DISCLAIMER: The following story is based on situations and characters from the Harry Potter books which are created and owned by J. K. Rowling, and various other publishers, including, but not limited to Warner Bros., Inc., Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, and Raincoat Books. No use other than entertainment is intended and no financial gain is being made. No trademark or copyright infringement is intended.

Notes: Thanks for your comments and interest in this story. :)

Chapter 4: New Year

December 1998

The bed was marginally more comfortable than his previous one at the Dursleys. Not much luxury here. Even the blankets didn't help, thin and frayed as they were.

In any case, Regulus Black must have preferred the hard stone floor to this. Or maybe he liked it that way. Who knew?

Harry didn't, but he was so used to waking up with back pain and a stiff neck, he didn't much care. And honestly, he was finding it even more difficult to sleep in a comfortable bed after the ordeal of the second war. The Black ancestral home was still much better than a magical tent.

Grimmauld Place hadn't been renovated at all, although he'd planned on doing a couple of changes in the near future. Right now, Harry didn't have the strength nor the patience to deal with it. Besides, not many people visited him these days, so he didn't see the point.

Harry stared at the ceiling of Regulus' old bedroom, his mind wandering elsewhere. Walls, beds and portraits disappeared in his mind, only to be replaced with memories and daydreams; another habit that had escalated since the end of the war. He couldn't focus on the present.

Auror training was not going well.

Sure, he didn't have trouble with the technical aspect of it, the stealth exercises, the magical theory behind tracking spells and various detection charms against Dark artifacts. No, he should've felt right at home after seven years of fighting Voldemort. And he would have, if his magic wasn't going haywire.

A month after he defeated the Dark Lord, Harry had noticed the first signs of trouble. Spells grew more potent, curses more destructive, charms became deadly weapons. Household spells, he didn't even want to try.

How was he supposed to disarm a fellow trainee, if his magic practically forced Harry to smash the poor man against a wall? Or how about that time he went through healing examination and almost managed to skin a patient alive instead of healing his burns?

He'd never had those problems before. Well, not counting the fact that his Disarming Charm had always been a bit out of the norm. But now he did.

And people noticed, of course. His supervisors did, though they liked to turn a blind eye to Harry's issues, merely on account of his Boy-Who-Lived status. The excuses ranged from love problems to Harry trying to mess up on purpose, just to make others shine; because he was just that modest.

Idiots.

Senior Auror Bailey had clapped him on the back, winking at Harry, before giving him a passing mark on his latest tracking exam.

Harry hated it all. The preferential treatment sickened him, even more so after he'd left school. And worse, he couldn't even vent his frustrations, because people wouldn't believe him anyway. They would dismiss his concerns, think that it was just trivial nonsense. Anything to keep him tied to the ministry. Anything to keep the almighty and flawless image of the hero alive.

Harry Potter wasn't allowed to be human.

It shouldn't matter at all what they thought. But that was kind of hard to hold onto, when your career depended on it. Harry would have to endure the public's opinion even if he decided to become a monk.

Unfortunately, he would pass exams with flying colors despite his issues. Harry knew that. And he'd make a fine Auror maybe, but the thing was, it wouldn't have happened if his name hadn't been immortalized. He couldn't even prove himself out there, in the real world, like a normal person.

If some regular Joe harmed a patient or colleague during training, just because his magic was out of control, his ass would've been thrown out of Auror academy faster than you can say Quidditch. Unfortunately, that was not the case with Harry. Which meant the only responsible thing left to do was to resign; or to do something drastic, something Dark Lordish enough to get people off his back. After all, Harry Potter could play on both sides of the chess board, according to the public. There was no in between for someone like him.

Harry sighed, putting his arms behind his head.

Could he resign?

Sure. But then what? He didn't have any other career options left, nothing that inspired him to live for the moment.

Fighting bad guys, no matter how ridiculous and cliché that looked, was the only thing that made him forget the numbness and boredom of life after Voldemort. The adrenaline, the heady rush of power, the urge to capture...destroy...

...kill.

It was getting worse.

Thoughts like that belonged to Harry's enemies. The murderers who lusted after spilled guts and more blood, the politicians who filled their pockets after getting rid of another body. He wasn't like them. He was not a killer, strictly speaking. Hadn't harmed anyone during the war, if it could be avoided. Certainly, he hadn't enjoyed watching Voldemort's curse backfire, although it had been the only solution to end this back then. If his friends knew how he felt, hell, if anyone knew that Harry wasn't celebrating their victory, they would ask questions.

Those emotions right now evoked a fickle reminder of days against Bellatrix Lestrange, the few people in Harry's life that made him want to go that way. Not even Voldemort had managed to turn Harry into his worst nightmare. And now that he was gone, Harry's loss of control became that much more obvious. If anything, it did make him look more like a new Dark Lord.

He needed to resign. For his sake and for all the people he'd sworn to protect. Families, children, the innocent. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself, if he accidentally killed a civilian on duty just because his magic was messed up.

Harry stared at the broken, old chandelier suspended from the ceiling. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

"Harry," a voice called, as footsteps echoed off the thin walls. Seconds later, Hermione opened the door to his room, poking her head inside. Turning around, Harry flung the blanket off his tired body, bare feet touching the hard floor.

"Hey." Rubbing his eyes, he adjusted his glasses, dispelling his gloomy thoughts for a moment. Hermione gave him a small smile, closing the door behind her.

"I've been looking for you. You left the ministry early."

True, but he'd done that for weeks now. Socializing with people he didn't care about was a chore, completely unnecessary.

He stifled a yawn, patting the spot beside him. "Results came in. I didn't want to waste my time talking to McLaggen of all people," he said. "He was already bragging about his perfect scores."

Hermione grimaced, most likely remembering her own interactions with the boy.

"Well, that's understandable. It doesn't help that you keep besting him at the practical part."

"And theory," Harry replied, grinning. McLaggen joining the Aurors had surprised everyone. Harry held no particular dislike for the boy anymore. Not after the final battle, when McLaggen had finally shown that he wasn't just the embodiment of Gryffindor's worst. But Auror training with him wasn't a nice experience. Too much exposure to McLaggen's massive ego.

Hermione sat down on the bed and they fell silent. It was kind of awkward. More so than usual. Talking to people had never been easy for him, but he couldn't quite get rid of the idea that something had been lost along the way, something that had tied them all together for so many years. Ron and Hermione had moved on, that was clear. They were living their lives to the fullest. Harry didn't even know where to begin.

"How are things going at Hogwarts?" Harry asked finally, just to break the atmosphere.

Hermione had returned back to school, wanting to study for her N.E.W.T.s properly instead of choosing the easy way out.

Harry was wondering if he should have heeded her advice. Another year at Hogwarts would've meant another year away from...this. But memories of Hogwarts just caused his stomach to clench unpleasantly. He didn't think he could handle being cooped up inside the castle, even though he'd always called it home. And somehow he just knew he would face the same problems there.

Anyway, obtaining N.E.W.T.s wasn't the main issue. He could always self-study and send in an application to the ministry, but Harry didn't have the time now.

Hermione brushed a strand of brown hair away, her gaze pensive.

"To be honest, it's difficult. School work is okay, but too many students are traumatized. The professors have a hard time trying to keep everything in order." Pressing her lips together, Hermione stared at her hands.

"Didn't McGonagall hire more assistant professors to help out with that?" Harry asked. He remembered McGonagall's distressed fire-call. "She asked me to tutor DADA classes."

"Did she? You never told me that."

Harry shrugged, not finding it important anyway. He had refused the offer for obvious reasons. Even teaching these days would cause him to lash out at somebody. People were safer if they stayed away from him.

Hermione eyed him suspiciously, though she didn't press the issue. "It's just that most of the professors aren't experts on counseling and providing emotional support. But that's what everyone needs." Harry noticed that there was a heaviness clinging to her shoulders. Hermione looked fragile. Her expression right now mirrored Harry's own at his worst.

"Too many students lost friends, family members," she continued. "Too many people were tortured by the Carrows. It's not something they can just forget." She paused, gripping the bedsheets tightly. "Slytherin house is basically empty, but those that stayed, even first years get harassed by the rest of the school."

"So it's basically worse than ever before," Harry concluded. Reaching out, he grasped Hermione's hand, squeezing it briefly, trying to offer some comfort. He should've known. Hermione's letters had alluded to it, but he should've guessed that the rift between pure-bloods and Muggle-born students would grow, tearing potential friendships apart and creating more prejudice.

The war hadn't changed this society in the slightest; in fact, it brought ideological differences to the surface. Difference that were irrevocable. The persecution of Dark Wizards for example became a sport within the ministry, sometimes more out of guilt and deflection, but often out of revenge. Dark wizards had trouble breathing without offending someone at some point.

He'd talked to Kingsley about it, months ago, but the Minister was already neck-deep in reforming the Wizengamot. He didn't have the time to change everything at once, despite agreeing with Harry. Thus it fell onto Harry's shoulders, the burden of fame and reputation as a Dark Lord killer nearly breaking his back in two. A heavy burden indeed, for an Auror trainee that is. He didn't envy Kingsley at all.

"I want to do something," Hermione continued. "I want to change the system, dedicate my time and work to help people."

"Including Slytherins?" Harry asked lightly. Ron would've looked scandalized, scoffing at the mere idea that these kids needed help.

Hermione smiled. "Yes, including Slytherins." And Harry couldn't have been more proud. The time for house prejudice belonged to the past, at least for him.

"People want to help," he replied. "But most adults grew up with two wizarding wars breathing down their neck. They just passed their beliefs onto the next generation. Take Ron for example. He's still struggling."

"I know," Hermione whispered, looking regretful. "We had it easier, I guess. You and me. But other Muggle-borns at school don't see it that way at all. It's like they can't even think for themselves." She shook her head, staring at Regulus' portraits on the desk. "I don't know how to change their minds."

"It's not our responsibility," Harry murmured, eyeing her carefully. He was so bloody sick of adults who expected others to change the world; to do their dirty work. "We can help, but people like McGonagall and Kingsley have the power to influence others," he said.

"And you don't?" Hermione asked with no small amount of disbelief.

Harry's eyes grew sharp.

"Do you expect me to?" His hands clenched. Schooling his features, he tried to act indifferent, but he could already feel his magic rising, uttering a silent challenge.

Hermione must've seen something in his expression, because she lowered her head, watching him through half-lidded eyes. Anxious. Was she afraid? The guilt and shame came just as quickly, temporarily beating down his magic into submission. Merlin, this was Hermione.

What was wrong with him?

"I-," he began, not knowing what to say.

Hermione nodded in understanding. "It's still happening, isn't it?"

It hadn't been the first time hatred had begun to flow through his veins, igniting his blood with inexplicable rage just because someone said the wrong things to his face. But this was his best friend. And it's not like she was wrong. He did have the power to change the future. His name worked wonders in the political field. Harry's eyes closed and he had the sudden urge to rub his scar.

"Yes, it's still acting up," Harry admitted, because he couldn't lie to her. Didn't want to. Hermione was the only person who listened to him, the only one he could confide in, although telling her the details made him wary.

Hermione crossed her legs, contemplating something. "I didn't mean to tell you what you should do. Everyone knows how much you gave up for the wizarding world. It's just that,-" She sighed again. "It's just that people would listen to you, naturally."

"I know. But I don't want that kind of attention." He wished others would understand this.

"Good," Hermione said, smiling a bit. "You should do what you want. Besides, having the power to influence people, and actually doing it are two different things. There's no obligation to it, " she said.

"I wouldn't be of use to them anyway," Harry retorted, scratching the back of his head. "Not with the issues I have."

His friend nodded. He liked that about Hermione. She wasn't nearly as judgmental as she'd been in the past. The war had changed them all, but they also grew up. Became adults.

"Did you see the healer?" Hermione asked.

Harry could've laughed, if it wasn't such a pathetic and miserable affair.

"Healer Number 24. I'm not sure though. I probably lost count after the first ten. Most of them just keep saying the same. I'm fine. Nothing's wrong with me. Off you go, Mr. Potter."

"That's because you didn't tell them anything about the Horcrux. But it's the only thing that makes sense," she said, crossing her arms.

"Does it, Hermione?" He stared at his own hands. "My magic isn't different. I'm not more powerful or anything like that. I'm just-"

"Angry?" Hermione blinked. "Harry, I'm sorry to say this, but you always had a bit of a temper." At Harry's mock affronted look, she chuckled. "If your emotions make your magic act out, then it's definitely more psychological. But that doesn't mean you being a former Horcrux has nothing to with it."

"But it's not for certain," Harry replied, giving her a look. "Honestly, you make it sound as if I'm just angry, because I somehow miss the soul piece." Harry smiled, though he didn't think it was funny. "I mean this is Voldemort we're talking about."

Disgust coiled through him at the thought. But he couldn't deny that there was a tiny part of him, slumbering in the deepest corner of his mind, that reacted to the name. Voldemort had always made him feel strongly, like a wound that wouldn't heal, even with the destruction of the soul piece; another scar left by the madman, but this time on the inside.

Hermione flinched. Though, she didn't change her mind, if her knowing look was anything to go by.

"If it's not the Horcrux, then there's no other option left," she began. "The healers couldn't have been that incompetent. They tested you for every magical malady in existence."

"And a few that don't exist," Harry replied wryly, remembering one healer who insisted Harry had somehow caught Fairy Fungulus native to the forgotten sea kingdom Heracleion. Luna would've been proud.

Maybe, he should just tell Hermione the truth. It's not like it would hurt too much, although he didn't like sharing this secret. Already, he could tell that everything inside him balked at the idea.

Rising to his feet, Harry left the bed, feeling Hermione's curious stare at his back. His hands were sweaty, he noticed, as he opened the drawer to retrieve the items that had caused him too many sleepless nights.

Hermione drew closer, noticing the way Harry's shoulders tensed. He couldn't hide anything from her.

With careful hands, he put a small, wooden box on the desk. It was plain on the outside, but he'd charmed it with so many curses and jinxes that it would take time just to dismantle them all. Drawing his wand, he set to the task, his magic emitting a pleased hum now that he was using it again. It hurt, though. It burned inside him. And the urges, all these feelings broke free. It was overpowering and he recalled why he'd left the ministry early today. McLaggen had been an annoying pest, true. But there had been others, during training, people that had made him seethe just by looking at Harry, their eyes full of worship.

Hermione grew alarmed, but thankfully she kept silent, watching as Harry took down the last safety measures he'd installed on the box.

"There's another possibility," Harry muttered, picking up the lid and setting it aside. "I didn't tell you anything about it. And the healers wouldn't even know where to begin."

The inside revealed both the Resurrection Stone and the Elder Wand, nestled together as if depicting a reunion of two lost brothers. Fitting.

Hermione gasped.

"But I thought you returned the wand," she said, obviously shocked.

"And I did," Harry replied. "It was in Dumbledore's hands. And I dropped the stone somewhere in the forest, remember?" He was staring at the objects, feeling drawn to them, as usual. "One week later, I wake up only to see them on my desk again." His fingers were gliding over the spot, where he'd first found both Hallows. "I thought, maybe someone else did it, but no one knows anything about them. I even tried to put them inside my vault. The next day, they were safely back with me."

Hermione suddenly reached out with trembling fingers for the stone, but Harry's warning stare must've broken that compulsion. She shook her head, as if to get rid of something. "Don't touch them," he warned. "I don't know what they'll do if someone else uses them. Or what I will do," he said bitterly, running his hand through his hair. Mounting frustration and anger accompanied him every time he thought about the Hallows. He knew. He just knew that they made him think these strange things. Made him want to do the worst and more.

"So, you think it's because of the Hallows that your magic is out of control?" Hermione asked carefully, still staring at them. Her mind was probably already going over her mental catalogue, putting the pieces together and trying to come up with a solution. Harry didn't think there was one. Besides, it was merely a theory. He had no proof. Though, it sounded better and more comforting than the Horcrux theory.

"Well, it's suspicious that they keep reappearing. Or that I feel like I should, I don't know, protect them," he said. That was an understatement. The feeling was more akin to a fierce lioness who was protecting her cubs. Stupid and completely irrational. "That's why I didn't tell the healers about the Horcrux or the Master of Death issue. There aren't any books that would help with that." Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought there would be other ways to repair my magic. So I gave a brief overview, described my symptoms, but they couldn't come up with any spells or potions that would help me out."

"That leaves us with two possible causes, then," Hermione said, apparently sticking to her Horcrux theory. "Or maybe it's a combination of the two. Maybe the loss of a soul piece is making you want to find a replacement. And maybe you being the Master of Death is messing with your magical core. You didn't get a power boost or anything like that."

"No," Harry said. "My magic is still my own. It's simply acting out whenever I feel stressed out, or when I fight or when people say things I don't like. But even when I try to heal someone, doing basic Auror work, it starts to mess with me. Though, most of the time it happens during mock duels and stuff," he confessed.

There was a third theory to it, Harry thought.

Maybe it was all him.

He remembered Sirius' words. Every wizard and witch had a darkness and light inside him. But the choices they made decided the outcome. That darkness, Harry thought, must be it. He didn't believe he was going bad or anything like that, but surely he was just human. More so than ever before, now that the Horcrux was gone.

Hermione had called it a psychological issue and there was a certain truth to it.

For example, the vindictiveness he felt at times could be explained if he visited a therapist. War had traumatized him, after all. But the irrational pull towards the Hallows, including his cloak, disturbed him. But maybe it was meant to be. And he was only finding it out now.

"Did you try using the Elder Wand to test out your magic?" Hermione suddenly asked, making Harry stiffen in apprehension.

"No." He shuddered to think what would happen if he decided to use that particular wand against his opponents. However, Hermione's words brought up another idea, something he hadn't considered before.

"My wand," he said. "I repaired it with the Elder Wand. Do you think-?"

Comprehension dawned on Hermione. "That it might have done something to your own wand? That could be it." Her eyes lightened with newfound excitement. "Do you still have Draco's wand?"

Upon realizing what she wanted him to do, Harry nodded, feeling his own anticipation rise. Reaching out for another desk drawer, he quickly rummaged through the contents, until his hand grasped the hawthorn wand he'd used in the final battle, safely tucked away in a piece of cloth. He hadn't returned it yet, though he planned to talk to Malfoy at some point.

Grasping it firmly in his right hand, he murmured "Orchideous" and a beautiful bouquet of flowers appeared. Well, not just a bouquet. Beside him, Hermione gasped in shock.

Suddenly, the entire bedroom was transforming, turning into an exotic garden. Flowers of every color appeared on the bed, near the book shelves, blooming right out of Regulus' portraits. The stone floor began to glow, green vegetation sprouting out of nothing but dirt and dust.

"You're right," she said finally, a bit breathless. Harry murmured "Finite", his eyes blurring with the sight of too many colors appearing at once. "The Hallows have something to do with your magic being out of control. Now we only need to find out how they do it?"

Setting Malfoy's wand aside, he carefully picked up the box again and began to ward it with his holly one, the magic inside him buzzing strangely. He'd known his theory was the better one, but it was nice to know that they could finally dig deeper.

"I'm not going to visit another healer. It's a waste of time," he said. His hands trembled slightly, the amount of magic he'd used not making it easier for him. "We need someone else."

Lowering herself onto the chair in front of her, Hermione leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. "You want to quit Auror training, right?" she said, worried; taking in Harry's physical state.

Again, it was no use lying to her.

"I don't want anything to happen. It's already worse than ever before, Hermione. I'm not going to risk it."

His friend nodded again. He knew that she wanted him to return back to Hogwarts with her, but even she must've seen that he was in no state to surround himself with so many vulnerable people.

"This is actually something I wanted to talk about," she began. "I met Malfoy at the ministry today."

Harry blinked.

"Really? What was he doing there?" he asked. The last thing he'd heard after the trials was the verdict. Malfoy had been placed under house arrest. Obviously, something must've happened for him to be allowed to leave the manor. Hermione noticed his confusion.

"He can leave the manor with a guard. I don't know how he did it, though. They aren't talking that much about Malfoy at Hogwarts. Some people think he bribed a ministry official."

"Bullshit. It wouldn't work." Harry said, rolling his eyes. Kingsley worked hard against corruption, firing politicians who had a tiny link to bribery left and right. And no one wanted to associate himself with the name Malfoy anymore. Honestly, Draco was left without allies or even associates that would help him out.

"Exactly. I didn't ask him, of course." Hermione frowned, remembering the encounter. "But apparently he was only there to visit a friend who works at the Department of Mysteries."

"A friend?" Raising his eyebrows, Harry tried to think of someone who had connections to Malfoy and a clean reputation to get a spot in that particular department. Unspeakables were creepy, he thought. At the ministry, Harry had always avoided their stares in the corridors, feeling like an animal, or more like a new species ready to be dissected by them.

"Blaise Zabini works in the time chamber," Hermione replied and Harry vaguely remembered a dark-skinned boy who'd been part of Malfoy's crowd at some point. During Slug Club, Zabini had made his displeasure known, disliking both Hermione and Harry for obvious reasons. But as far as Harry knew, Zabini had kept his record clean during the war. But that didn't warrant getting to work with the Unspeakables. He'd certainly never met the boy there. Of course, that wasn't saying much, because Unspeakables tended to arrive at the ministry at ass o'clock and only left their cave during lunch break.

Seeing his disbelief, Hermione hurried to explain. "He took his N.E.W.T.s this summer and for whatever reason he got accepted without much fuss. I don't know the details." She paused, her frown deepening. "But apparently, the department is working on something big."

"Yeah, I know." Kingsley had told him all about their interest in the Founders of Hogwarts, although Harry hadn't shared the news with Hermione or Ron. He'd kept an eye on that, simply because those items had been Horcruxes once and Harry didn't have the faintest idea if that was something the department was interested in or not. Though, the head of the Unspeakables had requested to see the sword of Gryffindor. Both Kingsley and the Headmistress had refused.

"It's just that I think this is something that might help you, Harry," Hermione said, staring at him. "Zabini was with Malfoy and he was carrying a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard."

Harry stared.

What?

One week before Christmas, Harry Potter handed in his resignation, leaving a sputtering, red-faced Auror Bailey behind. The Prophet got a hold of the story and their article caused a mass eruption of outrage, confusion and even accusations of a new, rising Dark Lord. It was funny. Utterly mad, but funny.

Harry had never felt better, having finally pushed past his initial feelings of doubt.

It was good. Doing something for yourself. A new experience. He'd greeted New Year with an application to N.E.W.T.s exams, and studied for it together with Hermione, although she had still been at Hogwarts at that time, while he was living at Grimmauld Place, struggling with his magic. Ron had been confused and worried at first, but nevertheless he accepted the fact that Harry wouldn't be there with him during training. Perhaps it was for the best.

There was that one time Harry had used his considerable influence to get what he wanted. Even without N.E.W.T.s, he immediately got accepted in the Department of Mysteries. And the creepy, hooded figures from before suddenly became his colleagues, people who no longer simply stared at Harry, but decided to approach him as soon as they were on Level 9, away from prying and curious eyes.

Another bonus was the distinct feeling of equality. He was still Harry Potter, he was still a puzzle, but his fellow researchers didn't make him feel like a savior. He was just the odd one out. And it was awesome.

Harry also liked his new robes. Now he could stare at others just as much, could ask all the awkward questions without having people judge him for it. He even persuaded his new supervisor to work in the time chamber, which wasn't a problem at all.

He still avoided the Hall of Prophecies, though.

He avoided the veil and trained himself in Occlumency just to make his memories of Sirius disappear behind solid walls. He couldn't afford another distraction, not with what he intended to find out. He also used that particular skill against those that discredited him for his choices, people who thought they could challenge Harry.

And he met Blaise Zabini.

December 1945

Tom closed his eyes, focusing on the link, which pinpointed the exact location of the diadem. The boy, Evans and his friend had a hideout near Norwich, a city gravely affected by the Second World War. He could tell that their hideout was protected by strong wards. Even from a distance Tom could feel how muted the spell had become after Evans' friend had stolen the diadem. It would be hard to retrieve it in the future, even with his invention of the locator spell in place.

Though, he'd had the foresight to seek out the smuggler's bodyguards before the start of the auction, he still cursed the fact that someone had thwarted his plans so thoroughly.

It was a first for him. This feeling.

It wasn't defeat, but something close to it. And just the thought alone tasted like something out of a nightmare. That's why he didn't dream much, took measures to prevent such weaknesses. His subconscious thoughts tended to betray Tom during sleep.

He needed that diadem. He needed to get rid of these petty needs and habits that humanity shackled him with. Repulsive. That's what it all was. Even now, his mind was wandering back to the day when he'd first met Evans; had let him go like the prey that he was. Only to catch him later on.

He wanted to play with the boy first. It was true. This game has only just started, but he could already tell that it would be quite enjoyable. After all, Evans had his own secrets. Killing him without uncovering them would be another taste of defeat, a game not lost, but with no considerable reward.

And after that, after killing those two, after getting everything he wanted out of them, Tom would finally be one step closer to infinity. No more games necessary.