Chapter 21

Harry had been called into a 'meeting' with his superiors before it was even five O clock. He also knew perfectly well what it was about, and he'd always thought that knowledge and ability to plan his words would calm him down.

It didn't.

His stomach was churning just as much as it was every time he was called into the Head Offices of the Magical Law Enforcement Department.

He had better bloody things to be doing, like trying to identify which old pureblood line was the one linked with Slytherin.

He sort of suspected the Malfoys, but nobody trusted the creeps really, not completely, and it made no sense for a Malfoy to be Voldemort.

Scrimgeour, Thicknesse and Bones were all sitting waiting for him, with grave faces.

Harry had a really bad feeling in his stomach. His fists clenched at his sides, before his fingers flexed once and went still.

"Please," Madame Bones murmured softly. "Take a seat Mr Potter."

Harry dropped into the chair in front of the desk, eyeing all three of them warily. He refused to be the one to start first, to start scrambling over his words and excuses when he didn't really have any to give.

They exchanged looks with each other.

"Mr Scrimgeour has filled us in on the going ons in your department last night. I'm sorry for your loss," Bones said. Harry offered her a tight smile, inclining his head in acknowledgement of the condolences.

"Of course, unless Lord Voldemort, as he calls himself, has a magical ability to get past our security personally, and turn off the cameras the conditions of their deaths are highly suspect," Thicknesse stated coldly. "Especially as from what we have gathered, he is not in the habit of leaving his chosen victims alive and untouched. And yet….if one considers recent developments, we have people dying in the wrong order."

"I don't think it would be such a stretch to imagine you would go to some lengths to try and protect those you love," Bones said, more sympathetically now. "Scrimgeour mentioned you made a deal - unauthorized by your office or any official personal - with this killer?"

Harry could practically feel Thicknesse's eyes citing regulation at him. He wasn't in any position where he was allowed to make unauthorized deals, especially not with wanted criminals.

He hesitated.

"Yes, I made a deal. No more of the twelve will die."

"Yes and you just killed your remaining family!" Scrimgeour snapped, seemingly losing patience.

"You understand that you should, under the law, be escorted immediately to Azkaban prison? Though your superiors have cited that it would perhaps be better for you to instead refer to the care of Healer Smethwyck. This case has obviously been...trying for you," Bones said calmly.

Harry's eyes flashed hotly, and he could feel a cruel rage boiling in the pit of his belly which frightened him because this time he knew full well it was own. He felt like some great monstrous snake wanted to rear out of him, to strike out because they didn't understand and perhaps didn't even care to.

They pretended to understand what he was going through, but they couldn't possibly know! At the end of the day, they could tuck their paperwork in a draw and go home to their families, with only slightly more concern than anyone else in the world.

That wasn't an option for him. He was never safe. Not in waking, not in dreaming, not alone and not in company. It was always there in the back of his head, the insidious of Voldemort, making him feel like he was something disgusted to be around.

No one should ever have to be so scared of themselves and their own capabilities as he was. He'd placed cameras in his room before, just to check he didn't murder someone in his sleep!

He swallowed bile. Considered holding his silence - couldn't bear the thought of Azkaban, or the Institution. He couldn't say the fate seemed entirely different in his mind.

"I didn't kill them," he said, only lying a little bit. He'd killed his uncle. It felt like poison on his tongue. "It was a trick. I relocated them. Couldn't bear more people dying. I faked the scene."

They studied him closely.
"You faked it?" Bones expression was neutral, giving no clue as to whether she believed him or not. "And why are you only changing your story now?"

"I'm not changing my story. I told Scrimgeour I made a deal, and said nothing when he asked if I killed them." He sent his boss an icy look. "It's not my fault he is so ready to believe that I am the man I'm hunting."

"Where did you relocate them?" Thicknesse questioned.

"I won't be sharing that information. Given previous incidents on the Voldemort case, and his knowledge base, it is better to keep my secrets to myself. The only reason I'm even telling you this is because you'd have me condemned for murder if I didn't," he spat. "Unless you wish to broaden the chances of eight people getting horribly murdered? Including yourself?" he added, looking at Scrimgeour.

The man stared back at him, lips thin, before dropping his gaze.

There was a silent as they seemed to confer with each other, before Thicknesse leaned forward.

Tom Riddle wasn't in the habit of being concerned; he either didn't care, or everything was going flawlessly to his plans, or would without much hassle and alteration.

But Harry hadn't turned up to his therapy session.
Of course, the stupid boy was probably working late and had forgotten again - and the only thing that made him feel less like stabbing Harry for being rude enough to forget about him, was the knowledge that he was his own competition for Harry's time and attention.

Harry worked late for being immersed in Voldemort, so really he should be flattered.
Still, as thrilling and satisfying as being in the centre of Harry's thoughts was, he would have much rather have the boy close now that he'd got a taste for more personal interactions between them.

Before he became Potter's psychiatrist, he would have been fine just watching on the sidelines, twitching strings and knowing the other was desperately struggling with himself, and trying to find him.

Now, however, when he knew what he could had...well, they always said with addiction's that once an appetite for something was whetted, life shifted around it.

He hadn't realized the extent of what he was missing for.
He'd been happy to watch Harry squirm his way through the puzzles he gave him, wrapping him up in a cocoon of his own terror, doubt and wicked delights.

In some way, Harry was still strung up in that cocoon now, whether he was aware of it or not, groping in the dark for a way out.

The difference was that he wanted to see the details form more closely now, to trace his fingers over every quivering muscles and breathe in the scents of Harry's confusion and desperate need for something to hold onto.

He wanted to see what sort of butterfly Harry turned out to be on his own, to watch as he flew - knowing that he himself had created something so perfect. On the other hand, butterflies were delicate things, and rarely saw their own beauty and wings until someone had shredded them off again, and Tom couldn't bear to see Harry bloom only to wither before he could relish the sight.

In some way, it would be better to just grab hold of him, cradle him in his own hands to ensure no harm came to him, and pin him down to the corkboard to appreciate him forever. To keep him forever.

The thing about wings, was the possibility of flying away.
Harry was flighty enough already.

Harry was just working late, wasn't he? Tom hated to think their last session had caused Harry to bolt away from him skittishly. It was nothing to be ashamed of. He'd looked lovely.

Shame he couldn't tell him that, so explicitly

Still, his eyes narrowed and his fingers twitched in agitation where he was once again drawing to pass the time. That, and in an effort to be in a more professional state of mind by the time Harry returned, and not so distracted by memories of Harry's writhing form tied up in ropes as he struggled to manage the pleasure spell, and the trauma screaming through his head.

Lips pulled apart by the gag, leaving it in a state of permanent dryness which had him swallowing every minute or so. How Tom had wanted to reach out and run his fingers along the smooth, exposed line of Harry's throat, to press his lips against his pulse and devour his life just as much as he could make a masterpiece out of death.

He would have loved to do it the unprofessional way.
He'd work on getting Harry that way once he'd accepted Voldemort. Or before, if it came up, but more so after.

And to punish Harry for keeping him waiting this long, for that matter. It was rude. Tom did actually have high demands for his time and efforts, and the boy should be more appreciative of how lucky he was.

He was wrenching the door open when he nearly walked into the patient in question.

And...Smethwyck.

He could admit he hadn't had very many dealings with the head of the London Wizarding Hospital for the Criminally insane. He was a watery looking man, with a smarmy, simperingly pleasant sort of face and a weak jaw.

One look at the expression on Harry's face told him far too much, but the other healer was beaming at him with a glint in his pale eyes, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Healer Riddle, isn't it? We met at a Mind Arts and healing function in Cambridge?" the man offered.

He shook firmly, expression immediately under control, giving a terse smile.
"I prefer Doctor Riddle, not healer. But yes, I believe so. To what do I owe the...pleasure?"
He gave Harry a slightly questioning flick of his eyes, and his client scowled, crossing his arms. He looked like an unruly child more than anything.

"Scrimgeour has decided that apparently I'm crazy enough for two psychiatrists, and that seeing as I identified you as fitting the criteria as a suspect you two should tag team me on the couch."

Harry's voice was too light, and Tom savoured the rather noticeable edge of danger behind it. Unruly child aside, that was the Auror coming through.

Harry had pulled himself together some, at least externally, since he last saw him. Though he was still avoiding eyes.

Tom felt a surge of possessiveness immediately explode in his chest, and it was only years of masks that had his face remaining blank and his posture composed. He noticed Harry's eyes flicker to him, confused, and could have swore. He immediately clamped down on the emotion, lest he was projecting it, settling a hand on Harry's back to guide him into the house.

"A wise precaution, though unnecessary. Why, if I was Voldemort, I highly doubt I could satiate myself on a couple of hours of sessions a week alone. I would never have let him go," he gave a small chuckle, before turning business like. "Of course, I will require you to sign a confidentiality agreement."

"Do you have your patients gagged too?" Smethwyck returned, clearly trying to sound clever. "You make it sound like you have something to hide."

He would have been irritated by the response, except Harry's eyes widened comically and he flushed a rather pleasing red that Tom had never seen on his face before.

He gave Smethwyck a smile.

"A magician never reveals his tricks, and I'm afraid my methods would do little good for those not trained in them. That, and as you are not, I believe, yet in any binding contract with my client, it would work as some insurance to his confidentiality too, however one would wish to abstract information outside of a session."

Smethwyck's expression soured at the realisation he might not be able to get anything out of this. Tom felt a vindictive satisfaction grow in him once more.

Whilst he'd never really had much interaction with the man, the healer's obsession with documenting the minds around the Voldemort case was hardly unknown. He was sure, if the fool knew who he was in a room with, he would have been taking notes.

He gave his 'colleague' another pleasant smile, and let his hand drop as Harry stepped away from him.

Everything about the boy's posture was screaming hostility now, at this situation. He was reminded, again, of Harry's initial dislike for psychiatrists and mind healers.

He wanted Harry back for his own again. He disliked sharing.
This situation would need going over, so he could get the exact details of what had happened.

"Please, come through to the office…"

A/N: Not the most interesting of chapters, but maybe it will reassure you that we're getting to the good stuff ;)

I was going to dedicate this chapter to Guest710/Little-Frog for her beautiful fan art ( : / / little- -frog. devi ant art art/ Beautiful-Crime-Scene-39628806) but this chapter didn't seem worthy of that. Still, check it out! :D You shall hence get a dedication on a more...fitting chapter.

Thank you for the reviews guys! Harry's getting close now isn't he? *wicked grin*