There were numerous forms of psychological correction that he could turn to. Most of them, at one point in time, Smethwyck would never have even considered attempting. Some were hardly ethical.
But Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, seemed a monster beyond cure.
Two years, and he'd shown no signs of improvement. No signs of connection, even when by all standards he would latch onto his healer – of course he should, when he had few other points of contact with the world.
Anyone would.
Anyone was not, apparently, Riddle.
He'd had the man under his evaluation since day one of his incarceration, and even now there was only one thing he could be absolutely certain of.
Tom Riddle was obsessed with Harry Potter.
He couldn't help but wonder if either of them, Riddle or Potter, were fully aware of towhat extent this fascination ran, or the length or depth of consequence that would come out of it.
He'd confiscated enough of Voldemort's art to know of its predominant contents – sometimes scenery; Hogwarts castle, his old office or various landmarks or people.
Sometimes he sketched out his crime scenes again in vivid detail, presumably as a form of reliving them.
But mostly it was Harry.
Sometimes the Boy Who Lived was smiling, other times frowning or lost in thought. Various ages across the sketches. Free and sprawled lazily, asleep, tied up – stabbed. Sometimes it seemed there was every possible combination. Every fantasy, however twisted or lewd.
Maybe that was Riddle reliving his crimes again too. His ultimate crime, and the crime scene he had made of the younger man's body.
He didn't think Potter knew of the exact nature of the sketches, and he wasn't so cruel a man to show them all to him, even though he'd referenced them to the boy before.
When he first took Riddle on as a patient, he assumed the obsession stemmed out of loose strings. Potter was simply 'the one who got away' – twice now in fact.
"Harry hasn't gotten away. He never will, and he knows that."
Nowadays he was not quite so certain.
He made sure Riddle was well and truly secured before approaching.
Harry Potter rested withdeceptive peace next to him.
Potter was half-tangled up in fine, Egyptian cotton sheets, perfectly still except for the rise and fall of his chest. Tom lay curled next to him, mapping tanned skin with his fingers.
He considered the pulse that thudded beneath his lips as he moved them over the man's throat, the woodsy smell of him that seemed so clean and pure in comparison to the shadow in Potter's eyes.
He stroked over the puckered scar snaking across the lower half of Potter's belly, feeling the edges of it shattering the smoothness of soft flesh.
"Admiring your counterpart's handiwork?" Potter murmured.
Tom considered Potter's chapped lips, still reddened and slightly swollen from the force of their kisses. Potter's eyes were still closed, insultingly unbothered by his lingering close proximity and examination.
His hands paused.
"For someone who claims to make the ugly beautiful, I believe he made a mistake with you," he replied. "You're exquisite enough without a brand."
He hated it. It made him want to dig his nails in and claw, shatter possible perfection into something more worthy of the wretched filth of the world.
Potter snorted, and this time green eyes opened and fixed on him – considering him in turn.
He immediately dipped forward to claim the man's lips again, only for fingers to wind painfully tight into his hair.
"And yet, both of you would die to brand me as your own," came themocking response against his mouth. He bit down hard, but that only prompted further laughter.
"You already live to be branded by us," he said coldly. "Horcrux. Frankly, you're more me than I am."
That made Potter shut up, and he grinned victoriously in response.
"Clearly I understand you better at least," Potter muttered, after a moment. "I know better than to think your plan of entrapment will work."
It was obvious that he couldn't kill his serial killer counterpart, however much he desperately wanted to sometimes. He could imagine Voldemort felt the same way about Potter – want and violence twining to paradoxes of action. Desires for murder balanced by the foolishness of it.
It was, of course, perfectly possible to kill part of your own soul; but in the grand scheme of things, it was a final solution not to be taken lightly.
So he intended to trap his counterpart instead, lock him away in an eternity of tedious, unfeeling darkness – just like he had been tucked away suffering since his conception.
His prison still hung heavy and golden around his neck, as Potter studied it.
"And yet, here you are," he stated.
Harry gave him an entirely-too-innocent smile.
"You're not the only one who wants to see him suffer."
If he believed in and was capable of such things, he may have been in love.
"What if I could give you the name of the man behind this?" Riddle murmured. Smethwyck paused, studying the killer strapped down and once more straight-jacketed for their session.
"I would imagine you had some type of scheme in mind, especially in the light of Miss Granger's visit," he replied. Whatever the man's low opinion of him, he wasn't so obtuse as to trust his most dangerous inmate. "Generosity is not in your nature."
"Generosity is indicative of power, as is the right and opportunity of granting mercy. Power is always in my nature, Healer."
"And yet you are powerless to save Harry Potter from whatever fate has befallen him." He watched closely for his reaction, for any reaction, any sign.
He'd come to the conclusion that Potter was the path to getting at Voldemort, to understanding him or defeating him. It was such a pity that the boy had been so resistant to the greater psychiatric good.
There was a flicker of something in Voldemort's cold, almost reptilian gaze.
"And you are powerless to read me without using him as your measurement, so one would assume it is in your best interest to see him saved," the killer returned.
His eyes narrowed. The pleasant smile on Voldemort's face only broadened, charming by all accounts in a way that jarred with the true horror of his capabilities.
"Who is behind this?"
"It is not in my nature to be so generous as to offer information freely." The statement was withering in the light of his own comments, and his jaw clenched.
"And your demand is…?"
"I give you all you need to catch him and write your book. You give me a room with a view, and negotiate a way for me to receive all the information the Aurors possess on the disappearance of Harry Potter."
It was only a matter of time, Tom was sure of it.
Whilst his counterpart seemed more patient than he and the years could attest to that, in circumstances such as these the current state of the situation would not last much longer.
But, perhaps, a final push...
Both of them had been caged, and neither of them wanted to live like that again.
Harry Potter was the prize of whoever emerged victorious in freedom. Bait, trophy, and maybe something else that required more careful monitoring.
He didn't trust Potter certainly, however innocent a picture he presented curled up with his eyes closed. However much of an agreement they had found in the stasis of the last two weeks.
Potter was curious, perhaps, and had gained a strange resolve once he discovered the true connection between their souls.
Tom just wasn't yet certain what the resolve was for, or what it meant.
All he knew was that he had no intention of losing.
His shoes clipped down the floor of the psychiatric hospital, his disguise meticulously in place – a barrier of journalistic files and notepads clutched carefully in his hands.
There had been an influx of journalists into the hospital again, though his counterpart had been resistant to their attentions before. But it would do for this.
He had enough of his growing network to amount some influence on his surroundings, when necessary. Even after the fiasco at the grocery store.
"I'd say I'm a fan of your work," he said, coming to a halt before the glass. "But we both know that would be a gross misrepresentation of a truth already twisted."
His counterpart's head snapped up immediately. Tom smiled, slowly. Voldemort's gaze moved over him, and over the surroundings.
"I was wondering when you would pay me a visit," his counterpart replied, rising and stepping close to the glass. "I'm sure this is very satisfying for you."
"I can't decide if it's satisfying or embarrassing," he said, stepping close too, drinking in familiar-yet-unfamiliar features. "It's the pitiful possibility of a future, certainly."
"Where's Harry?"
"Maybe he's dead, maybe he's dying, maybe he's tied to my bed or maybe he's having a lovely holiday in the Caribbean. I'll leave it to your imagination. Where do you think he is?"
His smile broadened. His counterpart's gaze slid even colder than before.
"If this was two years ago, I would tell you that if you so much as touched him that I would make living without body and senses seem like a sweet blessing in comparison to the tortures that await you at my hand." The tone was soft, quiet.
"And now? You'll cower in a glass rat cage?" Tom laughed.
"Now I know enough to know that I don't need to make such threats or come for you, when you made the mistake of targeting the one man equal to us." The smile his counterpart gave made his own vanish, and pale fingers spread pressed flat on the glass between them. "You think you control him, and that he is a trophy you acquire as a matter of fact. Some inert, pretty little pet that is the rightful total of your desires…I did too."
"Potter does not have the strength to go against me. He is all bluffs and punches and brawn. His mind is broken." His fists began to clench at his sides, rage swelling in his chest as his counterpart continued to watch him clinically – with none of the desperate fury that he had expected.
"You intend to use him as bait without realizing that he may already have hooked you."
"I'm not you. I have not fallen into a sentimental old age where I let feelings get in my way. If I have to-"
"-I won't deny you. I'll hunt you down, indulge your challenge and game and see you made into something better than you are now," Voldemort persisted. "I promised Harry I would come for him, it's a matter of principle and if you're in my way when I do then on your own childish head be it-"
"-Oh, he's waiting for you to save him, that explains a-"
Voldemort cut over him again, dismissively.
"So did you merely come here to gloat, or did you have something more important to say?"
"I grow tired of waiting for you. Your kills bore me. I have bigger plans. Break out and finish this, if you can. Or you'll never see him again."
"How does Friday, seven O clock sound? We can have dinner."
This time, their smiles were identical.
It was Wednesday when the hospital alarm bells began to shriek.
A/N: Terrible cliffhanger, I know, considering how long I kept you waiting but I had a horrible writer's block but oh my god did you see the Hannibal finale? :O And don't worry, everything will become clear in the end...and things are obviously going to be full speed ahead from now on till the end up part 2 :)