifted his head. He tucked his trembling hands behind his back. "And I'll survive it." 

Tom snorted. "Tolerate it, maybe. But for how long?"

Harry, at that, could no longer keep up his stubborn facade. 

"I could - " Tom stepped forward. "I'm your next of kin. I could reveal myself to the Ministry as another Slytherin heir. I have the Parseltongue, the locket and the Gaunt ring to prove it. I have impeccable grades. A score of recommendations. On top of that, I have friends in the Ministry. They'd place you in my custody within seconds." 

The boy closed his eyes. 

"I can do this the hard way," Tom told him, voice soft. Cloying. Harry felt a soft touch against his cheek. Harry almost leant into it. Almost. "I can do far, far more than place just suggestions into your head. You'd resent me for it, certainly. But it's the lesser of two evils, don't you think?" 

"But you wouldn't do that," Harry burst out. "It would - mess up your plans." 

"Harry, darling. No one suspects a burgeoning a father figure as the Dark Lord."

Harry didn't miss the irony. He slid out of Tom's grasp. "And no one will respect you if you're taking days off to go to . . . PTA meetings. Or Quidditch matches. You aren't father material."

Tom wasn't affected. "Not like you've had much experience." 

"Perhaps not," Harry allowed. He looked towards Hepzibah's body. His eyes were cold, guarded, as he crouched and felt the sides of her robes.

"But I know what it's like to be loved unconditionally by a person who would sacrifice themselves for you in a second," Harry spat. "You - with your mind machinations and obsession with a trinket - could never be selfless." 

He found Hepzibah's wand, the long, dark wood unpleasant and almost oily in his grasp. This was the second time in his life he's stolen another wizard's wand for the greater good. 

But it would do the job.

"The moment I become inconvenient to you . . . what's to say I won't join my father in Azkaban, framed for poisoning Hepzibah? Or killed off like your father's family." 

Harry spun toward his cousin, eyes flaming, rage bubbling beneath the surface. Tom nearly stepped back, but he refused to be cowed by a fourteen-year-old boy. 

"The only reason you aren't killing me now for saying all this is because it wouldn't be a clean getaway. Two dead in the Smith home and two artifacts stolen," he mocked. "You'd have to kill me with a spell. Or your bare hands. Both of which implicate that someone else was here."

Tom's gaze flickered back to the dining table. With a flick of his wrist, his plate disappeared; along with all signs of his arrival. "There are spells that mimic all sorts of deaths," Tom said lowly.

"There sure are. But it's unfortunate for you that I keep a diary, telling all about my favorite guest and how he promised to return in two days time for a ring that is no longer on my hand." Harry splayed his fingers, wiggling them. 

The mention of a diary made Tom falter. And nearly smile. They were too much alike. 

He pressed his wand to his lips. He changed tactics, stepping back to the table. Like a chess piece, retreating back to safety. "I wish you would reconsider. That ring is special. It's important to me, like you are, and I hoped I could trust you with it." 

Releasing a breath, Harry shook his head. Dark curls fell in front of his eyes. "You shouldn't have," he clenched the stolen wand. His voice became small, broken. "I damage everything I touch. Think of how many parents I've gone through. Taking me, adopting me -  it wouldn't turn out well for you."

Tom's stare was steadfast. The glint to his eyes were unnatural, cold - 

"I'm cursed," Harry hissed. "And as a burgeoning dark lord - with red eyes and the intelligence to know when a battle has been lost - you cannot take that risk. You can't take me. Leave, Tom. Leave." 

The man's feet were planted. 

Harry's lips tightened.

He blinked his watery eyes and raised his wand, thinking of red hair and a soft voice. "You leave me no choice, then. E - expecto patronum."

The foreign wand resisted at first. 

Then.

Tom watched greedily as a stream of shifting silver light bled from the wand's tip, forming the vague, weak shape of a small, baby deer, with knobbly knees and guileless eyes that peered up at them.

"Help me, please," Harry whispered, breathing his message into the spell. It flickered. "It's my m-mother. S - she's dead. Poisoned. Please, someone, come quick."

His grief-wrought voice was convincing. If Tom didn't know better, he'd almost think Harry loved her. 

Red eyes followed the deer as it leaped through the wall and disappeared. He could never cast a patronus. Tom was too tainted. But Harry -

"That's . . . not in the Hogwarts curriculum."

"No," Harry discarded the wand, looking disgusted. "Dumbledore taught me."

"Dumbledore. Of course. But why would you need to know - "

Green eyes met red. "Because, Tom. I wanted it to see if there was any good left in me. Is that answer enough?" He spat. 

If anyone else had spoken to Tom like that, they'd be writhing on the floor. 

And this was why, Tom supposed, the Sorting Hat placed him in Gryffindor. The boy was stubborn; not only that, but truly, viciously brave. 

"You got what you came for, Tom."

Harry seemed tired. Drained by the spell. "You got what you really wanted. I'm giving you an opportunity," Harry said bitterly. "To live the life you're meant for."

Tom snorted. "I don't need your permission to do that, Harry." 

"No? But if you wait any longer, the Aurors will arrive and - well. I suggest you . . . Finish up here. Adjust Hokey's memory as needed. Just be gentle."

Tom leveled him an intense stare.

Gauging him. 

Harry grit his teeth. "I won't tell anyone either. If - if blood is good for anything, you can trust my word on that." 

"You promise?" Tom said mockingly. Sweeping the tail of his suit jacket back, he pried open Hokey's eyelids and pressed his wand painfully into the bruise on her forehead. 

Harry released a tired laugh. He slumped down against a wall, staring at the body of Hokey. She was shuddering, slightly, as her memories were removed and rewritten. Harry wondered if she'd ever be the same. 

He wondered if he ever would be. 

"Yes, Tom," He placed his head between his knees. His voice was dark. "I promise." 

To be continued . . . 

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 . . .  

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 

Samhain 1948 

The room was serene.

Albus revealed in the peace. His head was bent over a pile of documents, blue eyes narrowed with intense focus. Every tick of his trinkets signified another moment passing, the soft whir of magical artifacts and sensors a white noise at the back of Albus' mind. To untrained eyes, the Transfiguration professor's office was a chaotic mess. Papers, books and other paraphernalia were strewn about in the typical forgetfulness of an old, affectionately dotty old man.

But Albus was not old, not by wizarding standards. He was pushing seventy, with crimped hair the color of autumn leaves and his maroon robes a close match. He was a veteran of a war, giving his clear blue eyes a glint of manic worldliness. He wore the air of a benevolent paternal figure, easily underestimated. But he was powerful, his magic just brimming at the surface. 

Everything in his office had its place. The bowl of serum-laced lemon candies was placed beneath a candelabra, so the sugar-coated treats gleamed tantalizing in the flickering light. The couch was purposefully adjusted to be several inches lower than normal, allowing Albus to tower over its potential occupants. It was a tactic an old friend taught him, long before -

Long before the war. 

Good intentions truly did pave the path to hell. Albus had been the leader of a militia that propagated 'the Greater Good'; this had been his philosophy for several decades. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of green, his men and women martyring themselves for the cause. Whenever he closed his eyes, regret flooded him - fuelled him. 

A silent alarm went off, the magical reverberations tickling his skin. Fawkes shifted in his sleep, brown claws tightening around his golden perch.

Taking a sip of his tea - long gone cold - Albus wiped his lips and stood, long, bony fingers curling around an equally skeletal wand. Albus rapped it against his glossy deck, wordlessly allowing the door to creak open. "Mister Carpe," he said in exasperation as the old caretaker stumbled in, arm wrapped around the neck of a small third year. "Rancorous. It's past midnight." 

"Exactly," the man said, enthusiastic. "Curfew has long passed, and Mister Gaunt was caught out of bed - "

"Take points," Dumbledore said gently. "Assign detention. Surely you've been here long enough to know the procedure." 

"Certainly, professor - it's just I rather thought you, as his head of house, would be interested in knowing Mister Gaunt here was up practicing Dark Magic," he spat the words, like vitriol in his mouth. 

Dumbledore paused. "Ah." 

He peered down at the student, only now taking in his appearance. 

The Gaunt boy's expression was stony, eyes lowered in a narrow-eyed glare. His robes were rumpled and his hands were streaked with blood, a cut across his palm leaking onto the rug. The boy clenched his hand and released a soft hiss.

"I recommend snapping his wand!" the caretaker said, shaking the boy roughly. Harry's head seemed to bob dizzily and he blinked rapidly. "Or a trip to the Forbidden Forest, so he see some real creatures of the Dark in their natural habitat - " 

Dumbledore leaned back against his desk, pinching his nose in irritation.

"Can't you see he's ill, Rancorous?" He swept his hand through the air. Set him on the couch."

Scowling, Carpe thrust Harry toward a chair, where the boy sat, hunching. His hands were trembling so fiercely, Dumbledore worried the boy had caught a form of pneumonia. 

Clenching Carpe's shoulder, he pulled the man aside for a private conversation. "Where was he found?" he asked, sotto voce. 

"In one of the abandoned bathrooms - the one where little Myrtle died. He was surrounded by candles, and there was this chill - " 

In his peripheral, the boy flinched.

"Thank you, Mister Carpe," Albus said loudly, firmly.  

"But - "

"I'll handle it. As you said, I am his head of house," Dumbledore said, raising a thin brow. Carpe gaped at him, before huffing.

"Didn't seem interested in punishing him 'til I told you 'bout the Dark Magic," he muttered, limping out the door. "Self-righteous bastard." 

Dumbledore raised his eyes to the ceiling. The door slammed shut. "Incorrigible man." 

Harry's gaze darted up at the unexpected outburst, before shooting back down to his hands. 

Albus considered the boy, and grabbed the bowl of candies on his desk. "Mister Gaunt," Dumbledore began, carefully settling across from the boy. Tilting his head, he made a face and began again. "Harry. My boy." 

"Don't call me that." Harry seemed startled at his own outburst. 

"Excuse me?" 

"I - I - said," he mumbled, hands balling into tight fists. "Don't call me your boy. 'M not." 

Dumbledore's lips fell open. "Just Harry, then. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"I wouldn't." 

His snappishness appalled Albus. "This . . . isn't like you, Harry. This disrespect. You do realize the trouble you're in?" 

"I realize it." 

"You run the risk of being suspended. By now, you ought to be aware Dark Magic, of any kind, is not allowed at Hogwarts. I find myself befuddled," he admitted. "You're a good, dedicated student. I don't see what could've convinced you to - to - "

Harry glanced up, voice thick. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pallid. "You haven't even asked me if it was true." 

"Well," Dumbledore said, taken aback. "Is it?" 

The boy swiped at his cheeks, jaw clenched, prepared to lie. His face smeared with blood. "It - it - " he faltered. "It was for a good reason." 

"That's what I'd like to think," Dumbledore spoke gently. "But - you're correct, I haven't asked for your point of view. Why, Harry? How? Where did you learn of these things?" 

"A book," Harry mumbled. "In the restricted section. It told me Samhain was when - when 'the veil between life and death is at it's thinnest.' I wanted - I wanted to see my mum, alright? That's all I wanted, professor. Promise."  

Albus leaned back. "Hm. A noble pursuit," he said idly, plucking out a lemon drop. "What was it like? The ritual? I've never done one myself - I value myself too much." 

Harry let out a disbelieving puff. "You want to know what a dark ritual feels like?" 

"Quite so."

"Uh," his laugh was breathless. "Well, it was cold. And - messy. I didn't like . . . the blood sacrifice, but - " he flexed his hand. "It was necessary." 

"Ah, yes," Albus hummed, lifting a finger. He reached for his wand. "A quick spell can clean and suture that for you - "

"No." Harry tucked his hand against his chest, irrationally defensive. "I want to keep it."

"Let me clean the blood, at least. If you'll permit." 

The boy gave him a tired, one-armed shrug, shivering as the spell washed over his small figure. He flexed his bloodless fingers.

Albus settled back into the armchair, fingers steepled, his gaze steady behind gold-rimmed glasses. "Please, continue, Harry, now that I'm unafraid of you staining the upholstery." 

"It . . . " Harry glanced up at the professor, hesitant, before taking the plunge. 

"It felt like a bit like a chill, I suppose. From the inside. As soon as I spoke the spell, probably mispronouncing it," Harry said to himself. "There was this sensation of being somewhere . . . nebulous. I didn't feel like myself. I felt - disconnected. Out of body. But I could see myself, moving, finishing the spell. Shadows started to dart around me, too quick for me to tell what they were." 

"The wandering spirits." 

"Probably," Harry allowed. "I sort of skimmed that part." 

Albus made a disapproving sound. "But I - I read the rest. About summoning s-specific people. You needed something of theirs You needed to - " Harry's expression shuttered, falling. "To burn it. An offering. I - I used an old book of Muggle fairytales. My mother's favorite. Beauty and the Beast, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel - " 

"I was once partial to The Little Glass Slipper," Albus gave a small smile, although it was more of a twitch to the lips. "My mother was a Muggle-born. I liked the idea of rising above the class you were born into, with the help of magic, of course. You sympathize with that sentiment, I believe." 

Harry's eyes narrowed. He wondered if he ought to take insult but ultimately decided the professor was mad. "Well. That - that was it. Really. The shadows and then - " Harry shuddered. "Carpe found me." 

"Hm. So the spell - it wasn't successful?" 

"No," the boy said, levelling Albus such a devasted look, Albus found himself glancing toward the sleeping Fawkes for support. "It didn't. He interrupted before - " 

"Before your life was taken?" Albus' gaze was insistent. "Before you were driven insane by the images, your magic stripped from you as your body's last-ditch attempt to protect itself from the toxic magic you invited in?" 

Harry's breath stuttered. 

"You're thirteen, dear boy. Even the worst books in our restricted section - and I'm afraid I'll have to ask you later how you even gained access to them - give warnings. Magic is particularly susceptible to damage in it's developing stages." 

Green eyes darted to the side. "It didn't . . . " he curled in on himself. "Seem all that scary."

"You thought you could handle it."

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation. 

"I thought it was worth it," Harry corrected. "To see my mum again." 

Dumbledore was silent.

Harry risked a glance up. The man didn't seem pitiful; he looked . . . solemn. Understanding. "When did you lose her?" 

"Isn't there some record somewhere that tells you?" Harry weakly sneered. "My whole, tragic backstory?" 

"I wanted to hear you say it." 

Harry gave him a disgusted look. "When I was seven. Just a kid." 

"You still are a child, as much as you may wish to deny it." Albus folded his hands. "You were wounded, in your childhood. A trauma like that needs to heal, with time. Reopening it, letting it fester, isn't going to help you." 

"What if - " Harry bit his tongue. "What if that wound never heals? What if it becomes infected - and I become . . . like him? Like my father?" 

"Your father? Morfin Gaunt, if I recall." 

"Yes. Him." 

"I was never acquainted - the man never attended Hogwarts, but I have heard stories. Despicable stories." 

Harry exhaled through his nostrils. "He was a despicable man." 

"Objectively," Albus agreed. "But his son? I've heard nothing but good things. An excellent student. Curious, hungry for knowledge, if a bit quiet. I think he's a deep thinker. He's self-aware of his faults, and has a very good conscience when he bothers to listen to it."

The man tipped his head, giving a secret smile. "Perhaps, that is in part due to the woman who helped raise him for seven long years. He had a good foundation. A good - " he considered. "A good role model. Someone to care for him, comfort him, to show what is right - and what is wrong. Even now, if that gets a bit muddled sometimes, it is not the end of the world. He is still young, and he has time to grow. To mature. To learn better."  

Shaking his head, Harry closed his eyes, tears pooling in the corners. "But - but what if there's something sick inside me. Something hateful and vengeful. What if I'm too damaged? What if - what if - " 

"What if, to balance out that sickness, there's some good left in you too, my boy?" Albus leaned forward as if coaxing a small creature out from hiding. "Something brave, and caring, and fiercely stubborn, refusing to be corrupted. This may be bias speaking, but you wouldn't be in Gryffindor if the Sorting Hat didn't see something worth fighting for." 

"I really - " Harry sniffled. "Don't think we should be trusting the word of an enchanted hat to determine my character. It thought I'd be a good Slytherin, too. Thought I was smart enough for Ravenclaw, but I guess I've proved that wrong tonight."  

"No?" Albus hummed. "I'd say you've learned something even the smartest Ravenclaw, the slyest Slytherin and the bravest Gryffindor struggles to understand. Humility. You feel remorse, do you not?" 

"For getting caught, maybe," he said brusquely, crossing his arms. 

"I don't know if you really believe that," Albus chided. "You . . .  you put on a facade, Harry. You use your words to hide what you feel, whether it be guilt. Grief. Anger. But your eyes tell the truth. The fact you feel these things at all is only human." 

Harry's nose ran, and he wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Being human sucks." 

"Indeed," a genuine laugh was startled out of the man. "That, I can agree with." 

"I just - " Harry faltered. "I hope there's good in me. I really do. I have so few memories of my mother, and those I have - aren't great. Is it so bad that I wanted closure?" 

Albus pondered this.

His fingers curled around his wand. "Would you . . . would you like to learn a spell that can truly show what's in your heart? If it would set your mind at ease." 

Harry's brow furrowed. "There's a spell for that?"

"We don't usually teach it to third years," Dumbledore admitted. "But - special circumstances permit. And I'm a bit of an expert on the spell, modified it myself for many purposes." 

"What is it? Will it hurt?" 

"Not hardly," Dumbledore smiled, eyes crinkled with laughter. "It will take concentration, however, and quite a bit of self-reflection." 

The boy bit his lip, looking down at his hands. "I'm not sure I deserve it. I - I broke the rules, professor."

"You did, and this does not mean you are exempt from punishment." 

Harry winced. 

"But I will make your detentions . . . worth your while, you could say. Let me demonstrate the spell for you, Harry. I think you'll find it charming." 

He raised his wand, and concentrated, remembering happier days and the sweet laughter of a young girl. 

"Expecto . . . Patronum!" 

 London

Summer 1952

Three Years Later

Harry was left alone for three years. 

Three years with no word from his cousin - not from the man himself, nor from his diary, buried in Harry's trunk under underwear and textbooks

There was, however, the occasional lily flower. Scattered petals, small buds, and beautiful, multicolored blossoms were left almost without reason on his mattress at Ogden's home, or on the window sill at Hogwarts. Harry still had no idea how Tom managed to get the gift into his dorm, despite Harry's best attempts at safeguarding the room with jinxes.  

Three years was a long time for wounds to heal, but it took only a second for a scar to reopen. A whole bouquet had been left on Harry's vanity that morning - it should've served as a warning. 

"I'd duck, if I were you." 

With a gasp, Harry flung himself out of the way as a spell came flying past, scorching a mark in the stone where he had stood. 

Both the cool breeze and the magical hum of battle had Harry's nerves over-stimulated, his instincts sharply honed. Or so he thought so. 

"On your right," Ogden drawled, before sending out a volley of hexes to Harry's left side. Harry wasn't easily tricked, swiftly blocking the spells with a glimmering shield.

"I wish you'd stop that," Harry grunted as the shield dissipated. "You do it every time. I've come to expect it, now. Ow! Flipendo!"

"Arrogance is the folly of many men." He batted away Harry's returning spell like a gnat. "But good. Keep talking. Distract me. Being obnoxious is one of your strong suits, no? But never, ever, allow the bullshit spewing from your mouth distract you."  

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Ogden designated two hours in the morning for a mock-duel. Living in an Auror's house granted a lot of leeway when it came to using his wand during the hols.

Sometimes, however, the privilege was revoked in lieu of a punishment for something as minor as insulting Ogden's haircut. Harry had not mentioned the comb-over since. 

Other times, the man seemed to forget Harry's young age. He'd wake him up at dawnbreak and proceed to treat the boy like one of the criminals he apprehends on a daily basis. 

It was old hat by now. Granted, Harry was usually not usually blindfolded.

A black handkerchief had been tied around Harry's eyes, forcing the seventeen-year-old to rely on his other senses, magical or otherwise, to sense and dodge Ogden's attacks.

The boy held himself poised, controlled, refusing to let the loss of sight impede his ability to kick ass. 

However, Ogden had enchanted his boots to be soundless, making it rather difficult for Harry to sense when the man was an arm's length away. Not expecting such a close-range encounter, Harry was struck, a petrifying spell grazing his left shoulder. With one arm incapacitated, Harry switched his wand to his right hand, fist clenching around the rod with a renewed sense of vigor. 

Harry released a series of curses, each one worse than the last; not a single one hit, but Ogden was forced to quickly duck, his breath softly catching. Harry's head cocked at the sound. "Stupefy."

The spell, it seemed, didn't make contact. Harry tipped his head in confusion. A faint pop came behind him, and Harry spun around, only to receive a swift, nose-breaking hit. 

On the ground, gasping, Harry tugged his blindfold down. Under Ogden's dark, beady stare, Harry untied the blindfold and swung it like a flag. "Humph," Ogden said. "Is that a sign of surrender?" 

"No," Harry said. "It's a distraction."

He swung his legs out, tripping the older wizard and sending him sprawling.

Ogden's wand rolled out of his hand, coming to a stop next to a blown-out patch of dirt. Ogden groaned, the breath knocked out of him.

"Is that a sign of surrender?" Harry pulled himself up, pinching his nose. 

The wizard lifted his hand in a dismissive wave. "It's been proven, then," Harry announced, lips curling in a pleased smirk. His teeth were stained with blood. "Even blindfolded I can take you down, Ogden." Harry stood and clasped the other's arm sportingly. The Auror rose with a grimace, knees creaking. 

"You look like you've cannibalized someone," Ogden sneered. "I suppose I better get your face taken care of," the man said, wandlessly summoning his wand and wiping the dirt from it. "It's your only redeeming quality. Episkey."

Harry winced at the ear-shattering crack. "Ow," he tested breathing through his nose. "Thank you."   

Ogden limped off, muttering swears beneath his breath once he spotted the grass stains on his pants. "Better get that attitude taken care of!" Harry called to him. 

"Better make yourself scarce!" Ogden shouted back. "'Cause I could just as easily break your nose again!" 

Splashing his face, Harry let out a huff of air. 

He licked a droplet of sweat off his bottom lip. Although his nose had been fixed, Harry was sore all over. Bruises were speckled up and down his body in shades of purples and greens and yellows; he almost resembled a Monet painting. 

Harry leaned into the sink, catching his gaze in the mirror.

Three years went by fast. He was a few inches taller, not much, but enough that he'd have to get new robes for the next coming school year. His hair was shorter, a requirement in the house of Ogden. Deep black curls were cropped just above his ears, with only a single, damp ringlet plastered over his forehead to hide an old, faded scar. 

Wiping his hands onto a towel, Harry vindictively tossed it aside in a crumpled pile. The towel was monogrammed with a single, cursive 'O' for Ogden. "Pretentious," Harry murmured.

Ogden was an odd fellow. He was pompous at times, but deceptively shrewd behind a brusque exterior and heavily devoted to his career. A bachelor for many years, his house was decorated only enough so that guests - few as there were - would be overcome with awe and respect for a man so devoted. Devoted to the Ministry, to the swift hand of justice, to his troubled son. It could be seen in the careful arrangement of photos of Harry and his foster father attending Ministry ceremonies and galas in matching red robes. It could be seen in the showcasing of awards, placed just so. The gold plaques, declaring Ogden as the top duelist four years running, would shine in the candlelight. 

Harry passed a framed newspaper in the hall, Ogden's moving photo looking stoic on the front page. Ogden was standing in front of a memorial for the first wizarding war, recently erected in the Ministry atrium. In the photo, Ogden removed his bowler hat and his awful comb over was published for all of England to see. 

Out of spite, Harry tilted the frame so it was slightly skewed to the left. Little things, just so Ogden wouldn't become full of himself. 

Despite his vague dislike for the man, if Harry had to choose his favorite of his three former homes, he would grudgingly admit Ogden's was the best. The man had an inflated ego, was rude and had ridiculous rules - 

But he at least treated Harry as human. 

Harry wasn't hidden away in some secret wing of the Ogden home. He was given a spare bedroom and had been allowed to purchase his own clothing and decor. 

Harry was made to abide by a strict schedule, including a monthly therapy session, bi-weekly magical training and three strict meals a day, but otherwise, Harry and Ogden lived out their own lives. Ogden's aggression toward the Gaunt heir had mellowed out over the years, enough so the two wizards could co-exist.

It was more than Harry had ever expected. Ogden would never be his father, but as far as parents went - 

Harry has had much worse. 

Stripping off his sweat-soaked training clothes, usually consisting of skin-tight leather trousers and a shirt that could maybe be described as a tunic, Harry collapsed into a boneless heap on his mattress. 

He blinked up at the ceiling, a small smile playing on his lips. Dueling with Ogden had at least one benefit; it allowed Harry to work out his aggressions in a manner that also involved cursing his guardian. So, two benefits. 

Good moods came so rarely, Harry should've known it wouldn't last. 

Yawning, his head tilted to the side, almost unconsciously, and he spotted it.

A bouquet of lilies was settled carefully onto his vanity, stems wrapped with a delicate silver string. 

Harry scrambled backward, his spine hitting the wall so violently the bed shook.

His eyes flicked rapidly back and forth, looking for an unseen, invisible figure. He saw none, but reflected in the vanity's mirror was an open window, the curtains rustling in the breeze.  

He'd assumed one of the house elves had opened it to let in fresh, cool air, but now - 

Harry raised a hand over his hammering heart, while the other hand scrambled for his wand. "Homenem revelio," he whispered, a burst of magic causing goosebumps to scatter across his skin. He could feel Hokey's tender, quiet hum of magic from the garden, with Ogden's loud, overwhelming magic thrumming from his office. 

His lips fell open in a breath of relief. 

"H - Hokey!" He called out, climbing onto his knees. "Hokey!" 

With a wild snap that had him flinching, Hokey appeared, nearly stumbling over herself. Her skin was sallow with age, ears nearly flat, brushing against her hollow cheekbones. She was smiling, however, lips stretched to reveal yellow, crooked teeth. "Master Harry!" she exclaimed, ever dutiful. "What can Hokeys been doing for yous?" 

Harry gestured with his wand toward the flowers. "Um," he swallowed tightly. "A vase. Please." 

"Lillies! A gift from a friend, for Master's birthday?" 

"Well - yes," Harry ultimately decided. "A friend." 

He watched with trepidition as she swept up the flowers in her small hands, but there didn't seem to be any ill effects - they were, after all, just flowers. Hokey made to snap her fingers, but Harry quickly nipped that in the bud. "No need to summon it," he said hurriedly, remembering shattered glass shards from the last time Hokey summoned glassware. "I'm sure I saw an empty vase in the kitchen, somewhere. Under the sink, perhaps. Could you . . . Fetch that for me? Without magic." 

Hokey blinked, but gave him an obliging nod, taking the command with the utmost seriousness. "Of course, Master." She gently patted the bouquet flowers. "Master is taking such care. Must be from a very special friend, indeed." 

Harry covered his face with both hands. 

Just flowers, he reminded himself. Just a birthday present. 

He threw his head back, exhaling through his nostrils. "I'll be - er, at the train station," Harry announced, before Hokey left. He grabbed the abandoned blindfold from their training and transfigured it into what could vaguely be called a train ticket. It felt a little cottony, sure, but it would do the job. "Tell Ogden not to wait up." 

After changing into something more suitably Muggle, Harry found his way to Surbiton Station. He snagged a Muggle paper and quickly slipped past security, who tended to distrust him for his age and his tendency to, what they called, 'lurk'. 

Harry slipped into a seat inconspicuously hidden in the back train car, voices traveling from the platform. The train began to whistle and Harry crossed his legs, opening the paper. The paper trembled, almost imperceptibly in his white-knuckled grip. 

The train car rattled beneath his bottom and the cityside flew past, slowly transforming into dull, grey suburbs. 

Reading the news certainly didn't make Harry feel any better. His stomach took a turn as he read the police reports, searching for anything of magical origins. Muggles were remarkably good at rationalizing things, but the dozens of reports of strange, green apparitions in the skies and violent instances of muggle-baiting made Harry sick. 

A group of unidentified assailants vandalized local restuarant and bar, The Porcupine, yesterday evening. The barmaid, who wishes to remain unnamed in fear of being targeted by her attackers, was available for a statement. "They barged their way through the door and demanded we serve them, else they'd trash the place. Well, they trashed it anyways, didn't they? And wasted  three  bottles of our finest whiskey - those cost more than my coworkers' and my own pay-cheque combined, I tell ya." 

While the pub's usual occupants hurriedly retreated the pub, the barmaid and chef  sequestered themselves in the back room. "We flinched at every glassware thrown, lantern shattered, table overturned and alcohol sloshed. There was a girl who they dragged in, looked a bit like a street rat. They did things to her, not sure what, they didn't seem like they wanted to touch her. But she was screaming like her body was on fire." 

When the curfew alarms rang at midnight, the crowd finally dispersed, their green uniforms askew and their movements staggered. The pub was a mess, the alcohol stocks heavily depleted - and, to make it worse, all their habitual buyers hadn't returned in days.

"It's really ruined business, that's for certain - " 

Harry thrust the paper away in disgust.

He leaned forward, elbows atop his knees, taking in several heavy breaths. Whenever he found himself on the verge of panic, teetering on that precipice between 'fine' and 'self-loathing', Harry recited potion ingredients beneath his breath. "Aconite. Acromontula v - venom," he whispered furiously to himself. "Alihotsy. Aloe vera." 

The train gave a violent rattle. Harry pulled himself up, hands planted on the seat. His elbows shook as he sucked in a breath, registering an ashen smell in the air.

"Angel's trumpet," he murmured. Harry peered out the window, and wondered if the train's combustion was faulty - but no, the smell was closer. "A - as . . . asphodel . . . "

Too close. 

His watched in horror as a tendril of smoke escaped from his folded newspaper, the corner curling as it caught aflame. 

"What the - " Harry snagged the paper.  

He tried fruitlessly to air out the flame, but it seemed aggravated by his actions, creeping down to singe his fingers. Harry stood and dropped the paper, stamping it down with his boot. 

The fire was extinguished, the paper crumpled and spilling ash across the floor. Harry arched his brow, wondering if his accidental magic had - 

And then the compartment seat became engulfed in white-orange flames.

Harry screamed. 

Smoke flooded the carriage. Just as quickly as it escaped through the open window, more emerged. Harry released a strangled cough, his eyes watery freely. He scrambled for his wand, tucked into his back pocket. Fuck the Trace. His birthday was tomorrow, anyways. "A - aguamenti," he coughed, struggling. "Aguamenti!" 

The water seemed to evaporate, sending hot steam into his face.

Covering his mouth, Harry struggled with the sliding door, sweat plastered his hair to his face. The door handle was hot to the touch. He swore, pulling up his sleeves. His glasses nearly slid off, the heat fogging the lenses.

He tripped out into the hall, and heard, distantly - the crack of apparition, the thump of feet, the train car rattling. 

A second pop was heard, louder and sloppier. The trolley woman, several doors down, released a sharp gasp. 

Two figures stood in the smoke, barely fitting in the narrow space.

Harry watched in horror as they surrounded the poor trolley woman. One of the figures swiped a handful of sweets from her cart and stuffed them into the pockets of his billowing robes.

The other one cast a spell that filled Harry's vision with green. 

She fell to the floor in a heap, and fear struck him like a heavy blow. 

Harry tripped back, hitting the screen of his train car, his knees weak.

The skull-like head jerked up. 

They wore robes the exact shade of night, their silhouettes nearly blending into the heavy smoke. Their masks, however, were pale white - figures of death, gruesome expressions of torture carved into bone. Their eyes were the only thing visible, other than two slits for breathing; the masks had no mouthes, as if they'd been sewn shut.  With a flick of one of their wands, a tunnel of vision appeared, leading straight to Harry. Simultaneously, the other member breathed in deeply, their masks charmed to be impervious to gas.

"Hadrian Gaunt," one of the mouthless men spoke, tapping his wand obnoxiously against his arm. "You've been summoned by your lord." 

Harry swallowed tightly and stood, using the wall as support. "W - who are you?" he stammered out, pointing his wand at them. "Somehow, I - I doubt you have a ticket for this train." 

Being obnoxious is one of your strong suits, Harry remembered Ogden's voice, an irritant voice in the back of his head. 

But never, ever, allow the bullshit spewing from your mouth distract you. Harry's eyes darted between the two men, quickly determining the taller one was the leader. "Why are - why are you doing this to me?" 

The man behind the mask blinked, his dark eyes crinkling in a smile. He was intimidatingly tall, with a voice like smooth butter.

"Why, we're rescuing you, Harry," he ignored the boy's flinch as he approached. "That's what our Lord called it. A rescue mission. Do you need to be saved, Harry?" the man said his name like he was something only vaguely interesting, like a funny-colored bug or a new, harmless magic trick. "Are you a damsel in distress, and are we your knights-in-shining . . . well, robes?" 

Harry, at this point, was done hearing the man talk. "Stupefy!" 

The man swiftly dodged Harry's red blast, but Harry'd expected that. "Accio," he dragged the candy cart toward him, knocking into the man's knees and sending him sprawling. Pop! 

He's forgotten about the other one. 

A hand clasped his arm from behind, tugging him into the smoke; Harry was certain he'd spy finger-shaped bruises in the morning. A fat arm snaked around his throat, and Harry responded the only way he knew how. He slammed his foot onto the man's toes and twisted in his grip.

The Knights of Walpurgis didn't much appreciate Harry's stubborn refusal to be kidnapped, but the wizard's shrill falsetto as he was kneed in the crotch was well worth it.

Taking his chance, Harry raced away, swaying slightly. The train rattled beneath his feet and he had to quickly duck into an empty compartment to avoid a petrification spell. Or, at least, what he hoped was a petrification spell. 

From the sliding door's glass reflection, he could see the men regrouping. Gritting his teeth, Harry shot his head out of the compartment and sent out a spell that ricocheted off the train roof, blasting a hole into the metal. Wind whistled, and the smoke began to drain out. 

The wizards glanced up, unbothered. With a simultaneous slash of their wands, Harry was slammed into the hallway, lifted a foot into the air, invisible hands holding him in place. 

The taller man, cheerfully, pulled Harry's wand from his grip. 

"S - stop," Harry struggled. But the fire left him drained, and the smoke left him sore, lungs gasping for air. "You can't do this."

"No one's gonna stop us, kid," the other member said, idly nudging the trolley woman's prone body. He was short, compared to the other member, his voice nasal and scratchy. 

"There's so much I could do to you, little boy," The blunt end of a wand pressed to his temple. "I could have your body contorting in all manners of unnatural ways, your ribs shattering under the pressure as you gouge your eyes out with your toes."

He stroked Harry's cheek, pressing into the soft skin. "I could take out your tongue and make you eat it, chew it down, and then - with a swift kick to the stomach - have you taste it all over again. But, unfortunately, our Lord likes your tongue." the man said, his oily voice giving Harry a vile feeling. He leaned closer. "Don't tell him I said that. Our little secret, hm?" 

Without further warning, a wordless spell was cast.

Harry felt it cascade over him, skin prickling, head lolling as he was lulled into a drugged, fugue-like state. He slid down the wall, slumped over. 

"What about the trolley woman?" Rosier asked, gesturing to the dead muggle in the hall.

Grunting, Avery hoisted Harry over his shoulder, the boy pathetically light-weight. "She's dead. Stuff her into a compartment. Leave her for the Muggles to find. Shove her out the window. Up to you, really."

Rosier visibly straightened in pleasure. "Oh, joy. Might as well 'ave some fun while we're here," he purred.

"Extraction missions aren't supposed to be fun," the Knight of Walpurgis stated, rolling his eyes. "Although I'll admit, the boy gave us a good chase." 

Rosier snapped his glove, smirking behind his disguise. He leaned down to poke the woman's chubby cheek. "Would running her over with a train be ah - overkill?"

The other man stared, deadpan. "She won't be able to feel it." With that, he popped out of existence, precious cargo and all.

Rosier cackled in amusement. He pressed his wand to her left breast. With a spark of blue, her body was rapidly sucked into the ground, and the train let out a vicious, wet crunch, followed by a reverberating screech that could only describe as not good.

Rosier, doubled over by giggles, disappeared amidst the noise and chaos.

 To be continued . . . 

Chapter Text

Rapture

By TanninTele

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

 Wool’s Orphanage, London

Spring 1933

At age eight, Tom was a coltish boy, all long limbs and pale skin.

Compared to the other boys who he silently watched from his bedroom window, Tom felt much older than he was. He always had a book in hand and a glower on his face, a narrow-eyed glare warding off any potential playmates.

Tom was unapproachable with his dark composure, eerie maturity, and razor-sharp wit; if that wasn’t enough to scare others away, the rumors that circulated would certainly do the job.

Strange things happened to those who messed with Tom Riddle.

The day was gloomy and tired. The window pane was rattling in the wind, the outdoor gutters draining with a muffled swooshing sound.

Tom was bored, having already completed his homework for the week. Lying in his bed, Tom listened to the faint noises from the hall; one of the younger children was throwing a tantrum. 

"Thomas? Are you decent?" came a call from outside his door. “It’s Martha.”

“Come in,” he replied, sitting up with a sigh. The door opened with a long creak, revealing the young mistress who assisted Mrs. Cole with the young’uns.

The woman had short, plaited black hair and very dark skin. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and tired, lips dried and peeling from anxious gnawing.

The staff of Wool’s and most of the children were wary of him, but Martha was the only one able to break past Tom’s cold exterior. She could be rather intelligent when she wasn’t worn to the bone, single-handedly overseeing a number of squalling brats while Mrs. Cole ‘rested off’ a hangover.

"Hello Tom,” she began shyly, tugging on the sleeves of her grey dress. “Have you finished all your homework?”

Tom blinked. “Yes, of course.”

“Good, good,” the woman puttered about a bit longer, clearly working up to something. Oh for goodness sake, just get to it already! Tom internally sniped.

Martha cleared her throat and stepped farther into the room. "I'll make this quick, Tom. I - it seems that Amy is in a bit of a temper. She's insisting that you've stolen - or perhaps simply borrowed," she hurriedly backtracked. "Her diary while she wasn't looking. She's asked me to fetch Mrs. Cole, but I thought if you'd be so kind to just give it to me now, we needn't bother Mrs. Cole with such a trivial matter - "

"Oh," Tom said slowly, spine straightening. "So you're accusing me of petty theft, now? I thought better of you, Martha." 

"Tom," she said, exasperated. "I don't want to fight with you. It's just, Amy- " 

"Is a little girl having a tantrum. So what if she lost her precious diary?" 

"Tom, honestly. She's refusing to take her dinner until her book has been returned."

Tom flopped back onto his bed, the springs of the old mattress creaking. "Does it look like I care? Perhaps you ought'a ask one of the other children if they've seen the bloody book." 

Martha sniffed at his language "I've already asked them. One of the boys thought they saw you take the book from Amy's bag."

"Which. Boy?" his eyes flashed in cold fury. "Which boy, Martha!"

The woman seemed torn between scurrying away and protecting the children, but the look on Tom's face urged her to whisper the truth. "Billy Stubbs. But he - "

"Get out," Tom pointed out the door. "Go!" The glass panes of his windows rattled from a sudden downpour, and Martha dashed from the room, the skirt of her uniform billowing.

Chest heaving, Tom tried to calm his temper.

That bloody Stubbs boy.

Hearing the distant sound of scales scraping against wood, his dear pet responding to the broiling tension in the air, Tom's gaze landed on his desk.

Crossing the room in long strides, he grasped the handle of a drawer, spotting a pair of glistening eyes staring up at him through a slit in the opening.

"Are you awake, my sweet?" he cooed. Coiled on a pile of blankets was a small serpent, her scales the color of pine needles. In response. the serpent made a small noise, allowing herself to be removed from the drawer. She wound about his neck, settling her curved skull on one of his slim shoulders.

"Have you protected my treasures?"

Behind the mound of her cushions was a number of small baubles. Glittering up at him was a pocket watch and a glossy yo-yo. 

Among those items was a brown novel inscribed the name, Amy Benson.

He’d had his eye on the little book for a while, his interest peaked whenever Amy’s blonde head bent over the cheaply-made journal during lunch or at recess. By stealing it, he’d hoped to gain special insight into Amy’s darkest secrets or for, god forbid, anything even vaguely interesting.

Dear diary, the insipid little notebook began, the eyes dotted with hearts. Amy Benson’s handwriting was wretched and blotched, the letters smeared, presumably, with her tears. Dennis pulled my pigtails again today at recess and got that stupid bracelet of his caught on my hair. It hurt very badly and Martha had to separate us by taking the shears to my braid. Dennis said he was sorry, but he and his friends would not stop laughing at me -

"Oh, are you feeling neglected, my dear?" The serpent had begun flicking her tongue at his wrist.

She hissed, watching as he pulled out a draw-string bag, clinking with a number of marbles and jacks. He emptied the bag and slipped Amy's diary inside, tying the strings around the snake's long neck. "Perhaps you could do a job for me. I'd like you to place this bag next to Billy Stubb's beds."

"Anything, Master," she pressed her cold nose against his ear. "So long as there's food."

Tom pondered this. "I do believe Billy has a fluffy, fat rabbit for a pet. Wouldn't that be a nice supper?"

The serpent bared her teeth, venom dripping down the ivory spires. "Lovely."

 Black Forest, Albania

July 1952

Chink, chink, chink. 

Tom rapped a dripping blade against a metal bowl. Shaving cream shook off with a wet plop, echoing in the silence of the tent. Tom was careful with the straight-edge razor, running it down the supple slope of Harry's cheek.

It's a tool for those with capable, steady hands, implying some level of control that Tom craved. 

Harry was motionless, breathing evenly in a dreamless sleep. He was settled onto a plush chair, his body easily malleable.

Tom maneuvered his head like a doll, leaning it back so he could access the faint, pubescent stubble on Harry's chin. It was an intimate act, one Tom wished the boy could be awake for. 

Harry was so soft-faced, it was unlikely the facial hair would grow back for another few weeks. Regardless. "Puberty has been kind to you," Tom murmured, stroking a finger through the shaving cream slathered on Harry's protruding Adam's apple.

His dark lashes were settled like raven wings over the almost worryingly blue-tinted orbits beneath his eyes. Harry was so unnaturally still, and blissfully quiet. Tom wasn't looking forward to the initial struggle, the screaming, the demands of 'what the hell is wrong with you?!' 

Tom knew to savor the silence while it lasted, but Harry wasn't made for docility.

He would enjoy the fight, too.

As he finished Harry's shave, Tom reached out and grasped Harry's wand.

It felt odd in his hand, a bit like trying on a too-tight glove; but the magic was compatible, powerful and generous, with a sharp bite. He banished the bowl of now-tepid water. 

Tom tapped the wand against his knee, wondering if it would be kinder to let the boy wake naturally or startle him awake with a swift stinging spell. Just like ripping off a bandage. 

Sighing, Tom stood and began preparations for tea.

It was so rare, after all, that Harry got a good night's sleep. But if Tom happened to tip a small bottle of Calming Draught into Harry's cup, well -

That was for Harry's own good.

Waking up had been a bit like wading through sludge. Harry's limbs felt heavy, body slumping under the weight of an invisible, unrelenting pressure.

Blinking into awareness came with an unwelcome surprise. His cousin sat before him with a chesire grin. "Tea?"

Tom's red eyes, smug and glinting like freshly-spilled blood had Harry almost immediately reacting on offense.

Ogden's training hadn't gone to waste, after all. Not a minute later, Tom was shouting - 

"Silencio!" 

The tent was in disarray, tea spilled across the front of Tom's maroon shirt, porcelain shards scattered onto the floor.

Harry sat in a huff, lips tingling from the silencing charm. In retrospect, it had probably been a good call. Harry had already tossed the tea tray across the room and was half-way prepared to wandlessly hex the other wizard's balls off. 

Tom stood from his crouch behind the overturned table, grip tightening around Harry's wand. Harry glowered at it. Well," Tom said, chest heaving. "I hope you've gotten that out of your system." 

Harry gave an aborted snarl, mouth feeling as though it'd been sewn shut.

"You're not thirsty, then, I take it?" Tom repaired the damage with little more than a flick, the tea tray rising from the ground and carefully settling onto the end table. The cups sutured together and wiped themselves clean. "Hungry, perhaps? My men tell me you put up quite the fight." 

Harry scowled, unable to respond. 

Tom pinched the corner of his soaked collar, tongue darting out to lick the tea from his lips. "Then again," Tom grudgingly began removing the top buttons of his shirt. "I would've been disappointed if you hadn't. One moment, please." 

Harry watched his every move with a suspicious, narrowed glare.

Reaching a tall wooden wardrobe, Tom stripped out of his soiled clothes and pulled a dry white shirt over his lithe torso. For his late twenties, Tom was growing into a handsome man, with strong back muscles and the hint of dark hair leading down - 

Harry made a muted grunting sound, and Tom peered over his shoulder, raising a sculpted brow. The hazy daylight did his features innumerous favors, his cheekbones softened, his hair lighting up like a halo. The man's hair was longer than Harry last remembered, more unruly, as though Tom had been roughing it in this damn tent for months.

The tent was enchanted, with three large rooms - a kitchen, a living area, and a bedroom. The roof sloped up into a multi-colored point, daylight filtering in through the canvas.

A green-quilted bed was made impeccably, with a pile of old tomes and a pair of reading glasses atop the bedside table. The kitchen was fully stocked with food and equipment; Harry could even see a citrus juicer tucked into a corner. 

At this point, Harry was purposely looking anywhere but Tom. 

Taking a deep breath through his nostrils, Harry clenched the armrest one last time before gesturing purposefully toward his face. "Oh?" Tom asked, a mocking lilt to his voice. "So now you're willing to talk like proper adults instead of throwing a temper tantrum?" 

Harry had to close his eyes. He nodded once, tightly. 

"Well, then. The first thing out of your mouth had better be an apology," Tom warned. With a swish of his wand, Harry's lips finally pried apart. 

"W - w - " he struggled to speak, mouth numb. "What am I supposed to be apologizing for?" Harry snarled, eyes flying up. 

"For ruining my favorite shirt. I had picked it just for you, you know. Red for Gryffindor. And I thought it would make my eyes stand out." 

"For fuck's sake, Tom!" Harry seethed. "Where are we? Why - " 

Tom slid down onto the couch, reclining back. "Apology first."

Harry made a noise in the back of his throat, angry. 

Tom sighed, long-suffering. "Would you like an example of how it's done?" he placed a hand over his chest. "I'm sorry for wanting to take my little cousin out for his seventeenth birthday. I wasn't aware it would be such an inconvenience to you."

"Kidnapping," Harry said roughly. "The correct term is kidnapping." 

"Not if no one notices you're missing. Ah, ah - I'm still waiting for my apology, Harry, and I'm quick to anger these days." His voice was, contrastingly, very chipper. 

Harry bit out the words. It was like pulling teeth. "I'm sorry for wrecking your favorite shirt." 

"Apology accepted," Tom said magnanimously. "I know that was difficult for you. You were never taught proper manners, but then again, neither was I. This will be a learning experience for both of us." 

Harry lowered his face into his hands. "You're mad," he whispered in realization. "Utterly, completely mad." 

Tom's blasé nature was rapidly getting on Harry's nerves. But Harry was clever enough to recognize a manipulation tactic when he saw one. Tom's familiarity, his way of speaking as though they were in this together, was just another way of - 

Well. Harry wasn't exactly certain what Tom's master plot was. 

"Where are we, Tom?" He asked, quiet, resigned. 

Tom smiled, then, and Harry could tell it was genuine by the ridiculous dimple in his cheek. "Lovely, stunning Albania. You know, most wizards, once they're of age, go backpacking across Europe. It's a rite of passage." 

"Yes, but most do that willingly. Why Albania?"

"Long story short," Tom exhaled, lazily twirling his wand between nimble fingers. "I'm in search of an artifact. I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone, as the saying goes, and invite you along as well." 

"Great," Harry said, expression pale. "Looking forward to it." 

"I hope so. It seemed as if you weren't having much fun this summer. Mock-duels, homework, riding Muggle trains just to get out of the house - " 

Harry felt ill. "You've been watching me." 

"Always," Tom smiled pleasantly, as if he hadn't just dealt a painful blow. His handsome face then twisted into something Harry flinched away from. Tom leaned in, nice and close. "You look a bit peaky, cousin." 

"D - do I?" he asked, strangled.

"Perhaps my men wore you down worse than I thought. Are you well?" A hand cascaded through Harry's curls, clenching at the strands. Tom pressed his palm against Harry's forehead. "You're warm." 

"I'm tired," Harry muttered, eyes falling shut. 

"Avery's spell was made to subdue you," he said, almost apologetic. "Did it's job well. Nevermind, the fresh air will do you good." Harry was inclined to disagree. He felt like cotton had been shoved into his head. 

"First thing's first." With a sharp yank of his fingers, Tom plucked a handful of hairs from Harry's scalp.

Harry yelped. "What the hell, Tom?" 

"Polyjuice Potion," Tom informed, carefully placing the strands into an empty teacup for lack of a better container. "That'll last us until the end of the summer." 

"Last who?" 

"One of my men," he said dismissively. "Nott, likely. He's the quietest. He'll be very convincing, rest assured. Your foster father won't even notice you've gone missing." 

"He - he will," Harry said, staring wildly at the teacup. "He's smart."

"Whether or not that's true, I've still got some distractions in place for the next month. Muggle-baiting, petty theft, homicide - the usual. I told my friends back home to have fun distracting the Aurors for a bit."

Harry gave him a disgusted look. Tom tactfully ignored it. "Your summer homework and personal belongings will be sent to you here."

Harry exhaled. "I suppose I don't have a choice in the matter." 

"Of course you do," Tom said, stricken. "There's always a choice, Harry. Like now, for instance," he made to clasp Harry's hand. The boy jerked away. "If you'd like, we could get some fresh air and I could show you the village? Or else, I suppose we could stay in and continue going around in these tedious circles," he rotated his finger in the air, rolling his eyes. "If that sounds fun to you." 

"It doesn't," Harry said shortly. 

"Ask nicely, then. Remember, we're practicing manners." 

"I - " Harry fumbled. He felt furious, with himself and the situation. "Please. Please, Tom. I'd like to see the village. Can - um - can you let me up from the chair now?" 

Tom blinked as if remembering the sticking charm uncomfortably tethering Harry to the cushions. "Yes, of course. My apologies. See? Politeness goes a long way in getting what you want." 

"Right," Harry muttered, shakily standing, his knees weak. "Thank you, Tom." 

The man gave a beatific smile, eyes bright and fathomless - 

Like twin pools of blood. 

Painfully, slowly, Harry got dressed out of his 'filthy' clothes. He reluctantly slipped on a pair of Tom's trousers and a cotton shirt, both shrunk down to fit his shorter, smaller frame. While Tom stood outside to give Harry some much-needed privacy, Harry looked around for weapons. He didn't find much, unless you counted the citrus juicer. 

Ruffling his hair in the enchanted mirror, which gave him a judging, appraising look, Harry decided it was in his best interests not to bludgeon Tom with a citrus juicer if he wanted to get home. 

"Are you done in there, princess?" 

Scowling, Harry stumbled out of the tent, slapping aside the front flap. His vision seemed to tunnel as the tent became smaller, stouter. The ground was mossy and the air clean, smelling faintly of beech wood. 

Their branches cast cool, deep shadows on the ground beneath. The trees were curved and drooping, green leaves rustling in a soft wind. Shivering, Harry hugged his sleeveless arms. "Come along," Tom's lips curled. "You've yet to see the shoreline." 

They ducked between a gap in the trees, the mossy ground giving way to rough stone. The Gaunt cousins stood on the precipice of a rocky hill, staring down at the water.

Harry caught his bottom lip between his teeth. He moved until his toes were millimeters from the edge, body leaning forward ever-so-slightly. Excitement thrummed through his body, nerves tingling. Harry stared hard into the murky depths, the wind rushing around him, blurring his vision. He wasn't suicidal, but the realization that a single step forward could have him plummeting into oblivion was damned exhilarating.

A hand clasped his shoulder, pulling him back. "Do you like it?" Tom murmured. At his voice, Harry staggered several feet back, heart pounding rapidly. "Practice caution, Harry. I have plans for us, and plunging to our deaths isn't one of them." 

Tom ushered him down a previously hidden path, scraggly and steep.

Mountains were sharp and grey in the distance. Ramshackle houses, shops and villas were constructed at an almost dangerous angle on the hill, with red terracotta rooves and sheetrock walls.

Harry avoided a braying goat, led by a young girl with a wildflower tucked behind her ear. Villagers walked the streets, purposeful. Tom ignored them, while Harry at least tried to give them tight smiles in greeting. Help me. 

Tom narrowed his eyes at a dangling wooden sign. Harry didn't understand the language, but after a moment of thought, Tom seemed to make up his mind. "You didn't like my tea, but the wine in Albania is excellent."

They ducked into the winehouse, and Harry gagged at the sickeningly sweet smell. A hand over his nose, Harry slid onto a stool.

The barman was looking at them oddly, Tom especially, as he sat prim, one leg crossed over the other, as though he was in a palace instead of a seedy village pub. Tom translated for them, his accent rough and probably bordering on insulting. Two glasses of rakija were poured, a fruity brandy that Harry immediately disliked. "Merlin," he gasped, choking on it. "What is that?" 

"Apricot brandy. They brew it here. Be tactful, Harry."  

Harry took another tentative sip, grimacing. "Wow, no. Sorry, but that's strong. Are you trying to get me drunk?" 

"It's an acquired taste, I suppose," Tom shrugged. "If you don't want it, I'll take it."  

"You like it?" 

Tom took a deep sip, the long, pale expanse of his throat bobbing. "I've learned to. Hungry?" 

Harry flinched as the ruddy-faced barman snapped his dishrag and ducked into the kitchen. "Have you been here before?" Harry unconsciously leaned into his cousin, their shoulders brushing. 

"Never," Tom said cheerfully. "But I've been traveling the Albanian countryside for a good while now. All the villages tend to bleed into one another." 

"Not that Albania isn't . . . lovely," Harry bit out, watching a beetle creep onto a stained napkin. "But - really, Tom? Albania? " 

"The population is mostly Muggle," Tom said offhandedly, nodding at the barman as he brought out a plate of appetizers, burnt salami, cheese and cooked vegetables caked with garlic and olive oil. "The Albanian Ministry of Magic is nearly non-existent. It allows me a bit more . . . freedom when it comes to practicing magic." 

Harry scoffed, and plucked up a piece of cheese, pleasantly surprised by the flavors. Living with Ogden meant Harry was often fed the most bland, spiceless foods England had to offer. "This is very good." 

"Isn't it?" 

"Albania," Harry mused on the thought, chewing. He heard a goat braying outside. He supposed the country had some charm. "Wait. Aren't there . .  . vampires in Albania?"

"Rumors," Tom said dismissively. "I haven't seen any." 

Harry remembered an offhand comment from his friend about the vampire population of Albania - and Artemis was the son of a bloody magizoologist. "Tom," Harry said tightly. "Are you roaming the forests during the day?"

Tom shifted, uncomfortable. "That's when the best light is." 

"I don't know if you recall from - I don't know - basic, third-year Care of Magical Creatures, but vampires are nightwalkers," Harry sat up. "Did you really just kidnap me and bring me into a literal hotbed of vampires?" 

Harry's lecture was interrupted by the shattering of glass. A sleepy drunk slipped off his stool, startled. They ignored him. 

The barman was stricken, ruddy features slack with fear, brown eyes wide. "Vampir?" he asked, insistently. 

Tom and Harry exchanged a glance, before Tom haltingly answered the man. The Albanian shakily grasped a dustpan and swept the shards of a broken mug, mumbling something rough, quick beneath his breath. Tom sat up, eyes bright, and he leaned forward. His forearms were plastered onto the counter. 

"Vampires," Tom breathed out, incredulous. "Of course." 

"What?" Harry asked, alarmed. "What did he say?" 

Tom flapped a hand at him, shushing him, as he attempted to get more information. Harry was hopelessly confused and struck with a silent fury. "For Merlin's sake," he sulked, picking up a piece of salami. With a wet slapping sound, Harry threw it at Tom's cheek. 

Tom startled, abruptly halting. The barman released a weak cough-like laugh. 

"You're a bastard, and I'm going home," Harry announced, standing. "I'll fucking Apparate myself if that's what it takes."

Stepping over the drunk man on the floor, Harry pushed his way outside, a hand lifted to shield his eyes from the sun's glare. 

"One moment," Tom told the man in Albanian. 

Harry could hear footsteps pounding on the street behind him. "Never, in my life," Tom said, wrenching at Harry's shoulder. "Has anyone disrespected me the way you do." 

"Good," Harry snapped. "Because you're an arse, and you've gotten away with it for far too long. I don't know who dropped you on your head as a child," Harry hissed, roughly pushing Tom aside. "But you can't possibly think I'm going to just go along with whatever fucking 'plans' you have in place. Kidnapping is one thing, Tom. But vampires?" 

Tom sighed, glancing around the near-empty streets. "I don't care about the fucking vampires, Harry. Forget them. There's apparently an Albanian folktale of something dark in these forests. They say dark, magical creatures are drawn to these forests. Vampires. Wraiths." 

"Wizards?" Harry huffed out a laugh. 

"Exactly. But above all, the natives fear a hollowed-out tree in the middle of the forest," As Tom spoke, Harry subtly reached into the man's jacket, caressing the handle of Harry's own wand. "They say the dark creatures worship it. It's massive and old, and will not be cut down. I think that's where my artifact is hidden." 

Harry was quiet for a moment, before snorting. "A tree? Great hiding place." 

"Well, it's eluded wizards for centuries."

"So - " Harry's brow furrow. "This artifact. It's a . . . pretty big deal, then." 

"It's Ravenclaw's lost diadem."

It took him a moment for the words to process. 

Harry's face rapidly cleared of color. "Oh. Oh." 

Tom was a collector. Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's goblet - both of which now contained a piece of his soul. 

"That's - that's the magic you've been practicing? You're looking for the diadem to, what, make into your next - " Harry couldn't quite remember the word. "Your next vessel? "

"Yes, but  - " Tom whispered, tugging Harry into a dirty, dingy alleyway. A stray cat bristled at them, before darting behind a trash bin. "How do you even know - "

"That you've been splitting your soul and hiding the pieces away, like in your stupid diary? It's in the bottom of my trunk, by the way, collecting dust." 

Tom's face became pinched. "You disrespectful little shit. That was a gift." 

"And I'm not an idiot," Harry said, jabbing a finger at Tom's chest. They were practically breathing each other's air, skin sticky with sweat from the sun. Harry was panting. "I thought the damn thing was cursed. I thought you'd cursed me, Tom. That's dark fucking magic, Tom. No wonder you're so fucked up." 

Tom made a face. "Harry." 

"I don't understand why you're dragging me into this."

"You were there for the last one. I thought it only right -" 

Rage made Harry's voice quake. "Stop with the 'symbolic' bullshite. You're insane. All this - " he gestured violently at the alleyway. "Has damaged your ability to think straight. And what's more, you're a creep! You've been watching me. You've got this awful obsession with me, something I don't think is entirely platonic with the way you've been . . . leaving me flowers? Like some sort of jilted lover? What the actual fuck, Tom?" 

From above them, a window slammed open, the shutters' hinges creaking painfully. Harry practically thrummed with magic, and Tom, unwittingly, found his breath catching.

"You rejected me," Tom's voice was rough, dark. "You refused to join me when you had the chance. I've offered you numerous opportunities - "

"I'm seventeen, Tom! I - I should be worried about my NEWTs. Fantasizing about a future career, preparing to propose to my school sweetheart. Instead," he forced out, voice catching.

"Every anniversary of my mother's death, I cry myself to sleep. I dream about Hepzibah choking on her own blood in front of me, while I stand and do nothing. I - I'm terrified at the sight of white flowers, my mother's namesake, thinking you've returned to cut off your loose ends. Why?" Harry's eyes snapped shut. "Why would I willingly join the man who made my life the hell it is?" 

"Don't pin this on me, Harry," Tom pushed closer, spittle flying. He bracketed Harry between his arms, the skin of his palms cutting into the rough wall behind them. "I've told you before - there's always a choice." 

"Oh, really - ?" 

"And I'm offering you one now." Tom pressed a hand against Harry's chest, atop his hammering heart. His fingers curled in the fabric of the borrowed shirt. "Stay with me - and - and - I can help you. You can help me." 

It wasn't begging. 

Harry knew nothing could ever make Tom beg - he was too self-important. But something in his voice, whether it be the pure, unadulterated fervor, or the dark lilt that promised pain if Harry rejected him again, had Harry faltering. 

Late at night, Harry would sometimes wonder if Tom was just as lonely as Harry was. Alone, tired, stubborn. Trapped in the mindset that he didn't deserve anything good. 

"Stay with me." Tom inched closer, as vulnerable as he'll ever be, his forehead touching Harry's. "I'm not going to ask again." 

Harry swallowed.

His lashes slipped down, unable to look Tom in his intense, ruby eyes. "Get off me, Tom," he murmured, voice light. "You're sweaty." 

Tom breathed against his lips. It was as good an answer he was going to get. 

Tom obligingly stepped back -

Only to get the point of a wand to his jugular. "Ah." 

"I'm going to make this very clear," Harry said, slowly, as though Tom was particularly stupid. "I'll stay with you for the summer - find your precious artifact - but no longer. We'll play nice. After that? We're done. Done."

Tom seemed close to protesting. 

"Remember, Tom. I'm of age, and perfectly at liberty to curse your balls off if you attempt to kidnap me again. Understood?" Tom's tongue darted out to lave his lips, considering. Harry pressed the wand in further. "Understood?" 

"I understand, Harry," Tom murmured. "I understand perfectly." 

And yet Harry still felt as though he was shaking hands with the devil.

To be continued . . .

Chapter Text

 Rapture

By TanninTele

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

Black Forest, Albania

Summer 1952

"Right," Harry murmured, staring at a little wooden sign. It was almost daunting, trying to decipher the foreign language. 

Well, foreign to him.

Harry got strange looks as he pondered the Albanian currency in his palm, but Harry had gotten very, very good at ignoring people these past few weeks. Tom had a habit of staring at him - during mealtimes, as they sat before the fire, even doing something as simple as reading. 

He had a crumpled list of groceries in his pocket, but not nearly enough money for everything. When Harry first mentioned this to Tom, the man had given him a deadpan look. "Just steal it." 

Harry, needless to say, was not amused. 

Taking the leap and hoping he had enough, Harry added a fresh orange to his burlap bag. He spoiled his cousin. Tom loved oranges.

The marketplace was one of Harry's favorite places. A terrace roof was above him, the wooden slates letting striped rays of sunlight illuminate the tables. 

There were buckets full of fruit and vegetables lined up in colorful rows; olives, peppers, crisp yellow apples sat alongside an abundance of garlic. The growing season was apparently quite bountiful this year. Harry often side-eyed his cousin, wondering if, perhaps, magic had been involved.

Approaching the seller, Harry gave a grimace-like smile as he counted out a dozen cloves of garlic. The seller was a wrinkle-faced farmer's wife, her hair long and swept onto her shoulder. She recognized him -  by now, they'd lived near the village for a couple of months - and she helpfully showed with her fingers how much the groceries would cost. With a chink, he set the money onto the tablecloth and left. 

Harry patted the bristly head of a domesticated goat, his owner a little girl with a bright, toothy smile. Muggles, Harry learned, were ridiculously cute. He speculated if his mother came from a village like this. Close knit, kind, but wary of the odd Gaunt family living in the midst of the dark wood. 

It was a warm afternoon; Harry wore a sweater only because showing skin was frowned upon. Underneath he was sweating. As soon as he reached the edge of the forest, Harry tore it off and wrapped it around his waist. It was rare Harry got anytime by himself. Things had been . . . certainly different, since he and Tom became "allies" quote un-quote. He wondered, sometimes, if Harry had agreed to join Tom from the beginning, would it be the same? Likely not. Harry, at that age, may have been jaded. Untrusting. Childishly bitter. But ultimately suspectible to subtle manipulation and simple kindnesses. Now? 

Harry knew better. 

He shivered as he passed through their Muggle-repelling wards. Harry didn't like being trapped in, but the wards were necessary, especially if Tom - 

Bang! 

-  decided to practice his spell work. 

Harry jerked as a startled fowl burst out of the trees. He placed a hand over his heart and released a puff-like laugh. 

Lreparing for the worst, tugged out his wand, hiding in his waistband. "Protego," he murmured, and just in time too, as a blood-boiling hex came flying past. "Damn it - For Merlin's sake, Tom." 

His cousin, standing in a field, was aiming at a training dummy made of straw and spite. 

Set up between two trees, it had a stick in its hand, to mimic a wand, and was costumed in a pair of spare robes suspiciously colored to resemble Dumbledore's awful fashion sense.

"Oh. Didn't see you there," Tom gave Harry a blasé smile. He let his wand fall to his side. 

Tom wasn't totally hideous looking, Harry grimly noted. He wore a simple, short-sleeved wife beater and loose trousers; he looked his age, for once. His hair was disheveled, sweat beading on his scalp, eyes wild from the exertion. Harry looked his cousin up and down and hoisted up his bag.

He sniffed. "You smell." 

"Do I?" Tom swept a strand of hair from his eyes.  "I'm sorry to offend your sensitive nostrils." 

"And I'm sorry you never learned to take constructive criticism - " Harry ducked out of the way of a stinging spell. 

They . . . may have taken their lessons in politeness a step too far, using it as a way to annoy each other rather than genuinely apologize.

"Constructive, my arse," Tom snorted, wiping the handle of his wand. "What did you get? I'm starved." 

Harry lifted the sack. "Garlic, garlic and more garlic." As soon as they learned vampires were likely afoot, garlic became a large portion of their daily diet. It warded vampires off, or so Harry was told, although he had doubts. Harry had begun to resent the herb, a bit, and sometimes hid cloves under Tom's pillow and bedsheets. 

Tom sighed, deflating. 

"You're the one who put it on the grocery list." Harry reminded.

"I'm aware."

"You know, I never understood why garlic works on vampires."

Tom turned away and parried a jab at the training dummy. "Something about its odor," he mused. "Vampires have heightened senses for one, but garlic is also known to repel bloodsucking insects. That's another reason I added garlic to the grocery list," he stated wisely. "To ward off the mosquitoes. You're welcome."

"You made that up." 

Tom gave a lopsided grin. "I swear! Check any herbology textbook. Garlic is also known for protecting against evil spirits. In some countries, they smear children's foreheads with it for protection."

"Well, regardless. I'm sick of the smell."

"Agreed," he paused. "Instead of getting halitosis from eating only garlic, we could nip the problem in the bud. Instead of warding the creatures off, a wooden stake through the heart would do just as well."

Harry made a face. "Holy water works, too."

"Ah," he tapped his nose with his wand. "But I'm not a holy man." 

"So if I splashed holy water on you, you'd melt?"

Tom grinned. "You can try. It'd more than likely just cool me down." 

"You're . . . " Harry broached the subject slowly. "Athiest, then?" Nothing like a lazy summer afternoon to debate personal philosophies. 

"Well, it's certainly possible there's a diety that granted us magic. We live in a world of bonafide miracles, but if there is a god, he's a bit of an arse." Tom sent off a lazy curse, which soaked into the dummy's straw structure and turned it from yellow to a vibrant red. "I lived in a Catholic-affiliated orphanage, and they seemed to think I was the spawn of Satan. Tried to expel the devil from me and everything." 

"You were exorcized?

"It never worked."

"Clearly," Harry swallowed tightly. "As you're still rotten."

Tom gave a one-armed shrug, his wand twirling expertly between his fingers. His eyes glinted jovially. "Well, at the end of the exorcism, it wasn't me that was bleeding from the eyes and seizing on the floor. It was the pastor. Accidental magic is wonderful, don't you agree?" 

Startled, Harry dropped his sack.

"Kidding." 

Harry chastised him, scowling as he picked up the spilled cloves. "That's enough of that. Go bathe. I'll cook." 

"Yes, mother." 

The tent had no shower or bath, but Tom had found a small stream for washing.

Meanwhile, Harry chopped vegetables for a stew. Tom was a shoddy cook, but Harry at least had a basic grasp of the art. 

"What is this?" Tom came up behind him, wrestling a towel through his hair. He tossed the towel onto a corner for Harry to pick up later and picked up a wooden spoon. He prodded at a wet chunk of . . . something, bubbling in the pot. 

Harry looked at his ingredients. "Uh . . . Cabbage stew," he decided, dropping it in with a plop. "With veal. And sauteed garlic. Stir that in?" 

Tom obliged, but he couldn't help but complain. "There are domestic spells for this, you know."

"It's just like potions," Harry finished chopping the carrots, fingers splaying on the blade's handle. "You can't possibly find it that difficult. Just add ingredients at the right time, stir clockwise, heat at - " 

"It's nothing like potions. The point is, I'm actually planning on eating this," Tom exclaimed. "I wouldn't put Draught of Living Death or - I don't know, Sleekeazy hair potion - anywhere near my mouth. It's entirely different concepts." 

Harry frowned, hand tightening over the kitchen knife. If Harry wasn't careful, this would quickly become an argument. 

Living with Tom was like living with the Gryffindors - loud, full of complaints, with very little time for yourself. Small talk was one of Tom's strengths; he could chat and flirt and distract and banter with the best of them. Harry, meanwhile, preferred Tom when his mouth was closed.

Harry took over, pushing Tom aside. "You've stirred it too much now, it'll never cook properly." 

The man threw his hands into the air. "There's no pleasing you."

"Cooking, just like potions, is based on instinct," Harry informed him. "Intuituon. Although clearly, intuition is something you lack, or you wouldn't have annoyed me while I was holding a knife in the first place." Harry's hand crept back toward the knife. 

Tom took a quick step back. "I'll set the table." 

"Good idea," Harry agreed.  

The nightmares didn't stop, no matter what country Harry was in. 

He was pale and breathing heavily, face dripping with sweat. He felt sick to his stomach, and bile stung his throat. Wiping his face, Harry dragged his legs over the side of the couch. With a flick of his wand, Harry read the time - it was close to three in the morning. The witching hour. 

Scrubbing at his hair, he stood and stumbled toward the mirror. He raised his hand automatically to flatten his hair, fringe falling over to hide his red-rimmed eyes. “You’re fighting a losing battle there, dear,” his mirror said with a yawn. "Bad dream?"

"Terrible," Harry mumbled. "Think Tom stocks Dreamless Sleep?"

At the sound of his name, Tom peeled open one red eye, having already been awakened by Harry's heavy breathing.

Tom was a light sleeper as-is, but neither of them had been sleeping well these past few nights. Tom rolled to his side to inspect the boy.

Harry had always been small and pale, but in the silver moonlight, he seemed practically waifish. His glasses were askew, having hastily been shoved on. He wore one of Tom's overlong shirts as pajamas, scabbed, knobby knees trembling in the cold. His hands were curled into fists as he leaned against the mirror. 

It was dark in the tent, with only the soft sound of cicadas chirping outdoors. Tom could hear the rustle of the grass as clearly as he could his own heartbeat. 

"Harry." 

The boy startled violently, nearly tripping on his way back to the coach. 

"What're you doing awake?" 

Harry gave a quick glance at the mirror, as though it would snitch, before his lips pressed shut. "I'm just thirsty, that's all." 

Tom tsked. "Tell the truth, now."

Guileless green eyes lowered, suddenly self-conscious. Tom prodded gently with his mind, catching a flash of fire, smoke, and screams. He nudged a bit harder. Tom was very good at weaseling the truth out of people. Harry bit his tongue before the words were forced out of him. "I . . . I couldn't sleep." 

"Hm." Just as he expected. "Come on up, then."

"Uh - " Harry blinked. "No." 

"It's cold, you're shivering, I'm warm and willing to talk," Tom said blandly. "The choice seems obvious."

"I can just go back to my own bed," Harry pointed out. 

"You mean the couch? You can't be comfortable there," he cajoled. "I really wish you'd let me conjure another bed." 

"And I wish you'd stop bringing it up," Harry scowled, but he finally moved to crawl in beside him. He settled atop the covers as though he didn't deserve to be swaddled and warmed. Harry leaned against the headboard, legs up and curled toes sticking out beneath his stretched shirt.

Harry hid his face in his knees. Black curls blended into the shadows, one stray cowlick defying gravity. Tom succumbed to his urge and trailed his fingers across the somber boy's scalp. He gently patted the curls down like you would a dog's.

Harry twitched, but was too tired to stop him.  "Did you dream of your father, again?"

Harry response quiet, reluctant. "Yes."

"I should've killed him when I had the chance." 

At that revelation, Harry looked up. Tom watched his throat bob, transfixed by the muscle. Harry released a soft breath, voice nearly imperceptible. "I wish you would've." 

Tom smoothed his fingers over Harry's forehead, the pad pressing against the ridged edge of Harry's scar. He knew Harry would never allow this type of close contact in the morning light, but for now - both of them tired, the Albanian night cold, they sought each other for warmth. 

The wound was a striking, accursed thing. It split through Harry's left brow, leaving a patch of skin visible through the delicate hairs. The scar thankfully avoided Harry's bright eyes, as though warded off by the shifting greens. Tom traced the scar as it ended, curling around the boy's prominent cheekbones.

How easy it would be, Tom thought, to snap any one of those bird-like bones, to feel his gasp of breath against my skin, that precious, dying soul becoming my own.

Tom twisted his fingers through the hairlets at Harry's nape, humming to himself. "How'd you get that scar?" 

"I - " Harry fumbled over the words. "I really can't remember. It happened when my mum died. A long time ago," His mouth fell open in a yawn. "I try not to think about it." 

Tom reached over to his bedside table. "Long enough that any lingering distaste for your bloodline has diminished?" 

". . . What?" 

"Open your hand," Tom dropped the Gaunt ring into Harry's palm.

Harry blinked owlishly at it. ". . . Why?" 

"Think of it as an olive branch extended, in honor of our new . . . compromise."

Harry, hesitant, considered the ring. He tilted it, back and forth, squinting to see in the dark. Tom could have easily conjured light, but that would break the spell - the easy, gentle, tentative peace that allowed them to speak so freely. "You never told me what the symbol means." 

Tom let out a soft huff. "You never looked it up like I told you too?"

"I don't take orders from you, Tom." 

The man snorted, pulling closer. He brushed his nail over the ring's surface, hand closing around Harry's.

"There's a tale of three brothers," he whispered, tickling the downy hair on Harry's neck. "That once defeated death with the help of three magical artifacts. The Deathly Hallows. The Hallows come in a set of three; an unbeatable wand, an undetectable cloak that could deceive death itself," his voice was soft, breath hot, scalding. A flush wormed it's way up Harry's back. "And a stone that can resurrect the dead - if only temporarily."

"Do . . . do you think. . .?"

"It's possible," Tom acknowledged. "That this is the rock of legend. It's been theorized that the Three Brothers of myth were really Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell, necromancers of the highest pedigree. Ironically, all the men died. One because of hubris, another out of grief, but the last survived until old age. He greeted Death as an old friend." 

Harry breathed hard. 

"The Peverell name has long become extant - but the objects still float about the wizarding world, just waiting to be reunited by a powerful wizard. This person would be regaled by many as the Master of Death." 

Harry licked his lips, and Tom's gaze fixed on the wet muscle. ". . . You?" 

"No," Tom murmured. "While conquering death is . . . certainly, a noble pursuit, the Tale of the Three Brothers is just that. A fairy-tale. A metaphor, if anything, for the fickleness of men." 

Harry palmed the ring, hiding it from sight. "Have you ever tried summoning anyone with it? Just to see?" 

"I wouldn't want to. I have too many ghosts, and none that would be happy to see me."

Harry seemed to concede on that. He made a face. "Well, I don't think I like that fairytale, anyways. Muggle ones are better."

Tom sneered. "Really?"

"Really." 

"I never knew you to be such a romantic," Tom prodded his ribcage, teasingly. "The Muggles are more twisted than we give them credit. Encouraging bestiality, helplessness, docility. They teach such awful messages." 

"I don't know about that," Harry puffed a laugh. "Sometimes . . . it's just nice to have something to dream about. An ideal. Unconditional love. Protection. Loving someone, despite all their flaws - "

Harry cut himself off.

He was suddenly very, very aware of how close the two were lying. He could feel Tom's chest press against his side and felt himself grow warm. "T - Tom?"  

Tom shushed him, dry lips pressing into his shoulders.

Harry's eyes fluttered shut, a tingle going down his body. "Tom." 

"Let me help you relax." Tom's arms began to wind around Harry's waist, fingers grasping his hips, and Harry released a strangled sound. "Breathe."

"T - Tom. Stop," he croaked. "This isn't . . . normal."

Tom's fingers crept lower, brushing gently against the ties of his sleep pants. "Nothing about us is normal." 

Harry pulled away, almost writhing out of his grasp. "We're cousins!" Harry gasped out, rolling off the bed with a loud thump. 

That promptly killed the mood.

"Ow. Fuck." 

Tom frowned, peering down at him. "Are you alright?"

"No!" Harry forced out, covering his face with his hands. "You arse." 

"I . . . really don't see the problem here," Tom sat up, leaning on his elbow. "It's not like we can procreate, anyhow, so inbreeding can't be the issue."

"That's not - "

"You're attracted to me, aren't you?" 

"I'm not - !"

"Clearly," Tom gave him a languid smile. "You are." Harry flustered, swiftly grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it up to cover the proof.  "I am too, Harry, it's alright. I've never felt anything like this before - "

"It's fetish, or something, that's what it is," Harry snapped, irritation seeping past his shame and embarrassment. "You wanting to do . . . that with me. It's not healthy, it's not safe - " Harry shook himself violently. "No, you know what? I shouldn't have to defend myself to you, Tom. My answer is no." 

Although it was dark, Tom did appear to wince. Harry huffed, guilt seeping in as he ran an anxious hand through his hair. 

Tom's next words were quiet.

"I'm . . . sorry to hear that. Truly. I would never hurt you, Harry. I . . . " he seemed to have difficulty forming a coherent sentence. "I value you too much to ever abuse you in that way."

This, Harry suspected, was as close Tom would ever get to admitting fondness. And yet, in his hurt and self-repulsion, Harry still felt the vulnerability was nothing more than a facade. But a convincing one, nonetheless.

Tom collapsed back onto the bed, sighing. "I once promised you we would be happy together. I've already broken so many promises already. Taking your wand, scaring you - "

"You're trying," Harry released a shaky breath. "I know you are. You're trying to be kinder, more - empathetic." A regretful furrow grew between his brow. "That's to be commended."

"But?"

"Well . . . you weren't wrong. I find you . . . hard to stay away from. There are all the voices in my head, telling me that you're - you're a bad person, that you could just as easily kill me as you would break my heart. But for some reason, I don't listen."

The compliment, backhanded though it was, had Tom looking smug. 

"It's what you wanted, right?" Harry's words were bitter. "All the lily flowers, sending me the diary. You were always making sure that I never forgot you. I can't forgive you for that. But I can . . . understand where that loneliness stems from." Harry paused, before admitting; "I'm just as lost as you are, Tom. But neither of us are in a place to start depending on each other in that way. We can't be together like that. It'll just make it worse when the end of the summer comes." 

Logically, Tom understood. But they were still hard words to hear.

He shifted awkwardly in the bed. "I - " he cleared his throat. "I just thought with your talk of fairytale romances that you were ready. I was wrong, then?" 

Eyes half-lidded, Harry bit his bottom lip. "I'm sorry, Tom. I can't." 

The man gave a half-hearted smile. "I suppose you'll be going back to your couch, then?" Harry gave a short, but firm nod. "Well, in that case," the mattress creaked as he laid back. "I keep dreamless sleep and calming draught in the kitchen. Top cabinet. You wouldn't have noticed it unless I told you." 

Harry gathered himself up, awkwardly maneouvering so Tom wouldn't see his lower half. Harry paused, lingering in the darkness, and turned his head back. "Tom?" he whispered. "Thanks." 

He disappeared into the depths of the tent.

And although Harry was only footsteps away, Tom felt, with an irritated pang, lonelier than ever. 

Tom had woken up the morning after with a renewed sense of vigor, ready to tackle the task at hand. Harry had taken an hour-long bath so he'd be clean, fresh-smelling, pretty  - 

Ridiculous as it was, this was necessary. He was, unfortunately, the bait. 

Harry fondled the Gaunt ring, hanging from his throat by a leather rope. Although things had been stilted between the two cousins, Tom was, at least, gentler. And Harry was more willing to let things slide, agreeing to wear the ring around his neck, close to his heart. 

It was pitch black out, the air chilly. Each rustle of dry grass had Harry tensing, prepared for the worst. Tom was out there, somewhere, he knew, under layers of charms to hide his presence. 

Harry wondered if the vampires would even come. 

Harry was the one clever enough to suggest using an owl to track the vampires and send them a message, a peace offering. Tom had translated the letter into both vernacular and rough Albanian, hoping at least one vampire spoke the English language. 

They had fought for a good hour over who would be bait until Tom announced that virgin blood was probably more attractive. He'd never wanted to smack Tom more. 

Footsteps in the distance had Harry's back going ramrod straight.

He wore white, to stand out in the darkness, and he distantly wondered if his shirt would be soaked with blood by the time the night was through.

The forest was suddenly deathly silent, not even the wind daring to disturb them. The cicadas fled, as though sensing a predator among them. Harry's head shot up at the sound of crackling leaves.

The air went cold, abnormal for the summer season. Harry tried to follow the shifting shadows, unsure where exactly to look.

"A wizard? And a pretty one, too." 

A pale hand shot out to grasp his shoulder. Harry startled at the unnaturally tight grip, his nose twitching at the overwhelming scent of iron in the creature's breath. His breaths stuttered to a halt. 

"You are a wizard, no?" came a heady voice in his ear.

"How - " he choked out, trembling. "How did you know?"

A cold nose pressed into his neck, inhaling deeply. "Wizard blood smells the sweetest," the stranger murmured, laving her tongue across Harry's prominent Adam's apple. The wizard shuddered at the sensual touch, before jerking back and pulling out his wand.

The short rod wavered as Harry took in the creature's appearance.  

The woman - for it was indeed a female vampire - simply smirked at him, blood-red eyes twinkling. The rest of her was not so striking; her skin was pale as death and her long hair covered her features like a mourning veil. If not for the vampire's graceful stance and the white incisors peaking out from between her pale-white lips, the woman could almost be considered an exceptionally lovely Muggle. Harry knew better.

The vampire shifted in place and Harry's wand shot back up. The creature licked her lips, expression turning shifty. "I have a deal for you, little wizard," she purred, her accent thick. "So put down your glorified stick." 

"And?" Harry snapped, breath short.

"And I will give you the crown you seek," The vampire cracked a smile. "Our coven received correspondence from your . . . Dark Lord. We were very surprised to have been found out. Curious, even. But willing to negotiate."  

Harry eyed the creature warily. "You know where the diadem is?" he turned the conversation around. 

"Know? I have it." 

She reached into the folds of her dark gown, brandishing the crown in the moonlight. 

Huh, Harry thought, blinking. That was east. 

"It's worshipped by my kind," her voice was hushed, awed. "The power, thrumming in this artifact - I'm unsure if a puny wizard is worthy of it." 

Too easy. A summoning spell lingered on the tip of Harry's tongue, but she jerked away, narrowing her eyes at him. "No need for spells. We were promised protection. An allyship. When the next war comes, and the new Dark Lord rises, we will return to the wizarding world as your equals. Is this understood?" 

Harry released a breath, trying to calm his nerves. "Yes. That's - that's more than fair." 

"Agreed."

Without another word, she placed the diadem into his waiting hands. Harry clenched it tightly, protectively to his chest. He felt her gaze heavy and unyielding on him. 

She took a graceful step forward. 

". . . What are you doing?"

"Ensuring my end of the deal. I believe I was promised payment." 

"And you'll get it," Harry's grip tensed around the crown. He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to fight the tremble that wracked him head-to-toe. "Just . . . just a bit of blood?" he asked hesitantly. "Not enough to kill me?"

Keep her talking. Give Tom enough time to - 

White incisors flashed. "Of course not. I'm not a heathen."

Before Harry could respond, the creature pounced. A cold pressure landed atop him as the vampire buried her teeth into the wizard's neck. The diadem fell from Harry's hands. 

Tom burst into action. 

Pain ruptured through Harry's throat, just as a heavy weight landed on them both. With the crunch of ribs, a spray of hot, viscous liquid and an echoing scream, Tom stabbed his wand through the vampire's back. 

Harry spluttered on blood, both his and hers, as she slumped on top of him. 

"What," Harry wheezed. He shoved her off. "Took you so long?" Blood cascaded, warm and wet down the side of his neck.

Tom ignored him, jerking his wand from where it was nestled in her spine. He wiped the filth from his wand. "Hold a hand over your neck. It'll stop the blood flow." 

Tom stooped and grabbed the crown, turning it back and forth in his hands. The silver was darkened and stained from age, but the delicate wrought metal and the spread eagle wings were majestic. Worthy of a queen.

"It's . . . " Harry winced, fingers spasming on the wound. "It's beautiful." 

"Yes," Tom looked up at Harry, green meeting red. He spoke softly. "It is." His voice took on a slightly lecturing tone. "Not just beautiful, but incredible. Rowena Ravenclaw was the brightest witch of her time. Some records say she and Helga Hufflepuff were the most capable of the lot, having charmed the Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance. This diadem - well." He smiled down at it. "It says to grant great wisdom to its wearer. But I wouldn't recommend trying it. Who knows what that much intelligence could do to your fragile little brain." 

Harry snorted, feeling a bit dizzy. "How many artifacts from the founders do you have now? Hufflepuff's cup, Slytherin's locket, the diadem, me - " 

"Nothing of Gryffindor's," Tom said mournfully. "Godric Gryffindor, as much as I hate his lot, was a skilled swordsman, having won many battles. His sword is lost to the ages."

"You thought that about the diadem."

"True," Tom considered. "Well, wit wasn't his strong suit, but sheer strength and brute force made spells bend to his will. It must be hidden somewhere, charmed so only a select few could find it."

With a snort, Harry stumbled to his feet. "If that's the case, I doubt you'll be one of his 'select few'. Gryffindor probably wouldn't find you so charming, either." 

"Rude. I suppose it isn't entirely unprecedented that you were Sorted into his house," Tom said teasingly. "It was Gryffindor to invent the Sorting Hat, and because of that stubbornness that Gryffindor wielded, it is never wrong." 

"I'm brave, then, you're telling me? That sounded almost like a compliment." 

"Stupidly brave or bravely stupid, perhaps."

Tom made to stalk away, but his head jerked up as a distinct screech sounded. It echoed, the trees rustling and a cold wind brewing. 

"Damn," Tom swore, tearing out his wand. The cousins went on high alert. "I guess I wasn't the only one hiding in the shadows. They sensed her death."

"And they're close," Harry realized. 

"I hoped we would get out without any more bloodshed, but - " Tom thrust the diadem into Harry's hands and spun on his heel. "Go," he commanded. "I'll hold them off." 

"Or, just a thought - we could apparate away. Like wizards."  

Tom spun his wand, giving Harry a smirk over his shoulder. "But it's more fun this way. I've been training. Besides, the adrenaline will make your bite mark hurt less." 

"You - fucking psychopath," Harry realized, eyes wide. 

"I never claimed otherwise." 

Dark figures appeared in their peripheral. Tom sent him a look, and Harry, swearing, made a hasty retreat. 

From between the leafy trees, moonlight illuminated the pale skin of his sweating forehead and the pale column of his throat. A trembling hand pressed against the wound on his neck, a jolt of pain traveling down his spine. Flaky bits of drying blood came off his fingers and Harry swallowed down bile.

“Come on, come on,” Harry risked a glance back only to trip over a gnarled tree root. Pain tore through the arch of his neck, and - gritting his teeth, Harry pushed on. Blood soaked the front of his shirt, and Harry didn’t even want to consider the possible communicable diseases the creature could've given him. All he could do was run.

Harry wasn’t coordinated the best of times, but he was probably moving faster than he ever had in his life. Tom had taken on a good portion of the coven, but a few slipped past to chase him. They screeched and hollered, and he shot spells back at them, blasting dirt in their eyes. 

Cold metal bit into his stomach, the sharp edges of the crown cutting against his soft skin. Eventually, Harry could smell salt in the air, and he skidded to a stop at the edge of a cliff. Struck with a sense of vertigo, Harry's vision tunneled. Moonlight cast some eerie shadows over the water. He leaned forward, staring down into the dark oblivion beneath him. "Shit." 

As he made to double back, Harry nearly didn't hear the footsteps behind him. Harry swung around, losing his balance He brandished his wand, wildly. The creatures were bathed in shadow, sharp eyes focused on the point of his wand. They snarled in some foreign language, voices overlapping one another. He tried to curse them, thinking back to his training with Ogden - that felt like a lifetime ago - but they were far quicker than the average wizard. 

One of them rushed forward, enraged.

Panic flared through him. "Tom - " Harry cut off with a scream.

With a burst of air and pain in his chest, Harry was shoved violently over the edge of the cliff. 

Wind howling menacingly in his ear, Harry's cries were cut short he slammed into the inky ocean. 

Fear flooded through his body, even as frigid water surrounded it. He was submerged, his ears popping, lungs suffusing with water. Harry tried to swim, but the violently lapping waves dragged him up and down, giving him little time to gasp for air. An awareness of acute peril swept through him. 

The waves were strong enough to snap his neck, and he was amazed it hadn't already. A large wave washed over Harry's scalp, shoving his body backward. Salt water stung his wound. Slamming into the cliffside, Harry felt his shirt rip. The dull pain only worsened his predicament.

Gasping for breath one last time, Harry went under. Water rushed in his ears, his rapid heartbeat echoing.

The boy couldn't see a thing. The water was black, like ink, and Merlin knew how deep the ocean was. And he could only hold his breath for so long.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling himself drift.

This was it.

Harry was drowning.

It was the only thought that broke past his sheer terror. He'd never much thought about dying, except in the vague sense.

Dying - he realized - wasn't so terrible. It was quiet underwater, the outside world muffled.

His body slowly began to relax, as if accepting the death sentence.

The boy jerked as something wrapped around his wrist. His body was jolted upward toward some unseen identity. The only thing visible was the red of their eyes and the paleness of their skin. The fingers tightening around his wrist was his only warning before Harry was jerked ashore. 

His body was shoved onto dry ground, the sand slippery and unnaturally smooth. 

Cold, wet lips pressed into his, air sweeping down his throat and into his lungs.

Life renewed, the first thing Harry did was choke on air. Harry's chest heaved in protest, black water dribbling from his lips like blood.

"Breathe, Harry," Tom dragged Harry's head to his chest, combing fingers through wet hair. "You're fine." He continued to murmur. "I've got you. They're gone."

Harry was uncertain if the salt he tasted was the ocean or tears. His eyes were burning, but he didn't think it was from crying. He was, simply, exhausted. 

With trembling fingers, Harry dragged up his shirt, dragging out Ravenclaw's diadem from his waistband.

Miraculously, it survived the impromptu bath, although the metal dripped with water. Tom's pupils were blown with adrenaline, almost as dark as the diadem's gemstone.

Harry shoved the crown into Tom's hands, pulling away in disgust. "There's your precious crown," he spat, lungs aching. "Hope it was worth it." 

Tom's eyes narrowed. He barely glanced at the crown, letting it fall into his lap. "I just saved your life, darling," he reminded. "A 'thank you' would be nice." 

The boy, too tired to argue, seemed to crumple. "This sucked," Harry mumbled, turning his face into Tom's chest, the crown discarded on the ground beside them. 

Harry clung, child-like, to Tom's figure. He blinked at their surroundings.

Tom had brought him onto a narrow, sandy peninsula, not far from the cliff where Harry'd dropped. Been pushed. The moon glinted off the waters, providing only the bare minimum of visibility. They were both wet, soaked really, and Harry was grateful for magic when Tom cast a swift drying charm. He was still cold. 

"Let's never work with vampires again, okay?" 

"No protests here. You've had a stressful day," Tom grunted, shifting awkwardly on his knees. "And we're going to get sick if we don't get warmed up. I'll start a fire."

Tom pushed Harry off. He stood with a slight groan, stretching his arms into the air. The man seemed to tower over the younger man, hair whipping in the wind. 

Harry hugged himself, feeling naked - vulnerable. "Come on, Harry," Tom sighed. "Best to leave before any of them decide to prove their immortality."

"Won't they find us?"

"The wards around the tent will protect us. I'll protect us." Tom offered a hand. 

And Harry, without a spare thought, grabbed it.  

To be continued . . . 

Chapter Text

  Rapture

By TanninTele

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

 Black Forest, Albania

Summer 1952

Even after a hasty drying charm, Harry was still terribly cold. The boy shuddered and began to tear off his clothes.

His neck stung as his blood-soaked sweater was peeled away, revealing a shallow wound on his throat. Dressed in only a stained undershirt and his boxers, the boy stood and carefully brought the tip of his wand upward. 

Ogden had taught him a few basic healing charms, but never anything to defend against a vampire bite. He wasn't going to turn, thank Merlin, but the bite still hurt like a bitch. With a faint murmur and a burning sensation, the wound was cauterized and cleaned. 

"That might leave a scar," Tom said behind him, apologetic. He handed Harry a clean pair of trousers and a t-shirt, folded up nicely. "On the bright side, it looks . . . wicked." He seemed to struggle with the slang term. 

"The things I do for you," Harry trembled, still cold. "I believe I was promised a fire?" 

It took only a spark from Tom's wand to set a pile of broken branches and dry leaves aflame. Harry settled cross-legged onto the grass, breathing deeply. The smoke tickled his nose, warming his face. He lowered his head into his hands, bone-tired; all he wanted to do was rest. 

Tom sat across from him, the fire between them. His legs were stretched out, wand in one hand and a stick in the other to stoke the flame. The branches crackled and hissed and Tom relaxed.

When the silence became too much for Harry to bear, he spoke. 

"Tell me a story," Harry demanded, his voice taking on a cadence of a child much younger than he was. "Isn't that what normal people do - tell stories around a campfire?" 

Tom hummed to himself. "We're not normal people," he reminded, but he wore a small smirk. "And I'm not one for fairy-tales. I don't believe in happy endings or . . . true love." 

"You believe in souls, though," Harry said. Considering you're planning on mutilating yours. "If that's not romantic, I don't know what is." 

The man gave a put-upon sigh. "You're a brat, did you know that?"

Harry gave a sardonic smile. "I have a great role model. Tell me a story."  

Tom puttered around for a moment more, stabbing the flames with his stick. The leaves blackened and curled, turning into ash. "During the war - I don't believe you were born then, correct?" Harry shook his head, green eyes half-lidded. "Well, during the war, a great number of books were burned," Tom spoke nonchalantly, as though commenting on the weather. "Hundreds of stories and tales turned to ash. It was a great loss."

Of course, Tom would worry more about the loss of literature than the millions of dead Muggles.

"Because of that, I suppose I don't know many Muggle stories." 

"Still," Harry insisted. "Try."

"Fine. Bossy. Alright  - during the Summer of 1938," Tom began slowly, licking his lips. "A mandatory curfew was issued. I would've been about thirteen, I believe? They called it 'Blackout' because, for enemy airships, the lights of London were horrifically easy to spot."

Harry sat up, curious. 

"The government had us board up windows and doors, extinguish all lantern lights. They wanted total and utter darkness," Tom sniffed, the memory drudging up a sense of weariness.

"Wardens went around, ensuring that not even the faintest glimmer of light could be seen from any building. My orphanage couldn't afford curtains, so the matrons had us put up any spare clothing, cardboard slates, anything. It was early autumn, and with all our threadbare coats covering the window panes, it was . . . . so cold. I remember goose-flesh crawling up my skin, and in the dark, it was easy to imagine . . . "

Tom blinked rapidly, his words caught in his throat.

He shoved the tree branch away, tucking his hands into his lap, fingers clenched. 

" . . . It was easy to imagine that this was what death was," he finished. His tone was bland. "Endless darkness. A chill to the bone, with the soft, fearful murmur of those around me. Funnily enough, it was the dark that frightened the other children, not the impending war. They were all so stupid."

In the firelight, Tom's cheekbones seemed hollow, corpse-like, his red irises ablaze. 

"Martha, one of the matrons, lit a match. I remember hearing her struggling with it, her fingers shaking. War hadn't yet been declared, but Blackout was one of many ways we prepared for it," his voice deepened. "I was thirteen and to me - war seemed like a distant dream. But as an adult, who had seen poverty and pain and childbirth, Martha could sense the dread in the air. I've always been good at seeing through masks," he murmured.

"She was trying so hard to be calm, for the little ones - but she was shaking as hard as them. When the match lit, I met her eyes, and I could see it. Her fear. It was so potent, I could even taste it. It tasted like salt and ash and blood and smoke."

Harry covered his mouth, feeling ill. 

"Unlike the other children, I didn't fear the dark," Tom continued, tone distant. "But at that moment, I never feared death more."

The fire crackled for a moment, filling the silence. Harry felt the urge to say something, anything, but his tongue seemed heavy. 

"I left for school soon after," Tom continued without a hitch, as though he hadn't paused. "And I begged the headmaster to let me stay. He told me 'war is happening everywhere, boy,' He denied me, again and again, and again - " Tom spat, leaning closer to the fire. 

"And he would plaster this ridiculous, pitying smile on his face each time. He had the gall to tell me the Muggle world was larger, with more places to hide from Grindelwald," he hissed the name, lips curling around the foreign name.

"He told me that staying with the Muggle was safer, despite the fact Hogwarts is supposedly the safest place in the world. The headmaster was wrong. The war came to Britain. Half of the boys I grew up with conscripted into the army. Martha's husband died serving. The bombs made the air so polluted I'm surprised I didn't contract some sort of lung infection. I survived, obviously, but after - " 

"You sought immortality," Harry said, voice muted. He watched Tom with wide eyes. "You sought to make Horcruxes."

"Symbolic, isn't it? You were with me for my last Horcrux, and you're here for this one," Tom said with a tight smile. "There are very few people I trust as much as you, Harry. I must thank you for all your help." 

Harry had learned to take gratitude with a grain of salt when it came to Tom. Their eyes met, blazing red against green and Harry felt - 

Fear. 

Tom's eyes lowered. 

The realization came to Harry slowly, in increments. 

The way Tom's hand was clenched around his wand.

The life debt Harry now owed Tom.

The Horcrux, innocuously inside the tent, waiting for a sacrifice. 

A sacrifice . . . 

Like Harry. 

Harry subtly began creeping backward, heart jackrabbiting against his rib cage. Tom's back was to the tent's entrance; if Harry could just distract him long enough - 

A leaf crunched beneath him.

Tom's gaze snapped up. Harry made it appear as though he was merely stretching. 

"Perhaps - " Harry swallowed tightly. He forced a laugh. "Perhaps you could get more people to trust you if you didn't wear that shit-eating smirk everywhere." 

Tom released a snort. "I don't have difficulty making people trust me, Harry. I have a very trustable face." 

Harry grimaced tightly. It was all too true.

"A punchable face, maybe." Harry peeled himself from the grass, and stepped awkwardly towards the tent, keeping an eye on his cousin. "I'm getting something to eat." 

"Oh, good," Tom turned back to the fire. "Make me a plate, will you? I'm starved." 

"Of course, your Majesty."  

Harry, walking as calmly as he could, entered the tent.

But as soon as the flap closed behind him, Harry flew into action.

He snatched his wand from where he'd stupidly left it in the bathroom and was quick to grab the burlap sack from grocery shopping. He shoved in whatever clothes were closest, a few apples, and a handful of Albanian cash. His summer homework and belongings had been delivered via a disgruntled owl, his trunk shrunken down to the size of a loaf of bread. Harry quickly re-cast the charm and shoved the miniature trunk into his bag.  

He debated taking Ravenclaw's diadem, but something about it had him pulling away. Looking at it gave him a sick feeling.

Perhaps it was merely the knowledge that Tom would corrupt the priceless artifact, that Tom would corrupt himself, shattering his soul into pieces - 

The Gaunt ring throbbed against his throat, as though it sensed Harry's deceit. His pulse hammered. There are very few people I trust as much as you, Harry, the words brushed against his mind, and Harry winced violently. 

Harry hesitated at the entrance, the bag clenched between his hands. He was reminded painfully of a night ten or so years ago; he was just a child back then, sneaking away from his father, setting fire to the woods outside the Gaunt shack. No wonder he was in Gryffindor; he had ridiculously poor self-preservation instincts. 

Harry's breath caught. The smell of smoke made his lungs burn and his eyes sting.

He hunched over, forcing himself to breathe. 

He wasn't a scared seven-year-old anymore, afraid of the monsters in the dark; the monster was right here, illuminated by firelight and wearing a cotton t-shirt. 

Monsters come in all forms. 

And Harry - the boy thought grimly, removing his wand - knew how to deal with monsters. All it took was one spell. 

One damn spell. 

Harry stalked up behind Tom, stepping silently, leaning onto the balls of his feet. 

"St - " as he spoke, Tom turned, eyes startled and mouth falling open in a snarl. "Stupefy."  

Red light filled his vision.

Harry caught Tom by the back of his shirt before the man could slump face-first into the fire. He was dead weight, eyes fluttered shut, and Harry carefully settled him onto the grass. Another quick spell doused the fire, the flames spitting out a few last embers.

Harry took Tom's wand from his limp grasp and tossed it into the trees, where it clattered somewhere inside the tangled branches of a bush.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, hoisting up the bag. He spared his cousin one last glance. "But I've told you before; I ruin everything I touch. Sometimes, though - it's on purpose." 

Harry took off toward the village. 

DLE officials end search for missing ward of Auror

Elphias Doge 

The Department of Law Enforcement are scratching their heads at the strange disappearance of an eighteen-year-old wizard. Harry Gaunt, adopted ward of Auror Bob Ogden, was last seen in his bedroom by their family elf before disappearing into the night. 

Gaunt has graced the front pages of The Daily Prophet in the past. The Gaunt line was discovered to be one of the last remaining descendants of Salazar Slytherin, previously thought to be extant. 

At the age of seven, Gaunt was the survivor of a massive forest fire in Little Hangleton. The fire was reportedly "magically induced" and caused a major breach in the Statute of Secrecy. Ironically, Gaunt's current guardian, Auror Ogden, was one of the first on the scene.

After an investigation into Gaunt's home-life, he was placed into the care of the late Hepzibah Smith, a well-known descendant of Helga Hufflepuff. 

A freak accident involving poisoned tea had Smith falling rapidly ill. Fate once again placed Gaunt into the hands of Auror Ogden. Ogden is well-known for his dedication to law enforcement and was the recent winner of a medal of honor. 

However, Gaunt's disappearance has brought Ogden's diligence into question. The man was quote un-quote "frantic" in his search for the young wizard, demanding the immediate attention of the DLE. 

An investigation of the eighteen-year-old's bedroom found missing belongings and no sign of a struggle, leading investigators to disprove Ogden's assertion of foul play. According to Gaunt's house-elf, the boy had exhibiting some odd behaviors prior to his disappearance.

"He was acting cold, anti-social and distant to those closest to him," said Torquil Travers, Head of the DLE. "It's obvious to me what has occurred here. We've determined this to be a simple case of a young, troubled boy running away."

Travers continued. "Gaunt turned seventeen in July and is perfectly within his rights to leave home once the Trace has been removed. Of course, our support goes out to Auror Ogden and we sympathize with his distress, but we do not believe this to be a matter of top DLE priority."

While officials urge Gaunt to reach out to his guardian and dispel any lingering concerns, the case was ultimately dismissed. 

Ogden refused to comment. 

The Leaky Cauldron, London

It took a good few weeks before Tom found him. 

Harry had managed to make it all the way back to London, catching a port-key out of Albania's capital city. He'd been a dirty, ugly mess by the time he reached Tirana, having hitched rides on the back of wagons, and even an old, rusty, beat-down train.

He had a destination in mind; while Albania's wizarding presence was limited, there was a small, hill-side marketplace similar to Diagon Alley in the midst of bustling Tirana. 

Harry had found it by complete accident.

While wandering the streets, he spotted a stray dog with two tails, disappearing behind a trash-bin. It could've been a genetic defect, but the crup's glittering, intelligent eyes had Harry believing otherwise. It bit and barked at Muggles, but when it spotted Harry, the crup seemed to sense a like-minded soul. Its tongue flopped out of its mouth and its tails wagged excitedly. 

The dog led Harry to the outskirts of the city, almost like a tour guide. It certainly looked and felt strange; a two-tailed dog maneuvering it's way under fences and over rubbish bins with a scrawny English boy scrambling after. 

It wasn't Harry's weirdest encounter with a magical creature, but it topped the list. 

The port-key ride was painful and bumpy, as though he was shoved into a tube that was simultaneously rolling down a hill. 

But Harry was back in England, and that was what mattered. 

Dinner was served at the Leaky Cauldron by a red-faced and jovial bartender. Harry attacked his plate vigorously, gratefully shoveling in a mouthful of steaming shepherd's pie. 

Occasionally, Harry would catch sight of his fellow students, and he'd sink into his chair and hide his face behind a book or newspaper. There were three little witches from the country that knitted him a scarf one evening, and told him about their grandchildren. White-bearded wizards quizzed him on his Transfiguration and were impressed enough to lend him their help with his essay. One minuscule dwarf stole a sausage from Harry's plate once, before hobbling back to his scolding mother. Sally, the hag, would cackle madly at the comics in The  Daily Prophet. The innkeeper and barman, also named Tom - ironically -  was constantly sweeping about, serving drinks and talking animatedly with the regulars. 

As pleasant as the establishment was, the Leaky Cauldron was still a tavern, and not a day went by without at least one drunkard sloppily sitting beside him at the bar. 

"That's you, innit?"

Harry had been forcibly ignoring the half-goblin for about ten minutes, but the tiny creature was surprisingly persistent. A stubby finger jabbed at the small image, a black and white picture of Ogden and Harry from - Merlin, three years ago? 

"It's not me."

"But - yer Harry Gaunt, aren'ta? The missing kid." The goblin thrust the newspaper under Harry's nose. 

With a clatter, Harry set down his fork, wiping his lips with a clothe napkin. "Nope. I just have one of those faces." 

The goblin's face twisted. "You really just look a lot like - "

Hearing the commotion, the barman came over to snatch the newspaper from the half-goblin's hands. "That's enough now, Rodrick. Leave the poor boy alone." The goblin, Rodrick, pouted, wrinkly face twisting with indignation.

"Come on, Tom. Top me off?" 

Tom took Rodrick's half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey and pointed towards the door. "I think you've had enough to drink already, Rod. Go home to your wife before I call her down here myself to drag your scrawny arse back home." 

Snuffling, Rodrick clambered off the stool and gave Tom a rude gesture. Tom crossed his arms in exasperation, shoulders hunching up, and he shook his head. 

"You alright, lad?" Tom asked, going back around the bar.

Harry shrugged idly. "I'm fine." He gave a grim smile. The young man hopped away and dolled out a few coins. "Thanks for the meal, Tom." 

Tom watched the boy with a contemplative look. "Harry, lad?" 

The boy glanced back, green eyes troubled. 

Tom was a young man and had taken over the establishment after his mother's death, and he'd seen quite a number of odd fellows travel in and out, but the Gaunt boy was something else entirely. 

The teen was polite enough, but he seemed . . . closed off, and prone to vacant expressions that left Tom entirely uneased. The seventeen-year-old had spent nearly a week at The Leaky Cauldron, but so long as he didn't cause trouble, Tom was fine with him hanging around. That didn't mean he wasn't worried. 

Tom looked down at the newspaper, the picture of Harry and Ogden crinkled and glitching. "Maybe . . . send Auror Ogden a letter or something, yeah? Let him know you're alive. You can borrow my bird and everything. Just - " Tom faltered. "Understand?"  

Harry lowered his gaze. His voice cracked. "Yeah." 

Back in room thirteen, Harry puffed out a breath of air, staring pensively out the window, tapping his wand against his leg.

He was restless and fidgety, his vision blurring if he lingered too long on certain thoughts. He wondered if something had broke inside of him.

It was nice to think Ogden worried about him. But the man was still, blissfully ignorant. 

Without Harry around to provide hair, the poly-juice potion had worn off, apparently leaving Tom's minion to flee in the night. Ogden had sent out a mass man-hunt during Harry's time hitchhiking in Albania, but it seemed the hype was dying down.  

Funny, how when people finally realized he was missing - Harry didn't want to be found.

Harry wondered if he ought to tell Ogden about his kidnapping.  

It was definitely stupid, keeping an Auror in the dark, but . . . ultimately, it was better if Harry kept his pseudo-guardian in blissful ignorance. Harry had already lost three guardians. He didn't need another one dead and buried because of him.

Resigned, he set quill to paper and penned out a letter to his former guardian

Ogden, he began, pausing. 

I'm sorry for any distress I caused you because of my disappearance. I decided suddenly that I needed to make my own choices in life. I couldn't burden you with caring for me any longer. I'm absolutely fine and safe, I just needed time for myself. I went on a trip with a friend and did some soul-searching. 

Literally, Harry snorted. 

I still plan on attending Hogwarts for my final year, and it's likely we will meet again. I need you to understand that there's no ill will between us. Despite our rough beginnings, I really began to look up to you, and see you as a sort of role model. I hope to do right by you, even if means distancing myself for a while. 

I'm very grateful for everything you've taught me. 

Take care of Hokey, and yourself, old man. 

Regards, 

Harry Gaunt 

A barn owl fluttered in through the window. She shook her body, hopping from foot to foot on the sill. Like Tom, she was large and excitable, with big, kind eyes and a cheerful chirp. 

"Thank you," Harry kneaded her feathered scalp and placed the letter in her beak. "I appreciate this," he murmured. "I need this to be delivered to the Ogden household, in - " The bird vaulted out the window, leaving behind a few scattered feathers. "Oh, you've got it. Clever bird."

Dropping to the squeaky mattress with a sigh, Harry snorted. He shook his head at himself. His hand rose to grab the cord around his neck. He poked his pinkie through the ring, tugging at it absently.

The string snapped and Harry turned it in his hands, this way and that. If Harry concentrated, he thought he could sense the fractured soul, drifting inside the dark stone. 

Harry . . . came a whisper that rattled the open window. Harry stiffened.

You are so loved.

He stumbled to his feet. His eyes darted frantically around the room, looking for that familiar, disembodied voice - 

So loved. 

A knock came at the door. 

The voice and the wind abruptly halted, disappearing with a gentle brush against his cheek. Harry rubbed the skin fervently and shoved the Gaunt ring into his pocket. He opened the door, a baffled scowl on his face. "Yes?" 

Tom the bartender was standing in the hallway, giving him a sheepish grin. "There's - uh, a girl? She's lookin' for you, laddie. She won't leave until she sees you." 

Harry blinked. "A girl?" 

"A pretty one, too - " 

"Harry Gaunt!" 

Harry jerked his head up, immediately spotting the furious woman barreling toward him. The innkeeper made a move to stop her. "Ma'am, these are private rooms. I told you to wait downstairs - " 

She ignored him. 

"You jerk," Minerva McGonagall, in all her glory, chastised him. She dragged him into a warm hug. Harry puffed out a laugh against her collarbone.

She'd grown taller and thinner over the summer, and with her deep green robes and her hair pulled into a high plait, she looked so mature. "You don't send a single letter for months, and then I have to read in the paper that you've gone missing - !" 

"I wasn't missing," Harry corrected, still reeling from her presence. "Just - uh - on vacation? Speaking of, how did you find me?" He mumbled against her shoulder. 

Although Harry couldn't see her face, he could sense her rolling her eyes. "It's the end of the summer. A dozen of our classmates have to pass through the Leaky Cauldron to get to Diagon Alley for their school things. Augusta Longbottom saw you brooding in a corner and actually thought to inform me, your best friend, that you were, in fact, alive." 

Harry puffed out a laugh. He raked a hand over the back of his head. "Er . . . yeah." 

"Where were you?" 

". . . camping," he thought fast. "In the Mediterranean. With a distant relative." None of that was, technically, a lie. 

"Goodness, I can feel each of your ribs!" Her hands lingered on his waist, squeezing tightly. Have you been starving yourself? Have you been feeding him?" Minerva turned her attention onto the barman, who stood awkwardly behind them. 

He lifted his hands in the air. "I just served him dinner, I swear." 

Minerva harrumphed. "Well," she decided, ushering Harry down the hall. "Since you can afford a vacation in the Mediterranean, apparently, I'm sure you can spare a few sickles to buy us ice cream, hm?"

"Not really a vacation," Harry murmured, amused. Minerva shot him a look. He plastered on a tight, sarcastic smile. "But - uh - sure! Anything for you, Minnie." 

The owner of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor was a loud man, dressed in a bright blue apron with white ruffles. After ordering two sundaes, Minerva sat them down at a round table, an enchanted rag mopping up the melted remains of strawberry gelato. The parlor was bathed in natural light from the large front windows, the checkered black and white floor tiles glittering in the sunlight.

"Merlin, don't look now," Minerva leaned forward, lifting a hand to cover her face. "Doofus has entered the establishment." 

Harry's brow furrowed, and he caught in the warped reflection of the napkin dispenser the tawny mane of Rufus Scrimgeour. Harry felt a bit . . . numb to his entrance, really. He'd dealt with far worse than a childhood bully in the past few months. 

Rufus caught Harry's eyes and gave him a dirty look. He eyed the spoon in Harry's mouth. "Queer," he mouthed.

Harry flushed and removed it with a pop, eyes fluttering downward. "Ignore him," Harry prodded his ice cream. "He's with his mum and his sister, he can't do any harm." 

Minnie huffed but obliged. She leaned onto her elbows, gaze intense. "No more beating around the bush, Harry. What made you decide, out of the blue, to run away from your home? Did Ogden hurt you? Were you - kidnapped? I - " she waved her spoon around, looking on the verge of tears. "I've been so worried about you, Harry. For all I knew, you could've been dead or dying, tortured - and then! Your case is dissolved and you were ruled a runaway. This isn't like you, Harry."

"Well," Harry swallowed tightly, back tense. "It happened. I don't know what else to tell you, Minnie." 

"Well," she said mockingly. "That isn't good enough. For weeks, I've been out of my mind, trying to conceive of your reasoning, but honestly, I have no idea what you were thinking." 

"I'm not sure what I was thinking either."

"Clearly," she snapped, dropping her spoon. Sniffling slightly, Minerva brought her palms to her eyes and rubbed them roughly. "I'm glad you're safe, of course. Very glad." Harry passed her a handful of napkins, and Minerva blew her nose. "But you, Harry Gaunt, are a world-class idiot." 

Harry rubbed his neck, giving a wry smile. "Can't deny that." 

"Wha - " Miverva blinked rapidly. She grabbed him by the chin and lifted his head, exposing the slope of his throat. "Is that a scar? It looks like a - a - " 

"A love bite," Harry said quickly. A vibrant blush flooded his cheeks. Shite. 

Her brown eyes went wide. "A . . . love bite? I thought you spent the summer with a relative." 

"A . . . distant one."

Face contorting, Minnie dropped his chin and raised her hands. "I really don't want to know. But - for Merlin's sake, Harry, that looks painful." 

"It was," Harry agreed, cheeks still red. "Yep. He definitely likes - "

"Don't say it." 

"He likes it rough." 

Minnie's eyes slammed shut. She made a vague, gagging noise. "I support you and I love you, but I really didn't need the graphic imagery." 

Harry threw his head back and laughed, cheeks stretched in a genuine smile. "Mmm," he said, pushing his spoon into his mouth. Vanilla ice cream smeared across his upper lift. "This ice cream is delicious, have you ever tasted something so good?"  Over Minnie's shoulder, he met Rufus' startled gaze and licked the spoon salaciously. Rufus' face went beet red. 

Minnie giggled, covering her face. "I think I need to bleach my eyes. Come now, you're making a mess," she chastised. "Your face is going to be all sticky."

"The good kind of sticky." 

"S - stop!" She pushed away from her chair and snatched up her empty dish. "I'm going to go wash my hands. Try not to make any stupid decisions while I'm gone, yeah?"

Harry, still snickering to himself, went to wipe his face with his sleeve. The fabric became sticky and moist. He made a face and went to lick it - 

Hot breath brushed against the back of his neck.  "You are a wizard, are you not?" 

A shadow fell over him. Harry knew, immediately, that he was in deep trouble.

"Let me," Tom smiled, teeth flashing. He settled into Minerva's vacant seat and leaned on his elbows. He rapped his wand on the top of Harry's head, controlled. It didn't hurt, much. A sweep of fresh, brisk air washed over him, scrubbing away the ice cream on his face and hands. 

Harry jerked away, heart-rate picking up.

He glanced frantically around the room, but no one was watching. Rufus was determinedly looking away. Fortescue was helping a customer and Minerva - 

He saw the tail of her robes disappearing into the lady's room.

Tom was dressed in a plain sweater, the sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms. He'd gotten a haircut since Albania, trimmed neatly above his ears. He was still pale but had a healthy glow, eyes darkened to a deep brownish maroon. If anyone happened to look their way, they would see two friends sharing a dessert. Tom was leaning into his personal space, and Harry had nowhere to go.  

"Took me a good hour to find this," Tom sighed, using the tip of his wand to brush aside a strand of Harry's hair. "It was in a bramble bush! Can you believe that? I wonder how it got there." 

"No idea," Harry said, strangled. "Strange." 

"Of course, it was nighttime by the time I woke up from my impromptu nap," the word popped in his mouth. "So I was trying to find it in the dark."

"Sounds like an inconvenience." 

Tom gave Harry a slow smile. "It really was. I was angry at first, of course, but once I found my wand, I calmed down. I was glad you hadn't stolen it. You left the diadem, too. So I knew your intent wasn't entirely malicious." 

"I didn't want anything to do with the diadem," Harry said, truthful. "I almost died for that stupid hunk of metal." 

"Yes, and you almost drowned too, if I recall. And. I. Saved. You," Tom hissed, fingers gripping the table so tightly his knuckles went white. "You owe me, Gaunt - and instead, you knock me out and disappear - " 

"As opposed to having your goons knock me out and kidnap me?"

"That's different - "

"Not really. And don't pretend your motives for 'saving me were pure, Riddle," Harry said, keeping his tone at a low growl. In the cacophony of the parlor, their voices were easily drowned out. "You were leading me like a lamb to the slaughter, Tom."

"You - " Tom opened his mouth. He processed the statement. "What?" 

"It's obvious. Killing two birds with one stone? You needed an easy sacrifice for your little soul mutilation and I'm a loose end you needed to tie up," Harry's voice became thick. "Am I wrong?" 

Tom stared at him. For a good, long, awkward while. 

Harry fidgeted. 

"Yes," Tom eventually bit out. "You're wrong. On so, so, so many accounts. Harry - " he tentatively reached for Harry's hand, pausing when Harry pulled away. "Harry. I was planning on using an Albanian beggar for the sacrifice. It was never - " he paused, eyes lowering. "It was never you."

Harry didn't want to believe him. "N - never?" 

"I thought I'd made it quite clear that I - that I don't dislike you," Tom said tightly, glancing around the parlor. "Hell, I spent the past month trying to track you down, and not once did I think about killing you. Maiming, possibly," he admitted. "I largely just - wanted to talk. See where I went wrong," his face twisted sheepishly. 

"That is . . . very uncharacteristic of you," Harry said hollowly. "Are you sure you don't want to kill me. Not even a little bit?" 

Tom seemed to consider it, genuinely. "Not particularly," he seemed astonished, even at himself. "I was quite hurt, actually, when you left." 

The admittance was rare and a little jarring, to be honest. Therefore, Harry was dubious. "This feels like a manipulation."

"It's not," Tom said earnestly. "In fact, to prove that I hold no ill will, I'll even let you pick the next sacrifice. I haven't made the Horcrux yet, actually. I was a little preoccupied - you know - tracking down my idiot cousin and making certain he wasn't being sex-trafficked by Albanian criminals or something of the sort." Merlin, Harry could practically taste the sarcasm.

Harry grimaced. "Oh, please, that's not necessary." 

"Who will it be, Harry?" Tom reached and quickly snatched Harry's hand, curling their fingers together. "Your friend, with the stiff upper lip? Perhaps that little girl with ice cream all over her face? Or . . . the boy that was mocking you. Called you 'queer'," Tom smirked. "Whether it's true or not, wouldn't revenge taste so sweet?" 

"Don't make me choose, Tom," Harry said, horrified. "You've got to be joking."

"You're going to have to make a hard choice eventually," Tom said grimly, his grip tightening. His eyes darkened. "Might as well get used to it. Think about it. So many options, so little time. Pick one."

"No."

"Pick one." Tom's grip became bruising. 

"Rufus!" Harry burst. The boy in question startled, glancing over to the couple. His face went green as he spotted their entwined fingers. Harry ignored the boy, looking put-out. He glared stubbornly at the table. "Rufus Scrimgeour." 

Tom looked over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed. "What has that weasel-faced brat done to warrant a murder sentence?" 

Harry pushed aside the remains of his melted ice cream, appetite gone. "We shared a d - dorm my first year," he said lowly. "I thought we were friends for a while, but then I accidentally set his pants on fire while practicing a levitation charm," Harry winced. "He thought I did it on purpose, said I wanted to see what was under his pants. Since then he's - he's been a right arse. Called me queer, a fag, a freak. Outed me in front of the entirety of Gryffindor House. You get the idea." 

Tom rolled his eyes so hard, Harry was concerned he'd pulled a muscle. "Really? And that permits seven years of childhood trauma?"

"He was a child. He was probably just embarrassed."

"So were you," Tom said viciously. He flicked his wand beneath the table. "And you've just sealed his fate."

Alarm bells flared in Harry's mind. "Tom, no - "

With the sound of glass shattering, Rufus' Knickerbocker Glory exploded across his front, splashing into his hair and dousing him in fruit and whipped cream. Rufus' mother giggled loudly, plucking a raspberry from his shoulder. 

Tom, giving a placid smirk, sheathed his wand.

"Tom, you - you douchebag," Harry sat back down, heavily. 

"You didn't actually think I'd kill a man?" Harry opened his mouth, severely annoyed. "Here? In plain sight?" 

"What was this, then?" Harry said hotly. "A test?"

"And you passed. You made a tough decision. Your response was petty, certainly. But not uncalled for," Tom inclined his head, a sneer on his thin, perfectly shaped lips. "Boys like Rufus grow into the worst sorts."

"So you're not - "

Tom snorted darkly. He dragged his finger through a droplet of melted ice cream. "I don't kill school children, Harry. Not on purpose. Not anymore." 

"Not anymore?!" That was the part Harry latched on, of course. Tom settled back, watching his cousin get heated, eyes sparkling, cheeks turning ruddy. "What children have you murdered - " 

Tom kissed him. It was a sudden impulse, born mostly of the need to shut Harry up before he started embarrassing them both. Or before he got Tom arrested for manslaughter.

The kiss certainly wasn't great. 

Harry was stiff and fought him off, but Tom just pushed forward. The table dug into his stomach and Tom relished in the pain. It reminded him of their surroundings. People were murmuring around them; a gay couple wasn't the most . . . accepted in London during the 1950s, unfortunately, but Tom disregarded them. Two men kissing certainly couldn't have been the strangest thing they've ever seen. 

Just as Harry began to relax against him, Tom got his revenge.   

Harry's mouth tasted of ice cream and, suddenly, of blood, as Tom roughly bit his tongue.

"You arse!" Harry squeaked, pushing him away. He held a hand to his mouth. "That hurt." People were looking at them with a mixture of confusion, exasperation, and disgust, on Rufus' part. "Oh, Merlin." Horror looked beautiful on Harry's face. "I think you single-handedly just ruined my life." 

"What?" Tom said, shrugging innocently. "I'm just playing the part. You told your friend I'm a biter."

From his periphery, Harry saw Minerva haltingly approach. Harry pushed Tom away roughly, giving her a pleading look. 

Tom seemed pleased. "Ah. Minerva, I assume," he said, reaching out a slim hand. "I'm Tom. Tom Riddle. Harry's told you about me, I hope?" 

Minnie shot Harry a startled look. "I've heard of you. Nothing good." 

"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." 

Minerva must've forgotten the warning, Harry thought grimly. He watched her hand be engulfed by Tom's, both their grips equally strong. 

Tom barked a laugh. He stood and let her sit, standing behind his cousin. He wound his arm around Harry's waist, fingers dancing across the sharp curve of his hip. "Sounds like Harry. He likes to complain about me," Tom leaned forward conspiratorially. "But if anything, it just makes the sex better." 

Minerva quickly backtracked, lips pressed together as if to suppress a laugh. "Oh, Merlin, not you too. You two belong together," she said teasingly, though her eyes darted toward's Harry's stiff, closed off expression. 

"Do you think so?" Tom said, pleased. "Thank you. Things are going very well. We even spent the summer together. It was lovely. Until the end, that is."

Minerva's brows arched. She peered at Harry and gestured to her throat. Harry, after a moment, grimaced in confirmation. "Oh, this?" Tom relinquished his grip on Harry, only to brush his fingertips against the bite. "Yes, we got a little heated. But Harry gave as good as he got, rest assured." 

"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.

"Tom has to go," Harry said suddenly, as Tom began to look around for an empty chair to drag over. He nipped that in the bug awfully quick.

"Do I?" Tom asked breezily. 

"You do," Harry confirmed. 

Minerva glanced suspiciously between them. Their gazes were intense, a silent battle. Harry's was more of a glare and Tom's a soft, fond simmer. Eventually, it seemed Harry won. "I guess I'm leaving," Tom said, giving Minerva a little grin. "He's sick of me." 

"It was - uh - nice to meet you," Minerva coughed into her hand.

"You as well. Perhaps we could get to know each other better. Harry met a few of my friends already - " That, oddly enough, seemed to make Harry even angrier, his teeth grinding almost audibly. "And partnerships are all about being equal." 

"Go away, Tom," Harry deadpanned. "Don't let the door hit you on the way out." 

Tom stood and swooped in to smack a wet-sounding kiss on Harry's cheek. The younger adamantly stared into space, refusing to acknowledge it. "I'll catch up with you later."

"Feel free not to." 

Laughing, Tom gave Minerva a wink and slipped out of the parlor as quickly and stealthily as he came. As soon as the door closed behind him, the bell tinkling, Harry seemed to collapse in on himself. He groaned into his hands, the sound muffled. 

"So . . . " Minerva slid into the chair. "That's Tom. The Tom." 

Harry made a vague sound of confirmation. 

"Were you two having a domestic before I came over? You seemed irritated." 

"I'm always irritated with him," Harry said honestly. "Why the hell were you in the bathroom for so long, anyway? I needed a savior, damn it. I was a damsel in distress." 

"You certainly looked to be in capable hands," Minerva said knowingly. "I didn't want to bother you two. Considering he was snogging you like his life depended on it." 

Harry made a strangled noise. "We - I wasn't - that wasn't planned. I didn't enjoy it." 

"Still. Making out in an ice cream parlor with your schoolboy crush? Really?" Minerva rolled her eyes. Harry slid down the chair further, endearingly embarrassed. "How stereotypical can you get?"