Hello,

Only one more chapter after this one before we're back to Hogwarts.

Disclaimer (for all that I forget it more often than not) : I do not own Harry Potter.

One could have thought that Petunia's stay at the hospital and her husband's death would have cleared Harry's summer concerning potential annoyance. One might also have believed that he would have healed in peace, recovering his memories as he slept and only dealing with Riddle when awake (hopefully). It would finally have been logical to conclude that Harry had suddenly gained the opportunity to do some of the things he had been putting off of doing (his homework, a deeper introspection of his true desires and ambitions, his homework, planning for the coming year's expected troubles, his home… yeah, those), but, well… It would also have been ridiculous to call anything that concerned Harry remotely logical.

So, no, Harry's summer did not get better after Vernon's murder. If you asked him, it just uncovered a whole new lot of shit.

Because Marge would be staying at Number 4 until the funeral (at the very least), which was two weeks later. The bitch – if anyone would even call her that without insulting every dog and unpleasant women out there – had arrived the day before the wake, which Harry had not even thought of attending, and had promptly ordered Harry to start cooking or else.

Harry had taken his trunk and Hedwig's cage (the owl herself nowhere to be seen) and had left the house in silence while the bitch and the pig parading as humans were busy comforting each others in the living room. Riddle had advised him against leaving so soon after Vernon's murder, but Harry didn't felt like bowing to Vernon's sister and doing anything to her would taint his apparent innocence in the ongoing investigations. He also couldn't disappear without making people suspicious, so he decided not to hide for once and left to take refuge at the Leaky Cauldron until he was forced to go back. He had been planning on leaving anyway, just not that early and not for a place as obvious as the pub hiding the door to Diagon Alley.

Hopefully he would not return until Marge was long gone. She usually never stayed longer than a week, but, knowing the woman (and he apologized to every human females out there, minus Petunia and Dudley's paternal grandmother, for his use of that word concerning Marge) she would most likely abuse Petunia's hospitality until she felt that Petunia was 'fit' to raise Dudley 'properly' after the 'tragedy' – what with Petunia not being a Dursley by blood and thus being 'weaker' (Harry had heard it for years, Marge complaining to Vernon about how he had chosen a 'waif-like wife, how can you expect her to give you strong children?').

So maybe three weeks, or, if he was particularly unlucky, more than a month – which would mean that Marge took short visits to her own house every other week or so. He'd have to check on his hideouts before 'returning home', in case the unwanted guest was still there.

And then he had the Ministry's summon to expect. Which… he wasn't sure what it had to do with him or how he would need to act. Maybe he was just a witness or something? Riddle didn't seem to know either, which weighted heavily on the wraith's mind.

Speaking of the Slytherin heir, Harry sometimes wondered why he had not been Sorted into Ravenclaw – not knowing something was certainly a great frustration for the older teen, giving a whole new meaning to the word 'obsession'. Harry could hardly get him to think about something else for more than a few seconds at a time. Even when Harry was sleeping, he would dream about the damned summon! This tidbit of information about their connection had gotten Riddle excited for nearly a whole minute before his thoughts, like a magnet, turned back to his current fixation.

It was tiring. Harry had troubles doing his (damned, boring, long, annoying) homework in peace, even if Florean Florescue was often more than happy to help him with his history essay. He also had to make sure his potion homework was as close to perfection as possible, or else he could say goodbye to the 'Acceptable' that meant 'Outstanding' in Snape-language when it came down to Harry's grade. One tiny mistake and the sour Potion Master would give him a Troll, even when they both knew that Harry was good at making potions – just not where it was encouraged to throw things in his cauldron, forcing him to limit the damages to the potion so that it would not explode, which either ruined or damaged the end result.

And going to McGonagall about his treatment in the Potion classroom had earned him a pitying look and the 'advice' to try and not raise to the professor's provocations, and also not to talk back or be disrespectful. Telling him in other words to be a pushover and let himself be humiliated every single week, as if he deserved it. Harry totally didn't see what Hermione saw in the Deputy Headmistress, since the woman didn't care about her charges, but then, again, Hermione had the utmost respect for authority figures – even Snape, though the wizard was probably the only teacher she'd ever set on fire.

Two and a half weeks after he had arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, Sirius Black escaped Azkaban and Harry didn't felt like doing his homework anymore.

The evening the information was leaked, Harry had been eating dinner at the Leaky Cauldron – owls had invaded the pub with an Evening Prophet tied to their claws, a bird stopping in front of every single witch, hag or wizard around. A cry upstairs had also informed them that an owl had even reached the room attendant – and then Harry had seen the word 'Azkaban' on the front page, making his stomach tighten in anxiety.

He paid the owl and took the newspaper. After he started to read, he realised that the usually noisy room had gone quiet and that several eyes were watching his back.

And he understood, really. His story was being plastered just under the scandalous news, details about how his father's best friend had betrayed his parents and had killed Peter Pettigrew, former coward and laughing stock of his group of 'friends'. He was feeling numb as he continued to read the article, Riddle hovering over his shoulder – probably wondering what had gotten him upset.

"No peaceful schooling for you this year either." Riddle murmured, making him flinch. "Oh, well, I'll teach you a few things later. Is there anything about Auror investigations or Ministry summons on the other pages?"

For some reason, he relaxed at that. The normalcy of Riddle's obsession had killed in the bud what would probably have been a Dudley-worthy tantrum and Harry simply turned the page to look for Riddle's inquiries.

The pub exploded in whispers as he did so, but he still wasn't feeling up to doing homework so he didn't left for his room. He just turned another page, adopting a look of pure disappointment when he read Wizard Caught Attacking Muggle Theatre above an article that explains how a halfblood man had tried to 'free' the people 'stuck' in a screen at some cinema in London – Riddle probably had the same expression on his face, considering the mild stinging sensation on his forehead.

And he was starting to think that the other teen was doing it on purpose, because his (still) returning memories had informed him that nothing of the likes had happened before Riddle's little mad fit. There was also the possibility of their connection's 'cap' having been blown away or Harry having merely grown more sensible to the other's emotions in an attempt at self-preservation, but he was growing more and more certain that the teenage Dark Lord took a perverse pleasure into invading his mind.

"They have animated portraits." Harry heard Riddle mutter in his hand. "Moving pictures. The radio. Charmed tapest…."

Harry stopped listening and returned his attention to the newspaper. There was nothing interesting beside a few humorous stories, but they all paled in front of the front-page news. Finally, Harry slapped the newspaper on the counter and stood up, not minding that the paper was quickly stolen by a short wizard who probably didn't have a subscription – the eager look on his face was rather telling.

"Good night, Mr Tom." Harry said to the old bartender, who sent a toothless grin at him above his newspaper, before walking smoothly to his room.

The was no chance of him sleeping that night – the possibility of Sirius Black getting into the pub would keep him awake no matter what –, but there were many things he could stay busy with until morning. Working on his connection to Voldemort would have to wait until after he was summoned to the Ministry, because Riddle would not cooperate until then, but getting his own chaotic emotions and thoughts in order would most likely diminish the impact the other's anger and annoyance on his psyche.

Harry grimaced. Spending the whole night looking into his fucked-up mind and thinking about solutions was not what he found particularly enjoyable. There was a reason he had not done this before, and it was because he was a little scared of what he would find.

He was five years old. Dressed with thin and patched-up clothes that had turned too small for Dudley two years before, he was attempting to clean the backyard – 'attempting', because the rain pouring down on his frail form turned the ground into a pool of mud. Dudley's toys, that he had been instructed to put back into the plastic toy box, were dirty if not broken and he was dropping just as much if not more mud into the box than toys.

His fingers were numb with the cold and his bony body was shaking violently. He still continued to clean the yard, because he was hungry – soooo hungry – and the Dursleys had told him that he wouldn't get any food if he didn't get every single toys into the box.

He ended up collapsing on the ground, shivering like mad and curled up in a tight little ball. He stayed like that until a sharp hand grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward the house, ignoring the fact that he was getting covered in mud. Or maybe Petunia had done it on purpose, so that she would be justified in forcing him to undress outside to 'wash' him with the ice-cold water from the hose. A ratty towel was thrown in his face with the order for him to dry himself.

He was sent to his cupboard naked and with an empty stomach. When he came out, the next morning, Dudley was enjoying the early rays of sun and was throwing his painstakingly gathered toys into every corner of the backyard. When he saw Harry, he gave him a nasty smirk and his father, seeing this, congratulate the little pig for 'making sure the freak didn't slack off on work'.

When Dudley ran back inside when it started raining, Harry was thrown back outside to gather the toys while Petunia cleaned the dirt Dudley had brought inside. The same thing happened for weeks, until Dudley got bored of it and decided that sabotaging Harry's chores was a lot funnier. And while he was hardly being discreet, his parents turned a blind eye and punished Harry for it.

Harry never knew how Dudley got locked into the shed after Harry had been told to tend to the gardens, but the strong slap from Vernon he received after the incident informed him that it had somehow been his fault. Only after he learnt of the Wizarding World did he realise that his magic must have made the door fuse to its frame in retaliation.

Still, Dudley never attempted to mess up with Harry's chores ever again. It almost made the slap and subsequent starvation worth it – almost. But, as usual, Dudley found something else to…

…few days before he turned nine and Petunia had brought Dudley and his friends to the local pool. Mrs Figg being away, his aunt had been forced to bring Harry, though he had been ordered not to take off his shirt (the bruises from Dudley's latest Harry Hunt that morning had yet to completely disappear, and Petunia had not wanted anyone to see them) and to stay away from the water.

Said orders were forgotten when Petunia noticed her son pulling a still pain-dizzy Harry toward the pool. She buried her nose in her book and promptly 'ignored' what was about to happen.

Harry remembered a gut-wrenching fear and the sound his heart made in his ears while his head was forced underwater. He fought against Dudley's gang, but they were stronger than his scrawny self and he had no chance. His head was pulled up a few times so that he could take in deep and desperate breaths, their ugly laughter and the distant chatter of the other visitors barely audible behind his harsh breathing and his pounding heart.

And then his head would be back in the chlorine-filled water, panic flooding his veins and his limbs jerking vigorously. He eventually tired from such treatment, his struggles growing weaker slowly but surely, until he went still and darkness claimed his consciousness as his lungs burned.

He woke up to a strong arm carrying him out of the water, Petunia's shrilled voice making his ears ring. He half-heard the lifeguard lecturing his aunt about her not keeping a watch on him and how the woman had tried to defend herself by saying that Harry had told her that he was going to the bathroom, having been forbidden from joining his cousin in the pool because of bad behaviour.

Petunia had gathered the children and they had left the pool. If Harry had thought that he would get a break after such a tiring outing, he would have been wrong – luckily, he had known his aunt well enough by then not to expect a respite.

He was thrown in the kitchen and ordered to prepare snacks for the other boys 'since he had ruined their day out'.

He spat in the cucumber sandwiches and mixed dirt and toilet water in the cupcakes' batter. He didn't grin vindictively when he saw them eat his snacks, but his eyes must have gleamed maliciously because Petunia kept throwing him wary looks, before telling him to go to his 'room' (how she called his cupboard when in company) for the rest of the day.

He dreamed of drowning for weeks. Strangely, he didn't become afraid of water – just less appreciative, and less willing to…

…his tenth birthday that day. Because of some sort of twist of Fate, it was also the day where the Dursleys were leaving for Marge's house to visit for a week and he was dumped into Mrs Figg's care. He had kept his face void of feelings as he had walked to her door (because there was no way the Dursleys would waste time taking him there), but it didn't make his feeling of apprehension disappear.

He hated being at the old lady's house.

When he was four (the earliest he remembered), she had locked him outside during the night. He suspected that she had simply forgotten about him, because she had acted all surprised when she had seen him on her doorstep the next morning, asking if 'it was time already'. And he had spent the whole previous day with her, too.

When he was seven, she had tried to feed him dog food she had bought by mistake a while ago, saying that it was a 'family recipe' to make him eat it (it didn't work). He had spent days starving, throwing the food in her cats' bowls and, admittedly, making a few fall sick. He didn't cared enough to tell her worrying form about it though.

And now that he was ten, he was wondering how the crazy lady would be trying to ruin his stay at her house. If he could get away with it, he'd leave for his few safe houses around the town, but those cats of hers always followed him and she would then find him, her bloody cats at her feet. He had lost two secure spots because of her, and he wasn't going to loose another.

As usual, his arrival was greeted with an enthusiastic 'Harry!' and a knobbly hand on his shoulder, tight enough to bruise. She pulled him to her living room where the usual albums were waiting and she pushed him into her sagging couch, sitting so close to him that he immediately attempted to put some space between them.

He didn't listen to the retelling of the albums' stories. It had been somewhat distracting the first time, boring the few following ones, but now it was only annoying.

Story Time took most of the rest of the day, Mrs Figg not even stopping for lunch or tea. Not that she liked tea – she was more of an alcohol-person, like Vernon. Even the smell of cat piss and boiled cabbage couldn't completely hide the smell of gin oozing from about everything in the house. As if she had spilled some of the liquid everywhere at least once and not bothered to clean it up, but Harry knew better – she never bothered to clean, as could testify the inch-thick amount of dirt and hairs on the floor, walls and furniture and the complete mess surrounding them. The only thing Harry figured she cleaned were her clothes and he had yet to see her wear anything but nightwear, even to go shopping.

When the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, Mrs Figg finally closed her album and said that they'd continue the next day – as if Harry wouldn't have escaped by then, like usual. She had nothing ready to eat and she was a rather horrible cook, so she pulled an old chocolate cake from her pantry and cut it in two, offering the smallest piece to Harry.

It was on the second mouthful that Harry noticed that it wasn't only old age making the cake taste weird. He had just noticed one of the cats leaving the pantry, something he was very sure was excrement stuck to its rear paws. Bile flowing on his tongue, he slipped off his chair and opened the pantry, Mrs Figg's voice telling him off for doing so. It was rude, she tried to explain – but Harry was already gone, running for the bathroom where the little cake he had eaten, as well as his breakfast (three slices of dry bread with mould spots that he had carefully removed before consumption), resurfaced.

Mrs Figg's cats used the mostly-empty pantry as a litter box. Only, the smell was so omnipresent already that you couldn't really tell where it originated from. 'Don't shit where you eat', he remembered hearing once – well, there certainly wasn't enough food in the little food cupboard for the cats to figure that out and the crazy cat lady didn't seem to mind eating cat shit.

Harry did. He very much minded. Which is why he spent his 'vacation' away, finding his food elsewhere and only coming back to sleep. He would be gone by morning, his very being unable to deal with the unstable old woman he had been left with.

When the Dursleys came back, they found a smelly, starved and wide-eyed Harry Potter on their doorstep. When they demanded – yelled at him for – an explanation, he told them that Mrs Figg had tried to feed him cat shit by making it pass as chocolate. And for all that the little family delighted in Harry's misery, they worried about the obvious insanity the woman displayed and how it could affect their reputation if she stayed their first choice of a babysitter.

Harry was never sent back to Mrs Figg's house, though he was certainly threatened to be. Petunia said that she had alerted the authorities about the woman's mental state, but that nothing was being done. She had had a fearful expression when she said that, unaware that Harry was watching after he had been done with the dishes.

Only now did he realised what that look had meant. Petunia had learnt from the incident that they were being watched by magicals, and that it had probably only been because of Mrs Figg's instability that they had not reaped the consequences of Harry's mistreatment. It was probably the reason he never went back there.

He felt his head sting, then realised that the sensation wasn't from his memories. As if he was being pulled to the surface of a lake, Harry felt something cold wash over his being as he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his room at the Leaky Cauldron.

He blinked a few times, before turning toward Riddle, who was standing innocently next to the room's window and looking outside with a blank face. Considering the pale light coming in from the window, it was barely morning yet.

"Why did you wake me." It didn't came out as a question, Harry not really expecting the other to answer – not with the face he was making. As expected, Riddle didn't even bothered to turn and look at him.

It annoyed him, at least a tiny bit. While he had hardly been sleeping (and thus did not suffered from the morning haze of sleepiness, for all that his body had been resting), it did not meant that he was open to being bothered whenever Riddle was bored. He had his obsession to tend to, couldn't he leave Harry alone while he put some order into his mind?

"If I'm on a broom flying fifty feet above the ground, will you trail behind me like a kite or be able to stay on the broom?" Harry blurted out, surprising himself at the words before the image fully formed in his head and he snickered.

Eyes cold and the sting in his forehead flaring warningly, Riddle turned toward him. At least he had his attention now.

"I would not know." The wraith replied carefully. "Why that ques…"

Harry's happily mocking smile made Riddle understand : Harry was the Gryffindor Quidditch team's Seeker. Horror flashed on that perfectly sculpted face and he snarled with a wild look in his red eyes.

"You will quit as soon as you get back at Hogwarts!" The teenage Dark Lord hissed venomously. "Better yet, sent the school a letter now! I will not suffer through such humiliation, Potter!"

"But what do I get out of that, Riddle?" Harry asked in a saccharine tone, feeling giddy as he pushed the covers off his legs.

"I will torture you." The dark promise in that voice made Harry shiver lightly, but he was assured of his win in this occasion. Riddle had limited options and he had too much self-preservation to torture Harry when it could be noticed. The two of them had pretty much deduced that Riddle's continued existence depended on Harry's survival, after all.

"You know how the school takes Quidditch seriously. I would be lynched if I was to stop playing Seeker. Even you cannot be annoying enough to top my House's nagging and the Slytherin's mockeries. And what about the teachers? How do I explain to McGonagall that I will not be on the team anymore? Everybody knows that I love Quidditch, nothing short of blackmail would make me pull out, or so the rumours say. Unless you are willing to call in your favour," Harry smiled here, fake innocence radiating out of him at the idea, "then we will have lots of fun. The practices are fours hours a week, you know? Sometimes six when the match comes closer. Then there are the games, which can last until weeeeeell into the night. I'm usually a good Seeker, but sometimes the Snitch stays hidden until the evening, and there's nothing we can do…"

Riddle seemed to have turned mute in his frustration, glaring at him as if he would spontaneously combust if he put enough strength behind it. As it was, he decided to lay back in bed to wait until Riddle's anger (and the pain in his head) receded before going for breakfast.

Riddle did not called in his favour, which Harry had expected – why waste such a thing to sooth one's pride when there were so many more important occasions to wait for? It didn't kept Harry from tempting Riddle about it, though, and he was already planning a few stunts that would make the wraith feel like a kite in a storm.

He would have fun – that would show Riddle how much of a pet Harry truly was. Hagrid was the one who liked to pretend he tamed wild creatures and Harry would love giving Riddle an insight about such a formidable activity that was beast-taming.

Not that Harry was a beast, or that he would eventually be tamed, or that Riddle would succeed at making a pet out of Harry. He was simply saying that he'd show the other the horrors of dealing with a wild, free spirit of a person getting even with the daily torture he was putting up with because of their connection.

The morning continued in silence, Riddle busy with his obsession and Harry forcing his quill to move to write his Herbology essay even though he didn't know what to write after the seventh sentence – how many ways were there to describe asphodel, anyway? It all stopped however when Tom knocked on his door, not to announce that breakfast was ready, but to tell him that he had visitors waiting for him in one of the private meeting rooms.

And that said visitors were the Minister of Magic himself, accompanied by Aurors.

Riddle jumped into the action and started hissing advices at him, thinking out loud as Harry changed out from his pyjamas. He would have liked to take a shower, but, well…

He wasn't about to make the Minister of Magic wait, now was he? For all that he didn't care about the position, he should at least make a good impression. Why risk insulting the man? He would only make another enemy and he didn't need more of those.

And Riddle would turn him into a vegetable if he didn't started showing a bit more of his Slytherin qualities. Now was as good as anytime to do so.