grandloves

by slexenskee

the power the dark lord knows not. femHarry

2. i - ii

.

PART I

.

.

34.

Against all logic and rational thought, Harry leaps between him and the boy, blocking him from sight.

"Potter," He narrows his eyes, his voice low and dangerous.

It appears to elicit some modicum of response; she bites her lip, looking at least slightly chastised, as if realizing exactly what kind of position she's put herself in. But then something flinty replaces it—something that stirs within him great anxiety.

"Voldemort," She responds, curtly, and it is as if a steel curtain has drawn between them. She has never addressed him as Lord Voldemort before, never acknowledging him as anything else but Tom, her Tom—

("Tom," She says, as he lowers his mouth to the indent of her hip, "Tom," She says, when she tucks her hand into his, staring up into a vast and anticipatory sky, "Tom," When she leans over him when she thinks he's fast asleep)

and the distance he feels at the name seems endless.

Against all reason, he finds he second guesses himself.

There is no reason to: the insipid girl has chosen her side, clearly, and if she would follow the whims of a dead man to her grave than that is her own folly. It should not weigh so heavily on his mind—it should not matter at all, whether she decides to become his opposition.

He tilts his head. Behind her, the Malfoy spawn is unmoving. Good. He hopes he's dead—it would surely prove her a lesson indeed.

There is no ultimatum: there is only death for those that oppose the Dark Lord.

"I will only ask you once," he begins, quiet and controlled. "Step aside."

There will be only death for her, too, if she stands in his way.

"He did what you wanted!" She returns, ignoring the coiling rage that is so heady in his gaze.

"He failed me!" The dark lord denies, stalking forward.

"He's dead!" She shouts, and her voice wavers, a shadow of the hurt he can feel beneath his own ribs as if it is his own emotions that draw it forth. "Dumbledore is dead! What more could you possibly want?"

She doesn't understand. She will never understand.

He draws his wand.

"It doesn't have to be this way," she shakes her head, inching closer, suddenly incapable of keeping her safe distance. Her eyes, wide and grave and so full of fear and fury, lower into something infinitely more dangerous—imploring and virescent, like the antebellum of a war he does not wish to start.

"It does," he replies, hollow. The white wand she had thought would never turn to her again now centers upon her pallid face, unwavering.

She takes another step. "Please," She says, and he flinches violently at the word. Normally the dark lord finds the sight of his enemies begging in front of him quite alluring—but as always, she is the insurmountable exception to every rule he has.

"Step aside," He commands again, and it does not escape him that he had said those same words a life time ago, directed towards a strikingly similar woman; a gauntlet of fiery hair draped across her shoulders, the distinct, imploring downward turn of her mouth, the fear and devastation and determination that would not leave those virulent eyes. Even in death they had stared at him, lifeless and haunting and brave.

Harry's eyes dart quickly to the side, but she does not turn her head. Nor does she step aside. She, to his complete lack of surprise, does not move and stands her ground.

"You don't have to do this," She whispers, low and grave. Her eyes are very wide and it should not pain him so much to see fear in them. She seems to have come to the conclusion that he can and will strike her down if she doesn't comply. He wishes he could share her conviction.

"Please," She says again, nothing but a murmur of breath.

Don't do this to me, She does not say, but he hears it all the same.

He keeps a steady hand.

.

.

.

8.

For the first time in years, she is not trembling in excitement at the idea of returning to school.

Even though summer is at its close, the unending heat remains as a hot blanket over the manor. Voldemort does finally relent and teach her the cooling charm. She uses it prolifically—it may actually be her favorite charm yet.

The little touches have grown in number and duration, to the point she has once again forgotten their existence. It seems entirely natural to lean against him and read; science fiction, mostly, so nothing he considers legitimate. As if the adventures of the smarmy space smuggler Han Solo are beneath him, or worth even a small modicum of his attention. She doesn't mind his derisive scorn at her choice in reading material; she enjoys the time far too much.

In her unending spare time she learns to knit (that is a fail), learns to crochet (that is even worse) and has actually accomplished her summer reading. She may actually pass History of Magic this year.

The Dark Lord is gone far more often than he is home—and when did she start thinking of Riddle Manor as home?—and when he is, he appears greatly distracted. Harry wonders what he's up to; than she wonders if she truly wants to know. Probably not.

Harry writes to Hermione a few more times. First to ask her for advice on how to knit in a straight line, and then just for general conversation. Her bookish friend is still very curious about her summer, but Harry has learned the art of evasive answers, and distracts or deters every effort she makes. When it becomes clear that Harry is never going to be able to knit anything even approaching legitimate, Hermione suggests picking up a less dexterous, but still just as artistic hobby. Unfortunately, Harry is not any better at taking good photos than she is at knitting in a straight line. Hermione insists that every photo she takes is good and she is using her 'abstract, artistic liberties'—whatever that means. She lazes for long hours with Nagini, who curls on her bed at night like an enormous, scaly dog and wraps around her shoulders like a shawl when it becomes too cold for her reptilian body.

And then, it is finally time for her to return.

It feels so strange to think their little space in time is coming to a close. What will she do? Will she stay here again for Yule? And onwards, to the next summer break? She doesn't want this to be the last time she relaxes in the sunlight of Riddle Manor's dining room, having breakfast with the Dark Lord, a certain equanimity strung between them.

She spends the whole morning in a state of great distress, picking at her food halfheartedly and eating very little of it.

He knows, of course. As if she could possibly hide anything from him, ever.

After perhaps an eternity of her fidgeting, he finishes, putting his silverware down with some kind of great finality. Her heart seizes.

"Harry—" he starts, at the same time she does.

"You'll write to me, right?" Comes out of her mouth before she can grab it, and her eyes widen in horror. But not horror and fear—horror and total mortification. Oh Merlin. Did she just ask Lord Voldemort to write letters to her?

He pauses, regarding her deeply. She wants to melt into the ground and die there.

"If you wish," he answers at length, noncommittal and unreadable.

She feels as if her flush is so violent it will actually burn her cheeks. She nods silently, deciding it is far better for her to just keep quiet, before she can embarrass herself further.

He stands then, drawing close. She peers up at him as he pulls something from his robes. It is a necklace; a piece of exiguous chain, really, which wraps tightly around an isabelline, vaguely rhombus shaped stone. It drops from his hands, swinging in the sunlight as a scintillating light, and then he is slipping it over her head. It sits perfectly on her chest, and she looks down at it with deep curiosity.

Fortunately, he explains before she has to run the risk of embarrassing herself further.

"A portkey," he says, but he is not looking at it, rather, staring at her deeply. "It will return you here, regardless of where you are."

Something burns intensely in her chest: a deep affection.

"Thank you," she whispers, clasping her hands around it as if it is a priceless possession. She catches his gaze, reticent. "What do I say to activate it?"

His eyes are still upon her, burning crimson, and she thinks she sees a flicker of hesitation, before it settles once more into impassivity.

"Home."

20.

He is not ready to see her there, curled into her dreams.

Her hair splays upon the pillow like water, limp rivulets pouring down the side of the paisley print couch. One luxurious stretch of arm dangles off the edge, listless. He first notices the bruises upon her shins, small splotches in an otherwise undisturbed expanse of milky skin. The marks of youth, no doubt, of frolicking in meadows or adventuring between the trees. His second observation is a similar mark beneath the slip of her collar. Similar, and yet strikingly alarming. It is in the shape of a mouth, and there are more that crawl where he cannot see them, slipping beneath the hem of her dress.

He is not ready to see her there. He is not ready for the tidal wave of inexplicable emotions that rise within him at the sight of that mark, at its very existence; anger, disgust, repulsion, horror—

Guilt.

Had he not sworn to protect this girl from all who wished to do her harm? He had made that intimate promise years before he'd met her, had always known it would be the hardest promise he would ever strive to keep. The task became even more monumentally difficult when he had first laid eyes upon her and realized he would have to keep her out of his sight for the entire tenure of her years at Hogwarts, lest he be plagued by a woman with strikingly similar features.

There were more than a few close calls; missed moments where he could have very well failed. One, perhaps, for every year she had attended the school.

He wonders if he has well and truly failed this time.

For why else would she be here, sleeping so comfortably in the dark lord's manor, sprawled upon a striped sofa in a warm, airless room, with the mark of Lord Voldemort's mouth upon her chest?

He can barely keep the utter revulsion off his face, at the idea of it, at what it means.

How could he have let this happen to her? To Lily's daughter? She is so young yet, still just a girl.

His presence does not go unnoticed; she stirs, reluctant, pulled from her dreams by an unknown force.

Her gaze drifts towards him—expression flitters over her face, too quick for him to catch, before she is staring up at him with something close to resignation.

"Professor," she says, sitting up slowly.

"Miss Potter," he intones, as if the very words are poisonous.

She looks up at him curiously, and it comes upon him that it is he who is out of place in this dusty sitting room. It is clearly not her—as accustomed to her surroundings as she appears to be. She slips her fallen shoe back onto her bare foot, resting both upon the ground. One hand almost absentmindedly rubs against the side of the couch; a familiar gesture.

He swallows, and finds the words to say, "You are expected in the drawing room."

"Oh," she says, sitting up further. Her appraisal of him is wary at best, looking to him as if she expects a larger reaction from him.

She isn't wrong to.

"I—I should go, then," her hand draws up to press lightly against the hollow of her throat, and it is then that he realizes he has been staring at the mark for an immodest amount of time. There is a distant flush to her cheeks.

She pivots, and descends into the hallway: a fiery light in the gloom.

Harry presses her fingers into her neck, again, and feels the tenderness there and knows he left a mark. It is small, but conspicuous still if she does not consciously make an effort to cover it. She peers down, and lopes a finger into the collar of her dress. There are at least a dozen more, trotting down her chest and down to—

It feels hot, suddenly, and her skin tingles all over as she presses just a bit harder. She cannot help but remember the act which had created the mark—and the person behind it. The hot, wet mouth against the intimate expanse of skin, the teeth that drew up the column of her neck. A shiver runs through her, and she drops her hand.

She wants to feel it again.

"You wanted to see me?" She steps through a panel of warm sunlight as she crosses the room. Lord Voldemort takes the inopportune moment to look up, catching sight of her bathed in sunset. His heart shudders involuntarily. He has never felt this way before—about anything or anyone. Not immortality, not power, not even magic.

He holds aloft a fine slip of parchment between narrow, elegant fingers.

Harry's eyes move to the bird resting above his shoulder, perched upon the woodwork of his ornate chair. Hedwig trills at her, and she smiles indulgently as she walks toward him.

As she nears, she can make out a long scrawling list down the page.

She takes it from him, blinking at the sight.

"Oh," She says, as she reads down the list of school supplies for her sixth year. It's a Hogwarts letter, addressed to Harriett Rose Potter, Riddle Manor, Little Hangleton.

Then her eyes widen in fear. "But," her eyes dart between the dark lord and the letter. "How do they—

Voldemort waves her off. "The letters are spelled and drawn by a magical quill; they are never seen until they're delivered."

Her relief is evident; she flops into one of the chairs and stretches her legs, wasting no time in divesting the letter of its envelope. She sits as if it is not at all remiss to see her stretched languidly upon it, as if she owns it, as if she belongs here. He likes the thought: she does belong here. More importantly, she belongs with him.

His thoughts darken.

And then darken further when his gaze once again leaves his paperwork and returns to the girl, who is lazily flicking through the list of school requirements, an absent hand rubbing at the base of her neck, just above her pendant, pressing at the mark that is so stark against her skin.

He's not sure why that is his undoing; he has many marks on her, many claims to her, one of which is prevalent and infamous upon her forehead. Even deeper still, the part of his soul that resides in her. But he is a possessive creature by nature; Tom Riddle has always obsessed over the care of his horcruxes, of his prized possessions. Lord Voldemort is no different.

"It's as if you intentionally mean to become an unending distraction," He stands suddenly, and she looks up, confused.

The confusion fades to mortification and a secret thrill as he looms over her.

She flushes, "I—I didn't mean to—" It is a very pretty color upon her. He wants to see how far he can make it go down.

He hovers over her and she meets his lips with a willingness that rather surprises him. She is always so very docile; delightfully shy. Even in the warmth of her mouth he feels as if he could taste it. He pulls her up to stand, but just as swiftly spins her around to splay her across his desk. Papers fly everywhere. Her aggravating owl hoots indignantly, before taking off for the window. Good riddance. She ignores all of this; her hands wind against him, trail up his arms, skitter down his neck. Her mouth burns hot against his own, insistent.

He releases her then, and her wide irises flutter open, so close to his own; they are dark along the edges, before they burn into an almost unnaturally bright, radioactive green, and after, in the small corners along the pupil, a ringed halo bleeds russet red; another part of him marred upon her. He keeps her gaze as he straightens, one hand sliding from her hip to slide in against the side of her thigh and bring it towards him. The hem of her dress shifts down her leg, pooling at her waist. Her cheeks flush a brilliant color, a quiet gasp escapes her; dusky shadows obscure the most intimate part of her, fabric flirting along the edges. He descends upon the hollow of her knee, the dips upon the little bones, the shadows that gather around them. Her breath shakes in her chest, and she trembles so beautifully when his mouth moves up her thigh.

Her head is tossed to the side, as if the sight of him is too much to bear; the mane of fire sprawls beneath her, color so violent against the whiteness of parchment. He wants to remember this forever with the clarity of a pensieve, the way her lashes flutter against her cheeks and her mouth, abused by his own, gasps for breath. He lowers himself down her leg, beneath the hem of fabric, where her scent is intoxicating.

She almost sits upright, eyes widening in surprise. "Wait—Tom, what are you—"

But he ignores her, and descends. Harry cries aloud, shuddering apart beneath his hands as he licks into her. The quietness of her breath, uneven and ragged, is music to his ears. And when one hand draws closer, into her, she arches her back with a whimper that darkens his eyes. She is already so wet for him; it doesn't take long until her cries are overwhelming in the empty room.

When he stands again, he sees an arm thrown over her eyes, a deep flush staining her cheeks as her chest heaves deeply. She looks ruined. She looks owned.

The thought breaks the last of his patience.

He leans down to claim what's his.

9.

Harry glares sullenly out the window, twirling her wand halfheartedly as she gazes out at the dreary atmosphere. The day is hot, sticky, and miserable—and unlike Riddle Manor, Privet Drive is not equipped with wards powerful enough to block out the Ministry's monitoring wards, so she cannot even attempt to cast the cooling charm.

It feels so surreal, being back here. It's as if she dreamed the whole summer up.

Tom had deposited her back into purgatory earlier that week, insisting that she remain here for the last few days of summer before term starts. Harry sees the validity in his reasoning; she can't exactly just show up at the Hogwarts Express, dark lord in tow. It's better to just play it safe and return to the Dursley's. It makes sense. But this doesn't mean she has to like it.

As her gaze flickers out into the world outside, she finds herself almost believing it. After all, what would the Dark Lord want with her? He's made it his life's work to kill her… and, and what? Now they're…

Harry's stomach curls.

Now they're—well, whatever they are.

She bursts out of the house, walking briskly down the street, intent on letting her feet take her wherever they want to wander. She wants to believe that it's all not a dream; that it happened, that she didn't make it up.

Her hands find themselves winding around the pendant upon her neck, as if willing herself to remember that it all happened. She has a pendant, and an almost unnoticeable scar upon her wrist—and the quiet memory of warm light as it filters through the stained windows of the library, the smell of old parchment, the rhythmic sound of shifting paper, as Voldemort turns another page.

Her feet carry her towards an empty playground, and the familiar shapes and sounds draw her into a memory that isn't hers, but one she identifies with all the same. Tom Riddle used to stand just where she is, on the fringes, gazing longingly at all the games he is not a part of. Harriet Potter did the same, ordered out of sight, never allowed to play games with Dudley or his friends—even if Dudley's friends normally liked her better anyway.

On the subject of Dudley, she looks up at the familiar sound of his voice. He is bullying some little kid into giving him his popsicle. Harry has no idea why Dudley would want a half-eaten popsicle, but then, when does anything about Dudley make sense?

"Picking on children are we?" She scowls at him, stepping towards them just as the little boy begins to cry. Her eyes soften at him, and she deliberately steps in between them. In the interim, the child sees his opportunity to escape and darts off. Harry narrows her eyes at her cousin. "Three against a six year-old—sounds like a fair fight."

Dudley's face flushes up in indignation. "Oh, look what the cat dragged in. Finally stopped moping around, have you?"

"Big D, is that your cousin?" Exclaims one of his friends, looking gobsmacked.

"She's a real bird," remarks the other.

"Yeah, when did that happen?"

"Big D?" She snorts, ignoring them both. "Cool name—but to me, you'll always be Ikkle Duddicums—

"Shut up!" He erupts, even as his friends snicker behind him. He rounds on her, and she stands up immediately, wand pointed in front of her.

The boys behind him laugh, but Dudley's face flickers with fear and recognition. Soon enough it returns to its normal sneer. "Oooh, now you're trying to act tough, Potter? Not so tough in your bed, are you?"

She blinks at him, frowning.

"Crying in you sleep, are you?" He mimics tears, pretending to faint. "Oh, Tom—who's Tom, huh? You're little boy toy—

She doesn't bother with her wand this time, she rears back and throws a left hook dead center. A part of her is wondering what he would do if he realized just who he was making fun of. The rest of her is utterly furious at that he'd even joke about it. As if Dudley knew a thing about suffering. Real fury, livid and hot, burns within her—more than she's ever felt before.

She points her wand at him, hand shaking with the intensity of her anger. She knows the spell. It's on the back of her tongue, whispering in her mind. Distantly she wonders if she's changed somehow, from her time with him. Her ire is almost uncontrollable. Hell. Of course it's changed her; she would have never even considered using an unforgiveable on her cousin before. This should concern her greatly, but she doesn't dwell on it now.

Harry takes a deep breath, resolutely lowering her wand.

"You're not even worth it," she says to him, coldly.

He leaps up at that, lunging for her. "You little—

She darts out of the way, about to go for another fist to his face when the air dramatically drops in temperature. Ice runs down her back, and belatedly she notices the sky has gone dark. The sticky summer has fled, leaving a bitter cold.

Harry seizes up.

She knows this coldness.

Dudley's friends scream and run in terror, and she tilts her head up slowly to see the clouds have begun to brew ominously, intermittent between the dreary gray are desolate streaks of black. Their cries are undeniable. She whips back around to Dudley, who has frozen in terror. She kicks him.

"Run!"

They sprint out of the open, making for the cover of an overpass a couple yards away. Rain has come with the advent of the clouds, bring a torrential downpour with it. They burst into the tunnel under the road, soaked and out of breath. She looks down at herself; her nike's are ruined, and so is her dress. Fortunately, it is striped red and white thing, not her beloved yellow sundress. Dudley is whimpering beside her, cowering from everything and holding onto the wall. Typical.

She greedily heaves in air, smoothing her soaking hair out of her face. Her contacts burn in her eyes like she's gotten dirty water into them.

The rain, combined with the unnatural cold, makes all the small hairs on her arms stand, and she suppresses a shiver. The cold is so much worse than usual because she is so unused to it, what with it being one of the hottest summers on record.

She realizes it's not just her when the sewer water beneath her begins to ice over.

Harry turns around in horror to see that the dementors have followed them into the drainage tunnel.

Dudley shrieks, wrenching away from the wall only to slip and fall on his face. He whimpers, crawling his way backwards as they near. Harry takes a deep breath, ignoring him, and raises her wand.

"Expecto Patronum,"

A brilliant bright light sears the tunnel into white, and then cold and sorrow flees with the brightness. Her fawn chases them all the way back into the sky, until even the clouds have cleared away.

She wanders out of the tunnel, stunned, staring with wonder up at the sky. It's cleared now, and she can see the remains of her patronus as a shimmering light in the stratosphere, before it twinkles away.

"A very powerful patronus charm," appraises a voice from behind her.

She whirls around.

Her jaw drops. "Mrs. Figg?" She says, incredulously.

A moment later she is bodily dragging Dudley down Privet Drive, the little Mrs. Figg trotting by her side.

"Well, you can't have possibly expected them to just let you run around, what with what happened last year." Mrs. Figg explains, in the face of her shock. Apparently Mrs. Figg has been tasked with watching her. But—tasked by whom?

She swallows, unwilling to think about the events of last year. They seem so far away. "Yeah, I guess…"

"You've given us all a terrible shock, you know, running off." She whirls around disapprovingly. "Where were you, anyhow?"

"Staying with a friend," she sputters, unconvincingly. "What does it matter? I didn't know I wasn't supposed to leave!"

"Harry dear, did it not cross your mind that you might be in danger?"

Of course not, she thinks, hysterically. What with the fact she's spent the entire summer in the same house as the Dark Lord Voldemort. Falling asleep on him, actually. Her pendant swings against her chest with every step she hauls Dudley with, as if reminding her that it really did happen.

She deposits Dudley with little fanfare, before storming out of the house, unwilling to have to face her insipid Muggle family. She's been feeling on edge and as if she's on some kind hair-trigger. Who knows what she'll do if she's made to try her patience with them. To make matters worse, the Ministry smacks her in the face—literally, with an owl and a letter.

She is expelled from Hogwarts.

Harry drops the letter in shock, letting it flutter to the ground and fall into a puddle. She sits numbly on the park bench on the corner of Privet drive, frozen, shivering wet, and feeling as if her life is crashing down on her. It's hard to remember that not even a week ago she had been the happiest and most content she's ever been in her entire life. So happy that the mere memory conjured the most powerful patronus she'd ever seen.

Can they really expel her from Hogwarts?

But of course they can—it's the Ministry. When have they ever been anything but useless, ineffectual, and a complete and total hindrance? Fudge has only spent the majority of the summer slandering Cedric, Dumbledore, and herself. Cedric's apparently 'gone round the bend' since the tournament, and doesn't know what he's saying. She is a lying little girl and Dumbledore is attempting to overthrow the Ministry. They are all so laughably wrong it almost makes her angry.

There is rustling in the bushes, suddenly.

"—those muggles are absolutely awful, honestly I'm she ran off."

"Don't say that, Nymphadora—

"Don't call me Nymphadora—

"The both of you! Stop arguing!"

Harry's head snaps up, and she blinks wildly at her surroundings. The street is silent, dark, and utterly miserable, without a soul in sight. But this is incorrect; three figures wander out of the after-rain mist. One of them she recognizes immediately.

"Remus!" She jumps to her, darting towards them and moving to envelope the werewolf in a hug. Remus returns it eagerly, squeezing her as if he thinks she'll disappear into thin air.

"Harriet Rose Potter," he says, shakily. "Don't you ever do that to us again."

He takes a breath, pulling her away to look at her. "Do you have any idea how worried we've all been? When Mrs. Figg reported that you weren't at the Dursley's—

Harry blinks, alarmed. "Mrs. Figg?" She balks. Wait, is she spying on her now? What does Remus have to do with it?

"We were worried sick." Remus looks as if he's fighting off a lecture full of yelling. "Harry, you are in grave danger. This is not the time to be running around disappearing without telling anyone!"

Harry remains quiet, taking the reprimand with little fanfare and nothing but a contrary expression. A part of her wants to vehemently deny all of it; if anything, she is the last person who should be worrying about you-know-who.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

She shakes her head.

Remus heaves a grand capitulation. "Very well. You'd best come with us. You'd better have a better explanation than that for Sirius—he's been worried out of his mind."

Harry swallows.

.

.

.

Harry does not know what to say.

The Order of the Phoenix.

They were Voldemort's greatest enemy in his first rise to power. The same organization her parents belonged to, that Neville's parents belonged to, that Remus and Sirius belong to—that the Weasley's are in as well. Everyone she loves is part of the Order—and this is the only thing stopping her from telling Tom that the Order has regrouped, and that Dumbledore has reinstated them, and is moving to fight against him.

She has never felt so torn. Every single person around this table is hell bent on seeing him dead—for real, this time, not just vanquished for an undisclosed amount of time. Not even four months ago she would have been in staunch agreement with this.

Now she simply feels cold and hollow, shaky, and fearful. Her hands are trembling.

"I don't understand." She says at length. "What has the Ministry of Magic got against me?"

Moody throws a wary glance around the room. "Show her," he grunts. "She'll find out soon enough."

Remus hands her the latest edition of the Prophet; it's gotten far worse than what she last saw of it. She's on the front cover as well. Wonderful.

"He's been attacking Dumbledore and the Diggory's as well. Fudge is using all of his powers, including his ties to the Daily Prophet to smear anyone who claims the Dark Lord has returned."

This is truly absurd. "Why?" She looks up, completely incredulous. "How could that possibly be effective?"

"When is the Ministry ever effective?" Sirius says under his breath. Harry fights off a smile.

"The Minister thinks Dumbledore is trying to usurp him and reinstate some kind of dictatorship."

Harry gapes at him. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." She marvels, genuinely confounded by it. "Guy's lost his marbles."

"Yes that's exactly it," agrees Lupin, rubbing his temples. "Fudge isn't in his right mind. It's been twisted and warped with fear. Fear makes people do terrible things, Harry. Now the last time Voldemort gained power he almost destroyed everything we hold most dear,"

Harry's breath freezes in her throat.

"—Now he's returned, and I'm afraid the Minister will do anything to avoid facing that terrible truth."

"We think Voldemort wants to build up his army again." Sirius adds. Harry silently admits that he's most likely right. It would explain why he's been so distracted as of late. "Fourteen years ago he had huge numbers at his command—not just witches and wizards Harry, but all manner of Dark creatures. He's been recruiting heavily, and we've been attempting to do the same. But gathering followers isn't the only thing he's interested in—

Arthur Weasley coughs indelicately, and Sirius cuts himself off abruptly.

He casts a telling glance towards the others in the room, before looking back at her. "We believe Voldemort is after something," he begins, gravely.

"Sirius," Moody interrupts, voice low with warning.

"—something he didn't have last time—

"You mean like a weapon?" Harry asks, in a quiet whisper. She can't remember seeing anything like that in his house. But if he's recruiting his legions of dark creatures again, that would certainly explain where he's been disappearing to all summer.

"No, that's enough!" Cries Mrs. Weasley, loudly clapping her hands. "She's just a girl! You say much more and you might as well induct her into the Order straightaway."

Harry's eyes widen in terror at the very prospect. How exactly is she supposed to turn down that offer without explaining the fact that she's spent the last few months in his company? And doesn't really know if she's still against him?

"Oh don't be silly, Molly." Arthur laughs. "Of course we won't."

Harry fights to keep the relief off her face.

.

.

Sirius corners her some time after, when everyone has cleaned up after dinner and the crowds have dwindled. He hugs her abruptly and tightly, and she returns it, just as tight. She missed him so much. Sirius is the only thing she has left—the only remaining remnant of family she has.

Harry pauses, thoughtful.

Is that still true, though?

"Where have you been?" It's less of a question and more of a demand.

Harry struggles for words, guiltily looking into his distraught gaze, trying desperately to conjure up a convincing lie. "Well I—I mean—"

"We thought you had been killed," he interrupts fiercely. "We thought something had happened to you. That Voldemort had gotten to you—

"I'm fine!" She cuts him off with wide eyes. And she is. And Voldemort has gotten to her. But she'd prefer him to never know that. "Perfectly fine!"

"That is not the point!" He hisses. "Harry, you could have been killed so easily, you don't understand…" he takes a shuddering breath. "I can't lose you, you know? You're all I've got left too, Harry."

"Sirius…" She swallows, wishing there was some way she could possibly reassure him without revealing everything. She's okay, and she has nothing to worry about. She's perfectly safe.

He smiles wanly at her, smoothing out her unruly bronze hair. "And I'm so glad to see you. It's been far too long."

She nods helplessly. "I know," she agrees, hoarsely. "And I'm so sorry Sirius, I never meant to make you all worry, I swear. I didn't—it's just, no one told me I had to stay put. No one told me anything… how was I supposed to know I couldn't go anywhere?"

Sirius sighs. "Yes, you're right. That was our fault; we should have warned you. We just didn't want to—make things worse for you. To have to know about all these things. We know this has all been very hard on you and Harry, you're truly still so young… just a girl… it's awful that already you have had so much put upon you…" He trails off, shaking his head. "At any rate, it's good to have you back, and safe."

And after a beat, "But, where did you go?"

She fidgets nervously. "Um, well—

"I think I might be able to answer that." Reveals a smooth voice to their left. Harry whirls around to see the young auror—Tonks—leaning against the wall with a sly smile.

"Can you now?" Sirius returns, coolly.

"Yep," she saunters over, with a wink towards Harry. "Y'see, Hermione may have let it slip that Harry has made a friend…"

Harry's eyes grow wide in horror. Oh no.

Sirius' gaze grows conflicted. "A friend?" He repeats.

Nymphadora smiles at her. "Yeah, a muggle friend." And after a beat. "A boy muggle friend."

Harry doesn't even get the implications of that until Sirius is growing hysterical. "A boy? A boy friend? Harry, are you running off with boys? You are far too young for any of that, do you hear? You're not to be spending time with any boys, at least not alone!"

"I'm alone with Ron all the time," she points out, faintly. "And Fred and George."

"They're different," Sirius waves off. "Harry, boy's your age… well, they want certain things, you see. Boys are horrible, vile creatures. And they are only going to take advantage of you—

"Oh lighten up, Sirius!" Tonks enthuses, throwing an arm around Harry. Harry can't even begin to make sense of any of this, it is all so completely, horrendously wrong. First of al, she would never consider Voldemort her 'friend'. Second, he is not a boy. And he's not even close to her age. And—she flushes. And they are certainly not doing that. This is all one huge, mortifyingly embarrassing misunderstanding which, fortunately, only appears to be working in her favor.

"Harry's allowed a little bit of summer romance, don't you think?"

Sirius' eyes soften at that; a visceral reminder of his prior words. Harry is just a girl, and Tonks is right. She should be allowed a little summer romance, some teenage puppy love, some brief happiness far removed from this approaching war. She should be allowed to just enjoy being a kid, while she still has this brief opportunity to do so.

"Well yes, I suppose." He admits at great length, before he smiles at her, rakishly. "But you must understand that I'll want to meet him, you know. Just to make sure he's—of the right stock."

Harry privately prays that this never comes to pass. Outwardly, she gives him a strained smile. "Right."

This horrible conversation cannot be over fast enough.

.

.

.

The trial to get returned to Hogwarts could have gone a lot worse, but as it is she tries very hard not to remember it. There was no use getting worked up over Fudge—he'd have to face the truth eventually, and quite frankly, she hadn't made up her mind whether she approved of his stupidity or wanted to berate him for it. On the one hand, he really was going to get everyone killed. On the other, he is only working in Voldemort's favor right now. But is that something she wants? But this was a whole other debacle.

Her main concern was Dumbledore. There was a strained undercurrent between them, and for the life of her she couldn't understand why. It's not as if Dumbledore knew anything about her summer—or at least, he couldn't, right? That was impossible. How would he know? But he had conclusively ignored her when she'd attempted to get his attention back at the Ministry, and didn't appear all that interested in giving her an explanation.

Fifth year hasn't even really started and already her thoughts are drifting towards Riddle Manor—towards home— and the ghost that haunts its halls. It's strange to think that this time last year she had been gripped with terror at the very thought of the dark lord. But now she is gripped with an unease she is unused to, worrying over him, wondering how he's fairing… if he misses her at all.

She feels very stupid for it, but she does it nonetheless.

She feels even more foolish writing her letter.

It is dim and quiet in the library as she sits with Hermione, who furiously pens down their Potions essay that Harry hasn't even wrote an introductory paragraph for. Why bother, when no matter how much or how little she writes Professor Snape always returns it to her with an unremarkable 'Acceptable'? But this just means she has a lot of time on her hands to think about her embarrassing outburst from earlier that year.

In the end, it results in nothing that is particularly significant, or interesting for that matter. She writes to him about her classes—all of which are some combination of: boring, dreadfully boring, or uselessly difficult. She takes great pleasure in writing just how awful this year's Slytherin team is, and how judiciously they had beaten them in their match a few days ago. Harry ends it with a lot of questions, forcing him to have to reply.

The days roll by unendingly, and Harry holds fast to the string inside her heart, connecting her to Voldemort. It gives her comfort when she lays in the dark, courage when her own wavers, patience when the infuriating new professor gets on her nerves. Just knowing that he's there on the other side is enough.

Especially with Umbridge making it her life's work to drive Harry to insanity.

Fine. So maybe Harry couldn't make up her mind about what side she was on, but she did know one thing; she didn't want anyone to die. And that is exactly what was going to happen if Umbridge kept insisting that they didn't need to learn any spells: there was nothing wrong, the dark lord didn't exist, the world was full of sunshine. She was… utterly infuriating. Everything about her was making Harry's already frayed nerves grow progressively worse.

And worse—there is nothing she hates worse than being called a liar. If there's one thing she's not, it's that.

"I'm not lying!" She cries, incredulous, uncaring that the whole class can hear them. "Why would I lie about this? Why would Cedric? Or Dumbledore—

"That is enough!" Umbridge shrieks, but Harry ignores her.

"Voldemort is back, you stupid bint, you're going to get everyone killed!"

"Enough! Enough! Detention, Miss Potter!" She screams in response. "See me later, in my office." She composes herself once more, twitching slightly as she fluffs herself up.

Harry sneers at her, but holds her tongue, looking away.

.

.

Things get worse.

Harry scowls out into the distance, idly eying the world unfurling from the owlery tower. Hedwig coos on the ledge beside her, as if in commiseration. She smiles wanly at her dear owl, running a finger down the side of her head, through the downy feathers there. She murmurs a quiet thank you to her bird, plucking the letter out of her beak with anticipation. She breaks the seal, promptly ignoring the envelope that falls to the ground, the chirping of the owls roosting in the tower, even Hedwig, in the face of the letter in her hands.

Her smile grows into something almost uncontrollable when she realizes that the dark lord has deigned to write her back.

More than that, it's two pages long.

She sits for some time on the lopsided steps of the tower, resting against the stone wall and looking down the winding staircase, simply staring sightlessly out into the world, grinning stupidly at absolutely nothing.

The dopey smile remains on her face for the rest of the day, much to the curiosity of her friends.

"What's gotten into you?" Hermione blinks up at her, surprised, when she sits down beside her in the common room, completely unable to stop smiling.

She shakes her head. "Oh, it's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Ron snorts, sliding into the seat beside her. "You were in a right foul mood not an hour ago. You practically bit my head off earlier!"

"You're right, I'm sorry about that." She replies, chastised. "I didn't mean to snap… it's just with Umbrdige and her stupid detention's—

"It's alright mate," Ron waves her off. "I'd want to stab someone with a dinner fork too if I had to sit in a room with that nut for so long."

Hermione turns worried eyes towards her. "How's your hand?"

She blinks, looking down at it. She'd actually forgotten about the pain in the face of her letter.

"It doesn't hurt as much," she lies.

It's a good thing its not her writing hand—how would she respond to Tom otherwise? She's read the thing front to back at least three times already and she giddily moves to do it again.

"What is that, Harry?" Ron peers over her shoulder. She flushes, slamming it back onto the table.

But this just leaves it open for Hermione to pry it from beneath her fingers. Her mouth drops open in indignation, ready to fight her for it, but Hermione holds it out of her reach.

"Tom," she drawls, smiling. "Who's Tom?"

Harry goes bright red. "N—Nothing! I mean—no one! He's no one!"

Ron snorts. "Yeah, sounds like nothing."

She flails wildly for it, and though she can't quite reach it she does stop Hermione from reading it. "Hermione, give it back!" She hisses, trying to reach around her for it. Hermione pouts, but does relinquish it.

Harry grabs it quick, rolling it up in her hands and holds it close to her chest, eying the two of them warily.

"Harry, we're only joking," Hermione laughs, though there is a spark of worry to her eyes. "You know that, right?"

Harry glares at her, before sighing. "Yeah, I know—I just, I don't want to talk about it."

She holds the letter tightly, spinning around and deciding she'll just have to write her response later.

.

.

Harry doesn't quite not know what to say in response, her thoughts drifting off intermittently every sentence or two, smiling quietly off into the distance.

Hermione eyes her shrewdly, before she pokes her in the cheek with the end of her quill.

"Ow!" Harry scowls, turning around to glare at her. "What was that for?"

"You're doing it again," Hermione notes, amused.

"Doing what?" She retorts hotly.

"Dopily smiling off into the distance—what are you writing?"

She jerks the parchment away at this, reluctant to give Hermione another chance to grab it from her. "N—Nothing. It's my potions essay."

"Oh come on, you wouldn't be smiling about school, least of all potions." Hermione rolls her eyes. "And you never write them, anyway. Come on—spill!"

Harry gazes at her warily. Hermione only blinks at her innocently.

"Alright fine," Harry sighs. "I'm writing a letter."

"I figured." She smiles wryly. "To who, might I ask?"

And, when Harry doesn't reply; "Is it Tom?"

Harry scowls. "What does it matter if it is?"

Hermione shakes her head, smile growing. She winks, much to Harry's confusion. "It doesn't."

Harry rears back, narrowing her eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," Hermione shrugs, secretive smile still in place. "Say hello to Tom for me, will you?"

Harry snorts. Highly unlikely. Who knows what's up with Hermione, she's being barmy.

At any rate, she is simply pleased he responded at all. She finds herself fiddling with the necklace at all hours of the day—habit now, it seems. She longs to use it; wonders what the dark lord is up to, whenever her fingers clasp around the cool, ivory stone. He seems—distracted, as of late. His attention fixated on something else.

He is the Dark Lord, she reminds herself. Whatever he is fixating on can't be good.

She doesn't ask, of course.

10.

Harry does not want to teach an incorrigible group of classmates how to do some basic spells. First, she is allergic to responsibility. And second, why must it be her? Everyone looks to her as if she should have all the answers, even when they scorn her and slander her in the papers, in the halls when they think she can't see them. Pansy is the worst of the lot, as is Malfoy, but unfortunately neither of them are here. She'd love to get some hexing practice out on them.

It should be obvious by now though, why they are so insistent upon her, why they all turn wide eyes towards her.

She's Harry Potter—she vanquished he-who-must-not-be-named long before she even knew how to speak. She's the girl-who-lived.

She snorts.

How quickly they change their tune when they want something out of her—if only they knew the truth.

They have all assembled before her in the room of requirement, turning eager faces towards her. She has no idea what to teach them.

In the end she settled for stupefy. That should keep them occupied for some time. Something curiously close to guilt wells uncomfortably in her when they speak about being ready to face the Dark Lord. How willing they are to oppose him, to arm themselves against him. She is not sure who she feels the guilt towards—these students, for her relationship with Voldemort? Or Voldemort, for teaching these children how to oppose him? That sounds like something that would make him incredibly angry.

She ends up telling him anyway.

Not in so many words—just that she has been unwilling grappled into some kind of 'study group' meant to practice their defense spells while Umbridge is still ruining their education.

To her surprise, he is not adverse to the idea at all. He even writes that he created something similar during his time at school. Harry blanches; she can imagine what happened to that 'study group' once he graduated. Worse still, she is leaving out a very overwhelming new revelation that hit her smack in the face this school year: The Order of the Phoenix. And she can't find it in her to tell him. She knows exactly what will happen if she does: he will hunt them down one by one and kill them before they can become a threat. And the members are too dear for her to ever even think of that.

Aside from school, the 'DA'—Dumbledore's Army—as they call themselves (which is quite horrifying, and she was completely unable to get them to change it), her classes, the Order, and Quidditch, Harry fiddles with one more (personal) issue that has arisen to drive her crazy with stress. The summer months have long since left the planes of Scotland, and the northern hemisphere in general, leaving everything brittle and cold. She tries not to think of her new, strange relationship with the Dark Lord who killed her parents, especially on the day of their death. She cannot find it in her to hate him for this, and it eats away at her in an amalgamation of guilt, shame, and more guilt. How can she not hate him? How could she become so friendly with her parent's killer?

How could she be sitting here fretting on what to get him for Christmas—a decision that has taken up almost the entirety of her thoughts for the past few weeks—when she should be thinking up ways to destroy him?

This confliction does not help either of these: she still does not know how to feel about him, and she still does not know what to get him for Christmas. And his birthday. Oh Merlin, his birthday is over break too, isn't it? New Years eve, she remembers vividly, from her dreams. How is she supposed to figure out not one, but two?

As the holidays near dozens of magazines full of owl-order gifts arrive for all the students finding themselves in a situation similar to hers.

Except the people they're gift shopping for probably aren't anywhere near as difficult to shop for as Lord Voldemort.

He is the opposite of materialistic; the very few possessions he has are of infinite value to him, and everything else is met with scorn and disinterest.

She cracks, finally, and asks Hermione for advice.

"What do you get for someone who doesn't like anything?" She asks urgently, when Ron turns around to feast himself upon the pumpkin pie.

Hermione blinks at her rapidly. "Um?" She puts her fork down. "Who are you buying this for?"

"A friend," she replies quickly, and it feels horrible on her tongue. Her relationship with the dark lord is not so simple enough to be considered a 'friendship'.

She eyes her critically. "The same friend you stayed over summer break with?"

She nods.

"You're spending the holidays with him, then?"

Harry nods again.

"Harry, I'm a little worried, honestly." She leans close. Ron has begun to choke, and Seamus leans over to slap a violent hand against his back. This is met with uproarious laughter from the boys, as Ron sputters his way out of a seizure. "I don't know how much I like the idea of you spending so much time with a boy you don't really know… he could be taking advantage of you!"

You don't even know the half of it, she digresses, silently. Ron heaves a projectile lump of something onto Dean. More laughter ensues.

"I'll be fine, Mione," she insists, but it is vacuous and ineffectual, and they both know it.

"You care about him a lot," the studious girl observes.

Harry seizes up, flushing. "What? I—no! I just, you know, he's been really nice. It seems like the nice thing to do."

"It's Tom, isn't it? That's his name?"

Harry staunchly refuses to reply to this. "Maybe it is." She sniffs, when it becomes clear Hermione is going to attempt to badger it out of her. "Maybe it isn't. It's just—it's the polite thing to do. It's good manners, is all."

Hermione gives her a rather unimpressed look. "You wouldn't be so worried if you didn't care."

She grows silent.

Hermione heaves a great sigh, shaking out her curly hair. "Well, I suppose you should at least tell me his likes and dislikes." It's a peace offering, and one she intends to take great advantage of.

"Um.." She starts, sheepish. "Well, I don't really know what he likes. I know a lot of stuff he doesn't like."

Hermione gives her a look of disbelief. "Alright," she allows at length. "And what does he not like?"

"Everything."

It is going to be a long day.

.

.

.

In the end, the perfect gift presents itself.

Mcgonagall reveals their midterm to be a lesson in futility and smuggling headache potions from the infirmary. A soul gem is meant to be turned from an ordinary rock, transfigured into the physical representation of one's soul. It is also tedious, difficult, and long; frustration runs rampant in the class. Ron has seized his rock by the hand and flung it out the Gryffindor tower window at least a dozen times this week. The twins are making a killing on headache, stress-relief, and pepper-up potions swiped from Madame Pomfrey's stores.

But for all the unending frustration this stupid rock has given her, it is actually quite pretty.

Perfect, actually.

At first glance, it appears wholly unremarkable. It is made of sharp, geometric lines of an indeterminable stormy color, intermittent with silver upon the glossy planes. The rock itself is very smooth, like refined platinum, wrapped in chalice. But held up in a certain striking light, long panels of dark scarlet will streak across the surface. And after, in the dim glow of a lampshade, or perhaps a candle, the stone becomes olivine in constitution, seized by a marmoreal, viridian light. But these vivid colors last only for a brief, insignificant moment—so quick they are perhaps just a trick of the eye.

But she knows this specific shade of red, as closely as she does that shade of green, which looks upon her critically in the mirror every morning. And the slate gray of its form, so very like the tumultuous stormclouds in Tom Riddle's eyes. She wonders what it could mean.

She still dreams of him all the time.

It feels… intrusive, almost.

The Tom Riddle in her dreams is so vastly different than the Dark Lord that it's sometimes difficult to reconcile the two together. Tom Riddle feels concern and unease—he is indecisive, unsure of himself. He feels great sorrow: bitterness, loneliness. He is at school now, whenever she closes her eyes to dream. Even school age he is dashingly handsome, but very shy. He hides it behind a facsimile indifference; pretends it doesn't hurt when his fellow housemates scorn him for his blood, when he finds himself just another outcast after all.

He tells himself he doesn't care about any of them. He doesn't care about all the other orphans; he doesn't care about his year mates or his housemates; his teachers who overlook him even with his brilliance—

Doesn't care about his father, who lies dead upon the floor.

Harry jolts awake.

Her pillow is damp with tears, some still streak upon her face, still. She brings a hand up, numbly, wiping them away. Even in the world of the wakeful, she can still see the boyish form of a young Tom Riddle; he stands alone in a room full of dead people, his wand has long since fallen from his trembling hands. He appears stoic and unmoved, aside from his eyes, leaking traitorous tears.

"Harry?" Hermione stirs, almost unwillingly, in the bed beside her.

Harry jumps again, wiping furiously at her eyes. "Yeah?" Comes out from behind her hands, muffled, but clearly thick with choking sadness.

"Oh—Harry," Hermione is surely awake now, concern so evident even in the darkness. "What's wrong? What happened?"

She shakes her head wildly; it is less for Hermione and more for her. "Nothing," she convinces herself. "Just… had a bad dream."

How could she possibly hate this boy, who has only ever wanted the comfort and affection of another?

Perhaps Lord Voldemort is cold and unfeeling, but this is only because he has turned himself away from a world that had already turned itself away from him.

25.

It is so very strange, to wake up to a world where he is not by her side.

Her bed feels empty, foreign. Terribly alone. One hand wanders into the drifting sunlight, as if reaching for something that now only exists in her dreams. She closes her eyes, and pretends she can feel him, if only for a moment. Her hand reaches further, and the illusion shatters. He would never have been so far away from her. He always starts the night determinably settled upon the far side of the bed; but every morning she wakes to his soft breath upon her forehead, their legs tangled together, and his hand in her hair, so ensnared it may be stuck in there forever.

She would blink sleepily into the diffused morning glow, unwillingly drawn from her dreams, refusing to acknowledge the fact that she's awake. She'd prefer to be asleep in his arms forever, never to deal with the world outside this room again. He would wake eventually though, stirring around her, hand tightening upon her hip. And though they were both awake, they would not leave the bed until far into the afternoon, preoccupied with far more pleasurable endeavors than whatever could await them outside.

Harry opens her eyes.

Her fingers grasp ineffectually into the air; dust motes shiver, caught in the morning haze; the curtains of her bed flutter in the windless air.

The marks upon her hips have faded; five identical marks in the perfect shape of his hand on each side. There is no hot, insistent mouth to lave dark kisses into her skin, no warm breath in her ear, making her shiver. He is always so masterful when he draws out little gasps from her, always knows just where to press those dexterous fingers to make her whimper or where to draw his mouth to watch her shudder apart, breaking, begging. He is in possession of an incredibly talented mouth, this is true. That isn't to say he lacks talent with his fingers, or his—

Harry sits up, scowling, feeling hot all over. Why must she think such dirty thoughts, all the time? It must be the curse of adolescence. It doesn't seem like such a curse when he is there to so skillfully attend to her; except he's not here now, and anything aside from him is always unsatisfying.

"Harry?" Lavender blinks up from where she has a small army of hair products laid out before her on her bureau, sparing her a brief glance. "What are you doing up so early?"

"I need a shower," she says by way of explanation: a cold one, at that.

Lavender appears even more curios at that, tossing out to her just as she reaches the bathroom; "I see those bruises have finally faded, huh?" A teasing lilt to her voice.

"It's a tragedy," Harry agrees, completely serious. Lavender laughs, taking her flat tone as sarcasm.

"Well there's always Yule break, isn't there?" Comes her mirthful response, floating into the bathroom.

Harry appraises her reflection with a critical eye. She sort of looks like a redheaded raccoon who just got mauled by a hair dryer. But then again, getting her hair to do anything is a lesson in futility.

"That's way too far away," Harry replies, turning away from her unfortunate-looking mirror image to turn on one of the showers.

She's just stepping in as she hears Lavender enter the bathroom. "Is he really that good that you're already so impatient?" The brunette inquires, equal parts genuine curiosity and unrepentant mockery.

"You've no idea," she breaks into a secretive smile at the thought of Lavender's face if she ever found out who 'he' is.

Lavender catches her face in the mirror as she holds out a mascara wand, brows rising. "Harry, I think you're holding out on me here."

"How so?" She turns back into the spray, reaching for some hair product. It's definitely Hermione's—if it can tame her bookish friend's bushy locks, maybe it might actually be able to tame the mess she calls hair.

"I need details!" Lavender whines. "Listen, Harry, ever since I stopped seeing that Ravenclaw, my life has become so boring. I need to live vicariously through you."

Harry snorts. It'd be a miracle if she could ever refer to her life as 'boring'. "I'm afraid you might find my life just as uneventful as yours." She lies.

Lavender guffaws. "Not with those bruises—Harry, you came to school this year looking like a spotted leopard!"

That's very true. The Dark Lord is very insistent and diligent in keeping as many as possible on her, for as long as possible. She always means to confront him about it, but she's usually far too distracted when he makes them to protest.

Harry smirks, rubbing suds into her hair. "Maybe I like it that way."

"Harry!" Lavender cries, delighted. "Oh come now, don't hold out on me!"

The idea of rehashing her sex life to Lavender is both utterly hilarious and also completely mortifying. But they're sixteen year old girls, isn't this what they do? Gossip about boys? And, more importantly, gossip about what they do with boys? Well, it's not as if he's ever going to find out…

"What do you want me to say? He's certainly a man who knows how to use his—" she cuts off with a snicker, wholly incapable of finishing that sentence. "He's very, uh, skilled, if you know what I mean."

"Really? How big is he?"

Harry chokes on a mouthful of soapy water, sputtering and coughing up a lung in response to this.

Lavender looks completely unapologetic: also, very insistent.

"I—I don't know!" Harry retorts, hotly, feeling her cheeks burn. "What—do you want me to take out a measuring stick?"

"Well it doesn't have to be in cubic inches or anything!" Lavender rolls her eyes, and then—to Harry's unending mortification—starts to mime with her hands. "Y'know, just like, a rough estimate."

Harry, against her better judgment, finds herself genuinely contemplating this. Good Merlin, she's not really going to—

But then she's already brought her hands up, eying the space between them, before her rational thought can catch up. She shows Lavender, whose eyes grow wide, brows raised. Harry's a little concerned she may have… overestimated. But then, he's not exactly small.

"Oh, Harry," she enthuses, purring. "How very unfair! I swear, boys our age are always so boring—not to mention incompetent and… ill-equipped. I'm very jealous. In fact, I'm raving with envy."

Harry can't even hide her snickers at that. Oh, Lavender, if only you knew…

Unfortunately the rest of the day gets progressively worse.

Tom's letter comes in today, right atop her morning toast, and though she's absolutely bursting at the seams in anticipation, she swallows her excitement and tucks it into her bag. She darts a wary eye towards the head table, wondering if Dumbledore could possibly know. But how? It's just mail. She—and about everyone else in this hall—gets mail about once a day. It can't seem that strange.

Not to mention Hermione's livid frustration when it becomes apparent that Harry has, indeed, become a Potion's Master overnight. Slughorn is utterly charmed at the sight of her, always droning on about her mother and their similar looks, and her talent in potions—of which he falsely believes Harry has inherited even a small portion of.

Tom was… agitated, when she mentioned that Slughorn was her Potion's professor. He quickly became silent on the matter, but Harry thought she could feel wariness nonetheless. Apparently Slughorn was old enough to also have been Tom's teacher, so maybe it's just residual hatred from his own time at Hogwarts.

She doesn't want to think about that anyway. She doesn't want to think about the prophecy looming over their heads, the machinations that he is undoubtedly a part of, or her apparent role in all of this. She wants to be as far away as possible from it, settled into the alluring universe of Tom's arms, so far removed from the rest of the world that it's as if it never existed at all.

But it's starting to feel as if it is only inevitable for her to be dragged out of that false world, and back into the shocking cold of reality.

11.

Yule break cannot come fast enough.

Harry clasps her hands against her necklace impatiently, eyes darting to the world outside the window, as if she glared hard enough it would move faster.

"Blimey Harry," Ron yawns, sprawled out upon the opposite seat. "I've never seen you so excited to go back to the Dursley's."

Hermione sends her a narrow, indagated glance at this. Harry studiously avoids it.

She shrugs. "I guess there's just… more to be excited about."

"Are you sure you don't want to spend the holidays with us?" He sits up straighter. "Mum'll be devastated when she finds out you're not coming."

"I know, I'm sorry." Truly though, she is. The thought of the Burrow makes something ache in her chest, but it is overwhelmed by her longing for Tom. Voldemort and Tom. Both of them have never experienced a happy Christmas. Not to mention even an acknowledgment of their birthday. The thought saddens her. She knows that feeling very well; it is not one she would wish upon anyone.

Harry gives Ron a wan smile. "Perhaps I can pop over for a bit on Christmas Day." She hedges.

Ron takes this at face value, nodding.

Harry practically leaps out of the train, jumping onto the platform with an energy that surprises even her. She pulls her trunk behind her, looking around the station. This is unnecessary though; she cannot feel him in the crowd, no tugging in her heart drawing her into the distant fog.

Instead she turns around and wishes her friends a wonderful holiday, before she darts into the throng of exuberant parents. When she is suitably lost enough, she struggles out of the crowd and over towards the wall, far out of sight for the majority of the platform.

She tugs the necklace out from under her shirt. The jewel is warm in her palm.

Harry grasps it tightly.

"Take me home," she whispers, and then she is pulled through space and time from a tug in her navel.

.

.

Riddle Manor and its lone occupant have not changed much.

The overgrown lawn is obscured by a gelid blanket of soft snow; tufts of white that perch upon the stern brows of the windows, the roof, the ledges. It sits entirely untouched, not one footstep to mar the ivory surface.

Harry heads inside, where she is greeted with a pleasant gust of warm air.

Her feet lead her towards her room. She swings the door open with a wide grin—it looks exactly as she left it. Her room. Her very own room, all to herself; if she wants to leave the bed unmade she can; if she wants to throw clothes about in a haphazard mess, she can do that too. She settles upon the bed, swishing her wand to unpack all her belongings. Foreign things have found their way into her safe haven, things she would have never have thought she'd find in her room. There are little, opalescent bottles lined primly upon her bureau: nail polish, in brilliant colors. A little bag full of makeup—most of it things from Lavender, but some are hers; a bottle of Sleekeezys that Hermione insists is a necessity for her hair. Harry pinches a lock of it, drawing it up to her eyes with a critical eye: Hermione is probably right. It's not bushy like her best friend's, nor is it finely curled like Lavenders. Rather, it is straight in some places and wavy in others, standing up every which way in an untamed mess.

Harry pauses, suddenly.

When had she changed? When did she start caring about what she looked like—what color her nails are, if her face looks pretty or not?

She flushes suddenly, all the way down to her toes.

Why does she care so much right now—more than she ever has before— when the only one who's there to impress is the Dark Lord Voldemort?

The answer should be obvious.

She draws her trembling hands off the top of her drawers, turning her head to look into the mirror on the side of her room. Her profile looks… pretty. Lavender has finally taught her the elusive art of eyeliner, after they spent months on mascara. She looks—different. Older. Less like an untamable little gremlin running about the halls and more like a young woman. It's crazy what a little bit of hair potion and kohl can do to a person.

Well, she most certainly doesn't need any blush, Harry notices. Not with the outrageous flush that refuses to leave her cheeks.

Against her will, her mutinous thoughts begin to take hold of her; would he think she's pretty? Would he prefer her hair straight, or in the dictated curls she's only recently learned to master? All Lavender and Parvati do in their dorm is talk about boys they fancy—but more than that, debating if those boys fancy them back. It's a topic of unending discussion: Does he prefer blondes or brunettes? Blue eyes or brown? Would he think her breasts are too small? And, Hermione's favorite—whenever she deigns to join the conversation—'Are you sure he's not using you for sex?' These are all questions that circuitously return in an unending cycle back at school; Harry feels herself grow hot in horror when she tries to apply any of them to the Dark Lord.

Mainly because she feels ridiculous wondering all this stuff about him—but also because she has no idea what the answers to any of them would be.

Harry crawls under her blankets, moping.

She was looking forward to seeing him again with such unparalleled fervor earlier—now she wants to stay here and die.

.

.

There is an unimaginably small distance between them, and yet it appears to have drawn onto the couch like a steel wall.

Lord Voldemort narrows his eyes.

Harry Potter shifts nervously, a scant few inches away from him, a scant few very intentional inches. He is still boggled over how drastically a teenage girl can change in the space of a few months unattended. Where is the impossible hair, the broken sandals, the bruises on her shins from frolicking in the wilds? It's as if a strange pod person has replaced her, perched delicately upon the couch in an identical body.

"Harry," he starts. She jumps, before she very carefully turns her eyes towards him. Her hands fiddle in her lap; her eyes appear to be fixated upon something directly above his shoulder.

He frowns.

"Sorry," she ripostes, quickly. "I—um, I just… I don't feel well."

He frowns further. "Why did you not say something earlier?"

If possible, she looks even more uncomfortable. "It just crept up on me," she stutters. "I think—I think I'm going to rest for a bit."

And then she's out the door like a flighty bird, darting into the hall as a trailing, vermillion light. He watches her disappear into the gloom, utterly bewildered. Has he done something to upset her? But how? He barely had time to say hello, before she was already sprinting out the door.

And then, with great resignation, he thinks that perhaps this is only inevitable. She is a teenage girl, after all.

.

.

Harry locks herself in the bathroom, assuming that this is the last place on earth Lord Voldemort would dare follow her into.

She closes her eyes, sagging onto the door.

Good Merlin, she's doomed.

She had just spent the better part of the afternoon hiding in her room, attempting to reconcile the fact that she—sort of, maybe, kind of—liked him. This was horrifying enough as it was. She wished she could lie to herself. She wished she could pretend that she hadn't spent all year looking forward to seeing him again, seeing her parent's killer, her almost killer. The man responsible for hundreds of deaths. Who may even be killing people now. Who knows? He warned her not to go to the dungeons. Maybe he's down there right now, throwing unforgivables at innocents.

But by the time dinner rolled around, she had come to terms with it. Well, she had accepted the fact that—to her unending mortification—she liked Lord Voldemort. He was… unconventional, to say the least. But perhaps there was something rather striking about him, tall and pale and cloaked in black, with a tangible power that licked against her whenever he entered the room. Certainly no one could really blame her; Tom Riddle was not exactly bad looking.

And just as she had accepted this, the Dark Lord strode into the room, and completely derailed every thought in her head.

Harry slides down onto the floor, head in her hands.

This is horrible.

How is she supposed to exist in a world with the perfect face of Lord Voldemort staring down upon her, scolding her for leaving the backdoor open, for trailing mud into the mansion, for falling asleep outside in the cold?

When she looks up at herself, she thinks she's been blushing so deeply for so long that the color might just stay there forever.

Considering the long weeks with only his company to look forward to, that might just come to pass.

.

.

.

The child is avoiding him.

This becomes quite obvious when she canoodles her way out of dinner for a second time, claiming that same elusive illness from earlier. It always seems to rise up whenever he's around.

This shouldn't bother him as much as it does. There is no reason to put such stake into the silly whims of a teenage girl; he refuses to. There are other matters to attend to, anyway. His plans to infiltrate the Ministry have bore few results. He's grown tired of both Malfoy and Rookwood's meager excuses—perhaps it is time for a visit to Malfoy Manor. It would be a far better use of his time than attempting to wrangle out whatever Harry's sudden issue with him.

The days grow lengthy; more snow dumps itself upon the grounds, becoming something of a hindrance. The prophecy remains obscured and completely out of his reach.

Harry has made her vanishing act into a minor art form.

It grows tiring about the fourth or fifth time she manages to do it; wiggling off the couch and out the door so fluidly, finding ways around him, avoiding the library like a particularly contagious pestilence.

And when he draws out of his office, finding her sitting silently in the empty sitting room just across the hall, he decides it's high time to confront the problem. She looks up very quickly at his entrance—looks back down just as fast, focusing all of her attention to her feet.

Harry curses herself silently for managing to get herself into this predicament. She had been so careful, so concise with her every action, as to avoid him as much as possible. It had been working rather well, too, yet something very close to guilt eats away at her whenever she manages another escape. It's not the distance that bothers her—it's the first flicker of surprise that darts across his features when she darts out of the room. Surprise… and hurt. She knows she's hurting him, even though she doesn't mean to. He would deny it to hell and back, of course, but she knows him far too intimately not to see it.

His dark crimson eyes are fixated upon her, but she doesn't look up. Long, horrible silentious moments pass, poisonous and corrosive and eating away at her resolve. He does not move to sit; nor does he move at all. He simply… regards her.

And finally, when she thinks she can bare it no longer:

"There's no need to force yourself," he snaps, acerbically, once the silence has gone on long enough. "If my presence is so difficult for you to bear, you are free to leave at your leisure."

She looks up at that. Her eyes widen, something like terror rising in her throat. "What?"

And then, sputtering, "No, that's not—

"I have other matters to attend to." He cuts her off. "Your paltry excuses will have to wait."

And then he is turning around—leaving the room. She bolts upright, intending to follow. "No—wait, please, don't leave!"

He pauses, stilling. He turns his head slightly, until one cruel, cold eye can fixate upon her; the color of heat and fire, causing ice to freeze around her heart.

"You've made it very clear that you've no wish to even be in the same room as me."

Harry bites her lip, hands balled up into trembling fists, trying to find a way out of that umbrageous, impassive gaze. It is Lord Voldemort who stands before her, tall and cold as artic ivory; the cruel man who murdered her parents; who emerged from black magic in a decrepit graveyard. It is not her Lord Voldemort, who explains to her spells she can't quite grasp with unending patience, who lets her fall asleep upon him, who carries her to bed.

"That's not it at all," she whispers, shaking.

He ignores her. "There's no need to stay on my account; if it truly so burdensome, you are free to leave if you wish. I'm not keeping you here."

She'd have preferred the volcanic rage to this At least when he's angry she can get angry right back—but he has closed her off, standing as a callous, indifferent figure with no regard for her at all. She doesn't know how to find her way back to him.

She shakes her head. "You've got it all wrong."

"Have I?" He turns around at that, as still as stone—an unfeeling statue of perfect pale marble. "Then by all means, Harry, plead your case."

She blinks up at him with big, conflicted green eyes. She's biting her lip so intensely he thinks she might be drawing blood. He givers her a moment, if only to prove his point. He derives dark satisfaction from the hurt in her eyes.

"Ah, but even still, you refuse to answer." He turns away once more, refusing to stay where he's not wanted.

He makes for the door: she catches his hand.

"I don't want you to leave," she whispers, unsteady.

"You are doing an excellent job convincing me of this." He snorts, derisive. Her hand grips him tighter.

"It's not... I'm not—I don't mean to…" But her small voice falls short; determination and an incomprehensible fear war upon her face.

"I have no desire to discuss this further, Harry." He scorns, turning to face her. She hadn't realized just how close he was standing: so close it is as if those fiery eyes could burn into her soul. "I'll not stay where I'm not wanted—

And then she's tugging him forward and closing the infinitesimally small distance between them, catching his words with her mouth.

The touch of her lips is so light, so delicate, it is as if he dreamed it. But the foreign warmth is undeniable; the pliant indent of her bottom lip, just as soft as he imagined it to be; the lovely sweetness of her breath; the gentle movement of her lips beneath his own—these are all things far too beautiful to have come from his own thoughts. There is a sense of belonging that sparks within his chest at the touch; the same one that tingles down his spine at the feel of her fingers upon his own, her head resting on his shoulder. As if his own soul recognizes the other part of it as an essence of the self—of home.

And then it is gone, just as quickly as it had come.

He stares down on her, completely unable to create coherent thought. Her eyes grow wide with horror and color blooms upon her cheeks—the pink upon her is quite lovely; he wonders how far it goes down—and she leaps away from him as if burned. He cannot quite decipher the look in her eyes, swimming with a thousand different emotions. Fear is the most prevalent; horror, embarrassment, profound mortification, and an indisputable affection that draws his attention away from the others.

She blinks her enormous eyes and stares back, mutely. And then she is bolting out the door before he can move to stop her.

.

.

.