Chapter Ten

I know, I know, I'm spoiling you all silly with these rapid-fire updates. But I'm just trying to push out as much as I can before I hit a big fat writer's block face-first and lose my nose Voldy style. :/

If you're reading on AO3, you'll see that I've also set this fic to be around 30 chapters, like the last one, but that's just a rough approximate because at this point in time, anything's game.

Now, guess what's happening this chapter~~

If anyone had entered King's Cross Station at that time of night, at first glance they would have deemed it ghostly quiet. The grounds which were usually bustling with a colourful whirlwind of life were now devoid of movement, the usual clattering of trains snaking through like chunky caterpillars was absent, and it was very dark. They may have reached out with a finger and twanged on the silence, thick as treacle, as if it were a physical presence. But this was only the first layer, cloaking the place.

Beneath this layer, if a person had listened a little closer, stared a little harder, they may have seen the shimmer of shapes unseen in a corner of the station platform, and they may have heard the occasional, muffled whisper.

But there was no one there to hear such a thing.

"He's late," Harry said aloud, checking his watch as he had been compulsively doing for the past forty minutes since they had arrived. He was crouched in a position which would best serve to protect his back, Invisibility Cloak thrown over himself and his companion, which made for a tight fit, considering one of them was quite tall.

"You were late, too," said Peregrine, who was becoming progressively more skittish as time slithered onwards, infuriatingly slow. "For all you know, Riddle could have left before you even arrived."

"He wouldn't have." Harry's response was immediate. "He'd want to be fashionably late. Would want to stake out the perimeter in case of an ambush before he came in. But we're nearly an hour over the scheduled meeting time, now…"

Peregrine didn't reply. He shifted around for a few moments, then finally snapped. "Seriously, Hardwin, my nerves are being compressed sitting here. We've got your special cloak thing, can't we move to a proper bench to sit on?"

"No. I don't want to miss him when he turns up."

"But my legs are dead!"

Harry glanced sideways at Peregrine, battling against a sneer that threatened to break his face in two and failing miserably. "Your legs aren't the only things that'll be dead if you don't zip it, Lestrange."

Their faces were so close that he could feel Peregrine's exhaled laugh on his forehead. "That's cold of you."

They passed a few more minutes in silence, Harry occasionally shaking out a leg when it started to numb, then finally Peregrine broke it again, as ever the weak link.

"He's not coming," he said flatly.

Harry shook his head slowly, pulling his watch out once more. It had just passed one in the morning. They could not waste further precious hours playing this one-sided game.

With the buzz of anticipation fading from his veins, like a fizzy drink gone flat, all Harry could now taste was disappointment, bitter on his tongue. He stood up, knees groaning their relief, and said abruptly, "I was so certain he would. Why... why wouldn't he come?"

This question he addressed to Peregrine, a plea in his voice.

"Well, just put yourself into Riddle's shoes," said Peregrine reasonably, managing to pat Harry consolingly on the back despite their close proximity, still bundled under the Invisibility Cloak as they were. "Last time he saw you, you died. Maybe he thought your message was a fake. When I saw you, I didn't believe it was you, even though you were standing right before my eyes."

"But he knows my Patronus!" Harry snapped, refusing to admit defeat. "A Patronus can't be forged, he must have known it was me!"

Suddenly, the cloak shrouding them was stifling and he couldn't breathe properly. His lungs felt stiff and flattened, and it wasn't as if there was anyone around, so Harry tore the cloak off impatiently, taking a step back from Peregrine to allow himself more space, his mind whirring like it had never done before, turning over stone after stone for a possible answer as to why, why, Tom Riddle would ignore his invitation to meet…

Peregrine was opening his mouth to reply, then suddenly he was closing it, a rapid change crossing over his face, like a mask concealing his features. His eyes were trained on something over Harry's shoulder, so very dark. There was too little light to decipher a reflection of the enemy facing them.

"Keep your hands in plain sight," commanded a voice that was so heartbreakingly familiar – if anything deeper, more velveteen than last he had heard it.

Harry's gaze flickered to Peregrine, who was watching the speaker with little expression on his face – he might have been made of stone. Peregrine's chin dipped downwards into the most miniscule of nods.

Suddenly, breathing became difficult, like his airways had constricted, and his pulse jumped in his throat. Slowly, as if afraid of frightening a wild animal, Harry revolved on the spot and stared at the row of three, squaring off against himself and Peregrine a short distance away, each holding them at wand-point.

Harry watched them steadily, despite the way his viscera seemed to have shifted around within him, leaving him feeling thoroughly discombobulated.

To the right stood a wizard whose gaze was flat, his stance bordering on lazy. He was stockier than the last time Harry had seen him, his hair cropped short with military precision, but those quick, silvery eyes were unmistakeable. Six years later, it seemed that Cassius Mulciber had yet to leave his master's side.

To the left was a witch Harry almost didn't recognise. He had known her when she was still in sixth-year, young, pretty and distinctly baby-faced though never naïve, but nor had she ever been cold to him. Today, whatever innocence had once been in her eyes had been scoured away with little care. Far more angular and pointy, beautiful in a razor-sharp way, Margot Greengrass's gaze was chillier than he had ever seen.

And last, but never least, flanked by the other two, was the most handsome man Harry had ever laid eyes on. He seemed impossibly taller, and he still styled his hair in that immaculate way that Harry had seen him slave away at in front of a mirror, countless times. His features no longer held the slight softness of a teenage boy not quite done growing up, and while he was, undeniably, still breathtaking to look at, there was something off about his face. As if it wasn't his, like somebody had copied it, but not quite right.

With wordless understanding, Harry knew that Tom Riddle was less whole than he had been last time. He must have been busy with his Horcruxes.

Harry's heart descended from where it had risen in his throat to his stomach.

"Step out of the shadows," Tom demanded, and his wand was trained upon Harry, the dangerous aura surrounding him palpable. It was causing the hairs on the back of Harry's neck to rise in the presence of this energy that he couldn't explain. He wanted nothing more than to speak, to say anything, but his tongue seemed to have turned to sandpaper and his mouth felt gluey and dry, somehow both simultaneously.

Carefully, he stepped out of the shadows that he and Peregrine had folded themselves into, eyes moving to Tom's shoulder so that he didn't have to look into the face that seemed so different from the one he had left behind. He didn't know what he would do if he looked up and met eyes as red as blood.

He could see Tom advancing on him, though slowly, almost as if he was also afraid. Two predators facing off in neither's territory.

It was anyone's game.

"My lord," said Mulciber loudly, a warning. In his periphery, Harry could see that he and Margot hadn't lowered their wands, though he couldn't see their expressions, couldn't tell whether they thought Tom's behaviour was odd.

But they were not a part of the small, endless world that entrapped only Harry and Tom. Mulciber and Margot, and even Peregrine somewhere behind Harry, slipped away from his conscious thought and his entire being was focused solely on the man who was moving towards him, perhaps unconsciously, every step bringing him nearer, this man who had once betrayed him.

Now a foot away, Tom stopped. His wand had lowered, though Harry didn't know when. He continued to stare resolutely at Tom's shoulder, unable to bring himself to speak, unable to make so much as eye contact.

His hands had begun to tremble by his side. They tightened into fists to steady themselves.

How long he had dreamed about this impossible reunion, how often he had rehearsed the things he wanted to say. In his dreams, his nightmares, Harry had cursed and condemned his enemy to hell, he had screamed, he had wrapped his fingers around the other's throat and squeezed, staring with malicious delight and horror as the blood vessels popped in the other's eyes. He had softly traced his lover's lips, his nose, his eyelashes with the pads of his fingers, he had professed his love and whispered sweet nothings until the breaking of dawn cradled him gently back to the waking world with tears in his eyes.

There was so much to be said. Too much. Yet there were no earthly words beyond his world of dreams to communicate what Harry so desperately wanted to tell.

"Look at me," said Tom, and his voice was mellow and golden, like butter.

Harry looked.

Tom's eyes were blue. Like the deepest ocean. Deep enough to drown in.

Harry felt tears burning the back of his eyeballs, felt his nasal cavities stinging and becoming stuffy. He couldn't find the will to fight it off. "Hi, Tom," he whispered.

Perhaps Tom had heard all the hidden meanings in his voice, because his head quirked to the side like a curious bird and only when Tom's hand was an inch from his face did Harry realise that he was reaching out.

He closed his eyes, half expecting a shock when Tom's skin made contact with his, something – anything – to suggest that an event outside of the ordinary was playing out. But there was nothing of the sort. Only slightly roughened fingers with several calluses touched his cheek and cradled him there, so soft that Harry's heart ached for what had once been.

He leaned into the hand and exhaled, because suddenly, despite all the past wrongs, it felt like coming home.

"I know you," Tom murmured with pure, childlike wonder in his voice. "As if from another life."

Harry's eyes snapped open, this immortal moment forever shattered.

He stepped away from the tender embrace of Tom's hand, backing up a few steps, retreating to stand in the shadows next to Peregrine again. Tom didn't follow, though his hand remained hovering there in the air, cradling a memory.

"What?" Harry asked, and his voice was a brittle rasp.

"Tell me your name," said Tom.

With their bubble now broken, he now sensed that outside of his and Tom's interaction, there was silence. Thin, reedy and altogether unpleasant. He could feel Peregrine watching him, with something akin to pain in his eyes.

Harry didn't respond. There seemed to be a physical pain in his chest, burning there, because now he knew that Tom had already forgotten. They all had.

"He asked for your name," repeated Mulciber, and if he thought there to be anything strange about what had just happened, he didn't show it on that poker face that he'd had perfected by the age of seventeen.

Harry stared at his wand which was still levelled upon him, unable to fathom what exactly was happening.

"Lower your wand, Cassius," Tom said, perhaps mistaking Harry's silence for fear. "And you, Greengrass."

Margot needed no further convincing. She neatly replaced her wand into its holster, never removing Harry and Peregrine from her sights. The iciness that had been on her face earlier had melted away, revealing the expression of a person attempting to solve a particularly tricky puzzle.

Mulciber wasn't so easily swayed. "But, my lord–"

"Do as I say!" Tom's tone was harsh and powerful, and from the corner of his eye, Harry saw Peregrine instinctively retreat another step, perhaps having forgotten what it was like to be in Tom's presence when his mood soured.

Harry caught the hem of his sleeve before he could shrink any further back.

Stay with me.

The sentiment must have been clear enough, because Peregrine set his jaw and stood his ground.

Harry returned his attention back to Mulciber, who had dipped his head in submission. "My lord," he murmured.

Removing his commanding stare from Mulciber's inclined back, Tom turned to face Harry again, holding his hand out as if to beckon him into his arms. His hard gaze softened, became beseeching. "I need to know who you are," he said. "I've seen you in my dreams, and I desire nothing more than to shed light upon why…"

His timbre was warm and round, like a spoonful of honey, dripping so temptingly. But Harry wasn't fooled by this particular honey trap, not now, not ever again. Steeling himself, he relinquished his grip on Peregrine's sleeve and folded his arms across his chest, wrapping his robes more firmly across his body. His hair fell in waves across his eyes, obscuring his vision, and he impatiently shook it away.

"Dreams," he said coldly.

Mustering his courage, Peregrine cast himself into the middle. "Do you not recall who this is?" he asked, and his bewilderment was obvious. Harry was glad. At least that made two of them.

"Recall?" Margot interrupted, stepping forwards to stand between Harry and Tom, her eyes darting between the two as if there was a match playing out between them. "Have you met before?"

"I can't seem to remember," said Tom, frowning at Harry in a distant sort of way. "I have the strangest sense that we have."

Harry's throat closed up. Another awkward silence stretched out between them, eons long in length.

"Do you remember who I am?" Peregrine asked, the question etched deep on his face.

Tom spared him a scornful glance. "Of course I know who you are, Peregrine Lestrange. It was very discourteous of you to drop out of school halfway through seventh-year, without so much as a word to anyone. Have you any idea how furious your parents were? But none of that matters. The playing field has expanded exponentially in your absence."

"Oh," said Peregrine, his voice a wisp as he turned this new information over, worn thin. Despite him quietening, Harry knew that he would be feeling relief around about now. With Tom's recollections of the manner of their parting seemingly gone, he no longer had to worry about the vengeance Tom may otherwise have sought. Nor could Harry have been relied upon to protect him, since Tom's levels of growth throughout the past years were unknown to him. He probably could have trounced Harry without so much as breaking a sweat.

He couldn't allow himself to forget that despite only one year passing for him, six had passed for Tom. The playing field was no longer as equal as it had once been.

"Why should Riddle remember you?" asked Margot, pouncing into the fray. Despite her even tone, eager light danced in her eyes. "When did you know each other?"

The look that Harry gave her was one of such thinly veiled sadness that her gaze went flat, her lips twitching downwards. "Did I also know you?" she whispered.

Harry managed a single, jerky nod of his head. "We–" his voice cracked painfully, but he persisted. "We were friends."

He sounded like a child to his own ears.

Margot stared at him. Her eyes looked vaguely misty.

"But this makes no sense," Tom was saying, and his voice seemed faded in Harry's head, like he was speaking from a distance. "I have the most reliable memory, so why in Salazar's name can't I remember ever meeting? Yet I do know you, I'm certain of it. And your name is–"

He cut off, giving a frustrated shake of his head, as if clearing his ears of water.

"Harry Potter," Harry heard himself saying. It seemed to be a disembodied voice which was speaking, or maybe he was the one without a body now, and was watching the scene from afar.

"Harry," Tom repeated, and his pupils were dilated, greedy, like he was claiming the name, feeding it away into a drawer to keep for his own. "Yes. Harry. But… Potter, you say…?"

"You knew me by another name." Once again, it didn't seem to be him speaking. He sounded too detached. "But it's actually Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter," Tom repeated, like a prayer, and all of a sudden Harry was back in his own body, and he stared down at his feet, struggling with the weight of functioning with this clunky, earth-bound body.

"You kissed me in the snow," he said quietly, because it felt like the right thing to say, and he heard the smallest break in Tom's breathing.

"Kissed?" said Mulciber (Harry had forgotten he was even there), and there was a patronising smile on his lips. "You must be mistaken. I've known my lord since we were eleven, and the only person he has ever spoken of is Marcellus Selwyn."

"The second-year Hufflepuff?" asked Peregrine, disbelieving, seemingly forgetting himself in his momentary shock. "Well, not second-year now, but when we were in our final year…"

"Yes, him." Mulciber appeared to be avoiding looking at Peregrine. His response was spoken to Harry.

"Marcellus Selwyn," Harry repeated. The name felt like jagged stone pieces in his mouth. Something to be spat out.

Tom turned to Mulciber, and Harry couldn't see his face, but whatever was on it had Mulciber taking a step back and ducking his head once again, murmuring, "I didn't mean to speak out of turn."

"Marcellus Selwyn is walking his own path, now," said Tom, turning back around, and whatever look he had given Mulciber to startle him into submission was wiped clean.

"What?" Margot was staring at Tom now. "But you said…"

Evidently, she didn't know what he had said, because she fell back into silence, almost clumsy, but her gaze was accusatory.

"I made my intentions clear, Greengrass," said Tom, not deigning to spare her a look. "You're in no position to question me."

Finding her words again, Margot said softly, "If you hurt him, I'll–"

"You'll what," Tom drawled, and it wasn't a question. "You'll curse me? You haven't got a chance. You'll leave me? The only other place for you to go is far uglier than this. You'll publicise all the secrets you've gathered about me? Well–" a smirk crossed his lips "–you'd really regret that, wouldn't you? The truth is, Greengrass, there isn't a thing you can do to harm me. So threaten me if you will, I could do with a good laugh."

It was so cruel, and Margot's face was so stricken for the truth she knew his words held. Harry knew the decent thing to do would have been to feel sorry for her, yet he still felt cut off from everything, and whichever small part of him had managed to ground itself was too busy maliciously basking in the knowledge that Marcellus Selwyn – whoever he was – wasn't a threat, and Tom had actually thought it appropriate to reveal it to him. Because despite the lapse in his memory, there was a possibility that he might still care for Harry, however subconscious this part of him was.

"Is he alright?" Margot asked. Her voice was a shrivelled little thing now.

"He's alive," said Tom dismissively. "He's breathing. His physical health is in top form. What more is there to want for?"

"You know what I mean."

Tom ignored her. He had returned to watching Harry with thinly veiled want in his deep, dark eyes. "Now, what to do," he murmured. "This is quite the upset, but I think it would be best if you came with us, Harry, and bring Peregrine if you must–"

"No," said Harry abruptly. "I came here for a reason, and it wasn't to make small talk."

Tom's lips quirked at him in an indulgent sort of way. "Well then, Harry, I'm keen to hear what it is you came for."

"Was it you?" Harry asked.

Tom faltered. "Excuse me?"

Harry wasn't fooled by the innocent face. "Has Peregrine been a target of yours?" he persisted, noticing Peregrine's ears prick up, like an excited dog whose attention had just be drawn. "In fact, to be more precise, did you manage to find him, in his Muggle quarters, only recently?"

There was another pause, in which Tom appeared to be turning over this information with that brilliant mind of his (Harry knew he had to choose his words just as carefully as Tom would dissect them). Then Tom said, "No, Harry. I haven't had any reason to seek him out. I've barely spared a thought for him since he left Hogwarts."

Harry refused to be distracted by the way his name folded so fluently off Tom's tongue. He focussed instead on searching for tells that the other man was lying, but if Mulciber had perfected a poker face, then Tom had left his mother's womb with one – it often seemed to be the natural state of his appearance.

Knowing that he would have to offer more information to get any more in exchange, Harry pressed on. "Something was stolen from Peregrine," he said, desperately searching for the truth in the lines of Tom's face but finding nothing. "Something important. And I have reason to believe that you may now be in possession of it."

If it was even possible, Tom's features had wiped blanker than previously. The gentle indulgence he had worn in his eyes whenever addressing Harry was nowhere to be seen. "Do tell what that reason might be," he said.

Harry stared back, equally blank, knowing that he couldn't reveal his hand yet. Now was not the time to share where it was that he had come from… especially not with all these extra pairs of ears listening in so keenly.

Fine. He would wrangle the truth out of Tom eventually. As it was, the research was probably secure in whatever top secret filing cabinet Tom had likely stashed it. He still had over forty days to achieve this objective, and it would have been naïve of him to expect to have achieved it today.

But he now had a personal agenda, and Hermione wasn't here to keep him on task. He was going to unearth why Tom and the others seemed to have been mysteriously wiped of all memory of him, and he was going to do so now.

"I'm afraid that's a question I'm unable to answer," he told Tom, turning and taking Peregrine's arm in a firm grip. "I'd like to talk to Peregrine in privacy, so please don't follow us."

Tom looked far from happy about this arrangement, but Harry knew he had played his own hand right because no argument was made. Tom's deep-seated curiosity about him was still tethered on the line, and he wouldn't take the risk of scaring Harry off just yet.

With a reluctant nod, Tom allowed them to retreat into their own circle of space, near enough to remain within eyesight of the others, but far enough to be out of earshot.

Harry told Peregrine his intentions in quick, low words, but Peregrine immediately latched onto his shoulders with both hands, pinning him to the spot.

Even from this far away, Harry could sense that Tom was watching both his and Peregrine's movements, hawk-like, and he went rigid at Peregrine's sudden shift.

Peregrine either didn't notice or didn't care. "Hardwin," he said softly. "Be logical here. How exactly do you plan on finding out what happened to their memories? You should know by now what a finicky area of magic that is. Riddle's arguably the greatest mind of our age, and do you know how long it took him to come up with the whole False Memory Charm idea? And that was with help. Put that into perspective. You've got barely over a month. Even with unlimited time, you could search the whole country and never find an answer. There are some truths you just have to accept–"

Harry shrugged out of his grip with some difficulty, considering the height difference, and put his back to Peregrine, moving a few steps away from him. "You're wrong about at least one of those things, Peregrine. This isn't a truth. It's a lie, and I'm going to put things right if I can."

Throwing a nettled glance over his shoulder at the trio watching this entire interaction, Peregrine stalked after Harry, hissing, "How? Aren't you worried you're wasting your precious time here? Who cares if Tom– I mean, if they've all forgotten? It doesn't change anything, does it? You want to break the time loop, so break it! Get in, find my research, then get out! Fuck Riddle's memories, why're you trying to retrieve them for him? Last time I looked, he was trying to steal yours! So why would you… why would you–"

Whatever the words were that Peregrine was struggling to formulate, Harry never learned (he hadn't really been listening, anyway). He had stopped in his tracks so suddenly that Peregrine ploughed into his back, his string of reprimands broken, almost toppling the two of them.

Looking over his shoulder, past Peregrine's spluttering figure, Harry's gaze found Tom, and it was so heartbreakingly soft that even Peregrine, who Harry had once thought so emotionally obtuse, could see the answer to the unfinished question shining out from his eyes.

"Oh," said Peregrine, quiet as a breath.

"This isn't about the time loop," Harry said quietly, tearing his eyes away from Tom and turning back to Peregrine, whose face was bloodless. "This is about me. Call me selfish if you will, but I can't… I've got to do this, Peregrine. If my time here is this limited, I'm going to make sure I do it right. If I go home and I leave it like this, I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

"Then I guess you've got to do it," said Peregrine through white lips.

The corner of Harry's mouth tipped upwards. "Besides, I have a pretty good idea where to start."

"Then… then we'd better set off now."

"No. If you're worried we won't find your research in this time limit, then maybe we should go our separate ways – just for a little why," Harry added quickly, seeing the stricken look on Peregrine's face. He offered a soft, affectionate punch to Peregrine's shoulder. "I'll be back before you can say 'hopscotch'. Anyway, this is something I need to do alone."

"But we're supposed to watch each other's back." There was something mildly accusatory about the words, and Harry took a step back, the distance widening between them.

"I won't be long," he said, adding in an undertone, "Keep an eye on Tom for me, and look after my cloak while I'm away."

As the distance continue to grow between them, with Peregrine no longer chasing after him to close the gap, it occurred to Harry how alone Peregrine looked, his arms loose at his sides, his black eyes lowered. It conjured an image of a little boy lost in the aisles of a supermarket, too frightened to cry out, too afraid to ask for help. But he'd been alone for so long now, had kept himself under house arrest all these years. Who he had once been was a mere memory to the outside world, his name faded from the history books. He could look after himself by now.

At this point, Tom, Margot and Mulciber had caught on to what was happening. Tom was striding towards Harry, moving impossibly fast with those long legs of his. A rare show of alarm was etched into his face. "Wait–"

Harry couldn't allow him any nearer or he might lose his nerve. With one final, wistful look at him, he Disapparated into a squeezing tunnel of darkness.

"Shit," Tom hissed as the boy from his dreams cracked out of existence, those startlingly green eyes so sad. He rounded on Lestrange, standing there as if he'd just been kicked. "What did he say to you? Where has he gone?"

"I don't know," said Lestrange curtly, and Tom bristled. Never would he have spoken in a tone like that before – either he had forgotten what Tom was capable of, or he was confident that his position as Harry Potter's travelling companion made him invincible.

"At least tell us what he said to you, Lestrange," panted Greengrass, who had managed to catch up to the rest of them with her shorter legs and those ridiculous, pointy shoes of hers that witches found so fashionable nowadays.

Lestrange sighed in a bad-tempered way and heaved his shoulders into a shrug. It looked almost painful – how hard he was faking this nonchalance. "What can I tell you? He's looking for your long-lost memories, so you can thank yourselves for that–"

Tom's hand struck out to grip Lestrange by the throat, stifling his words. The action was so sudden that Greengrass actually jumped, and Mulciber, who up until now had been having difficulty facing his old school friend, twitched forwards, as if he'd momentarily considered intervening.

Tom ignored them and focussed entirely on Lestrange's face. His already bloodless features had drained further, if that were even physically possible, giving him a waxen appearance, but his eyes were burning, black pits, staring straight back into Tom's face, even as a vein throbbed in his temple from the effort.

Tom tilted his head to survey him. As school boys, Lestrange had had the reputation of a player, with his good looks and the fact that the person on his arm seemed to change every weekend. But there was something firmer about him, distinctly more grounded. He was no longer the same carefree, loose wizard he'd been back then. There was poorly concealed fear in his eyes, yes, but also a stubborn will to resist.

Having seen enough, Tom relinquished his grip on the stiff throat beneath his hand, leaving five engraved half-crescent moons where his nails had dug in pitilessly. By his side, Tom sensed the tension leave Mulciber's body, but it was almost imperceptible. To his credit, Lestrange didn't cough or splutter or cower. He merely rubbed his throat with the slightest of winces but stood his ground.

"So you've finally found something you want to protect," Tom observed and showed his teeth like fangs.

Lestrange, Mulciber and Greengrass stiffened simultaneously, their brains all connected on the same wavelength. But that was what fear did to you. Made you predictable.

Tom closed his lips back over his teeth and stared at Lestrange through his eyelashes. "I never would have expected this of you. You can take pleasure in the fact that you've actually managed to surprise me."

It was so quiet on that platform that the impact of a pin on the floor would have sounded resonant.

Lestrange shifted nervously.

He didn't know.

Tom could have laughed in that moment. "The whore of Hogwarts has made the one mistake that none of his species should ever make – he fell in love."

Lestrange's face collapsed, a sandcastle crumbling as it was dragged out to sea. "You're wrong," he said immediately.

"Am I?" Tom raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't matter either way. Right or wrong, the outcome will be the same." He lowered his face to Lestrange's and hissed, like a viper, "That boy is mine."

The words were perhaps a garble between English and Parseltongue, because Lestrange flinched, though he still retorted, "That's a bit rich, considering Harry's as good as a stranger to you. You haven't changed a bit. You still view us all as toys at your disposal. Pawns in your little board. Well, guess what? Harry and I have transcended your sick game. You don't own me, and nor do you have any right to lay claim to him!"

Mulciber had been watching Tom's face the entire time, waiting for it to twist with rage, but the mimicry of a smile on his face merely grew, a pointy thing that offered no comfort.

"Peregrine," said Mulciber sharply, tearing his gaze away from Tom and addressing for the first time the one he had once regarded as a brother.

Peregrine's lips clamped shut, but the look who cast Tom was as poisonous as ever.

In his absence, he'd forgotten his place. But he would soon remember. Tom could be magnanimous. He would allow the deserter to learn again.

"Harry is no stranger to me," he said, his mouth still curved into a what could only be considered a smile by someone who'd never seen one before. "Once you've known someone, you can't ever truly forget them."

He turned his back on Lestrange to address Mulciber, who was still looking at Lestrange as if willing him to keep his mouth shut before something was broken that couldn't be mended.

"Cassius," he said. "I'd like you back in Peru to finish your business that I took you away from. Do not speak of this meeting to anyone."

"Yes, my lord," said Mulciber, his gaze flickering back to Tom like a darting silver fish, and he dipped his whole torso into a parting bow. Then, with a crack he was gone.

Tom turned to the next of his companions. "Greengrass, I want you to return to Malfoy Manor." He ignored the weak protest she made. "I need you to find whatever it is that Harry and Peregrine here seek so ardently, as I presume neither will give us a straight answer. Don't look at me like a kicked mutt, you should be pleased. You'll be able to keep Marcellus company there. Now go."

Greengrass's face spasmed in the way it always did when she was forced to follow a direct order from him, but she Disapparated with a second resounding clap.

Now that they were alone in the silent station, Lestrange looked suitably nervous. His hand was in his pocket, likely feeling for his wand in case he needed to erect a protective ward at a second's notice.

Shaking his head, Tom gestured for him to step closer. "Come along, I'm not going to bite your head off. If I wanted to, I would have done so already."

Gingerly, Lestrange took one step in his direction, but before he could do anything more, Tom had grabbed hold of his chin and turned it upwards so that he could stare down into the dilated pupils whose circumference blended so seamlessly with the colour of the irises. The pupils might have been swelling, and they were now the walls of a long, dark tunnel that was whipping past Tom, endless…

Albus Dumbledore was standing behind him in the entrance hall of Hogwarts, watching him stride out of those halls for the last time. Dumbledore's parting words to him rung in his head – the Tempus Charm may prove to be a fascinating point of research, should you choose to delve down that path…

Then suddenly the sun was beating down on his back and his arms were around Harry in a land of sand, Harry's long black hair filled his nose but he didn't care, because this was too good to be true… could it be true?

The scene shifted, and he was sitting on the ground now, perusing the pages of a dry old text, surrounded by towers of books whose names he couldn't decipher, because Lestrange had long ago forgotten these details… Harry was sitting across from him, watching him curiously, slightly younger than the Harry he had seen in the sand, his hair was shorter around his thin, dark face, but his eyes were bright and innocent.

"Why won't you look at me anymore?" he asked in a soft, accented voice that sent pangs through his chest, and suddenly Tom was being cast back through the black tunnel and he was staring into Lestrange's eyes again.

Lestrange slumped forwards onto his knees, clutching his head, and Tom took a faltering step back at the raw feeling he had detected in those memories. It felt as though all the blood had fled his extremities. He pressed a palm against the pounding in his chest.

"Don't look at that," Lestrange snarled, throwing his head back to glare up at Tom. His face was the picture of a cornered, wild creature.

His breathing heavy, and feeling a little wild himself, Tom crouched down to his level. "The Tempus Charm," he said roughly. "What do you know about it?"

Lestrange hissed at him – it seemed that he had finally reached the end of his tether. "Fuck you," he spat.

"Hm," said Tom, standing back up as steadily as he could manage with his scattered thoughts. He straightened his robes and took note of the lightening sky outside. "I would rather not. Now, you have two options. Either you can come with me on your own two feet and salvage whatever dignity you can, or I else will drag you after me. Which shall it be?"

Lestrange remained crouching there, eyeing Tom suspiciously. "Where to?"

"To the only person who will be able to offer any answers," said Tom. "We're going to have a nice little meeting with Dumbledore."

He proffered an arm with an impatient air about him.

Warily, Lestrange rose to his feet, and, with one final fleeting look at Tom's face, he rested his hand on Tom's arm.

They turned and zipped out of sight, into compressive darkness.

King's Cross Station stood alone, once more. Only the first layer of silence remained as the sky above began to fade to soft lilacs and yellows, still speckled with hidden stars. A leaf shifted on the ground in an invisible breeze.

The trains would wake again, soon, and when they did, no one would be any the wiser that five had ever met here in the earliest hours of the morning.