Chapter Seven:
Tom could feel a sense of twisted hope building in his chest as they strode up the street to Harry's house, in Islington.
If Harry invited him in now, he could come and go as he pleased in the warded home, which was undeniably a pleasing thought.
Instead, he was disappointed as Harry paused just outside, turning to him.
"We'll do dinner another time, or something," the boy said.
"I can cook you something now," he returned, with raised brows. "It's no trouble. Or don't you trust me in your house?"
Harry hesitated, before giving an awkward shrug.
"I don't really trust anyone with my home. Never leads to anything good. Maybe another time."
He nodded - it would be too suspicious if he pushed the matter - giving Harry another smile.
"Another time," he agreed, pleasantly. "And don't worry, I understand completely. If Voldemort was targeting me, I would be careful about my security detail too."
Harry gave him a faint smile in response.
The urge that he should have just stolen him when he was sleeping only grew in his chest, though he focused on not letting that particular thought show on his face.
He had to think the long-term gratification here; the question of freedom, of the butterfly. He could take Harry, but then he'd never get to see what the other would become in the wild with his gentle prodding.
No, he clamped down on the urge, letting his hand slip off his wand in his pocket as he clapped Harry's shoulder, as Harry mumbled an agreement to his words.
"You have my number if you need me," he said.
"I won't need you," Harry replied; that stubbornness against Psychiatrists showing through again.
He simply gave him another indulgent smile, because he knew it wouldn't stay like that forever. Harry would need him before the end, he'd make sure of it.
"Just in case," he returned. "Goodnight."
"Yeah, night."
Harry didn't move to enter his home, and he blinked.
"What? Are you waiting for me to leave before? The missing number 12 of your location isn't as inconspicuous as you seem to think it is."
"Why aren't you leaving yet?"
"You have dangerous killer after you, and all sorts of monsters can walk the streets at night. I said I'd get you home safely, I'm merely keeping my word."
Harry snorted.
"What happened to me being a Honey Badger and not a fragile, broken little sparrow? I can look after myself," the boy stated adamantly, chin jutting up in an increasingly familiar defiance.
His fingers twitched in his pockets to reach out, to smudge that expression away, or maybe to capture it, he didn't know. For a second, he fantasised the expression of surprise and shock on Harry's face if he did ever act on his impulses.
Next time, he really wasn't going to be so kind as to wake him so soon.
"Being independent doesn't mean having no one to depend on," he returned.
Harry's brow furrowed at that comment, even as he pulled his jacket tighter around himself on the chilly street.
"And you think you're someone I can depend on? We've barely know each other."
Oh, if only he knew...
"I think I'm someone you can grab onto and use to haul yourself out of dark places when the things you see and feel put you there," he said. "I'm not one of your friends, you do not have to feel concerned about burdening me, and due to my lifestyle I do have an understanding of what you're going through."
"I don't think studying criminology and psychology and occasionally visiting crime scenes quite compares to literally getting dragged into a murderer's head being forced to feel his sadism from a first person perspective," Harry muttered, jaw tightening a little.
He hummed, and kept the smirk off his lips.
"Perhaps not, but I hardly think you intend to use Voldemort as a your crutch?"
Harry laughed at that, seeming to relax a bit, the tension easing from his shoulder, as he shook his head.
"Probably not. He'd much rather see me fall then ever give me a helping hand...or at least, a helping hand which doesn't include helping me become another version of him."
The troubled shadow to his eyes were back.
"You believe that is what Voldemort desires? To corrupt you?"
"I don't know. But butterflies are a sign of metamorphosis, aren't they? You said so yourself."
He was quiet for a moment, and he didn't know if Harry realised the way he was peering up at him with those exquisitely expressive green eyes. He wondered how Harry would look at him if he knew who he was, if he was slowly bleeding out in his arms - pale, lips parted with shuddering breaths, struggling a little in his arms like the butterflies did, twitching in an effort to avoid being pinned.
"That's a concern for another day, or at least once you've had some rest," he said, keeping himself back from encroaching on the smaller man's space. At least for now.
"Do you think he could succeed?" Harry's questioned stopped him as he was leaving, and he glanced back.
"Excuse me?"
"Do you think Voldemort could succeed? Make me like him?"
"I believe everyone has the potential to be a killer, under the right circumstances," he replied - even if that wasn't the reassurance Harry was looking for.
Harry nodded, before turning away.
Barty Crouch Junior was hidden near Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.
It had taken a while, but he managed to track it down. He couldn't get in, regrettably, because of the Fidelius, and he would have attacked then and there if not for the fact Potter wasn't alone.
It wasn't that he had any qualms about involving other people, but he didn't wish to do anything to anger his lord. Lord Voldemort; such an amazing pseudonym. Flight of Death, it was just so fitting.
He longed to meet the man, to learn from him, his artistry, his vision of the world - everything!
Potter just didn't seem to understand Voldemort's magnificence, for, if he could, why would he ever strive to sabotage and catch him? He wasn't worthy of his attention.
But maybe that was the other reason he didn't lunge forward with the intent to take the Auror's heart - he did have Voldemort's attention, and so he had use yet. Besides, it would be impolite to claim his Lord's victim, at least not without checking first.
On the other hand, if Voldemort failed to kill the boy, then he could so himself, serve him and help him. Like an apprentice.
He was sure Voldemort would be a far better father than his own.
He watched as Potter and some other older bloke, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, discussed something, trying to place the - Riddle, wasn't it? The Psychiatrist.
He wondered what the bastard would have to say about his mental state, and the effect of the Dementor's on a mind.
It was all such a mess.
But he had his plan set in mind, the second Harry Potter was alone and vulnerable, and it would all facilitate his aims perfectly.
They would never catch him; a dead man wasn't on Ministry radars.
He watched as the two disappeared, and contemplated if Riddle wasn't someone he could use to lure Potter to him.
It was all so conflicting, but he knew he wanted the unworthy little brat to suffer for the insult he'd paid his Lord of death.
It was just a matter of time.
He moved back, brushing a beetle off his arm, before disapparating with a crack.
Harry was woken to the sound of an Owl tapping against his window, and scowled, flicking a hand to open it.
He was drenched in cold sweat, with the murders playing through his head all over again.
Scarlet. Vacant Eyes. Joy in his chest.
He scrubbed a hand across his face, rolling out of bed as Pig came over to him, far too hyper for this time in the morning - what time was it anyway?
His mouth felt cottony with the metallic tang of sleep, however uneasy, and his hair plastered to his forehead.
He grabbed Pig tightly in his hand - the bird was still as hyper as ever, and he felt a pang in his gut still that Ron had received the tiny owl from Sirius - to be able to get the letter off.
You need to look at the Prophet. Now.
Sorry.
There was a copy attached, presumably spelled lighter so that Pig could actually carry at it, and he pulled it towards him. For a second, all he could do was stare, utterly numb, mouth running slowly dry.
He read through the article, and it took a few tries for it to actually start making sense, before his fists clenched and the fury burned in his chest.
For fuck's sake!
He was out the door in a hurricane of fury within fifteen minutes.
Tom sat at his breakfast table, eating leisurely before he had to meet his first client for the day, the Daily Prophet spread out next to him.
His expression was blank, though the knife twirled in his hand and stabbed into his sausages rather too viciously for a picture of perfect composure.
How rude. How very, very rude.
Boy-Who's-Going-Dark? The true story between Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort
The words flittered through his head as he read them, taking another sip of his tea.
"Potential corruption" "Harry Potter doubts himself" "Famous Psychiatrist advocates murder" "Why is Tom Riddle at Harry Potter's house?" "Has the Boy Who Lived finally cracked?"
Rita Skeeter.
Of course.
He could have guessed that from the start.
Whilst the Daily Prophet wasn't a tabloid in the most official sense, Skeeter's vulgar, distasteful and often sensational articles were hardly appropriate to a decent paper.
He wondered how Harry was reacting over this, it certainly didn't do the boy's Golden Boy reputation any good.
Of course, it was unforgivable that she should slander him and try and draw him into a sticky scandal too...but what was to be done about it?
He didn't know why people insisted on behaving in such an unfitting manner around him recently. It was rather irritating. It was time's like these that he thought becoming a Dark Lord may have been the better idea, for no one would dare even mention his name them, yet alone speak of him in such a way.
They would tremble at his feet, and would still.
He hadn't had any cancellations so far; of course not, his clients were too dependent on his help and expertise, but his waiting list had shrunk.
He couldn't say he enjoyed being deprived in such a manner.
His real question was, however, how had she found out?
He hadn't seen her at Harry's house, where the conversation had taken place. Had she bugged the area? He knew he should have raised more wards, but at the time that would only have aroused suspicion on a predominantly muggle street, and their conversation had been innocuous.
Twisted.
Yet another person twisted his wisdom and glory.
His lips thinned, and he folded his paper up.
Of course, he couldn't outright attack her, not in the way he would so desire to. It would only raise questions as to why Voldemort would defend him - though it could be spun into a defense of Harry, but due to certain connections Harry would still know of his own, more personal rage.
His Occlumency Barriers are control were normally impeccable and unshaken even by the most violent exterior intrusions...but there was something about murder, of the sweet rush, that made his barriers drop just a fraction for the emotions to linger on the crime scenes like a graffiti artist's signature tag - just for Harry.
Perhaps, because it was his time of freedom and power, and to be so constrained in his release was to ruin the experience.
Yet, he couldn't exactly let her get away with it, could he? He had some ideas, but-
He headed for the office, and had barely stepped in before a hand was tight at his throat, a wand digging into his gut.
He met a pair of livid emerald eyes.
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
A/N: So, um, yeah. Hope you liked the chapter.
And what can I say, Freddie Lounds and Rita Skeeter? Perfect! And now you know who the copycat is. Or do you? Muhahaha.
