Summary: Tom Riddle, one of the century's most powerful Magus prodigies, claims he doesn't need a Fighter. And he doesn't; Bestia-type Fighter Harry Potter just happens to be a convenience when he picks him up. Drabble Series!

Warnings: Slash, AU, ~1k word count drabbles, fighting (possible blood mention), very loose possible comparison to Loveless (anime/manga)

Pairings: TMR/HP (Tom Marvolo Riddle / Harry Potter), past LE/JP (Lily Evans / James Potter), past LE/SS (Lily Evans / Severus Snape), -maybe- SB/RL (Sirius Black / Remus Lupin)

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, obviously. Characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

Note: Did anyone notice what I did there with the elements? Immune, Breathing, Dirt, Crackle... even I didn't notice until I started writing this chapter! Haha.

When Tom and Harry stopped for the night, they were able to gather up enough fuel for their fire to get it going quickly. Harry left a little while later, excusing himself and leaving Tom staring into the center of the flames.

They crackled and spit, but were not as violent as the Magus had always imagined them to be. When he was a child, he saw fire as power. Passion. Whispers of heat and solstice that could eat you up if you couldn't handle it. It was that that attracted him to the element, beautiful in its form and something to be admired in its natural selection of its users.

Fire still attracted him that way, but tonight he was seeing it a little differently. Maybe it was his lack of physical magic—unable to use it, the flames seemed like such a distant power now. He relaxed against the rock behind him, feeling the cold, smooth stone while the warmth of the fire acted as a balm for the chilly night.

Tom wondered why he was seeing the elements so oddly. Was not fire something to be fearfully respected? Was not the wind and air feisty though kind? Was not the earth, an element he treated with mostly apathy, static and defeated just as easily as it could defend? The strongest and weakest element of them all, with no pure display of superiority like fire and no utility like the wind was able to provide— that was supposed to be earth. Or at least, that was how Tom figured them to be from the childhood he never had.

But tonight, he held none of them higher than the other. Tonight, they were all powerful. All strong, all with their own uses and weaknesses, all with things they were unable to triumph over.

The fire waved enchantingly before him, bright to his eyes but still so very dim. He could feel it, but he could not feel it. The Magus could not feel how to generate it, how to cause it to light from his palm, how to call it to himself and use it—not like how he had been able to so easily before the venture into the forest.

Tom held up his hand in front of his face, tracing the creases and veins with his eyes. He was not human, definitely not, but he wasn't exactly a true Magus now, was he? With his magic sealed, what was he? Envy for an identity filled him. He was jealous of Harry, who had a tribe and place that he could call home and could always return to. Harry looked at home anywhere in the wilderness, relaxed and experienced in being relaxed while he was alert.

It was absolutely absurd.

These feelings only lasted for a second. Bitterness was something Tom was used to, but he had always made an effort to not let it consume him like it had once done when he was a child. Bitterness did not give rise to strength—only power did, and power was only halfway there. No, to have strength you needed strength to begin with, the strength to use the power that you possessed.

Tom turned to look up at the sky, something he admittedly had been ignoring for awhile. Lights, in the form of diamonds, glinted teasingly. It had been a long time since he had slept underneath their ever watchful eyes. A very long time.

He wondered how he would finish this quest; where it would lead him. What obstacles would he have to go through? Certainly, he wasn't all too worried—once he got his magic back, it wouldn't be anything more than a minor annoyance—but that did not stop him from wondering. Would the Wizengamot get their way? Would they continue to insist on him getting a Fighter, even after he completed the quest? Would they try to take away his independence?

Tom turned back to the fire. The flames continued to flicker, dancing as light lit the surrounding area more than the stars did. He wouldn't let them if he did— wouldn't let Albus Dumbledore decide how he would live. Fighters were forever, and he didn't want forever.

It never existed in the first place. Forever was simply a figment of imagination, just as fire could not be firmly grabbed. Imagination was power, just like fire.

Tom tensed. A shadow fell over the camp, and he glanced over to see Harry coming back. In his hands were two rabbits, and he placed them down after saying cheerfully "I brought dinner!" and then began to prepare their meal. He wondered how Harry had found them, for he hadn't seen any type of wild life during the day… but perhaps Harry simply knew where to look.

Maybe.

And perhaps it was the light of the fire, casting its glare over the warrior that had sat down beside him, that made him think he saw a smudge of red next to Harry's mouth. He didn't even think to assume it was blood… or anything else, really. Tom didn't think anything of it at all.

Word Count: 857

Word Prompt: Crackle