It was like looking through a warped mirror. What Rodolphus Lestrange had said about the bone structure, the face . . . it was true. Monstrous, but still recognisable.

But his power . . .

It was a physical thing, like a pressure in the air, an impending storm. Overhead, the navy ceiling had darkened to pitch black night.

Tom tried to Apparate. He focussed his mind on an image of the cottage, the neat, empty bed tucked beneath the window, willing himself and Harry, whose hand was still tangled in the back of his shirt, away.

Nothing. The Ministry's wards were an impenetrable wall. The fireplaces were empty and dead, and the Visitor's Entrance might as well have been on the moon, for all the good it would do them at the far end of the Atrium.

The trap had finally sprung shut.

Tom swallowed. His mouth was very dry, but his mind was whirring, searching for something he could offer Voldemort, some deal he could make. Anything, anything to stay in the body he had fought so hard to gain. He didn't want to spend eternity trapped inside a vessel, an inanimate object to be hidden away from prying eyes. If that happened . . . he might as well be dead.

Voldemort was watching. There was something leisurely in his manner – a willingness to take his time. His eyes moved slowly over the pair, taking in the way they stood; close together, wands trained on him.

Then his eyes found Tom's.

Red like coals in a fire, arterial blood spilling from a wound. Such a brilliant colour, made even more shocking by the pallor of his face. And with that contact, a lure, an almost gravitational pull.

Tom sucked in a breath. It sounded terribly loud in the silence of the room. His feet wanted to move forwards towards the other part – the main part – of his soul.

He wasn't going to do it, he told himself stubbornly. He clenched his fists, digging the nails into his palms.

Voldemort cocked his head to the side, curious.

"Come to me," he commanded softly.

Harry's fingers tightened in his shirt. But it wasn't necessary. Tom gritted his teeth and stood his ground.

"I know you feel it," Voldemort said. "And yet you can resist. How strange. I have far more control over dear Nagini."

Behind him, Harry was shaking. Or maybe Tom was. It was hard to tell. The adrenaline was rushing through him, urging him to run.

Voldemort knew. His lips twitched – daring them to try.

"Sixteen . . ." he said softly, when Tom didn't move. "My youngest Horcrux; my first tie to immortality. I did not believe it at first . . . I assumed that my diary held only a memory, an echo . . . I believed that it had killed Harry Potter and the Parkinson girl down in the Chamber of Secrets, and then, work done, lapsed back into sleep. But I was wrong . . . you are more than a memory, aren't you, Tom?"

Tom twitched at the sound of his name, but said nothing. Voldemort smiled lightly, and continued.

"And yet," he said, "my unease grew. You were careful, Tom, very careful, but even so, there was something wrong. I began to receive fragments of strange dreams . . ."

With that, his eyes slid to Harry.

". . . Very strange dreams."

Harry made a very small, very strangled sound and let go of Tom's shirt.

"Quite," Voldemort said drily. "And so, slowly, I began to entertain the possibility . . . to think about what a theoretical living Horcrux might do . . . might go . . . and then, one night, I attempted to Apparate into the derelict cottage where once I had passed my summers . . ."

He twirled his wand idly between his fingers.

"But I was unable to."

The words hung in the air. The wand, Tom's wand, thirteen inches of yew, spun round and round, before abruptly stilling, tip pointed at them.

"You have disappointed me, Tom. You should have come to me."

Tom laughed with no real humour. "You would have locked me up."

"I suppose I would have . . ." Voldemort said thoughtfully. "For your own safety, if nothing else. But you had options, leverage with which you could have bought yourself a better deal. Perhaps a pleasant suite of rooms rather than your diary; and, eventually, an opportunity to gain my trust. But no . . . I understand. No version of me would be content with a cage."

He paused, and began to pace. Not drawing closer, just marking out an arc around them, like a wolf stalking cornered prey. Tom twisted on the spot to keep him in view.

"And yet, this was always the plan. You should be happy, Tom. I have travelled, learnt, lived . . . I have achieved our wildest dreams and more . . ."

"This wasn't the plan!"

"Oh?"

"I wasn't meant to be-"

"Conscious? Yes, I suppose you are right. I admit, I never—we never spared a thought for precisely what would go into that diary. We assumed it would be like cutting off a finger; a sharp spike of pain and then a separate, unconscious thing to be stored safely away."

It was true. It was just luck, Tom suddenly realised, that he was here and Voldemort was there. It so easily have been the other way round; either of them could have gone into that diary.

A whirring sound. Tom jumped as the sound of grinding gears echoed through the Atrium, drowning out the soft tinkling of the fountain. Voldemort spun on his heel and waved his wand in a quick spiralling motion.

The lifts at the far end of the hall exploded, sending fragments of molten metal soaring through the air.

"That should hold them for a while," Voldemort said, with mild satisfaction, as if he had not just blown up half the room. "We need no interruptions . . . whether from the Order of the Phoenix, or indeed my own followers. They can be a little overenthusiastic."

His attention was still on the lifts. Harry nudged Tom in the side, but Tom didn't need the cue—

"Avada K-"

Voldemort did not even turn around. A negligent flick of his wrist, and the floor at their feet swarmed into black stone serpents. Tom was forced to abandon his spell to leap away.

"Disobedience," Voldemort said, the word a lethal hiss. "I expect nothing from Harry, but you, Tom, I am most displeased with. Consorting with the enemy, sharing my secrets, killing my servants . . . is there no end to your treachery? Crucio!"

There was not even a moment where Tom could have dodged. Pain, so immense and so endless that it was like floating in a vast sea. But instead of water, it was lava, scalding hot, burning him up but somehow not killing him. His limbs were contorting; Harry was yelling; he was on the floor, but none of that mattered, next to the pain-

"PROTEGO!"

Relief. Tom gasped and heaved for air. His forehead was damp with sweat. Harry . . . Harry was standing over him, fingers gripped tight around his wand, maintaining the shield charm.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said. "Do you truly think yourself ready to face Lord Voldemort?"

To his credit, Harry didn't flinch. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"Such arrogance! You have been very lucky Harry, very lucky . . . perhaps Dumbledore has told you about the twin cores of our wands - yes, I know about that too - perhaps you think it will protect you. But you are overlooking something."

"Oh yeah?" Harry demanded, full of bravado.

Voldemort smiled, holding his hands out: a clear invitation to attack.

Harry must have known it was a trap. But the Dark Lord waited patiently.

"Expellia-"

Voldemort gestured; a single, sharp motion. His magic hit Harry with the force of a powerful backhanded slap, sending him sprawling to the ground. His wand flew from his hand and rolled across the floor.

"Why would I even need to use my wand?"

They were hopelessly outmatched, Tom thought despairingly, as Voldemort turned back to him and gestured for him to stand. Tom did so, warily. He tensed when Voldemort drew closer, but stood his ground. He wasn't going to embarrass himself by fleeing and being dragged back like a child. There was nowhere to go, anyway.

Voldemort - his future self - was even more monstrous up close. His skin was unnaturally white, paler, even, than Tom's, and there were thin slits where his nose should have been. His pupils were slitted like a cat's, and he moved with the same grace and coiled power.

Voldemort stopped in front of him. His hand raised - slowly, telegraphing his movements - to grip Tom's jaw. He turned his face this way and that, inspecting him with curiosity.

"I'd nearly forgotten that I used to look like this."

He didn't regret the change. There was no longing in his voice, just a distant sort of nostalgia. After all, what was physical appearance next to power? It was such a small price to pay.

"You've been gathering together my Horcruxes. After I discovered your existence, I checked on those that were accessible. Some were asleep . . . but not all. And not all were there . . ."

He trailed off. Tom's heart thudded in his chest when he realised Voldemort had spotted the thin cord hanging loosely around his neck.

With a sudden rush of violence, he tore it away, pulling on the cord until the string snapped. Tom gasped at the short, sharp pain - he was sure there would be a red line there tomorrow (if there was a tomorrow) - but Voldemort paid him no mind. He held up the broken ends of the string so that the ring dangled in front of his eyes, rotating slowly.

"Empty," he mused, as the light in the Atrium glinted off the sharp planes of the stone. "You have absorbed it. But even so, how could such a small scrap of soul inhabit a body? It should be impossible . . ."

He paused in silent contemplation. Tom's wand was still in his hand - he warred with himself as the silence stretched out, weighing up the possibilities-

"I wonder . . ." Voldemort said suddenly. His eyes moved slowly to Harry, who froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

"I was most surprised when I learnt that Harry Potter still lived. I know you, Tom, know your sense of self-preservation. You would not expose yourself to that kind of risk, no matter the . . . compensations. And there has always been something strange about Harry . . . ."

He turned back to Tom. And suddenly, his eyes were an ocean of red, a colour of impossible depth. Tom's peripheral vision dimmed; the room spun; his heart was beating butterfly-fast in his chest-

"Show me, Tom."

Harry watched from the floor as Tom swayed forwards. Voldemort was using Legilimency, he realised with a mixture of fear and mortification. He was going to see everything. The fight in the Chamber of Secrets, the cottage, the things they'd done . . .

And the bond.

Harry wrenched his eyes away. He needed his wand. Looking around, his heart sank when he spotted it some ten feet away- he scrambled over anyway, but had to stop when a sudden wave of lightheadedness surged over him. It was just out reach. Harry reached for it, pushing against the bond and wishing, suddenly, that he'd had Tom teach him a little wandless magic, just enough to make it roll across the floor-

A laugh broke through the silence. Harry spun around at the sound.

Voldemort was done, it seemed. He released Tom, who bent over and heaved, holding onto his knees.

"How ironic," came his high, cold voice. "What an amusing surprise. But it all makes sense . . . the Parseltongue . . . the dreams . . . really, I should have guessed. I will deal with you, Harry, but first-"

Harry had just enough time to shout a warning. Tom's head snapped up just in time to deflect the hex that sprang from Voldemort's wand. He sidestepped a second, wobbling as he did so, but the third knocked him off his feet. Voldemort gestured, and his wand flew from his hands.

"Incarcerous!"

Thick black ropes wrapped themselves around Tom's ankles. Voldemort lowered his wand and turned his attention to Harry, who stood wandless, trapped at the limit of the bond.

Voldemort's lips twitched. He knew.

He drew closer, content to take his time. Harry hated that he recognised the expression on his face: Tom, at his most sadistic. He made a leisurely gesture with his wand.

Harry's feet left the floor. He kicked out, startled, but there was no leverage to be had. His body rose a few scant inches then stopped, floating just off the ground.

Voldemort halted right in front of him, close enough to touch. Harry held himself still, trying to will away the panic he felt, the painful vulnerability of this position.

But then, quite deliberately, Voldemort's eyes dropped. His gaze moved slowly over Harry's body; his chest, his belly, his-

Harry didn't just want his feet back on the ground. He wanted to sink right through the floor and keep going, forever.

Voldemort caught his eyes. There was a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Amusement and enjoyment, cruel pleasure in watching Harry squirm. He was just playing off the memories he'd seen, purposely trying to unsettle him, but Harry's face was still aflame at the implication.

"It's a pity . . ." Voldemort said. "If I'd only learnt what you were when we stood before the Mirror of Erised, or even last year, in the graveyard, you could have been protected. I would have found a safe place for you, much as I will find a safe place for Tom. But now it is too late . . ."

The heat seemed to be leaching out of the room by increments. Harry couldn't suppress a shiver. And when Voldemort spoke next, his voice was cold as ice.

"You aren't a Horcrux anymore. My soul no longer lives behind your eyes . . ."

His long, pale finger touched Harry's scar. There was no pain for either of them. Voldemort was protected by the blood he had stolen; Harry by the removal of the Horcrux.

"All that's left is a thin cord. And cords can be cut."

A sharp motion, and Harry hit the ground hard. He had no time to recover his balance before Voldemort seized him by the hair and began dragging him towards Tom. Green flames flared wandlessly to life in the nearest fireplace.

He was going to take them away!

Harry struggled against Voldemort's hand, but his grip was brutal, his fingers like iron. Through watery eyes, he could see Tom shuffling backwards as best he could, stymied by the ties around his legs. Voldemort pulled him across the room, dragging him closer and closer-

"Yes," Voldemort hissed, relishing his fear. His hand twisted tighter in Harry's hair, viciously pulling him up to stand on his toes. He could feel Voldemort's icy breath as he leant in to speak. "If you're good, Harry, perhaps your stay with me will be short . . . perhaps I will be merciful . . ."

Tom was shouting. Harry fought against Voldemort's grip. The world was a whirl of pain, movement, fear-

Fire.

Harry gasped in pain and flung up his arms to protect his face, thinking, for one frantic moment, that the Fiendfyre on the level above had somehow made its way down to the Atrium. He wrenched away, and to his surprise, Voldemort let him go. The Dark Lord stood tall, unaffected by the flames, fury on every line of his face.

"Dumbledore!"

He was right. Hope swelled in Harry's chest - the flames that had appeared in the middle of the Atrium were clearing to reveal the Headmaster, Fawkes perched on his shoulder.

He looked as he always had, clad in purple robes with his long white beard tucked into his belt and half-moon spectacles perched on his long nose. Every inch the quintessential storybook wizard.

Except for his eyes. They were harder and colder than Harry had ever seen them.

"It has been some time, Tom."

He was speaking to Voldemort, who laughed derisively. There was no mirth in his voice, however; his body was tense and his wand was poised.

"You have grown old, Dumbledore," he said, as Fawkes took off to swoop around the hall. "I knew, but seeing it in the flesh is a different matter. Are you frail? Do your fingers shake? Do you see your own death on the horizon yet?"

"All of the above," Dumbledore said gently, withdrawing his long, oddly shaped wand. "Old age, while occasionally inconvenient, is nothing to fear. I am quite ready to die. Not you, however. Your fear is your greatest weakness, Tom."

His eyes flicked briefly to where Tom - Harry's Tom - sat on the floor, struggling with his bonds.

"A Horcrux. I first suspected it when you regained your body last year. But I never would have guessed that you mutilated yourself while still at school."

Voldemort did not respond. He paced slowly, stalking around Dumbledore. Spoiling for a fight.

Dumbledore smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgement.

And then they began.

Harry couldn't even tell who had cast the first spell. Tiles ripped from walls, grew wings and beaks and descended upon Voldemort as a swarm of ceramic birds. But the Dark Lord conjured a wind with a twist of his wand. It whirled around him like a hurricane, shattering them against the walls and sending shrapnel flying everywhere. Harry ducked, and ran across the Atrium.

Tom was watching open-mouthed when Harry reached him, caught up in the wonder of it. Harry leapt over him, retrieved Tom's sycamore wand from where it lay on the floor a few feet away, then skidded to his knees next to him. He pressed the wand to the bonds.

"Severing charm," Tom instructed, finally tearing his eyes away from the duel. "Aim it well."

Harry, who had not used that spell since that day they were ambushed in the forest, blinked. There was blood coating his hands, thick and viscous and startlingly red.

Then he blinked again.

It was gone.

"Hey!" Tom said, waving his hand rudely in front of his face. "Pay attention!"

Harry scowled, but resisted Tom's efforts to pluck the wand out of his hand.

"Diffindo."

The wand leapt in his hand, willing and eager, and the bonds parted. Tom wasted no time. He was on his feet and moving almost immediately, heading towards the closest fireplace. But not a moment later, he was forced to drop to the ground as a black whip of fire arced from Voldemort's wand, circled overhead, and constricted down around Dumbledore.

The Headmaster showed no sign of alarm. He raised his own wand, lightly, as if to point out something on an imaginary blackboard, and caught the stream of magic at the tip. Lilac fizzed through black, spreading rapidly, until Voldemort was forced to jerk his own wand away, breaking his connection to the magic just before it reached him.

They were breathtaking.

But he had no time to admire the fight. A crash echoed down the Atrium from the direction of the lifts. Harry spun on the spot.

The Order and the Death Eaters had managed to bludgeon their way through the debris Voldemort had left for them. Dust and rubble was spewing out into the hall and with it, black-clad figures. Harry could hear shouts, see red and green flashes of light-

Tom grabbed him by the upper arm and heaved him towards the fireplaces.

"NO!" Harry shouted over the din, struggling against Tom's hold. He dug his heels into the floor. "I'm not going to let you kidnap me again!"

Tom hissed in frustration and tried, once again, to wrench the wand away from him. Harry batted at his hands and kicked him hard in the shin. Tom yelped, but clung on.

"Where are you even going to go?" Harry demanded. "The Floo will be tracked, the Portkeys are all destroyed. Voldemort knows about you and Dumbledore too. And if you think I'm swearing another vow, you're delusional."

Tom did not seem to care. He shoved forwards, trying to topple Harry, who angled his wand just in time-

"FLIPPENDO!"

The wand jerked in his hand, unwilling to turn against its master. But although the spell it produced was weak, it was still enough to knock Tom to the ground. He landed hard and rolled. Harry shielded as he leapt back up, face contorted in anger.

The shield was just in time. A stray stunner glanced off the shimmering sphere, followed by a stronger hex. The fight was coming to them. Harry hesitated, torn between backing away and shielding Tom too - the latter option came with its own risks.

But he couldn't just leave him there, out in the open.

"One wrong move," he warned, stepping forwards and holding his wand half on Tom, half in the direction of the combatants.

Luckily they didn't seem to have been noticed, amid the chaos. The fight between Dumbledore and Voldemort was still going on. The air around them boomed with power, a magical barrier none of the Death Eaters or Order members dared to pass. The dozen or so witches and wizards prowled around the edges, engaged in a confusing multi-sided duel. Harry spotted Tonks and Kingsley; the latter bleeding freely from a cut on his forehead, fighting Rodolphus Lestrange. Bellatrix was laughing, casting spells in all directions, almost as much a danger to friends as to foe-

And Sirius.

Harry cried out as he recognised his godfather. His face was wild with the joy of the fight, eyes bright and wand flashing spell after spell. He blasted a masked Death Eater with an Impedimenta then ducked an incoming spell only to walk almost into the path of a Killing Curse. Lupin tugged him out of the way at the last possible moment.

"Drop your wand!"

Harry turned. The words were not aimed at him. Mad-Eye Moody stood there, peg leg singed but stable. Tom, whose hands were in the air, was leaning away from the wand jabbed under his chin.

"I don't even have it- HEY!"

Harry winced as the scent of burning flesh reached his nose. The tip of Moody's wand was apparently very hot. Tom leant back further, glaring hatefully down at the much shorter man.

Harry didn't know what to feel. An instinct, ingrained after weeks together, was urging him to help Tom. But that wasn't right - Tom was an enemy-

"For god's sake, keep shielding, boy!" Moody barked.

Harry jumped, and spun back to the fight, renewing the charm. The duel in the centre of the room was heating up, if that was possible. Dumbledore and Voldemort's wands flowed from spell to spell, faster than thought. Fawkes swooped around them, weaving skilfully in and out of a swarm of transfigured objects, occasionally letting out a cry that sounded like the peal of a bell.

Dumbledore had the upper hand, Harry decided, after a moment watching. Voldemort was a marvellous duellist, but somehow he didn't seem able to penetrate Dumbledore's defences. For his part, the Headmaster met raw power softly, turning it back against its caster.

Suddenly, with a cry of frustration, Voldemort gave up. He broke away from Dumbledore, and, in one smooth motion, cast a spell straight at Lupin. Harry watched in horror as it hit him dead in the centre of the back.

But it was not a fatal curse, apparently. Lupin arched, screaming in pain, as fur sprouted on his face and neck. His arms lengthened until his hands, which had curled into claws, almost dragged on the ground. Sirius took several fast steps back as his friend dropped to all fours and growled.

Satisfied with the distraction he had created, Voldemort turned sharply on his heel.

CRACK!

It was the loudest sound. Like shattering glass, but magnified a thousandfold. Golden fractures spread through the air, as if space itself was cracking apart. Harry clapped his hands to his ears. Lupin, now fully transformed into a werewolf, sat back on his haunches and howled.

Voldemort was gone. He had Apparated right through the Anti-Apparition wards. Tom, still held in Moody's rough grip, was open-mouthed, staring at the spot where he had been.

"That isn't possible," he breathed.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The Death Eaters were following their master. Kingsley took aim at Rodolphus as he Disapparated through the broken wards, but was forced to turn his wand on Lupin instead when the werewolf, enraged by the noise and bleeding freely from his ears, leapt towards him.

"Stupefy!"

The first spell came from Dumbledore. One by one, the rest of the Order of the Phoenix followed suit. Lupin heaved against the first few Stunners, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. Soon enough, his legs gave out and he collapsed to the ground.

Sirius knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse, then visibly sighed in relief. Harry watched as Dumbledore strode over to him. He bent at the waist to ask Sirius something, and then made a small gesture with his hand.

Towards Harry.

Sirius turned, eyes wild with hope - and spotted him.

Harry was already starting forwards as Sirius leapt to his feet and flew across the room. They met at the limit of the bond, and, without a word, Sirius wrapped his arms around him in a big bear hug, squeezing him tight, as if never wanting to let him go.

Harry buried his face in Sirius' shoulder and cried. Joy was bubbling inside of him like water from a brook, washing away the pain and stress and exhaustion. His limbs were heavy and he was so, so ready to sleep, but none of that mattered, because he was safe and with his godfather.

"I thought you were dead," Sirius was saying, over and over. Harry's throat was clogged up. He clapped him on the back in a wordless reply. Sirius gave a hoarse sob and squeezed him tighter.

Other people were gathering around. He could hear footsteps, voices.

"Wotcher Harry," Tonks said, as she thumped him on the shoulder. Harry looked up just in time for Mr Weasley to ruffle his hair. As if from far away, he could feel his own lips moving, hear himself babbling questions about Ron and Hermione, about the summer, and telling them how happy he was to see all of them, alive and safe and with him.

Finally, Sirius' arms loosened.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked quickly. "You didn't get hurt in the fight?"

"As if! I'm fine, you idiot. Better to ask about yourself-" He felt around the back of Harry's head, and frowned at the dried blood that came away on his fingers.

"It's just a scrape," Harry said self-consciously. "I knocked it against something."

Sirius pulled him in for another quick hug. Over his shoulder, Harry could see Dumbledore speaking to Moody and a particularly surly Tom. The Headmaster glanced up in time to catch Harry's eye. He patted Moody once on the shoulder, then made his way over to them.

"I'm sorry, Sirius, but I need to borrow Harry for a bit."

"Can't it wait?" Sirius demanded.

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore said gravely. "I'm taking him - and the other boy - to my office at Hogwarts. He may as well stay overnight in the Hospital Wing afterwards so Madam Pomfrey can check him over. I'll bring him to Grimmauld Place tomorrow morning."

Sirius was clearly not happy, but he nodded anyway. He gave Harry's hair one final, careful ruffle.

"You're such a good kid. I never got to tell you that."

Harry grasped wordlessly at his sleeve, still sniffling a little. His heart felt too big for his chest, completely filled up with emotion. It had been so, so long since he'd seen Sirius. Harry had missed him terribly.

Dumbledore gently drew him over towards Tom.

It was busy in the room, Harry realised dimly. Up and down the Atrium, the fireplaces were flaring green, and people were emerging, many still in their nightclothes, talking to each other in low, concerned murmurs. Somewhere, a camera bulb flashed.

What about Tom?

Somehow, Harry had never even entertained the idea of Tom being captured. It was incredibly stupid in retrospect, but he had actually thought their plan would work, that the only risk was Tom trying to kidnap him again. Now that it had happened, he had no idea what to expect.

Dumbledore activated the nearest fireplace with a wave of his wand, then turned to Moody.

"I need to speak to Fudge," he said. "You take them ahead. Severus should be there waiting for you."

"I'll do that, Albus," Moody said gruffly. "Hold onto me, Potter."

It was easier said than done; Moody was gripping Tom's upper arm with one hand and keeping the wand jabbed into his neck with the other. Harry awkwardly took a fistful of his robes. The three stepped forwards into the flames.

A/N: I've had a couple of people ask if we're near the end - don't worry, lol, we aren't even halfway through this story. I'm sorry the updates have been slow lately; I'm a PhD student, and summer is the season of deadlines xD