Disclaimer: Property is theft.

A/N: A new chapter, yay. It took me ages to manage to construct this chapter. We are getting closer to the end of the holidays and thus the return of our heroes to Hogwarts. But for now, let us enjoy Tom's birthday. Sorry for the huge delay, but I had this paper on the normativity of Hittite Law and…

To virtuouslioness About the sexual dynamics between Tom and Harry, I think that being the "bottom" does not make one submissive. Quite the contrary in a few cases… ;)

To PARAD0X: I enjoyed immensely your absurdly huge reviews, and thank you for them. I have only a few things to say. Having grown up in Western Europe, I am used to people becoming sexually active at around 15. This is what I consider the norm, because it –is- the norm where I come from. Furthermore, I do see Riddle as a bit of an adult trapped in a child's body, despite his emotional immaturity. I mean, would it make sense for him to be capable of murder and world domination, but not… lust? I am still not sure when I will introduce the first sexual elements, perhaps around his 16th birthday; I can just promise I will be careful with them.

To Emriel: Indeed the Slytherin house's balance will be greatly upset by Tom's slow change. Interesting things shall happen after the holidays.

To tannne: I have come up with 35 new names for Dumbledore..? Jesus, I must really not have a life. Hehe.

To Tonia: I am half-Greek myself, and "katablepw" is not an imaginary verb. It is not used in modern Greek I'll admit, but it is actually not an uncommon verb in Ancient Greek, used for example by Plutarch and also in the original Greek version of the Bible. The monster "Catoblepas" has its etymological roots there.

To all those who encouraged me to write: I love you.

Chapter 36

Dumbledore's PoV

On the other side of the double bed, Gellert is smoking his pipe gracefully and reading some fungus-infested grimoire. He looks very satisfied, I note, his lips curved upwards a little and his eyes clear. I am exceedingly fond of this adorable post-coital expression he is wearing, to be honest; and so I poke him on the ribs and offer him a large, radiant smile. He lifts his eyes away from the ancient tome and he gives me that evil, crooked smirk of his; the one that reminds me of the Cheshire cat. The heavy, mouldy book is put aside, and his hand starts slithering around my waist.

"Have I mentioned how glad I am that you decided to abandon your genocidal ambitions and join me here, kind sir?" I squeak at him, and I trail my finger down his perfect nose tenderly. He lifts an eyebrow, amused. Subsequently, I chortle in a gentlemanly way, and Fawkes makes an oddly frustrated noise.

"Ach. Vhatever vill I do now zat you'll have to go back to Hogvards? I vill bore myself to death vaiting for you in here," he mutters and he then leans in, causing our lips to meet in a well-calculated manner. He has the uncanny ability to make me feel as if I am a teenager once more, despite the fact I am now a deeply respected and influential member of the wizarding society.

Indeed he still emits the same warm and intoxicating radiance as he did when young, and yet I cannot bring myself to stop thinking about things other than him. My mind is still very much preoccupied with young Harry and his dark little protégé. Of course Gellert, who is no fool, notices my rather vacant expression, and does not refrain from commenting.

"Something seems to be on your mind, Albus. Vhat could is be?" he asks with a a low, growling purr that reminds me a little of these manticore cubs I had come across a few years back. In Libya, I think.

"Would you happen to be in any way related to manticores?" I question him as a reply, unable and unwilling to hold back my curiosity. I point my finger at him too, although it is not a gesture I decide on consciously; it's rather a mannerism years of teaching have forced upon me.

"Albus, I am sure zat was not vhat you vhere thinking about. But for zhe record, zhe only magical creatures I hold any relation to is zhe Germanic vood Elf. And it's a very distant relation," he states, accompanying his response with a vague hand gesture of nonchalant dismissal, and then narrowing his eyes a little, still waiting for my reply.

"I was actually deliberating on the odd dynamics that can develop between well-intentioned war-heroes with vast armories of childhood trauma and their young and outrageously charming sociopathic nemesis'," I kindly inform him, offering him a gentle smile as I straighten my thin wire glasses.

"You mean you vere vorrying about zese two puppies you picked up, ya?" he translates my well-mannered answer into something a little less elegant. I nonetheless nod, accepting the content-wise accuracy of his transliteration, causing him to shift his face a little, amused. I do not actually understand what he seems to be finding so amusing. I've taken a liking to both young wizards, and would be most distressed for them to end up bringing pain to not only one another, but also the rest of the world. And I do not find that pessimistic scenario to be that improbable, seeing as they are both so deeply damaged.

Furthermore, if young Tom was to fall out of the path Harry is trying to offer him, I fear he might become, now that he has already learned so much from the time-traveller, something much worse than Harry's familiar Voldemort. A corrupted wizard with a vast knowledge of both Light and Dark spellcraft and wizardry can be a foe much deadlier than any Dark Lord gone insane, and I fear that after what has transpired between Harry and the boy, young Potter might be unable to be the one to bring such a terrible tyrant down.

It takes inhuman amounts of willpower to kill someone you love.

"I am not mocking you, Albus. Believe me, I too can sense how much is at stake here. Zhat little child… It is razer frightening how much pover he already holds. Zhe most impressive levels of magical pover I have ever come across, actually. But I doubt zhere is much ve can do about zhis. It rests upon zhat time-traveler, ya? And he is more zhan competent, zhat one," he adds in a somewhat light manner, but I can see that he does understand why I'd be as concerned as I am; perhaps he is even a little concerned himself.

"Gellert, it is not always as simply as a matter of competence. Harry Potter is both an excellent wizard and an excellent person, but he is not without scars. Emotions can get out of hand quite easily between people that have both known so much pain. We should know that from experience," I mumble pensively, and I do feel much older than before, my mind filling with stern and serious thoughts. I conjure myself some biscuits, which I consume as I ponder. Soon enough, the trail of my thoughts is slightly tampered with when I feel Gellert's slim but lined arm slide around my back.

"I know Albus, I know. But zhat Potter seems villing to love everyone, and I am most certain he loves zhe boy already. Veren't you zhe one who alvays said zhat zhis is zhe most important thing of all? Zhat is is enough?" my partner says, and although is meant to be a reassuring comment, as I gather, I do not feel as thoroughly reassured as I should.

"Was it enough for us? We did love one another; that much I now know. And yet look what became of us… Had the time-traveler not told me of the manner of your future death…" I begin, and my beautiful Phoenix, sensing my troubled state, flies to my shoulder.

"Perhaps it is time I shed my naïve, green views on the power of human emotions. Much can go wrong with them," I then discover myself muttering in a tone rather grave, if not pained. "The future that young man showed me was very bleak, Gellert. There are no words to describe the consequences that the mistakes of my naivety brought upon the world. Instead of training Potter to fight a war, I trained him to cultivate his love and devotion, and in the hours when it most mattered, the education I gave him betrayed him," I conclude, and then I swiftly swallow a last bit of biscuit, grimly.

"I disagree, Albus. I think zhat maybe history vorks in non-linear vays none of us can really understand. I'll let you know something… I think zhat everything zhat is unfolding right now is part of an elaborate plan. A plan zhat I suspect to be yours, for after all, you are zhe only one to match zhat Riddle boy in strategic thinking, ya? Zhe one to have sent Harry back in such an odd manner, by re-inserting him into a timeline anew, instead of simply moving him back and keeping his existence dependant on zhe event of his birth must have been you, I believe. It vas a vision of you he saw before zhe incident, vas it not? I think zhat in zhe future wisdom of your hundred and vhatever years, you knew exactly vhat you vere doing, and vere planning for zhis to happen all along, training Potter in all zhe right ways," he whispers in an oddly naughty, conspiratory manner, his eyes gleaming eerily.

At first, I find his suggestion slightly absurd; even though I do appreciate myself quite a lot, I doubt I could have developed such a vast, intricate, far-seeing plan, whose gears I'd manage to set to move post-mortem. Nonetheless, remembering the powerful, all-knowing, twinkling eyes of Harry's future Dumbledore, I start finding Gellert's suspicion to be rather well-founded. And frightening. And also flattering, in a quaint manner.

"The notion that all this series of surreal events might be part of a gigantic game of chess my future mastermind self, beyond death and beyond time, is playing against the wheels of Fate itself is… Well, disconcerting," I observe, quickly conjuring a cup of warm, spiced tea, to help myself remain calm. The cup appears from the kitchen below, adorned with sky-blue unicorns. Its sight is reassuring.

"Does zhat fact make it any less probable? Do you think zhat a you with twice as much experience would be incapable of zhat? It is, after all, your kind of style, all zhat asinine and criminally complex intellectual shenanigan, ya?" Gellert asks me sweetly, a large, tender smirk spreading across his handsome face.

"Well, I do indeed suppose it is the kind of machination a me that's become rather good at being me could very possibly come up with… On a second thought, wouldn't that imply that I am also manipulating my own self?" I wonder cheerily, suddenly feeling oddly amused at that concept.

"Probably. I don't think zhat vould be beneath you," Gellert suggests, cunningly stealing a sip from my tea. I deliberate on that suggestion for a few moments, petting Fawkes.

"That's a bizarrely splendid thought, though, is it not?" I eventually conclude, munching an additional cookie with my confidence and optimism restored. Ah, Gellert. He does have this lovely way of getting my spirits up, does he not?

Riddle's PoV

As a ray of cold winter light flutters onto my face, I awake somewhat abruptly, and oddly enough already conscious of the fact that today is the 31st of December, and therefore the date of my birthday. Rather displeased by that fact, since I do not appreciate how the culture of birthdays seems to suggest that maturing biologically is a process that consists of clearly defined annual steps, instead of taking the form of a gradual, smooth evolution, I step out of my warm bed and immediately come face to face with the handsome features of a certain Potter.

"Congratulations! It's your birthday," he exclaims in a tone that might have been enthusiastic, had the war wizard not been such a lazy, slow, perhaps even lackadaisical creature when it comes to early mornings. It is rather odd, I note to myself, that he seems completely unable to take anything quite seriously enough before 10am, seeing as he is by no means nonchalant or blasé by nature.

"I never quite understood why people get congratulated on the date of their birthday. This silly verbal tradition actually implies that the fact someone's birthday date has come is in some way a spectacular achievement on their part. Isn't that inane?" I wave his warm greeting off with a rather apathetic tone, realising that I am in a rather foul mood, something that of course he does not fail to notice himself. The time-traveller stares at me, his masculine eyebrows raised in slight entertainment and his eyes radiant, and then he shoots an inappropriately wide smile at me.

"Is there a reason you are so irritable today, Riddle?" he inquires while I transfigure my sleeping apparel into an elegant set of casual clothing; despite his slightly teasing tone, he appears to be genuinely concerned about the source of my ill temper, and I do wish I could help him with it. Only of course I am not sure I can, since I am not fully aware of the reason behind my cantankerous predisposition myself; my dreams were not any worse than they generally tend to be, nor was I deprived of my sleep due to some irritating nightly incident.

"Not one I know of. I suppose it has to do with the fact my birthday subconsciously causes me to think back to my biological origins, which is not a pleasant trail of thought in my case. Instead of this whole susurrus of associations leading my consciousness down the paths of my own odious roots, I'd much prefer for my mind to be able to just languorously enjoy its lassitude, you know. It is rather early, too. But no; since it is my birthday, my grey matter somehow feels obligated to involve itself in some kind of obscure existential process involving the concepts of Life, Death, Time, Age and Existence," I mutter grimly, and it occurs to me that I actually did manage to pinpoint the reason behind my seemingly unreasonable irritation rather effectively.

"When you are in a bad mood your sentences come out like long strings of presumptuous prose. Have you noticed?" He suddenly asks me, his voice strangely tender, and I guess he must be finding this quirk of mine rather endearing, judging from the warmth radiating through his death-coloured eyes.

"Yes. I am not sure why that happens, actually. It is not as if I consciously decide to use extravagant, florid, purple prose as a tool of communication when I become annoyed. It just comes out that way," I respond offhandedly, but although I was meaning to still sound slightly irate, the green man's amusing comment did apparently manage to change my mood for the better; and seeing as his grin has just turned a little more smug, he must be noticing that as well.

"Well. Breakfast then, birthday boy?" he offers brightly, and in spite of the fact I generally dislike expressions of unnecessary and misplaced joy, the combined facts that I am beginning to genuinely care about him and that merriness makes him appear even more attractive than he generally is, I gladly follow him to the kitchen.

I immediately become a little less glad as a widely grinning, loquacious Juggledore showers me with birthday wishes so silly that I feel compelled to cringe, while offering me at least half a dozen of different sweets simultaneously. I do try not to appear too irritable though, for even this quite unpleasant behaviour from the meddlesome coot's part is a sign of progress compared to his previous mistrust and suspicion; and I can't say that earning a very powerful light wizard's liking is not to my best interests, not can I say that he is not, at times, rather likeable, in own, twisted, exuberant manner.

A few hours go by in a rather pleasing way, with Harry Potter conversing loudly and fondly with the bearded transigurations' prodigy, the former Dark Lord reading quietly his fungus-infested grimoire while occasionally sweeping a few slices of cake, and my glorious self torn between following the interesting albeit inane conversation, or peeping over the German wizard's broad shoulder in an attempt to absorb some obscure knowledge from his ominous tome.

Eventually though, this fallacious sense of perfect normality begins to disturb me, seeing as there is nothing particularly natural about any of us, let alone the four of us as a group, and so, running my long, pale fingers through my hair, I recklessly decide to break this annoying façade.

"Professor Dumbledore, was forgiving Lord Grindelwald easy for you? I find it surprising that no discordance seems to occur between you, since your moral values seem to stand on completely different grounds. One would think you would… find it difficult to reconcile with the fact that Lord Grindelwald has such an appalling amount of blood on his hands, really…" I inquire, purposefully using my most neutral, casual, grey tone, and holding back the curves of an amused smirk from appearing on my delicate, still face.

Subsequently, I watch as the green man turns his head towards me abruptly, an expression of shock and disapproval appearing on his visage; and I watch as Dumbledore drops a small, overly decorated teaspoon producing a small, clinging noise, and as his foreign guest lifts his eyes from the book, their colour darkening a little with both interest and the sense of challenge.

For a small fraction of time, perhaps even less than a mere nanosecond, I experience a pang of guilt for having so skilfully disturbed a previously peaceful and homely moment; yet the satisfaction acquired from observing the growing, chaotic effects of such a concise and simple comment is far greater, and I am unable to regret my rather rash action.

Silence hovers rather uncomfortably above the large, wooden table before Albus Pebblepore, a weary sigh escaping between his pressed lips and his glasses sliding down his thin but elongated nose, decides to formulate an adequate reply. Surprisingly, he no longer appears to be in any way angry or irate, despite his initial surprise at my strategically tactless and bold suggestion; instead, the middle-aged wizard's washed-out blue eyes seem oddly tender and poignant, causing me to feel mildly uneasy.

"Dear boy… I am an aging man, and I have decided to longer deny myself happiness. It is as simple as that. And yet, I find your question very intriguing. I am certain you were just trying to spice up the atmosphere, to make things a little more interesting. I doubt there was a long thinking process behind your inquiry. So isn't it interesting that the first crucial question that came to your mind was one about the possibility of love between people who stand on entirely different moral grounds? Does that not show the sort of matters that are troubling your subconscious?" the auburn-haired coot states with a voice sickeningly gentle and soft, a kind, concerned but also dominating expression taking form on his somewhat wrinkled face.

Touché.

And then silence.

My body slowly goes numb, as his sharp but gentle, kind-hearted but deadly comment sinks in, and I find myself enraged but trapped, unable to respond to an analysis that even to me seems terribly plausible; and suddenly I feel ridiculous and exposed, unmasked. But I am Tom Riddle, the young genius, the eloquent, sly Slytherin, and thus do not allow myself to be defeated like that, do not allow anyone to dare try to unravel my soul; and so without daring to turn around and see what sort of expression Harry Potter might be sporting, I get up elegantly and calmly and throw my icy, empty eyes on the smiling professor.

"Professor Dumbledore, I find yours to be a most interesting theory. Perhaps you have been reading some Freud lately? No matter, I do find it somewhat risqué to assume things on the feelings of people about which you know less than you believe yourself to," I phrase with a serene, clear and graceful voice, my hands both spread on the large table and I stand on the opposite side of the now pensive transfigurations' master, who nonetheless appears to still by smiling a little. The sensation of a cold, cruel fire spreading inside my chest, an unknown, dark passion, reinvigorates and awakens me, and I feel the shadowy, sharp aura of my magic flare up around me in a silent, gradual manner.

Do not presume to know me, fool.

The phoenix-owner's facial features show him to be a little taken aback, and perhaps concerned by the rather menacing reaction of my magical signature; his blond companion on the other hand is smirking most softly behind his ominous grimoire, his stormy eyes sparkling with morbid interest.

It is then that a strong arm slides around my lithe body and pulls me in with a gentle sort of violence, and I feel Potter's broad and powerful body standing behind mine, his head leaning down on my shoulder as he releases a warm, amicable whisper into my ear.

"There's no need for hostility, Tom. Albus was merely defending himself against your rather crude verbal harassment. Let us enjoy your birthday, no?" his low, virile voice states in a way both commanding and soothing; and so my magic reacts to the green man's words, retreating and smoothing out as we both sit back down. His toned arm lingers around my body though, agitating me and calming me at the same time, causing the meddlesome professor's words to echo once more within my troubled mind.

The possibility of love between people who stand on entirely different moral grounds…

What a ridiculous suggestion, I conclude to myself furiously; how could this concept be roaming around the dark lanes of my subconscious when I do not even understand what love is, or why people deem this silly, foolish, abstract value to be so pivotal, so crucial for their petty lives. These matters are of no interest to me, I order myself sternly, for the emotions I hold for the time-traveller are neither abstract not foolish; they are simply the natural manifestation of an intellectual and physical attraction, something controllable and comprehendible.

"Vould anyone like to play some vizarding chess vith me?" Gellert Grindelwald suddenly asks, his tone light and careless, breaking the somewhat heavy, thick silence with his mischievous, nonchalant personality and conjuring a large magical chessboard. Wordlessly and with a small movement of the eyes, I volunteer myself to serve as his adversary, and I glide softly across the room to occupy the chair best suited for the purpose of conducting a chess game against the retired dictator.

The sensation of Potter's arm lingers on as I move around my black queen.

Somehow it reminds me of the sensation of a harness, restraining but in an odd manner, also liberating; and I yearn for him to pull me against his powerful being once more, to take my darkness under his gentle control and make me surrender to him.

Nevertheless, I also desire for him to be engulfed inside my sickness, for him to give in to my domineering seduction, to my malevolent wiles, for him to become mine and mine alone; forever bound to me within the constraints of my delicious decadence.

I guess both parts of my frighteningly spit personality desire this young, alluringly powerful wizard in vastly different ways; and I guess the fact my mind is consumed by these conflicting and growing needs is perhaps not to my advantage, since I am meant to be trying to defeat a former Dark Lord in wizarding chess. Unwilling to carry on with this infuriating parody of a game, during which I can barely spare a ridiculously small portion of my mental capacity to planning my moves, I lift my hand slowly and consequently, with a swift movement filled with finality, I flip my king in frustrated resignation and quit my seat.

Gellert Grindelwald's expression remains perfectly stoic, a brilliant blond curl decorating his softly smirking visage as he rapidly expunges the conjured board, and it is only his dark azure eyes that follow me with interest as I walk off towards the time-traveller.

"Would you like to go for a walk with me?" I make my terse demand rather gracelessly, interrupting the gentle conversation between Harry Potter and Goggle-gore in an admittedly gauche manner and causing both wizards to offer me rather curious expressions.

"Of course," the handsome green-eyed man replies after only a mere second of silence, rather impressed by my straightforward, guileless request, and he most generously gives me on of these radiant, cordial smiles before we make our way towards the door.

For a while, we walk in silent, for I am not exactly certain of what my intentions are meant to be, and am unsure of how to handle my overwhelming desires; and he does not talk either, presumable awaiting for me to make my reasons known, to take the lead and confess the rationale behind my sudden request for isolation. Small, light flakes of snow are falling around us, dancing gracefully to the unknown melodies of the cold, winter wind, and from far, far away, the soothing sounds of tintinnabulation reach our ears.

For no particular reason formed by a logical thought process, I suddenly feel compelled to halt, and thus I simply stand there, in the delicate, creeping cold of this dull winter day, my eyes unable to leave the green man's beautiful form. He stops as well, sensing that I am about to disclose something perhaps, and he faces me with an open, ready face while the terpsichorean snowflakes, gossamer and sheer, whirl between our steady gazes; and so I decide to speak without even knowing what I want to say, as if possessed by a power unknown to me.

"Is it not natural for someone to want something for their birthday?" I mutter as I take an audacious step forward, my eyes taking in hungrily the miracle of his face, so primitively masculine but so suave, so bold but so urbane, so hard but so soft; the face of the quintessential, the archetypal warrior.

"It is, I guess. I would have gotten you something, but I already did for Christmas so..." he responds somewhat uncertainly, and somehow he seems malleable at this moment, vulnerable and curious and confused; but behind this softness I can see the tenebrous and enigmatic smile on his face, I can discern that part of him that wants me, that is pulling me in voraciously. My mind becomes a haze of lust and inner conflict, all rational ability obliterated by the sweet ambivalence of Potter's chatoyant, Avada Kedavra eyes, and without firm control over my body, I discover my hand to be hovering between our bodies, as if independent.

Well, I'll just have to take what I want, then.

And it is then that I grab him most forcefully, pulling him in towards me despite the important difference in our sizes, and I lift up to meet his soft, weathered lips with an impudent boldness I never knew I possessed, with a stern demandingness that I have long been trying to suppress.

A kiss occurs.

For a split second, he seems irresolute, indecisive; he passively allows his kiss to be so audaciously stolen by me amidst the falling snow, and, with my heart thumping violently inside my chest, I wait for him to find the strength to push me back and reject me. For I already know he will.

Only he doesn't.

Instead, I feel both his strong, toned arms reach out for me and grab my shirt in a manner shockingly brutal, pulling me in with surprising force, with ravenous hunger and consuming me whole, devouring me, with his lips pushing against me almost cruelly, and his whole body tensing in a manner almost warlike. His completely unexpected reaction, the intoxicating beauty of his crackling magic, the commanding sensation of his physical strength all find me unprepared, and I feel myself shivering against his furious assault, unready to welcome the full effects of a grown man's desire.

This is... unexpected.

Why is he not pushing me away? Would that not be the moral thing to do? Is it perhaps that I subconsciously found the courage to impose myself upon him so arrogantly only beause I thought that he would certainly not react to it, that he would simply disengage and leave; had I taken for granted that there could be no consequence to my action? Foolish of me, I think to myself as his broad, intimidating body easily overrides mine in our struggle for leadership.

And yet, it is the most extraordinary, most phenomenal thing; the most gratifying, most divine and scrumptious and luscious and exquisite moment of my penumbral, dull life. It is the delicious tactility of his warm mouth, the arousing hardness of his aggressive body, the deep, musky odour of his harsh skin, it is the contact of our eagerly merging magic and the eroticism of what is simultaneously so wrong, and so irrevocably right.

It is a frail and transient sensation, so powerful and overwhelming but so ephemeral, as I taste what I feel to be completion.

Eventually, the kiss breaks, lost between breathless sighs.

"It was against my better judgment," I apologise between heavy but discreet pants, still putting an unearthly amount of effort into restraining my rampaging desire, into not forcing yet another kiss between us when my body is so loudly pleading for one. But I am rather good at controlling my physical actions, so I can soon once more become composed, constrained, collected; and apparently so is he, for quickly enough the heaviness of his breathing subsides, and he simply stares at me, his eyes brilliant and dangerous, his face dark and unreadable.

Potter's PoV

The perfect, smooth, velvet texture of his hair is slightly dishevelled by both the violence of our kiss and the wetness of the falling snow. His smooth, marble cheeks are flushed, and his lips wantonly parted. His eyes, often so eerily empty and undecipherable, are now full of fervent, unhidden desire. His body is trembling a little, and his nostrils occasionally flare. He looks a little shocked, a little shaken, a little lustful, a little desperate and terribly, terribly aroused. What a sight.

He is the sort of spectacle that can awaken something very brutal, very primitive inside a man, and I can barely hold myself back from pinning him against a random tree and aggressing him. Every bit of him seems to be sternly demanding it. His lovely cheekbones and his delicate but forceful hands, his lips, his long, dark lashes.

"It was against my better judgment," he murmurs, but it does not sound like an apology at all. It sounds like a commanding request. Like an order for more.

Jesus Merlin fuck. I am only human.

How am I meant to disobey, especially when I already gave into him so easily, so weakly? The refined, wicked taste of his lips is still lingering on mine, like a malicious little voice pushing me to get more. His beauty is unnerving.

I hate myself for having kissed him back, of course, and for having let my lust turn loose. I expected better from myself. But even I cannot deny how much pleasure it brought me, finally smothering his overweening, arrogant, perfect little face with unadulterated desire, and tasting his own, shady lust.

Somehow, a strange, vengeful rage is building up somewhere inside me, in a dark, forgotten place. A desire to forever wipe away the usual haughty, blasé look on his face, and show him that a man's lust is not something to be toyed with. A desire frighteningly malignant, frighteningly violent and domineering, that I can barely hold back. The kind of sensation I had not felt since back then, during the war. I care for him, but I also despise him, and resent him, and I want to tear him apart, and...

I feel terribly dishonourable for these thoughts of mine.

And equally terrified of them, and compelled to reveal them to that beautiful boy, who is so stupidly walking into the unknown.

"Tom… Since I am such an honest person, I'd like to let you know that there is a part of me that wants to... wreck you right now. To erase your… irritating conceit and your nonchalant attitude, and show you that you shouldn't play so thoughtlessly with fire. I'm not a toy for you to test the extent of your charms onto. I am not a man as perfectly benevolent as you'd like to think, and if you tempt me too much, I will give you what you want. Please, please, be careful," I phrase slowly and with intensity, my eyes never leaving his. And although I tried to formulate a warning, I tried to scare him off, to push him and intimidate him, it comes out differently.

It comes out like a invitation, and I realise, with great alarm, that it is received that way, too. At first he seems to be simply deliberating, as if considering the pros and cons of provoking me, pushing me to the edges. And despite his partial uncertainty, perhaps caused by the rather disconcerting darkness in my words, he smiles.

"That's fine with me," the boy then says, a mask of confidence concealing his possible nervousness, or awkwardness, or uncertainty. "If that's the dance, let's dance it."

Gathering his strength, he steps forward again and kisses me.

Again, and in a manner most assertive, if not downright coercive.

Oh, Merlin.