Disclaimer: this chapter could be...fun to own. Not that that matters, because it's never going to happen.

AN (on sleep deprivation - kind of important, if you were confused): So, there were many people who were rather puzzled and surprised by the effects sleep deprivation had on Harry; I wanted to take a moment to demystify this whole thing, because it's not really supposed to be especially confusing or strange. So I'm going to provide a little bit of story context first to make sure we're all on the same page, and then I'm going to jump into an explanation of the neurological effects of REM sleep deprivation on people with certain psychopathologies.

Alright, so...Harry isn't exactly sane. That's pretty obvious at this point, but it might not be entirely obvious what this means. It's clear that a lot is going on, but let me just simplify things and say that Harry has two problems he deals with. The first is obvious; the first part of his childhood was spent under the guardianship of the Dursleys (enough said), and the second part under the pseudo-guardianship of a brilliant psychopath with nothing better to do than manipulate and mess with him. That alone has done a number on his psyche; however, we're also aware that his mother did something which messed with his soul, and is as a result manifesting as some form of mental instability. To try to capture how I think this might end up actually affecting Harry's daily life, I've been using the behaviour of a child with a mood disorder to base some of his more extreme behaviours off of; if you look up some of the symptoms of depression, mixed episodes, hypomania, and mania, you should see some parallels.

Now, what does sleep deprivation have to do with this? A lot, actually. Some scientists believe that REM sleep deprivation could actually be a treatment for Major Depressive Disorder, because the effect it has on the brain mimics that of SSRIs (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors), one of the go-to classes of antidepressant drugs currently used by doctors. However, even though these drugs tend to be quite effective for treating MDD, they can also contribute to diagnosing bipolar disorder. SSRIs probably work by limiting how much serotonin is quickly reabsorbed into the brain, so there's more available to be absorbed by various receptors...and I could start talking about which receptors and what they are believed to do and how overactivity of certain receptors is prevalent in patients suffering from mania...but besides being slightly irrelevant, unfortunately a lot of this information is shaky at best, and doctors honestly don't know much about what causes depression and mania, and why certain drugs treat them. The entire industry surrounding medical and pharmaceutical research is kind of...

Yeah, anyway, that's not the point. The only thing we really know is that sleep deprivation disrupts mood, and in certain people prone to it, these disruptions can instigate a full blown manic state.

So here's the point: mania usually manifests in extremely opulent and risky behaviour, extreme irritation or euphoria, racing thoughts and distractability, failure to consider consequences of actions, or psychosis (experiencing hallucinations or delusions). This isn't what most people think of if they hear the term 'high mood', because there's nothing positive about mania: it's often extremely frightening, and people have ended up in prison or serious debt, addicted to drugs, harming (physically or emotionally) family or friends, or causing severe harm to themselves - in extreme cases, death. It's a very serious condition...and sometimes all it takes is a couple of sleepless nights to bring it on, for a person with BPI. And Harry...well, it's been a few weeks of very poor sleeping conditions now.

Anyway...I want to reiterate that I'm not saying that Harry actually has a mood disorder; I'm saying that I'm working with the assumption that some of his mother's experiments (which will be elaborated on further very soon), messed with his brain enough to make him susceptible to symptoms similar to those seen in some mood disorders. Which means there might also be a cure out there ;)

Chapter 11: Harry Potter – a.k.a., Lord Voldemort

If there was a conscious personification of Irony, he had once grievously offended her – of this he was certain.

Due to his idiotic host's, well, idiocy, he now had unfettered access and uncontested control of a young, healthy body, filled to the brim with powerful magic. He had the entirety of the Black Family fortune at his fingertips, and was beloved by the Wizarding World as the 'Boy Who Lived'. Unfortunately, said young and healthy body was currently falling apart due to sleep deprivation (what effect accessing said body through a brain with poor memory and quickly deteriorating attention span would have on his superb intellect he did not know...nor was he eager to find out), said magic was excruciatingly painful for him to use, and his access to money and fame – and freedom – depended on his ability to imitate a mentally unstable fourteen-year-old.

(At least he was better off than the other pieces of his soul...but that was hardly reassuring at this point. At this point he was resolved to no longer contemplate how fantastically the whole horcrux plan had gone awry; he was well aware of the limited success of his daring experiment. Although, it was a minor setback, all things said and done - he was still immortal. It was more than most people could say.)

Mental instability. It was a euphemism, to say the least. Harry Potter was insane. But it was a curious insanity. It wasn't a disorder of personality - what lesser, ordinary men accuse the extraordinary and fascinating of being afflicted by - and it was not an intellectual deficiency. He was more interesting than that. More...unpredictable, undefinable. And that would be his salvation, no doubt. Because while Harry's states of mind were very easy to unravel and twist and knot and sever if one knew which strings to pull, even the most skillful, successful manipulations could have unforeseen consequences; too many things were tangled together, and even he could not always see where all the threads started and ended. And the boy, when left to his own devices...

He would play the part of Harry Potter, and he would have limited success; his skill as an actor was limited, he was very well aware of that. The role of Tom Riddle, school prefect, Head Boy, had taken him years to practice and perfect; his acting had been impeccable, but it had taken time to adjust, and that had been to his advantage, as the transformation occurred under the guise of adolescent development and 'flourishing in a positive environment'. But such impeccability was not required, here - now, he would not have to consistently mimic Harry's behaviour; because even Harry could not do that. He would be odd, but odd was to be expected. After the boy's social awkwardness of his first year, his dramatic change in heart regarding Draco Malfoy in his second, his tragic confession in his third year (together with the furious outburst and paradoxically elegant damage control), and his most recent set of...escapades, he was hardly expected to behave predictably.

Not to say that there were not behavioural restrictions...and these could prove to be...inconvenient. However, the fact remained that Harry Potter was currently catatonic while his body made the long trudge back to Hogwarts castle in the greyish morning light, under the command of Lord Voldemort. And how long this command would be necessary was unclear. He could not reach Harry's consciousness – he had been trying for the last hour, but to no avail – and he had no idea how to go about awakening the lazy boy, much to his displeasure. So, until further notice, Lord Voldemort would play the part of Harry Potter, and keep his followers, the adoring public, his professors, and the meddling old fool at bay.

This would doubtless prove exhausting on many levels.

By the time a hazy golden light was spilling over the eastern horizon, he was approaching the front gates of Hogwarts, which, to his surprise, opened for him, disturbing him from his musings – revealing a moment later on the other side a very unimpressed-looking Minerva McGonagall.

Ah, dear Minnie McGonagall. She had certainly aged well; it was as though she grew more imposing with every passing year.

"Mr. Potter," she began curtly, "Where have you been at this hour?"

"Merely enjoying a morning stroll," he replied pleasantly, suddenly aware of the very slight weight on the right side of his head, which most likely indicated that there was a twig stuck in his hair.

She raised an eyebrow, looking somewhat irate. "A morning stroll?"

Voldemort flattered her with a winning smile. "Yes, of course, professor. You really ought to try it – it does wonders to clear one's head."

"My head is quite clear enough, Mr. Potter."

"Of course," Voldemort demurred, staring to feel impatient; it was then that he was suddenly reminded of one of the...coping mechanisms of his youth, and attempted to quell his growing irritation by absently wondering what the austere woman would do if he tried (and succeeded, of course) to curse her out of nowhere with something positively dreadful.

"Very well, then, clean yourself up and prepare for classes," she commanded curtly, oblivious to the fact that her gruesome death was being envisioned.

"Yes, professor."

Voldemort scowled unhappily as he walked away. It had been years since anyone had told him what to do...and he could say with certainty that he didn't miss it.

Finding the nearest bathroom, he cleaned and repaired his robes with a sweeping wave of his hand - and then turned his attention to his hair; rather, the twig and leaf-infested, tangled mess on the top of his head.

In the 10 minutes that followed he made a discovery - at the expense of only a small amount of emotional expenditure and some broken mirrors - which, now that he thought of it, explained some mildly puzzling facts that had popped up peripherally throughout his lifetime. Just as there were magical genetic mutations that had convenient consequences, such as the gene that caused metamorphmagism, there were inconvenient ones as well; the Potter line, apparently carried a magical recessive gene that caused what several of his classmates had referred to as 'Potter hair syndrome'. As was such, Harry's disobedient mop of hair was resistant to most potions and spells - which they already knew - but with this newfound realization, he was able to construct a rather complex, makeshift spell-like thing that successfully made the boy's hair finally lie flat. It took the better part of an hour, but even he required some time in putting together a (incredibly painful) magical procedure to mitigate the effects of a hitherto untreated physio-magical condition.

It was after he had achieved success that he realized that it was completely futile; until he could guarantee that Harry himself could perform the spell (after a few more moments of refining the wand movements he was more comfortable with the term spell), he could not very well cast it himself.

"Finite incantatum," he muttered venomously, marching out of the bathroom and toward the Great Hall.

Upon arrival, he made sure to occupy Harry's usual seat at the Slytherin table, not the one he had previously held. Truth be told, it annoyed him to no end that Harry deliberately insisted on sitting in a different place than he had. It was incredibly jarring.

He took his time in breaking his fast - his long, thirteen year fast - seeing as only a few students had yet ambled into the Great Hall, none of those who Harry habitually greeted in the morning being present; but even after he had meticulously partitioned his toast, eggs, and sausages into perfect squares and devoured them all sequentially, only a few of his housemates had shown up, and that was when he deduced that even Harry would not bother waiting for the catalysts of his morning routine at that point, because they were even more undisciplined than he was when it came to rising at a decent hour. The incredible amounts of time that these adolescents wasted by oversleeping was truly atrocious.

Either way, the Hogwarts library awaited him.

When he arrived, he was displeased to find that he was at a loss as to what to read; he had already perused most of the even remotely fascinating books in the Hogwarts library, between Harry's three and a half years at Hogwarts and his seven; which left the option of sneaking into the Restricted Section, which had received more fascinating additions of late (it seemed that while donations to the main library were relatively scarce, donations to the restricted section had increased in frequency and volume, and that certainly had interesting implications)...without Harry's invisibility cloak, which was probably still lying somewhere on the astronomy tower - it would need to be retrieved at some point, but that was what house elves were for - which meant casting a thorough disillusionment charm, which meant considerable pain.

He sighed dramatically. "What did I do to deserve this?"

He smirked. "Oh, yes, of course."

He flicked his wrist, and a moment later he was invisible; after that, slipping into the Restricted Section was child's play – as evidenced by Harry's ability to do so repeatedly in his first year.

Not to imply that Harry's skills were on par with that of the average child, however.

The boy had...not turned out to be a disappointment. Even though his psychological irregularities had proven to be inconvenient of late, he remained convinced that the path he had chosen was correct; Harry Potter would be a valuable ally, in the end. While not a genius, he had proven to be exceptionally adaptable, and this adaptability was what had allowed the combination between the boy's considerable potential and his exceptional guidance to transform into skill and magical power unrivalled by any of his peers. He still had a very long way to go, as there was a drastic difference between being superior to a group of adolescents and being objectively superior, but they were...not behind schedule. And as long as he gave Harry reason to believe that he was in peril and could rely on no one to save him, that adapting to more complex and more daunting challenges was crucial to their survival, he would continue to adapt fluidly.

He smiled slightly as his fingers traced the shelves of books on magical theory which he and Harry had so diligently combed through. Who would have thought that the horcrux he never meant to make would become his favourite? The boy was sentimental, unstable, moral, and rash...but his dedication and loyalty were unrivalled, and coupled with the fact that he had put massive amounts of time and effort into moulding the boy – trimming here, melting there, chiselling this and that, fortifying here and there; skillfully sculpting and crafting to...well, not perfection, but he was getting there – he was simply irreplaceable at this point. Harry Potter would forever be the most valuable thing that had ever belonged to him; an heir in all but blood. And his masterpiece.

Well, perhaps not a masterpiece. Not yet, anyway. But magnum opus, surely.

He plucked Über den Geist from the shelf, eyebrow twitching when he recalled the nigh sleepless nights he and Harry had endured in the pursuit of understanding it (which had unfortunately not prepared them for recent events at all). If he had a kind bone in his body, he would have pitied the boy, perhaps regretting having inflicted so much pain in hopes of eliciting better performance (and, well...he had been rather annoyed), but, as it were, he did not. On the other hand, he felt no pleasure or amusement in recalling his actions. Prior merging with the diary, he had lost interest years back in tormenting his helpless host – it was simply convenient – and while the influence of his younger self had inflamed some of his sadistic tendencies, inflicting pain upon Harry had once again become merely...routine. He wasn't about to reign in his emotions for his host's sake, and much like a well-trained pet, while Harry no longer cowered in the face of immense pain, he knew exactly how to behave in the presence of it; it had been a fascinating thing, to observe how the regular and well placed application of pain could affect a child - the boy seemed to have little psychological aversion to pain, at this point, but would nevertheless cater to his wishes in order to avoid it. It was far different from afflicting agony on an adult; it was a strange synthesis of acceptance of pain as an element of reality and understanding its purpose in that reality as a catalyst. And Harry embodied it perfectly.

Yes, he had certainly done an excellent job. His only true failing had been the Lockhart incident - and that was entirely the doing of the then unmerged fragments of his sixteen year old self, who seemed to think that deliberately placing in peril their host's tenuous mental stability was an appropriate risk given the opportunity to probe just how thoroughly he could saturate the boy's mind without forcibly taking absolute control, and simultaneously confirming just how fragile the boy's sense of self was - but even he was entitled to a mistake or two.

Who knew that Lord Voldemort could successfully raise a child? Apparently he could add parenting to his set of well-developed and virtually unrivaled skills. Now he simply had to ensure that Harry never made it through the final phase of childhood, so that he would not have to suffer the fate of every parent – to be surpassed by their child, if only in spirit. Harry would never be allowed to leave him; he would not create a body of his own until he was able to ensure that.

He flipped through the pages of the German text idly, stopping when he came to the section of the book that had, unbeknownst to Harry, proven useful. What at first observation had appeared to be an obscure, cryptic block of difficult-to-translate German text was, in fact, a spell – a spell to make a permanent connection between two minds. A legillimency bridge, you might say. If carefully extrapolated on...perhaps two magical cores, or even souls could be bound as well.

In fact, now that Harry was temporarily 'out of the picture', so to speak, it was truly an ideal time to study the structure of the passage more thoroughly; a quick glance had been enough to formulate the conceptual framework of the ritual he wished to devise, but seeing as he did not have the luxury of performing physical experiments while locked inside Harry's mind, more time with the original text would increase the accuracy of his simulations. He could afford no errors, after all, and the variables were many and complex.

He wasn't particularly aware of the passage of time until it suddenly occurred to him to glance at Harry's watch, finding, much to his annoyance, that it read 8:55 - time to head to...what was it...ah, yes, History of Magic. His favourite class. No, really it was – it was the class that he was sure would eventually inspire him to adapt the Christian practice of exorcisim to a magical setting. Sure, he could use a simple spirit-expelling charm to divest the school of what was, until the commencement of the traitor's employment contract, Hogwarts's most hated professor...but he doubted those guaranteed an eternity of torment for the expelled spirit, which was what he was really aiming for at this point.

After all, he had never condemned another creature to an eternity of torment before...except multiple fragments of himself, that is. But it was for a good cause.

When he reached the classroom, he quickly located Theodore Nott, just as Harry would have, and sat down beside him.

Nott Jr. glanced at him, looking concerned. "Why weren't you at breakfast?" he scolded.

Voldemort bit back a sharp rebuke at the boy's rebuking tone. Nott had proven to be skilled, useful, and loyal, yes, but Harry, the foolish boy, gave him far to much liberty. Even the inquisitive mudblood was reluctant to question his host when it came to non-intellectual matters – no, there was something...unique about Nott's feeling's toward his host. They were unnaturally protective – possessive, even – given their context...prompting to believe that Nott's dedication to his host was not entirely dissimilar to Severus's dedication to Lily Potter.

Something that, if dealt with correctly, might actually prove to be more advantageous than inconvenient.

"I rose early, and ate breakfast before going to the library," he said curtly.

Nott blinked. "You...ate breakfast. On your own. Without me reminding you."

"Yes," Voldemort said, annoyed. "I know how to eat breakfast, Theo."

That was crucial, to carefully maintain Harry's nomenclature for the human beings in his life. Nott = Theo, Malfoy = Draco, mudblood = Hermione...

"Could have fooled me."

Voldemort fought down the urge to crucio the impudent boy, and settled on ignoring him.

"You seem...better."

"An eight-hour period of uninterrupted sleep can do wonders for one's state of mind."

Nott nodded doubtfully. "You seem better...but you don't seem well."

Voldemort resisted glaring at the boy. "If I want a running commentary on how I seem, Theo, I will make sure to ask you. As it stands, however, I do not," he said calmly.

"Yeah, you're definitely not well. Maybe you should go see Madame Pomfrey."

At this point, Voldemort was expending all his energy on not cursing the boy, but with great determination, he forced himself to smile gently in a very Harry-esque fashion. "Really, I'm fine, Theo." His smile turned sheepish and he shrugged a little. "I suppose that getting enough sleep for a change has made it apparent to me just how tired I am. I'm just a little worn out, is all – you don't have to worry. A few more nights of decent sleep and I'll be completely back to normal."

Nott seemed to relax at his words, which meant that his acting was indeed impeccable, when he expended the effort. Perhaps feigning good behaviour was like learning to ride a bicycle - you never really forget it.

"Right, of course – I'm just worried."

"Oh, is that so? I had no idea."

Nott chuckled, just as Binns floated into the classroom, and wasted no time in droning on about...something. He honestly stopped paying attention as soon as the ghost opened his mouth, and turned his thoughts to how he was going to survive the next twelve hours; because while odd behaviour was acceptable, departures from certain very specific behavioural restrictions was unacceptable. History of Magic would be followed by Defence against the Dark Arts, which would be followed by Potions; in other words, he could afford no slip ups, as he would be in the presence of the two people in the school whom he would most like to kill, and would most like to kill him...with the exception of Dumbledore, of course. But with any luck, he would be able to avoid the old coot entirely.

But that was not the end of it; if those two classes weren't treacherous enough, a meeting of Harry's Order would follow. Until 9 pm at the earliest, he was required to look like Harry, talk like Harry, act like Harry...and he could not, under any circumstances, curse anyone. Or threaten anyone with death or torture. Or, least of all, use the word mudblood. It only then occurred to him just what a significant portion of his life had been dedicated to doing those three things.

By the time Binns had finally shut his blithering, decrepit mouth, he had pieced together something of an algorithm for how to deal with potentially treacherous conditions. It was quite complicated (far too involved for anyone else to follow), but could in general be summed up as: 'smile politely at everyone' and 'pretend that the foolish ramblings of others are remotely interesting and/or relevant', and 'do not resort to violence on any level unless it seems justifiable by means of adolescent drama or extreme pseudo-moral conviction'. After all, that described Harry's more irritating behaviours quite well: too universally pleasant and too fixated on others, prone to explosive anger at the most inappropriate times; that is, the opposite of an unpleasant, selfish narcissist whose anger was always appropriate if not expected. He was very well aware of what he was, just as he was aware that his 'faults' were made completely negligible by the sheer number and potency of his many redeeming qualities.

"Did you catch any of that?" Nott asked with a yawn as they exited the History classroom.

Voldemort quickly calculated how many History lessons they had attended in fourth year thus far.

"In 1705 there were rumours of dissatisfaction and discord growing amidst the goblin communities of Manchester and Liverpool, and combined with certain social movements in Austria and Switzerland at the time, the conditions were ripe for a third Goblin Rebellion. It was through the clever diplomatic machinations of then Minister of Magic, Richard Arlington, that peace, though tenuous, was maintained."

"You were actually paying attention!" he heard the mudblood exclaim behind him.

He slowly looked over his shoulder – absently noticing the look of wonder on Nott's face – and smirked lazily. "Not at all. I was merely guessing; sheer dumb luck, you might say."

She huffed in annoyance, before looking at him shrewdly. "You seem...better."

He glanced over at her again, unimpressed. "Yes, Theo was just informing me of this fortuitous fact. He used those exact words, in fact. Obviously, creativity is a crucial criterion in my selection of friends." Harry had grown more sarcastic of late, given Black's influence.

But perhaps he had taken it to far, because she bristled. "We were just worried, Harry!" Her voice dropped to a whisper, "You weren't acting...normal, yesterday."

"Sleep deprivation can do that," he commented curtly. "Throughout history it has been used as an...unconventional interrogation tactic, and this is not without reason."

"But why were you deprived of sleep in the first place?"

Nott and Malfoy, who had joined them at some point, seemed quite interested to hear his answer as well.

"It doesn't matter," he said simply. "What matters is that the problem is solved, and you no longer have to worry." He narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure why you insist on worrying about me in the first place – I think I've proven myself capable of taking care of myself," he added, feeling an inexplicable urge to defend Harry.

"But you haven't, though," Nott cut in. "Hermione has to remind you of meal times when you do research together and I have to make sure you actually eat, and apparently sleeping is too much to ask these days too."

Voldemort ground his teeth, fingers twitching. None of his followers would have ever dared speak to him like this. He didn't know whether to be furious with his host's immense capacity for patience and lenience, or impressed by it. True, he witnessed this insanity on a daily basis, but it was much easier to ignore it when he wasn't the one who had to actually deal with it.

"Just because I don't resolve my problems with your methods, does not mean that I am incapable of solving them," he said evenly. "Have you ever considered that, in the past, outside of Hogwarts, it was unfeasible for me to sustain a typical routine of eating during the day and sleeping at night?"

Malfoy frowned. "Why would -"

Nott elbowed him in the abdomen, and he seemed to realize what he had been asking, and they all fell silent after that.

Finally.

When they entered the Defence classroom a hush fell over the students, and he almost let himself relax for a moment, due to the absence of noise, but the sound of Mad-Eye Moody hobbling into the room was enough to completely erase any semblance of pleasantry.

He kept his face perfectly still as he watched the man lumber to the head of the classroom, feeling a twinge of irritation at the fact that this brutish, paranoid, washed-up auror had taken his job.

Just as well, he thought with a sudden swell of satisfaction – this pathetic shell of Mad-Eye Moody, which was really quite disappointing given his admittedly illustrious reputation, would meet an unfortunate end before the culmination of the coming term...they all did, he thought with an unavoidable twitch of his lips.

"Potter! What're you grinning about?" Moody suddenly barked from the front of the room.

Voldemort sat back in his chair, folding his hands on his lap and smirking at Moody with lazy smugness, unable to help himself. "Why, sir, I was just considering how pleased I am with your placement as our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. It just occurred to me how very beneficial this arrangement is."

Moody raised an eyebrow, before snorting and going back to his lecture.

Indeed, if Moody's inevitable termination was was especially...terminal, one more prominent member of the Order of the Phoenix would be out of his way and one less obstacle would stand between he and Harry and their ultimate victory.

Lunch was a mostly eventless affair; after his subtle mention of Harry's unpleasant childhood managed to shut his rebellious followers up immediately, he deduced that acting sombre and contemplative would likely minimize their desire to make contact with him, perhaps suggesting that he was still affected by the traumatic memories they had so cruelly unearthed, so he altered his algorithm, and said alteration was relatively successful. It took some adjustments, but he ultimately found that considering complex arithmancy problems that had been deemed unsolvable during potential conversations conveyed benign disinterest and dejection.

However, said pretense of benign disinterest became much more challenging to maintain once he entered the Potions classroom.

The potions laboratory held many...painful memories for him, most of them involving Horace Slughorn's sycophantic preening and nauseating, oblivious joviality, and, more recently, the traitor's pathetic bullying and Longbottom's unparalleled incompetence. Nothing good ever happened in the potions laboratory – it likely had remained a room imbued with misfortune for the last fifty years; and not the kind of misfortune he revelled in – the kind of misfortune that made this incredibly dull and agonizing world seem all the greyer. Perhaps he should consider encouraging Harry to take steps to demolish it. A practical application of fiendfyre, perhaps? It was untraceable, after all.

Though, there was a very limited number of students at Hogwarts who had even a remote chance of being able to cast the curse...so the risk was still too high. Not to worry, though - Harry was adept with (if not partial to) many other methods of heavy-handed but nevertheless satisfying destruction.

The potion they were brewing that afternoon was an antidote for cobra venom; he knew the recipe by heart, of course, and completely awed Nott with his poise and expertise in brewing a perfect potion. Potions had never been his subject, per se, but his skill was still unrivalled, and virtually every attempt he made was flawless.

In saying so he blatantly ignored the series of experiments he had instigated in 1951, which had, frankly, ended in tragedy. That was a dark time in his life – he didn't talk about it. Ever. If Harry ever acquired those memories...well, let's just say he had an extensive collection of excuses and blatant lies at his disposal, which he would select from based on his mood at the time.

By the time he was bottling his and Nott's (well, really, his – he wasn't about to let Nott ruin his perfect grade) potion, he was quite ready to leave behind the dismal, odour-infused, viscous atmosphere of the potions classroom, before his attempt was quite rudely interrupted.

"Potter, stay behind."

Voldemort grit his – Harry's – teeth. He was Lord Voldemort, the most feared wizard in recorded history. And people kept telling him what to do. He conjured an image of the traitor burning to death before his eyes, screaming wretchedly and begging for mercy. That was somewhat helpful, and he was able to plaster a very agreeable look on his face as he approached said traitor.

"Sir?" he said pleasantly.

"Your behaviour has been erratic, of late," the man said with incredible abruptness.

Voldemort's eyebrows rose. "Has it, sir?"

"Don't play coy with me Potter," the man snapped, "You know very well that you have been disobeying my orders – your visits to the Infirmary have grown sparse, and while I have been merciful due to your obvious physical improvement, your mental state is clearly deteriorating with alarming speed."

"Mental state?" Voldemort echoed with a slight edge in his voice, daring the man to elaborate.

"Yes, Potter, mental state. Whatever bizarre, narcissistic, irrational frame of mind has been causing you to alternate acting like an inferius and a chimpanzee."

Avada Kedavra – all he had to do was say those two words (preferably preceded by a couple of enunciations of crucio), and it would all be over. The traitor would never bother him again, and the old fool would lose one of his favourite pets. It would be so easy, too – the pathetically oblivious man would never see it coming, from his dear Lily's son. So, so easy...

And yet, incredibly inconvenient in the long run. Not to mention, Harry would be very displeased, and would no doubt sulk for at least a few days after he awoke, which he would rather not have to deal with.

So instead, he plastered a grateful, eager look on his face, which, if one looked closely enough (which no one ever did), was hopelessly polluted by mocking. "Sir, I...I really can't say how much it means to me, that you're so concerned. I mean, a year ago, I thought you wanted me dead, or worse – expelled." He would never admit it, but it was when she made that unintentional jest that he finally started to appreciate the mudblood's presence, at least somewhat. "And to think, that all this time, you cared so much -"

"Potter," the man said warningly.

"You know, Sirius told me all about it," he said, very sympathetically, "About how he and my father treated you – it must be so hard to look at me and not see their faces; to look past all that so readily, well, your nobility and strength of character is admirable, sir -"

"Get out, Potter," Severus hissed irritably. "Just – get out."

Voldemort pretended to look very disheartened, but still understanding. "I understand completely, sir. But if you ever need to talk about it -"

"Out!"

Sighing dramatically, Voldemort idly turned on his heel, taking his time in sauntering out of the classroom; but just as he did, he looked over his shoulder, an amused look on his face. "Perhaps it would be mutually beneficial for us both to mind our own business, professor."

The last thing he saw before he swept down the dungeon corridors was a look of uneasy shock on Severus Snape's face. Good. Perhaps the – what did Black call him again? Ah, yes – slimy (or was it greasy?) dungeon bat would think twice about pestering his host next time.

He might as well clean up some of the undesirable aspects of Harry's life while he had free reign of things, after all. It was a calculated risk; his behaviour could easily be reported to Dumbledore...but he was fairly certain that Severus, who had the pride of a Gryffindor, would be too ashamed to actually admit the incident ever occurred.

He was wrong. He blamed it on Harry's brain.

He had thought that maybe, just maybe, dinner would be a...respite, of sorts. A scrumptious meal (albeit polluted by the voices of Harry's talentless, imbecilic classmates) followed by a brief, and admittedly somewhat sentimental, stroll about the Hogwarts grounds, and then a quiet hour or so in the Chamber before he was once again required to play the part of Harry Potter. Or rather Harry Black, for the time being.

It didn't quite turn out that way, however. It was a curious thing – Fate was once kind to him, and Fortune used to follow in his every step. Lord Voldemort always got what he wanted...until Harry Potter stepped into his life. Well, he supposed that technically it was he who stepped into Harry's life, but the fact remained – Harry was clearly a source of what a philistine or muggle might call 'bad luck'. He preferred to refer to it as being despised by the universe for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was a punishment for his many sins. Or perhaps Harry was merely hated by some deity or greater force, and by extension, him as well.

Whatever it was, however, it inspired a certain delusional old codger in predictably garish pink robes to appear behind him just as he was starting to contemplate the omnipotence paradox while carving his serving of ham with finesse. He, of course, did what anyone in his position would do – ignore the blight on his evening while hoping that it would go away on its own.

Somehow, they never do.

"You know, Harry, you might try cutting them into different sized squares – I've always been quite partial to the Pythagorean tiling myself. Although, I do suppose you can't go wrong with a classic regular tesselation."

Voldemort took a silent but nonetheless shuddering breath, before placing his cutlery neatly beside his plate and turning around in his seat.

"Professor Dumbledore," he said politely, and hopefully not too frostily, "What brings you to these far reaches of the Great Hall?"

The old goat's eyebrows rose, and he knew he had failed at least somewhat. "Ah, well, Harry, I admit, I did come with a specific purpose in mind, though I am very fond of admiring the ceiling from different angles."

What an infuriating, imbecilic, incorrigible ...

"And what might your purpose be, sir?" Voldemort asked evenly.

"A chat, I think, is in order."

"A chat?" Voldemort echoed reluctantly, deliberately filtering all traces dread and loathing out of his voice, realizing the mistake he had made.

"Indeed, indeed. Nothing especially grim, I assure you."

Voldemort stared at him warily. "And when will this...'chat' take place, sir?"

"Why, Harry, there's no time like the present. After you finish your meal, of course; though, given the state of it, that could be quite a while -"

"I'm not hungry anymore," Voldemort muttered, not petulantly at all. He forced a bright smile onto his face. "Shall we, to your office, then, sir?"

His nemesis looked delighted. "We shall." The man glanced at Davis and Nott, who had been trying to engage him in conversation to him prior to the old coot's interruption. "Mr. Nott, Miss Davis."

And with that, the old man departed from the Slytherin table with long strides, leaving him to hurry behind with his embarrassingly short legs.

They reached the Headmaster's unappealingly messy office in far too little time, and the old man wasted no time in ushering him into his seat, while taking his own behind his cluttered desk and smiling at him in a way that was likely meant to be pleasant, but just came off as nauseating to him. Horrifically genuine, you might say.

"Now Harry, how are you doing this evening?"

"I've been worse," he said lightly, giving the most neutral answer he could possibly think of, and it was certainly true. His eyes darted toward the right side of the Headmaster's desk, where his highly-flammable parrot was staring at him with apparent skepticism.

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "That's hardly informative, Harry," he pointed out annoyingly.

It wasn't meant to be, you blithering old fool, Voldemort wanted to snap, but again, he refrained. Instead he smiled modestly. "I suppose it is not, sir. I suppose I might say that I find myself in a...contemplative mood, which is neither particularly enjoyable, nor is it unpleasant." Indeed, that fit perfectly with the demeanour he had been trying to project all day.

"Contemplative, hmm?" the old goat mused. "And what have you been contemplating, my boy?"

Voldemort knew very well that his smile twitched; he blamed the fact that he had not controlled a body in so long. Again, though, he stayed silent, before offering the truth on a whim, "The omnipotence paradox."

Dumbledore blinked, and then smiled brightly, apparently delighted by his answer, causing a sinking feeling to well up inside him.

Excellent, just excellent. His misjudgments were beginning to add up; it must have been Harry's brain interfering with his mind. That was the only explanation.

"Perhaps you can elaborate, Harry," the man said with poorly-disguised relish.

"Oh, it's nothing really," he ground out, "Just idle musings."

The bastard's eyes sparkled. "Well you know what they say, Harry – the idle mind is the devil's playground...and the devil does play such interesting games."

Yes, yes I do. He stifled a sigh. He was faced by a choice, now, and he was now hyper-aware of just how easily he could make yet another misstep. He had been careless, thus far - whatever had been causing Harry to act so rashly was clearly affecting him to some degree, at this point; the effects of sleep deprivation had not vanished with Harry - and he could afford to be affected no longer. What appeared to be the safest option upon initial examination was to quickly excuse himself, to avoid excessive contact with the Headmaster. However, this was fundamentally opposed to Harry's character, at this point; the child, for whatever reason, liked the old bastard, and seemed eager to socialize with him. No, Harry would almost certainly indulge the old man; and Dumbledore knew this.

The question was, which would be the greater indication of irregularity; rejecting the conversation or actually going through with it? The first was simple, safe, but guaranteed arousing further suspicion; the second would be far more difficult - he would be required to be genuine while conversing with the man he hated most in the world. It would be a substantial challenge.

But he had never backed down from a challenge. Which was why, at some point, virtually anyone with a functioning brain stopped challenging him.

He was Lord Voldemort. He would not be vanquished by a mere conversation.

"I suppose he does, sir. The topic of the night, then, is omnipotence, I suppose?" he said lightly.

The old man's eyes glimmered. "I do believe so, Harry."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Well, then I suppose I have to ask – do you think God can create a stone so heavy that he cannot lift it?"

The old goat tutted slightly. "Why, Harry that's no fun at all, is it?"

Voldemort blinked, caught off guard slightly. "No...fun?"

"None at all," the man said cheerfully, "A discussion in which I neatly outline my answer and you yours – well that's a rather dull way to spend a Thursday night, I think. Not to mention, simply bad form, conversationally speaking."

Voldemort resisted scowling, knowing that Harry would be quite pleased by this development. "Very well, then, sir, how do you want to go about this?"

"A most excellent question, Harry. Perhaps I can start by posing a question to you instead; you call our dilemma the 'omnipotence paradox' – but what is omnipotence?"

"Absolute power," Voldemort said slowly. That was literally the definition. What was the old fool going on about now?

"Ah, but then I must ask, what does absolute power look like?"

Voldemort simply stared at him. Use your imagination, he wanted to say. That is precisely what he would have told Harry, who had admittedly far less mental acuity than the lauded 'genius' sitting before him.

The old bastard sighed. "Well, how about I put it like this – if you had absolute power, Harry, what would you do with it?"

"I would exercise absolute power." Again, what answer was he expecting?

"And that means you would do...?"

"Whatever I wanted," Voldemort responded immediately, in a tone that indicated that it was obvious...because it was.

The man's eyebrows rose at his answer, though, as though it were unexpected – but the odd look disappeared in a mere fraction of a moment, and his lips twitched. "And what about the things you don't want to do? Are you unable to do those?"

Voldemort bit back a scoff. "Of course not. I could do whatever I wa -" He froze, fury rising inside of him. Of course. Of all the – after less than twenty-four hours in this highly deficient physical form, even his abstract reasoning abilities were already suffering.

Meanwhile, the old goat's lips twitched again. "I see that you have located the glaring hole in your intuitions."

Voldemort smiled tightly. "You certainly got me there, sir."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Free will is a curious thing, isn't it, Harry? Such a very innocent seeming concept, but so pervasive and problematic in the most troubling of ways. Another discussion for another time, I think."

"Indeed," Voldemort said, pretending to be very impressed.

"Well then, perhaps you have another definition you would like to try on?"

"Nothing springs to mind," Voldemort said immediately, hoping the man would just say whatever he was clearly so eager to say, and be done with it.

"Perhaps I might assist you by posing another question, then," Dumbledore said cheerfully, "Can God draw a triangle whose angles add up to more than one hundred and eighty degrees?"

Voldemort felt some amusement stirring inside of him, and he could not help but quip, "I'm not sure about God, sir, but a geometer could, on a sphere."

Dumbledore clapped his hands delightedly. "Oh excellent, Harry, excellent! Non-Euclidean geometry to the rescue, you might say, hmm?"

The fact that he was sharing an advanced arithmancy joke with his arch-nemesis finally settled in, and all the amusement fled. "One...might say that, sir."

"But you see what I am trying to ask, of course?"

"Of course," Voldemort replied evenly.

"But perhaps we have skipped a step," the old goat interjected musingly, "What do you suppose that might be, Harry?"

Voldemort stifled an irritated sigh, and relented, "The definition that states that an omnipotent being has the ability to do anything that is logically possible, right, sir?"

"Just so - although, perhaps we have actually skipped two steps, the second being -"

"The definition that states that an omnipotent being is able to do anything that it is logically consistent for it in particular to be doing," Voldemort droned.

The old bastard grinned. "Exactly so. So what do you think, Harry?"

"About what, sir?" Voldemort asked stubbornly.

Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Which definition most properly frames the problem at hand."

Eager to avoid falling into another trap, he clarified, "The problem of whether or not an omnipotent God can create a stone so heavy that he cannot lift it?"

The man's expression morphed into something that was almost a smirk. "Something like that."

Voldemort stifled another infuriated sigh, resigning himself to being consigned to a state of constant suspicion and potential entrapment. "I think sir, that both definitions add unnecessary complexity to the problem."

Dumbledore looked very intrigued now. "Oh? Do explain."

Voldemort took a calming breath. "Well, logic depends on both axioms and rules of deduction; and even though when talking about consistency we technically shouldn't have to worry about our axioms -"

"Unless they themselves are inconsistent."

Voldemort's face remained perfectly still. "Precisely. But let's assume our axioms are consistent -"

"But are you sure we can do that, Harry?" the old fool interrupted again.

Voldemort smiled slightly. "Why ever not, sir?"

"Well," the old man began, "It has often occurred to me that outside the realm of pure thought, it may very well be humanly impossible to maintain a consistent set of axioms, or base assumptions, as we like to call them; we simply make too many fundamental assumptions about the world to guarantee the consistency of them all. Indeed, I do believe we can count on at least one or two 'butting heads', so to speak."

Voldemort blinked. "Are you saying that everyone is a hypocrite?"

The old bastard shrugged. "Perhaps."

"How cynical of you, sir," Voldemort said blankly.

Dumbledore smiled wryly. "A symptom of old age, perhaps."

Voldemort was silent for a moment. "Well, let's assume that there is a person who is contemplating the omnipotence of a hypothetical God, and this person is the only non-hypocritical being to exist in the universe."

"Must be a terribly dull person," Dumbledore remarked.

"Well, not everyone can be as interesting as you," Voldemort snapped back without thinking.

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "An excellent point, Harry."

Voldemort smiled pleasantly, internally visualizing the Headmaster choking on his blood as he lay at his feet. "I thought so too, sir."

The old man chuckled, as though he were so incredibly amusing.

"Anyway, should such a person exist, your definitions still may very well introduce unnecessary complexity into the problem merely because contrary to popular belief, rules of deduction are not universal."

The old man looked quite delighted by his answer. "Another excellent point, Harry."

"I'm flattered, sir," Voldemort said insincerely.

"Perhaps there's another definition you might propose, then?"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "I think it's your turn, Headmaster," he deflected.

"I suppose it's only fair," Dumbledore admitted, all too happily, "Well, if I were to be entirely honest, my boy -"

Probably a rarer occasion than most people would like to believe, Voldemort thought wryly.

"- I would admit that I don't really bother with such definitions."

Voldemort simply stared, caught somewhat off guard. He had been sure that this was the point in the conversation where he would make his point (whatever moral or philosophical lesson of the day he had planned for Harry)...after which he could leave, if past interactions were any indication of future ones.

"I'm afraid old age has demanded of me some pragmatism on certain matters, Power being one of them. I have always liked he idea of there being some substance to the ephemeral, to the ideal – the Good, the True; Time, Life, and Death. But Power...not so much. Perhaps it is the question of degrees of relativism. Can there be Life without Death? Perhaps not. Can either of the two exist without subjects to manifest through? Perhaps not. But there is something so much more...temperamental about Power, and I do think that if someone considers it long enough, they will find that it is in itself insubstantial, an empty construct, and that 'absolute power' is both incoherent and meaningless."

Ah, there it was.

"Selective Platonism," Voldemort said dryly.

Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Just so."

They stared at each other for a very long time, and a thought flitted through Voldemort's mind – the thought that he might be sitting across from the only other person in the world who could have possibly ever...been something. Or rather, more than some thing. Humans - even those with magic, though they were superior by leaps and bounds - were animals, at their core; predictable beasts which are, at the heart of them, dull-eyed masses of flesh that droned through life tangled in strings they refused to cut. They could alleviate effort and provide fleeting entertainment, but they were...just more things cluttering up his world.

And despite his ambitions to reign supreme, a part of him knew that it would one day grow old. At least he now had Harry to take over when he became bored, though.

But Dumbledore had always been - not more than a thing, perhaps, but not just a thing. This man meant something, and had things been different, perhaps -

"And you, Harry?" Dumbledore suddenly said, softly. "What does it mean to have absolute power? Does Will hold sway over Possibility?"

Voldemort stared at the man in front of him, as the strangeness of his situation washed over him like a light drizzling of rain. He had spent the majority of his life hating this man, despising him violently and consumingly...and for just the briefest of moments, he forgot why. "If there is a god – which there isn't -"

Dumbledore's lips twitched once again.

"- and he were, as any true god ought to be, omnipotent, then he would transcend logical possibility. Power...is transcendental. One does not ask what God can do, nor what he cannot. One does not question power, unless one has power to match it. And omnipotence is absolute. It is not questioned, it is not bound, and it is free of all chains and limits."

The old bastard stared at him for a very long moment, his face infuriatingly unreadable...and then smiled in a way that was clearly patronizing. "How very...quaint."

Of all the – that fucking bastard – he was right – it made perfect logical – quaint!? Who did he think he – the old goat knew nothing, nothing of true power – oblivious - foolish old -

"Now," the old man rudely interrupted his internal stream of thought, "I had initially requested our little chat on account of certain...concerns with respect to your well being, which were brought to my attention by certain...concerned parties," he said evenly, keeping his voice oddly light, "However, it is now evident to me that you are, in fact, in much better condition than I had initially been inclined to believe."

Voldemort blinked, ire forgotten for a split second. What was the old bastard going on about now? His vagueness was - he froze - ...so very convenient. Because why maintain vagueness if you did not have something to hide; or not know that someone else had something to hide?

"Thus, I believe there is nothing more that I can do than bid you an excellent night, Harry."

Voldemort's mind was buzzing, recording every single detail of Dumbledore's demeanour, critically analyzing his very, very uncharacteristic words, even as he nearly sighed in relief. "Thank you sir," he said after the only moment he dared spare for his analysis, rising to his feet, hopefully not too quickly, "You have a splendid night as well."

The old man smiled fondly. "I shall make sure of it."

Voldemort nodded carelessly, mind still ablaze, and made for the door, before he was interrupted.

"Oh, Harry, before you leave..."

Disgruntled, Voldemort glanced over his shoulder and smiled pleasantly. "Yes, Professor?"

The man smiled softly. "I really think you ought to head straight to bed – your eyes are looking a tad bloodshot."

Voldemort physically restrained himself from stiffening, before nodding quickly. "Of course, sir. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Harry."

And with that, he hurried out of the old man's office, conjuring a mirror once he was safely down the stairs. He held it up to his face, sighing in relief when he observed that his eyes were still a pristine emerald green – not a trace of scarlet. Of course his spell hadn't failed; his spells never failed. Even if they were cast with Harry's defective magic.

"Barmy old fool," he muttered as he vanished the mirror, stalking off, "Blind as well as senile..."

But then he stopped in his tracks, closing his eyes and taking a shuddering breath. Barmy, blind, and senile; everything he knew Dumbledore was not. And yet, he so quickly fell into the trap of assuming him to be so. The man...he was like a worm, deceptively benign even while slithering inside the mind and moving things around without even the use of legillimency. Just like him.

Clearly not as adept, but still.

He could only hope that the worst case scenario - which was now pounding in his head - was mere paranoia.

But even if it wasn't...it was still a race against time, at this point. With the master soul and Dumbledore closing in, the time for action was growing nigh.

And Harry was not remotely ready. As a result, neither was he.

Voldemort was ready to murder someone, at this point.

Perhaps he should clarify; he was essentially always ready to murder someone, more ore less (one could argue it was a fundamental aspect of his personality), but at that particular moment he was...uncommonly eager to commit a heinous act. Murder might be too...anticlimactic, on second thought. Yes, he was actually leaning more toward...genocide. Yes, genocide would be optimal. But he'd settle for mass slaughter.

Or, heaven help him, just one torture curse. Just one.

He glanced around the Room of Requirement, flexing his fingers and summoning Harry's wand to his hand.

"I don't suppose that anyone would like to try their hand at resisting the pain of the cruciatus curse?" he asked, almost hopefully.

Daphne Greengrass's hand shot in the air, but the remainder of Harry's followers appeared quite incredulous and disturbed, so he gifted them with a winning smile. "I'm kidding, of course."

Several awkward laughs.

Ah, foolish children – if you only knew...

There was a certain comfort to be found in existing as an entirely cerebral being. It was true that his thoughts were frequently focused on returning to his physical form, but being afforded a taste of freedom...was bittersweet. There were, of course, the obvious discomforts – the sleep-deprived body, the corrosive magic limiting his ability to perform advanced spellwork, the behavioural restrictions imposed upon him – but even so, he would have expected the autonomy to be more...liberating.

The truth of the matter was that a physical form was restricting even when optimized; his thoughts were far more fluid and organized when he didn't have intrusive external inputs to process and strategizing for optimizing the utility of outputs to disturb his thought processes – as a mere mortal in corporeal form he had been a genius; as an unfettered consciousness in an environment tailored to his wishes, he had transcended the human capacity for thought. Mental simulations and predictions were a simple matter, and though he was not infallible, his ability to analyze human behaviour had never been so pervasive. He both observed and understood, and it was...profound. And this deeper understanding of mind and sentiment and heart and spirit was what had given him the final piece of insight that he had lacked in his youth; the insight that had alluded the entire canon of magical thought to that date.

The soul was a wondrous thing - more than anyone knew. And he found himself wondering at times if dedicating the next century, or even milenium, to refining his knowledge of it might prove a worthier pursuit than any he had ever dreamed of embarking on.

But this...gift, this corporeal form, had spoiled the thrill; being given corporeal form once again was...intrusive. Disruptive. Rife with distractions. It was frustrating.

He would inhabit his own body once again; Lord Voldemort, in his most powerful form, would rise to power once more – but he was fooling himself if he refused to believe that even as the most powerful man in the world, a part of him would not crave the state of pure consciousness that he had so thoroughly mastered.

Friday passed in very much the same way; until something quite unexpected and incredibly unfortunate happened – the Yule Ball was announced.

The first thing he did, of course, was politely decline the implicit invitation; he explained quite clearly to Minerva (Severus was still avoiding him) that he wished to spend his first Christmas with his 'family' at Grimmauld Place. The woman accepted his explanation without question and assured him that she completely understood, and supported his decision.

Perhaps family was good for something, after all.

Things, however, went downhill from there.

Greengrass followed him around for a while, practically begging him to invite her without actually stating outright that she was a pathetic whore desperate for his attention because she, like most adolescent females raised in pureblood households, had no substantial sense of self-worth and felt unfulfilled both emotionally and sexually, a fact that was supplemented by the quickly eroding shame and fear she felt at her frankly amusing intrinsic psychosexual abnormalities (he might have actually considered changing his mind and attending if she had done so), but he quickly dismissed her with a flat, "I will not be attending this frivolous event."

But it didn't end there. Malfoy kept bemoaning the fact that Parkinson would be furious if he didn't ask her, and Nott ceaselessly deliberated – vocally – whether he should attempt to survive the holiday with his father or endure this Yule Ball idiocy without his 'best friend there to make it bearable'. Voldemort truthfully informed him that this was an impossible decision, and that he was doomed to misery either way. This did not successfully smother Nott's ceaseless babbling, however.

Even the mudblood did not remain unaffected; she kept on ranting about...something related to outdated traditions and the expectations regarding male courting protocol and 'gender norms'...and then about what she would do if she was asked by this person or that person – honestly, he didn't care enough to take note of their names – and how there was literally no one who would make an optimal partner...

This unbearable lunacy continued even as they met the Christiansen girl in the library to study, as had become habit over the last month. However, while he attempted to read a rather fascinating, recently published, book on plural rituals - multifaceted rituals that involved two or more casters, mostly obsolete in western European magical practice but still very actively used in Africa and southern Asia - Harry's followers and potential ally blathered on about the thrice-damned ball instead of studying, like they were supposed to. And the mudblood was the worst of them – she talked, and talked, and talked, making no progress and communicating nothing useful, like she was suppposed to (what else was she useful for, anyway?) – except in the subtle twitches in her glance toward Christiansen every time she commented that she doubted anyone she would be interested in would be mutually interested in going with her. Eventually, it became too pathetic for him to bear.

"Oh for god's sake, Hermione, either ask Adina to the ball or kindly take your trivial, infantile complaints elsewhere, along with your adolescent female insecurities, while you're at it," Voldemort snapped, slamming his book on the table. "This passage on magical transmutability in geometrically-based plural casting rituals was positively riveting before you ruined it."

Everyone at the table was gaping at him – along with Madame Pince, several metres away – and the mudblood had turned a dreadful shade of scarlet.

"I – I – I -"

Voldemort swiped the book off the table, rising to his feet. "You – you – you are a Gryffindor. Either act like one or spare me your hypocrisy of character. Now, if you will all excuse me, I shall depart before I am infected with whatever contagion is making everyone in this castle act like an utter fool. Draco, with me."

And with that he swept away, Malfoy hurrying after him. Once they had turned down into an empty corridor, he inquired quietly, "Progress report."

Malfoy blinked. "...progress report."

"The potion, Draco," Voldemort said irritably.

"Oh! Yes – I just bottled it this morning, before breakfast."

Voldemort glanced over at him appraisingly. "You were attending to the potion immediately after waking?"

"Er, yes?"

"Your dedication is...admirable. I will not forget this."

Malfoy's eyes grew wide. "O-of course, Harry. I said I'd finish it as soon as possible – I'd never let you down."

Voldemort nodded. "I trust that you won't."

Malfoy looked quite smug, at that.

Malfoys were so easy to manipulate – it was almost laughable. And a little sad.

They arrived a few moments later at the Room of Requirement, and summoned the room Malfoy had set aside for brewing. Once inside, he wasted no time in conjuring a guinea pig, ignoring the painful tug in his chest as he did so.

"Did you just...wandlessly conjure a rodent?"

"Yes," he said dismissively, placing the creature on the floor and binding it in place with a sticking charm on its feet.

"You want to test the potion...on that?"

"Yes," he said impatiently.

"It's sort of..."

"What?" he snapped.

"It's sort of...rabbit-like, don't you think?"

"Yes."

"Well it's...what if we kill it?"

"Then you will have to brew the potion again, clearly," Voldemort drawled.

"It's just, it's kind of..."

"Spit it out, Draco."

The boy blushed. "Well, it's kind of...cute. I dunno...it just seems a bit like...poisoning a pet, you know?"

A small, amused smile curved across Voldemort's lips. "Oh? Would you rather use, say...a ferret?"

Malfoy paled. "No, the guinea pig is fine."

"That's what I thought. Now administer the potion."

Malfoy glanced between the small creature and the potion with trepidation.

"I don't have all day, Draco."

Malfoy sighed shakily, before kneeling down beside the small guinea pig, which was now making comically pathetic whimpering sounds. The blonde boy cast one more glance up at him, which he returned with a raised eyebrow, before uncorking the miniature vial and pouring it into the rodent's mouth.

They both froze, gazes fixed on the twitching animal – but then it hiccuped quietly and made a soft coughing sound.

Voldemort turned his eyes to Malfoy, who looked so relieved that he was going to cry, and smirked triumphantly. "Well done, Draco. Very well done."

The boy grinned wanly.

There was a part of Voldemort that truly wished he would have made the Malfoy boy stay and watch when he pointed his wand at the small rodent and happily proclaimed, "Avada Kedavra", perhaps after transfiguring it into a white ferret for comical effect.

The evening saw him reading in the Room of Requirement with Nott. He had desired some isolation, and the Slytherin Common Room was bound to be polluted by the jubilant students who saw the need to celebrate the fact that they were afforded two days without classes (despite the fact that this was a weekly occurrence), and the library would be littered with particularly persistent Ravenclaws studying for end of term exams; meanwhile, Nott had insisted that he, too desired some peace and quiet, and would remain silent if he allowed him to accompany him.

The boy kept his promise for about an hour – sixty-seven minutes to be precise – before he spoke up, much to Voldemort's disappointment.

"Are you sure you don't want to just, y'know, drop in for the ball? The important part of Christmas is Christmas morning, really."

Voldemort merely glared at him.

"I mean, it could be great – we could spike the punch, if one of the older students don't do it, and we could -"

"I'm not going," Voldemort said firmly.

Nott slumped into his seat.

He was about to go back to his reading, but suddenly, a rather ingenious idea entered his mind. He looked over at Nott shrewdly. "Who would you go with, were you to attend?"

Nott started. "M-me?"

"Precisely."

Nott grimaced. "I'd, uh, er, um..I dunno. Maybe I just won't go with anyone. That wouldn't be so strange, right? That's what Hermione was saying, earlier, wasn't it? Something about how the notion that you need to have a date to a dance is -"

"It would be strange," Voldemort assured him. He honestly had no idea what was the custom these days.

Nott grimaced. "Oh, well...Tracey, maybe? Or maybe Daphne would think I'm a decent substitute for you..."

"That's rather pathetic," Voldemort pointed out.

"I s'pose so," Nott muttered, dejected.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "Who do you want to take?"

Nott shrugged unhappily. "...no one."

"Surely there's someone, Theo."

The other boy grimaced. "Maybe there isn't."

"I know you too well to believe that; you're being a bit obvious, to be honest. There's someone who you really want to take...but are too afraid to ask."

He saw the boy stiffen.

"Come on, Theo, we're best friends - you can tell me anything, you know?"

Nott smiled sadly. "Let's just say that if there is anyone I'd like to go with...they wouldn't go with me."

Voldemort plastered an unsure look on his face. "Would you go with...me?"

Nott's mouth dropped open. "I – you – you're not going!"

"If I was?"

Admittedly, he took some degree of pleasure in Nott's terrified look. "We – we're two blokes, Harry – we can't go to a dance together!"

"Why not?" Voldemort asked, feigning obliviousness.

"Look, I don't know what it's like in the muggle world, Harry, but two wizards going to a ball together..."

"Adina seemed quite amenable to going with Hermione," he objected.

"She's a half-blood!" Nott exclaimed. "Not that there's anything wrong with that," he backpedalled, "It's just...things are different for...people like me. It's a family thing. It's stupid and outdated, and it's not as much of a thing on the continent anymore, but..."

Voldemort nodded slowly. "I see. You wouldn't go with me, then?" He carefully placed the inflections in his query to convey reluctant disappointment.

"I mean, I...we'd just go as best friends, right? If we did."

Voldemort stared at him. "Is that really what you want?"

"I..." Nott gave him a trembling smile. "This is all hypothetical, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, entirely hypothetical."

Nott's face didn't move, though his eyes conveyed that he was nearly at his limits of his emotional control.

"Though..." he leaned in closer to the other boy - only an inch or two, a barely noticeable distance but likely colossal to Nott - almost conspiratorially, "Hypothetically, there's no one I would rather go with than you."**

Nott looked like he had just been punched quite brutally in the abdomen, and was trying very hard to hide the fact that he had been completely winded.

Voldemort sat back on the couch, his face equal parts coy and contemplative. "Hypothetically, of course."

Nott nodded dumbly.

Taking a moment to stare at the other boy's face, which had the most shameful, curiously agonized yet blissfully awed expression on it, Voldemort rose to his feet. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Theo, I really must retire for the night. Have yourself a lovely evening."

And with that, he swiftly departed, a smug smirk on his face. Theodore Nott was well on his way to being in love with Harry Potter. Years of considering the power of Lily Potter's sacrifice and Severus's defection had not convinced him that 'love was the most powerful magic', but it had clarified that for most average homo sapiens, it was the single most powerful motivator. Quite frankly, it was an immensely cheap method of entrapment. Love, both chaste and carnal, could make the wisest of men into fools, the most honourable of men into knaves, the most moral of men into degenerates, and the holiest men into devils.

Nott knew too much; more importantly, he knew Harry too well, and cared too much...but if he found love in another, whatever loyalty he had dedicated to Harry would be tarnished, and his knowledge and understanding would become a weapon against them. This could not be allowed to happen. The best way to avoid this? To convince Nott that his feelings were not futile, and that Harry might one day reciprocate his them; the result would be a servant whose dedication was unbreakable and absolute, and moreover, genuine. All it would take was a few intimate gestures and a few tender words, carefully placed for maximum effectiveness.

Like he said, cheap.

Closing Harry's green curtains and setting up numerous privacy charms, he lay back in the bed and downed the potion in his hand in one go. Now he just had to wait...

Unfortunately, patience was not one of his virtues, few as he had.

Slightly disgruntled after several (alright, closer to two) minutes of waiting for the potion to take effect, he reached outside the curtains, pulling Harry's trunk out from under his bed and beginning to rummage through it. It was mostly books, at this point, most of which he was familiar with -

Except one.

Idly curious, he lifted a large leather-bound book from the trunk, staring curiously at the photo album Hagrid had given Harry after the conclusion of his first year. He slowly lifted the front cover, immediately faced with a portrait of a smiling young family; a man – barely more than a boy – grinning animatedly with his arms wound tightly around a woman with blazing red hair and vividly green eyes, cast down toward the giggling child in her arms. He was intimately familiar with Harry's feelings toward this portrait; when he looked at it, the sentimentality was palpable. Harry saw in it an impossible dream: a brave, joyful father; a kind, loving mother; and an innocent child destined for a happy and fortunate life.

A lie.

And he knew it was a lie, because he saw something entirely different when he looked at this so very misleading picture.

He saw a foolish boy wrapped up in a fatal morality and a self-righteous hero complex, consumed by the kind of poisonous loyalty of spirit that runs as free as blood in times of war; a child who thought he was a man, and a soldier who thought he was a warrior. He saw a girl whose eyes were older than anyone knew, whose kindness was belied by a Machiavellian pathos and a brilliance that was too sharp to be benign; a puppeteer who had yet to cut her own strings, fated to stumble while hopelessly tangled in them.

And finally...a blank slate.

The child in the picture was unrecognizable. Between Lily Potter, Albus Dumbledore, and most significantly, himself, that little child was little more than a peripheral character in an obsolete story; that tiny infant was all but dead, and Harry Potter, or whatever had taken his place...was something else entirely. And what that was, even he was not quite sure of.

And with that idle thought, he drifted into slumber.

From blackness arose a curious scene; a boy, dressed in Hogwarts robes, seated cross-legged on the floor, staring at a blank white wall that seemed so very out of place in the room Harry had inanely dubbed 'the Room of Hot Chocolate'.

"Harry."

The boy looked over his shoulder. "Oh, hello, Tom."

Voldemort felt a jolt of irritation. "Where have you been?"

Harry blinked. "Here, I suppose."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "And where is here?"

Harry looked around curiously. "I'm actually not sure."

"You're not sure."

"Nope." He turned back to the wall.

Voldemort's fingers twitched. "You've been here for days."

"Have I? How many?"

"Two," Voldemort ground out.

"Huh. I honestly thought it had been longer. Or perhaps shorter. I'm not actually sure. Shorter, I think, actually." Slowly, Harry rose to his feet, and turned around to look at him. "Well, you know what they say – time flies when you're having fun."

"You were staring at a wall," Voldemort pointed out flatly.

"Walls can be fun," Harry pointed out in turn.

Voldemort simply stared at him, unimpressed. "You are incredibly lucky that I cannot curse you in here – otherwise I would do so with abandon."

Harry smiled wryly. "I know."

Voldemort sighed. Sometimes he wondered if he had done too well a job in his moulding of Harry. His virtually nonexistent aversion to pain resulted in a kind of subtly irreverent nonchalance, and he was doubtlessly at least partially to blame. "Have you...recovered?"

Harry nodded slowly. "I think so."

"Good."

"It makes me so happy to know you care, Tom."

"What happened?" Voldemort demanded, ignoring him.

Harry frowned. "Honestly, I'd thought you might have been able to tell me. I...I know something happened, and I remember this feeling, the strangest feeling I've ever felt...but it's just a haze, a blur. It's like I was half asleep the whole time."

That was...concerning, to say the least. An altered state of consciousness?

He filed that information away for later, when he could take the time to examine the possibilities. "And how am I supposed to know what happened? I was unaffected."

Harry's eyebrows, rose. "Completely?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Well, I suppose I...there's not really much to say. It was a...glitch - I don't know any more than that."

"...I see."

Harry blinked. "I see? That's it?"

Voldemort quirked an eyebrow. "Well what do you want me to say?"

"I dunno, something...Tom-ish."

"Tom-ish," he repeated skeptically.

"You know, insightful? Clever?"

"For all my immense knowledge and skill, I am not a mind healer, Harry," he said, "I am not familiar with all the physical and metaphysical effects of sleep deprivation."

Harry sighed. "Yeah, that's completely reasonable. I'd just like to avoid...episodes like this, in the future."

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself well enough," he pointed out, not resentfully at all.

"Enjoyment really isn't the right word," Harry muttered.

He did not respond, considering Harry's words. The facts kept becoming more concerning.

"So have I been in the infirmary these past two days?" Harry asked, grimacing slightly. "Or am I still in the middle of the Forbidden Forest...dying of hypothermia?"

"No, I have been...filling in for you these last couple of days."

Harry paled. "Wh-what?"

He didn't respond, knowing that the boy was merely being obtuse.

"Is – is everyone still alive?"

"As far as I know," he replied carelessly.

"...right. Well...anything I should know?"

Voldemort considered this. "There will be a Yule Ball taking place at Hogwarts this Christmas."

"Like, a dance?"

"Precisely. We will not be attending."

Harry shrugged. "Probably for the best."

"Indeed. You have secured Christiansen as the mudblood's partner."

Harry blinked, before his face split into a grin. "Oh, that's lovely!"

"Indeed," Voldemort said indifferently, "And you kissed Nott."

"WHAT!?" Harry nearly screeched.

Voldemort stared at him in amusement. "Not actually - merely something to that effect."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I only conveyed very explicitly that while you have no intentions of attending the dance, he would be your ideal partner."

Harry stared at him for a moment, his face blank, if not a little bemused. "Well, that's true. He's my best friend."

A smirk crept across Voldemort's lips. "Are you sure?"

Harry's face remained slightly bemused. "Yes."

"Well," Voldemort drawled, "I can with immense certainty say that he does not feel the same way."

Harry looked very confused for a moment, before realization dawned on him. "But then he -"

"Precisely."

"I – you – why would you do that?"

"Nott is infatuated with you," Voldemort explained, "I have used this fortuitous fact to secure his loyalty."

"He was already loyal!" Harry shouted, outraged, and somewhat alarmed.

"Yes, but for how long?"

"He – I - but what am I going to do, now, Tom? He's going to think that I -"

"Hold affections for him."

"Exactly! I just – that's cruel, Tom! You can't just manipulate people's feelings to blackmail them into staying with you!"

"I just did."

"I know! And I – I...Merlin, how am I going to fix this?"

"You won't."

"I'll just...I'll just have to tell him it was a misunderstanding...that I wasn't in my right mind...that I didn't mean to imply -"

"You will do no such thing. He would never forgive you."

Harry stared at him, horrified. "How will I ever find a girlfriend if I pretend to be in love with my best friend?"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "'Pretending to be in love' might be taking it a little bit too far, don't you think? While you are indeed in the same age demographic as Romeo, Shakespearean is hardly your style. You are far too awkward for that. It would come off as heavy-handed."

Harry scowled.

"Besides, do you even want a girlfriend?"

"Well, no," Harry admitted, "Not really, at the moment; I'm under the impression that it will have to happen eventually, though. I'm not sure why – I don't really see the appeal, to be honest...but maybe Daphne's just ruined the concept for me...though, dating Adina would have been pretty neat, but if Hermione's interested, well, I think that's a more optimal pairing -"

"Then there is no conflict of interest," he cut in.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but whatever he was going to say died in his throat, and he settled on sighing in resignation, which was...followed by a look of resolve. As though he had come to a decision, rather than yielding to another's will. That was...concerning.

"Fine, just...whatever."

Voldemort smirked in amusement, once again storing his source of concern for later evaluation.

"Shut up," Harry snapped.

"Mind your tongue, child," Voldemort reminded him menacingly.

Harry sulked in return.

It was then that the white walls around them shook violently, shimmering slightly.

Harry looked at him fearfully. "He's here."

Voldemort nodded, feeling some excitement stirring inside of him. "Yes, he has come. The potion should activate any moment now."

"The potion?"

"The Malfoy boy completed it."

Harry's eyes widened in realization. "Then this is it."

It was then that, with a great boom and a shudder, the walls crumbled around them, leaving them surrounded in a black mist – but a moment later it cleared, and they found themselves standing in a small, firelit room.

"Crucio."

Shrieks filled the room, and he and Harry both turned to find the source; a fat man with balding hair writhing on the floor, face wrenched into a pained expression.

"You have failed me, Wormtail," a high, thin, frail voice hissed.

His gaze shifted to the high-backed, red velvet chair sitting in front of the hearth, whereupon sat a small homunculus, an infantile, skeletal creature with glaring scarlet eyes.

His lip curled in disgust.

"Tom."

He turned to see Harry snooping around the room.

"We're supposed to be looking for clues, not marvelling at how ugly your master soul is."

His lips twitched, and, realizing that the boy had a point, he cast his eyes around the room – but it only took him a few seconds to realize where they were.

"I know exactly where we are," he said musingly, suddenly quite amused.

Harry looked at him with triumph written all over his face. "Where!?"

"Riddle House."

Harry's eyes widened. "Isn't that a little...risky?"

"It certainly would not be my first choice," Voldemort murmured.

"Ok, well...that's great, I suppose. We did it." He paused. "So...what now?"

"...please...please, my Lord, mercy..."

Voldemort smirked. "Sit back and enjoy the show, I suppose."

Harry glanced down at Pettigrew, who was now snivelling and wringing his hands, before shrugging. "Sure. I don't have anything better to do."

If only his master soul knew that another piece of his soul and its container/protege – who happened to be the infamous Boy-Who-Lived – were leaning against a wall in an environmental reconstruction in his mind, watching with amusement as he cast the cruciatus curse, over, and over again.

Caught up in his amusement, he never saw the calculating look on Harry's face and the realization glimmering in his eyes.

**I put two stars so you know it's important:

So first off, settle down everyone. Let me explain.

"But you said it's not slash!"

Yes, I did, but I also clarified that Harry would not be romantically involved with another male character. This is still true.

If you don't care, great! Have fun discovering what I have planned. If you do, feel free to PM me and I'll be glad to give you explanations/spoilers/whatever you need. For the time bear in mind that 'platonic' doesn't necessarily mean 'just friends', and not 'just friends' doesn't imply romantic/sexual involvement.

Also, this does not mean that Harry/Daphne (or anything, really, at this point...except HP/LV...just not gonna happen) is off the table, because Harry's clearly not made for monogamy. Just sayin'.

This will be my last post until either June 4 or 11. I'm going to Costa Rica for a few weeks, and won't be staying at a resort, so I'll have limited access to wifi, and will probably be too busy hiking up volcanoes or swimming to do much writing.

Anyway, I've clearly given you all a lot to think about, and I'd love to hear your thoughts!