The alarm on the bedside table woke him and for one blissful second, Harry did not recall last night and then it spread over him like a long, dark shadow. Tom had looked so furious, Harry had thought he might curse him, but instead, he'd stormed out of the house, banging the door shut, making the windowpanes rattle, dinner half cooked.
Harry sat up with the weariness of an old man. He stared at his feet. With a groan, he hid his face in his hands.
God, what a mess. He should have told Tom from the start. The moment he agreed to work for the Ministry Harry should have said right then and there: I don't love you.
Harry grimaced, his fingers digging into his scalp. Lies, lies, and more lies.
I love you.
I love you and I can't see straight.
I love you and I lose myself.
I love you and I'm terrified.
But he couldn't say that. Not aloud. Not to Tom.
This was for the best. Even though it hurt like a knife twisting in his chest, it was for the best. He just had to make Tom see that.
With a deep breath, Harry stood and prepared for his day.
.
.
The line to the lifts stretched out longer than usual. Someone had dropped a box of snitches in one of the elevators and it was taking an exorbitant amount of time to snatch them back. When Harry finally hurried past the lopsided sign reading Auror Department, he still hadn't figured out what he was going to say. He blew into their cubicle, but stumbled to a stop, looking around, perplexed. Tom wasn't at his desk.
"Hey, Alice," Harry asked, turning as she walked past, "where's Tom?"
Alice looked up from the report she was reading, so long that it cascaded onto the floor and trailed along behind her.
"I thought I saw him heading to the interview rooms."
"Thanks."
Puzzled, but not deterred, Harry rushed back into the corridor. Instead of turning to the lifts at the left, he turned right, moving down a stretch of hall that the Aurors used for lighter, not so intimidating questioning. Harry found him in the fourth room.
Tom was not alone. He sat opposite a middle-aged woman. Tom's eyes cut to him and the frigidness in his gaze made Harry balk, feeling that he'd stepped inside a freezer.
"Harry," said Tom coolly. Flippantly. Indifferent. He turned back to the woman, who was clearly Essie Page, Josephine's landlady. "You were saying?"
"I don't know why she would have put me down as her contact. Wouldn't her family—"
"She had no immediate relations," Tom informed her. "Only a distant cousin who has not spoken to her in ten years."
"Poor girl," said Mrs. Page, tearful. "I can't believe this happened."
Harry pulled out the chair next to Tom and Tom didn't so much as pay him the slightest notice. It was going to be a very long day.
"Do you have any idea why Miss Laurent would have been out on those moors at night?" Tom asked.
"She was an astronomer," said Mrs. Page. "She wrote for the Star Scholar — that philosopher magazine. She went out on the moors to study the constellations. It's normal — was normal for her to spend all night — I'm sorry —" Mrs. Page dissolved into tears.
Harry conjured a box of tissues and pushed them toward her.
"Thank you," she hiccupped.
"Did she ever mention seeing anyone or anything odd on the moors?" Harry asked.
Mrs. Page shook her head. "Never. It's always quiet out there. This is … this is all so horrible."
"Thank you, Mrs. Page," said Tom. "I appreciate you coming in."
Nodding and still clutching the tissue to her face, she rose and shuffled from the room. Tom stood and headed for the door. Harry jumped to his feet.
"Tom."
He stopped. He did not turn around.
"Can we talk?" Harry asked.
"That depends," said Tom, his voice delicate, but glacial. "Do you have anything new to say?"
Harry hesitated in silence a beat too long.
"Then no." And Tom departed.
.
.
Harry entered Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, dodging a gang of rowdy children and their harassed looking mother. Though after five on a Friday, there were still plenty of browsers in the shop. George, reloading a display of fake wands, spotted Harry. He released a low whistle.
"You look like you've been run over by a hippogriff. Bad day?"
"Bad doesn't come close," said Harry. "Ron in?"
"He and Hermione are upstairs. Better knock before you go in," he advised with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.
A weak chuckle escaped Harry and he moved to the back of the shop where there was a half-hidden staircase. On the landing he gave the door on the right a soft tap. Hermione opened it.
"Harry!" she cried, ecstatic. She embraced him in a tight hug. "I looked for you at the Ministry, but Eddie'd said you'd already left. I'm sorry we had dinner plans when you got released. We wanted to be here, but we've been putting off Mum and Dad for ages."
"It's okay," Harry assured her, stepping inside the flat. Ron had decorated it quite spectacularly with his personal style: jumpers flopped on backs of chairs, candy wrappers and joke shop prototypes littered about on tabletops, and a large, vibrant orange poster over the sofa of the Chudley Cannon's double CCs and speeding cannon ball.
"Butterbeer?" Ron asked, just as delighted as Hermione that Harry was out of St Mungo's.
"I think I need something stronger," said Harry, collapsing onto the sofa. Almost immediately, Crookshanks appeared, leaping lightly onto his legs and purring loudly.
Hermione sat beside him. "What's wrong?"
Harry ran a hand through his hair, upending it even more.
"I told him."
Hermione's eyes widened.
"Told who what?" said Ron blankly.
"Harry told Tom that he doesn't want to be romantically involved," said Hermione. "Didn't you?" she asked, addressing Harry.
"I didn't use those words exactly," said Harry, nettled, "but yeah."
Ron skipped the butterbeer and passed him a Murderous Monk ale. "How'd he take that?"
Harry snorted over his bottle. "As well as a blast-ended skrewt being shoved inside a crate and told to hibernate."
"So not well, then."
"When was this?" asked Hermione.
"Last night. Gave me the cold shoulder all day. He won't even look at me, let alone talk to me."
"But he's still here?" asked Hermione swiftly. "He's still working for the Ministry?"
"He made a deal with them. Of course he's still working for them. If not he'd —"
"Be arrested?" Hermione supplied, crossing her arms, unimpressed. "As far as I'm concerned Tom Riddle has been dodging Azkaban since he was sixteen. If he didn't want to remain at the Ministry, he wouldn't be there."
"So you think he'll get over it?" Harry asked, growing suddenly hopeful.
Hermione chewed her lip. "I don't know. Do you think you're the only person he's been in a relationship with?"
"No," said Harry at once. There was no way the things Tom had done to him were first tries. Tom was talented, but no one was that talented. Harry had been the one to fumble, once so spectacularly that Tom had actually laughed, but instead of embarrassing Harry, the sound had steadied him — relaxed him — and he'd ended up flat on the common room floor, in a delirious haze from the best sex of his life.
"I mean a relationship he cared about?" Hermione clarified, bringing Harry back to the present. "Are you his first lo—"
At the warning look from Harry and the sound of revulsion from Ron, she rolled her eyes, rephrasing.
"Sorry. Are you the first person he's had feelings for?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably on the couch. He suspected he knew the answer to that question and it didn't make any of this easier.
"The point is," he said, diverting the entire topic, "he just needs time to adjust. It's Friday. I'll give him space. He'll calm down. He can't stay mad at me forever."
Ron and Hermione didn't look so sure.
.
.
Harry's hopes that Tom would have cooled off over the weekend were severely misplaced. The lift grates peeled back and Harry spotted Tom in the hall, speaking to Maybelle. The glare he shot him was as cutting as a dagger and Harry seriously considered taking the lift back down to the Atrium and working their case files from home. Tom's gazes hadn't been so steely since the first few months in the Carcerem.
"You getting out or not?" a disgruntled wizard grumbled.
"Sorry," Harry mumbled, stepping out just as Tom pushed off from the wall and disappeared into the Auror Department. It looked that Tom would need much more time than a few days.
At least he's not throwing curses, Harry reassured himself.
Squaring his shoulders, Harry entered their shared cubicle only for Tom to push past him, leaving again.
"Where're you going?"
"I have an invitation to meet with Camila Zabini," said Tom with that same frosty aloofness that used to dominate their conversations before everything had changed.
"She's letting us look at the Works?"
"Did I say that?" said Tom coldly.
"Sorry," said Harry, keeping his tone level with supreme effort. "I just assumed—"
But Tom had already turned and walked away. He did not hold the lift for Harry, watching uncaring as Harry barely made it, slipping in before the doors clanged shut.
xXx
Tom couldn't decide whether he wanted to throttle Harry or kiss him until he bruised. Both were appealing. It was a good thing there were witnesses in the lift. They Apparated without a word to each other to the Zabini property, a stately house in northern York.
"Do us both a favor and keep your mouth shut," said Tom, ringing the doorbell.
Harry's eyes darkened, insulted. The furious expression only made Tom's blood burn hotter.
The door opened. An elegant and ravishing black woman stood before them.
"Mr. Thorne," Mrs. Zabini greeted. She extended her hand to him. Tom kissed it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Harry stiffen. Mrs. Zabini's dark eyes shifted to Harry. A slight sneer touched her ruby lips. "I was unaware he would be joining," she said, speaking to Tom as if Harry was a hat stand.
"He insisted on coming," said Tom.
"Yes," said Harry, curtly, his smile fixed. "Seeing as we're partners."
Mrs. Zabini stepped aside, allowing them entrance. "Do come in. May I offer refreshments?"
"No, thank—" Harry began.
"Yes," said Tom. "That would be most welcome."
Beaming, Mrs. Zabini escorted them into a parlor, her fine robes fluttering along the polished floor. A tall, black boy sat in a winged armchair. He looked up from the Daily Prophet as they entered. Tom had never bothered with the Zabinis. They were pure-blood supporters, but they lacked true conviction to be in his tightly controlled group of Death Eaters, though there had been hopes for Blaise. He'd shown excellent possibilities.
Unlike his mother, Blaise's eyes only roved over Tom once before shifting to Harry. Mrs. Zabini did not notice the expression of cold calculation on her son's face, busy pouring Tom a glass of wine.
"Your reputation precedes itself," she said, handing it to him. "Why, in just a month, the name of a man no one has heard of is on the lips of every witch and wizard in the country."
"You are too kind," said Tom.
"Thorne. Are you related to Seveste Thorne, the late poet?"
"Unfortunately no."
"Pity," said Mrs. Zabini, though her almond eyes gleamed. "I'm organizing a reading of some of his more amorous collections. I imagine your voice would turn them to chocolate on the tongue."
Harry loudly cleared his throat. "Mrs. Zabini, we were hoping if we would be allowed to view the Elladora Works."
Mrs. Zabini's eyes, so inviting when looking at Tom, turned loathsome while taking in Harry, like he was a slug she wished to squash under her heel.
"Harry and I have a disagreement," Tom cut in smoothly, "that we hope you will help us clear up. He believes that the Elladora Works were created using common glass of the age, but I state that the great artist created her own with the secret addition of crushed salt beetles to enhance the intricate colors and patterns. As guards to the Works, we were unable to admire them fully."
Mrs. Zabini softened.
"Of course. Who am I to keep my great grandmother's art from the man who saved them? Follow me."
xXx
Harry appreciated Tom's ability to get them in the same room as the Works, but did he have to rub it in so much? Did he have to let her wind her arm through his and whisper Merlin knows what in his ear as they were led down a set of stairs? Blaise, silent and bored, chose to join them, walking sedately beside Harry and Harry wondered if flirting with strangers was such a regular occurrence that Blaise had grown impervious to being embarrassed by his mother's actions. For once, Harry wished that he could appear so indifferent.
Tom and Mrs. Zabini stopped before a stretch of stone wall. She tapped her wand on a brick and a doorway appeared. Harry and Blaise followed them inside. The room reminded him intensely of a Gringotts vault, artifacts and treasures stacked from floor to ceiling on sturdy shelves. In the center of the room stood the seven remaining Elladora Works. Though Harry spotted half a dozen highly dangerous and Dark objects without even taking a step further, he kept it to himself. The mosaics were more important.
Tom and Mrs. Zabini stood before a piece of vibrant gold, the glass cut to mimic splashes and splotches. They darted about like goldfish in a red sea.
"You are quite correct," said Mrs. Zabini. "Most people don't think of salt beetles."
"I am nothing like most people," Tom smiled. He cut Harry a smug, sideways glance. "It appears you owe me ten galleons."
"Funny," Harry replied. "I don't remember betting you anything."
The giggle Mrs. Zabini released — how she gave Tom's arm a slight squeeze — made Harry want to do something he would severely regret. So he turned his back to them and took in Nothingness. The stained glass window appeared just the same as the first time he'd seen it: black on black on black. The way the light fell upon the sharp shards of arraigned glass gave Harry a strong sense of vertigo, as if he stood on the edge of an abyss. How could he tell if the thing inside had left?
Keeping his voice as light as possible, Harry asked, "Have you noticed anything strange about the Elladora Works since recovering them from the museum? Any damage?"
"None. All thanks to Thomas Thorne," Mrs. Zabini cooed.
To a layman's eye it would be hard to spot, but Harry recognized the rigidity in Tom shoulders, the warning in his gaze: he detested every second of Mrs. Zabini's fawning.
Petty delight swelled inside Harry.
Serve you right, he thought.
"So you haven't noticed anything strange?" Harry pressed.
"Mother and I have been overseas since the Works were returned," Blaise replied. "We only returned last night, in time to receive Mr. Thorne's letter." His dark eyes narrowed. "Why are you asking?"
"Just standard follow up," said Harry, glancing over his shoulder at the collection of heirlooms stacked around them. He felt the tale-tell sensation on the back of his neck that someone was watching, which was strange as they were quite alone. Perhaps the Zabinis had a house elf.
"Well, you've seen them," said Mrs. Zabini. "Blaise will show you out, Potter." She pulled Tom closer, her smile radiant. "Mr. Thorne, I must learn more about you. You are more mystery than man."
The pettiness turned bitter. Harry could not think of any excuse to stay. Nothingness was perfectly normal and he was not about to attempt to stroll into it to make sure whether some magic-draining entity still resided within it. He was sure the Zabinis would hex him before he'd even touched the glass.
"You coming?" he asked Tom.
"Later," said Tom, speaking as if Harry was a child who lingered about adults longer than was wanted.
Fine, thought Harry, grinding his jaw. What did he care if Tom lounged about with Camila Zabini, drinking wine and eating strawberries and god knows what? They could sleep together for all he cared.
He made to follow Blaise back to the stairs when something in the corner of his eye caught his notice. He reacted without thought.
"Stupefy!"
A brilliant red beam shot from his wand, but the creature hardly slowed. It rushed him, knocking a suit of armor out of its way with a clatter. Blaise shouted in shock and Harry barely jumped clear in time as the thing barreled past. It whirled around and Mrs. Zabini screamed.
Harry recognized it at once, though it had looked very different on that day in the Carcerem when he had spotted it crouched half hidden behind the Fat Lady's voluminous pink gown. It was no longer stunted and malnourished. Its skeleton had filled out. It had grown. It towered at eight feet, its long arms nearly reaching the ground. A line of razor-sharp spines protruded from its back. The eyes were still missing — two sunken pits in its horrific face, but Harry felt just as he had in the Carcerem: it could see him. Its gaping, formless mouth expanded, a gasping black hole.
"What the hell is that?" Blaise shouted.
The room was too small for it. Heirlooms crashed to the floor as its hand shot out for Harry.
A blast of electricity had Harry whipping up a shield. Crackling lightning in long, furious ropes shot from Tom's wand, encircling the creature.
With a jerk of his wand, Harry expanded the shield to the rest of the room, protecting the other objects from Tom's spell. Behind him, he saw Blaise grab hold of his mother and hurry her up the stairs. The door at the top of the steps clanged shut.
The creature did not advance. Surrounded by Tom's rings of lightning, it studied them with an almost detached curiosity. It lifted one of its impossibly long fingers and touched one. At once, the crackling white lightning vanished, smoke curling in the air in wisps.
"What —" Tom raised his wand as the creature did the same, pointing its hand at them, each finger like a spear.
"DUCK!" Harry roared, tackling Tom just as a ball of energy shot toward them, booming like a bomb. They crashed into one of the shelves. Harry felt his shield vanish as the hair on the top of his head singed. His ears rang. Bits of wood and pottery showered down around them. The air blazed with heat. Already, a fire spread, latching onto whatever bits of wood and cloth it could.
"Aquamenti!"
Under Harry's spell, the fire subdued. He whirled around, but the creature had vanished.
Why had it gone?
Where had it gone to?
xXx
Artifacts fell around him. An urn broke, covering him in dust, filling his nostrils, stinging his eyes, clouding his mind. He smelled smoke. Distantly, he heard someone shout a spell. It was a very familiar voice, but he couldn't place it. Shakily, he rose to his feet, glass crunching under his shoes. Where was he? It looked as if an explosion had taken place. This was not the cellar in Malfoy Manor.
"Tom, you okay?"
His eyes widened. He took in the black-haired youth before him, scrambling toward him over a toppled wardrobe.
Potter.
Voldemort's lips twisted into a snarl. "Avada —"
Potter froze. His eyes grew huge behind his glasses. He dove behind a statue, the Killing Curse nearly grazing his side.
"Tom!" Potter shouted, furious.
Voldemort felt a rage unlike any other. He whipped up his wand and sent it slashing to the ground. The entire floor shook, the stone work cracking and bucking upward as a shock wave traveled straight toward Potter. But again, he leapt out of the way.
"Expelliarmus!"
"Crucio!"
The spells ricocheted.
How dare Potter call him by that vile name. He would string him up and peel his skin from his bones. He raised his wand, but Potter attacked in a frenzy and though Voldemort blocked them all, he was forced backward. He stepped on something that rolled beneath his foot and he jerked, momentarily losing his balance. For one split second, Potter relaxed his barrage, but a second was all Voldemort needed. With a vicious strike, a glistening rope whipped from his wand, wrapped around Potter's leg and with a cry of surprise, Potter crashed to the ground. Victory pumping through his veins, he aimed for Potter's heart —
"Expelliarmus!" Potter shouted again and Voldemort's wand shot from his hand.
A snarl escaped him, but no mind — no mind — he had the boy. He lunged, grappling for Potter's wand. A stunner missed his face by inches. Sinking his nails into Potter's wrist, he tore his wand free. It clattered across the floor. Voldemort didn't care how Muggle this was — pinning Potter to the ground with legs and wrapping both hands around his throat. What did it matter how he killed the boy as long as it happened? As long as the bane of his existence finally ceased to breathe?
Potter tried to throw him off but Voldemort was too heavy. His fingers clawed at Voldemort's hands.
"Tom — you're under — a — spell," Potter gasped.
"Say that name again," Voldemort snarled, squeezing harder.
Potter's nails scratched deep enough to make blood well, but Voldemort did not slacken his grip.
"Re-remember," Potter wheezed, "when — you — kissed me. Remember — when we — made — love."
With the violence of an electric shock, Tom returned to himself. He jerked backward, releasing Harry, and Harry curled onto his side, clutching his throat, heaving. A great clatter sounded behind them, but Tom could not take his eyes off Harry, too stunned and horrified by what he'd nearly done.
"Harry!"
Granger? Why was Granger here?
She ran down the stairs, Blaise Zabini at her heels, nearly tripping over the destruction of the room.
"Harry — what—"
"We're — okay —" Harry rasped as Granger helped him to his feet. "We were attacked by something, but it's — gone now."
"What in the name of Salazar was that thing?" Zabini demanded.
Harry didn't meet Zabini's eyes. "I — I don't know. But we should quarantine the area."
A new, agonized scream had them all turning, pointing their wands. It was Camila Zabini. She stood partway down the stairs, her hands over her mouth.
"The Elladora Works!" she shrieked. "What have you done?"
Where the seven remaining pieces had stood was a mess of splintered wood and powdered glass.
.
.
A/N: It is wicked of me to delight in y'all's table-flipping rage of the previous chapter, but wicked I am.