Harry found himself back in the forest and fell to his knees, struggling to catch his breath.

He was falling apart. He could feel it. All of him unravelling, since he'd hardly taken any time after arriving here in this existence to make sure he was in one piece before diving straight into mad plan after mad plan and now everything—the insane reality of what he'd been doing—had finally caught up with him.

"Mum," he choked out, fumbling with the stone that he always carried with him, turning it again and again, knowing it wouldn't work but hoping it would all the same.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted to the empty clearing, the place that he'd escaped to the better part of a year earlier. "I thought I did, but tonight I think I made a mistake, and now I can't unmake it, and I don't know what to do."

A corner of his mind had been yelling at him ever since he'd shoved Voldemort out of the path of his own Killing Curse. How could he have let the monster live? After all of the lives he'd ruined, after everyone he'd killed, both before the fork in the path and then in this path ever since? What was wrong with him!?

But even that corner of his mind was small, tiny, compared to what the rest of his being was telling him. He'd been truthful, painfully so, when he'd admitted that he needed Voldemort. Needed him like he needed air, and food, and sleep. Voldemort was essential to his ability to live, he was certain of it.

And what did that make him?

"A monster," Harry whispered, and that word seemed to echo around him in the rustling of the grasses and the leaves in the trees. "He's doing this because he thinks it's right. I'm doing it because I was bored. I'm a monster."

Something seemed to crack then, somewhere inside his chest, and then he was holding his legs to his chest and screaming into his knees. Each breath felt like it was being pulled from the base of his ribcage and catching on every bone on the way out of him, making his whole body shudder with the pain of it.

He'd left everything behind, and everyone was gone forever, because he'd been selfish and had needed a thrill.

"What do I do?" he forced out an age later, the words partially muffled by the damp cloth that was pressed against his mouth. "Neither of us deserves anything."

His eyes were burning and he felt raw, bruised as though he'd been beaten all over with a meat mallet. And each breath still hurt, as he dragged the air into his tight chest and pushed it out again, each ounce of it causing his body to shake even more.

"I can't go back," he told himself. "And I don't want to go back. But I need to focus on doing good, and—and not get too caught up in antagonising him. Because this isn't a game. People aren't a game."

Then he shivered, as he finally noticed the breeze that had picked up around him. "It's not a game," he repeated in a whisper. "I need to do this right. Even if I need him, I need to do this properly."

It was dawn when he finally dragged himself back to Grimmauld Place, and when he arrived he stumbled down to the kitchen and greedily guzzled two glasses of water and sipped his way through a third. He felt wretched, completely wrecked. But it was his own damn fault.

As he climbed back upstairs to go try to drown his spinning thoughts under a hot shower Tommy hooted, catching his attention, so he detoured to the front door and opened it, snagging the thin rectangular box that was sitting innocuously on the step.

Potter

Think of your ideas, and I'll think of mine.

We will meet somewhere in the middle.

Within the box rested the Elder Wand.

A part of him regretted leaving the box on Potter's front step as soon as it left his hand.

Another part of him regretted even having the thought in the first place.

But what surprised Voldemort was the smallness of those two parts; a much larger logical part of him knew that the wand wasn't truly his, and would never perform properly for him, and would very likely turn on him again without warning or hesitation.

An even larger part was satisfied with the action even though he couldn't quite explain to himself why. Perhaps because he could now admit that Potter did have power that deserved to be recognised, and that the wand would serve him well—especially if Voldemort could convince the man to work with him, rather than against him. Perhaps because Potter needed him, and he wanted to do what he could to ensure he kept that . . . dedication. Perhaps another reason entirely.

He despised that uncertainty. But at the same time, it seemed to breathe space into his mind, widening its reach to a broader set of possibilities.

Potter would constantly tear apart his country and his plans unless he stepped forward and changed things himself. And perhaps, if he did so, they might come to a consensus and the menace wouldn't throw everything into absolute chaos.

He hated it. The presumption of it. The gall.

But at the same time he couldn't ignore it. Not anymore.

Not now that he had the assurance that he was safe from the lethal danger of Potter, even as he could sense himself becoming caught in the clutches of a much more personal threat.

And so the next morning he scrapped his scheduled meetings and set into motion new plans, ones that would hopefully shock the other man into not being so bored, as he'd claimed to be, since that boredom had nearly ruined everything. And he mulled over the challenges he would surely face when presenting some of these changes to his followers, and the people.

Yaxley was the first to learn of some of the new plans, a few weeks later, after the Prophet had been full of the news about the lessened restrictions and diminished patrols across the country.

"How many did you need reassigned, my Lord?" the man asked, after he'd sat in silence for a few seconds, blinking rather a lot.

"At least one investigative squad, with support from the rest of the Auror pool if needed," Voldemort replied calmly. "And they will belong to Parkinson. Once you select the team, they will be officially transferred. Understood?"

Yaxley dipped his head in a nod and replied, "Of course, but . . . they will need to be replaced?"

He'd said the words as if they were a question, and Voldemort raised a hairless brow, feeling a flash of satisfaction when he recognised the tightness around the man's eyes as nervousness. And the otherwise blankness of his expression was most certainly confusion.

"I expect patrols to remain diminished, Corban. I am rescinding the wartime directives. And remove the notices about Undesirable Number One. I do not believe him to be a concern for much longer, though if you should hear anything further on that front do notify me immediately."

He could see the man's face tense as he surely had a dozen questions, but he held his tongue and simply murmured an agreeable, "My Lord."

So Voldemort swept out of his office and made his way down to the CRS corner of Level Three, and swept into the far office.

"You will soon have a selection of DMLE transfers on your team," he said without preamble. "They are to be used over the course of the summer to actively investigate all homes where a child has been identified, including housing conditions, any possible signs of abuse or neglect, extended family, schooling, and so on. I expect this year's selection to proceed a bit differently from the usual. Do you have any questions?"

To her credit Parkinson took that all in stride, only taking a moment to set down her quill before asking, "Are they already trained to know what they're looking for, my Lord?"

"They are not. I expect you to inform me if you face any difficulties with those chosen for the task."

She gave a single nod. "Of course. And for the changes to the selection—should I plan for more, or fewer?"

Voldemort narrowed his eyes as he gave her a considering look. She simply waited it out, not displaying any signs of discomfort.

"Fewer. Anything else?"

She had no further questions, so he was shortly back in his tower office at Hogwarts, looking at the small box on his desk in bemusement.

Dearest Tom

Do something about the Book of Admittance.

Or I will.

ϟ

There was a flash of irritation, habitual now, and something else as he read the short note. He hadn't done anything to the book, and to his knowledge neither had anyone else. What was Potter on about?

Then he opened the small box and his eyes widened impossibly as they took in the sight of the small black stone that lay on crushed velvet. It was the stone that had rested in his grandfather's ring. It was a stone that he'd believed to be gone, destroyed, along with the gold band and setting to which it had once been affixed.

Voldemort traced his forefinger over the lines of the Peverell coat of arms, of the Deathly Hallows, on its surface. And he thought.

Did he believe the story?

Did he want to call on the shades of the dead?

He continued to sit there for some time, thinking.

Harry was reading through the Prophet in the kitchen absently nibbling at some toast when he heard a distant chime, and wandered up to the front hall to open the door, paper still in hand.

"Morning," he said in greeting, taking in the relatively calm demeanour of the man on his front step. "Do we need the oaths today or will you behave?"

Voldemort's mouth tightened for a brief moment before he smirked. "I believe you've been the one who refuses to behave," he replied in a mild tone.

Harry blinked, then snorted as he stepped back, holding the door open. "Yeah. Says the madman who flings Killing Curses at a house on a muggle street in broad daylight." Then he trudged back down to the kitchen, aware of the slight hesitation behind him before his footsteps developed an echo.

"Tea?" He called over his shoulder. After a sound of agreement he waved a lazy hand toward the kettle as he took his seat and dropped the paper on the table.

"So, I noticed you're not having me hunted anymore," Harry said once they'd been sitting for a few minutes. Voldemort had shown no sign of planning to speak anytime soon, since one of the many flower arrangements likely left behind by Narcissa Malfoy—this one pigsqueak and hellebore around a single trillium—had apparently caught his attention. "Get bored of that?"

"Something like that," was the vague response, before Voldemort said flatly, "Tell me what's wrong with the Book of Admittance."

Harry blinked a few times, then rose to take care of the tea by hand. "Really? You don't see it? You even have the numbers from the ridiculous department that Pansy's running."

Then he turned and levitated two large mugs of tea over to the table, which were then followed by a sugar bowl, spoons, and a pitcher of milk.

"Yes, I do have the numbers she provides me with," Voldemort replied as he leaned forward into the plume of steam to take a thoughtful-looking sniff, before adding a cloud of milk to his tea. "I don't see what that has to do with your demands regarding the Book. I haven't tampered with it."

"No, and you haven't fixed it yet either. What's the point of stealing children again? Letting them be raised with their magic, blah blah blah?"

Voldemort narrowed his red eyes as they appeared to flash. "That's right."

Harry rolled his eyes and returned to his seat, picking up his last slice of toast and nibbling at it some more. "How many last year?"

His eyes narrowed further. "Thirty-four."

"Right," Harry said slowly. "So thirty-four muggleborns. And they make up generally what, a tenth of our population, give or take? So you mean to tell me that each year Hogwarts accepts over three hundred new students?"

"The Book assesses amount of magic as well. Hogwarts accepts those with more magical power, since there are many magical people with hardly more than squibs. And they cannot be held to the same educational standards as the rest of us."

Harry pointed the corner of his toast at the man as he spoke. "Exactly. There are so many issues with that I'm amazed you're not blinded by them."

Somehow Voldemort's eyes narrowed even further and Harry couldn't help but notice how his heart rate quickened in excitement. He would never tire of riling the man up, and he knew that, even while he knew that it was stupid.

"Don't tell me you expect Hogwarts to admit every squib that was ever born and to expend resources on lessons that will invariably be pointless wastes of time."

Harry raised his brows as he popped the last bit of toast in his mouth. Once he'd washed it down with a sip of scalding tea he said, "Really? You actually don't see it." He felt the magic in the room twitch and he grinned, then held a hand up. "All right, all right. So first off, let's go back to stealing babies. That many muggleborns being stolen, but only what, three or four of them end up at Hogwarts each year? So that's thirty children who are snatched away from their families, their homes, then raised in a world of magic, and then told that they'll never amount to much because they don't have enough of it. How can you possibly justify that."

Voldemort sat there in silence for a few moments. "And there's more, you said?"

He cleared his throat. "Right. So that's the first glaring issue. Then we get to the squibs, and those with lesser magical power. Yes, you want to legislate who can fall in love with who, and all of that, but really. Squibs, those with lesser magical power—right now our world tells them they're worthless. That they don't even deserve to learn some of what they were born into. Who do you think is marrying muggles ninety percent of the time, anyway? I bet it's those of us who feel like they have more in common with those who have no magic at all than with those who went to Hogwarts."

There was silence in the kitchen once more, this time for several minutes. Finally, Voldemort said, "Is that all?"

Harry snorted. "Yeah, I reckon so, at least for now. So, what are you going to do about it?"

"Clearly you have thoughts on the matter."

"Clearly," he agreed with a grin. Then his grin widened as he saw the man across from him adopting a thoughtful expression, the tightness around his eyes finally relaxing.

"It is true that the capacity of Hogwarts far exceeds the numbers it currently holds. Additional staff would need to be hired, but Narcissa could manage those details. Lesson plans would need to be entirely restructured to account for the varying magical levels, however."

"And?" Harry asked. "Just because it might take a little bit of effort doesn't mean that we can just pick and choose which children deserve to find acceptance in our world. We can't just steal a bunch of babies, only teach a fraction of them, then refuse to let them marry. And we can't just cast out our own children because we're too stubborn to realise that we're causing this mess ourselves."

There was another long silence. "There is some merit to your words," he allowed after several minutes of contemplation. "I . . . will consider them."

Harry smiled, bemused. "Wow. Colour me impressed," he said cheekily after a few moments, before returning to his tea.

They continued to sit there in the kitchen, not speaking, each of them lost in their own thoughts as they sipped away at their tea. Then abruptly, with no warning at all, Voldemort's hand darted forward and grabbed Harry's wrist between his thumb and a finger, holding it so tightly it was just on the edge of painful.

"Tell me, what will you do once every item on your list has been crossed off? How will you continue to fight me then?" he asked, leaning over the table.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll do something to piss me off," Harry said a bit breathlessly, suddenly flooded with adrenaline.

"Hmm." The grip around his wrist tightened then, just for a moment, and Harry's heart leapt into his throat as he thought of the ways they could continue to antagonise each other, to push each other. How the slightest wrong touch could hurt, as Voldemort was clearly testing in that instant, and that he lived for that ever-present threat. It was everything he wanted.

"And if you don't," Harry continued quietly, feeling like the room was starting to spin, "then I'm sure I can think of something." The grip tightened again, lasting longer this time, almost threatening, and he let out a helpless huff of laughter before adding, "Maybe some more dwarves."

There was a wordless hiss of irritation in response as Voldemort finally released his hold and Harry dropped his hand under the table, running his thumb over the bruised skin, feeling like he'd been branded.

"Tell me why you gave me the stone," Voldemort said after he drained what was left in his mug.

Harry worried his lip, suddenly not feeling cheerful and giddy, though his heart was still racing. "You gave me the wand you can't use. I gave you the stone I can't use. Fair's fair, a Hallow for a Hallow." Then he swallowed and looked down at where his fingers were loosely holding his wrist, in an echo of the crushing grip Voldemort had held it with only moments before.

"It doesn't work for you?"

He shook his head. "Not since I used it to come here. I was warned that it wouldn't," he clarified, "but I didn't want to accept it. But it definitely doesn't work anymore. Not for me, anyway."

"And you think I wish to use it?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe you have some dead you want to speak to." Then he cracked a smile that felt a bit forced, and added, "Maybe you want to talk the shades into transporting you to a reality where Harry Potter won, so that you can ruin his day."

Voldemort didn't respond immediately, but after a few seconds he said quietly, "No, I much prefer it here."

He swallowed again, feeling like his emotions were flying a hippogriff. "Me too," he whispered.

Harry didn't really know how he felt immediately after Voldemort finally left, but for the following few days he felt hungover. He was somehow physically exhausted, just completely drained, as if the simple conversation had taken all of his energy and trampled it. And he had a headache, and his stomach was unsettled—actually, he was unsettled.

Something had shifted into place, something that had been dislodged for so long that he hadn't even really noticed its discomfort, but now it was in its proper place again and Harry didn't know what it was.

So he did the reasonable thing and ignored it, and continued to poke away at Britain's problems.

He continued to hide thought-provoking notes in various publications, just as he snuck cheeky ones onto Voldemort's desk when he wasn't looking.

He read passages from Voldemort's old school records out loud to Tommy, then tricked the Prophet into publishing a full-page notice congratulating Tom 'Swot' Riddle on his twelve N.E.W.T.s, while he penned a separate note asking about standardised testing and career pathing for the new curriculum.

He tagged along on some of Pansy's team's investigative efforts—completely unseen, of course—and then sent unsolicited assessment reports to Voldemort with pointers on how they could be doing better.

He just couldn't help himself.

And so when Tommy made his low whoop call to indicate that there was something on the front step Harry rushed to retrieve it, and then stood there, stunned, when he saw the coral rose lying across the large flat box.

Eyes wide with shock and not an insignificant amount of confusion he slowly retrieved it, then unfurled the note right there in the front hall.

Potter

One might think from your incessant notes
that you are trying to woo me.

Well?

Still staring, still carefully holding the rose between two fingers, he unwrapped the box and removed the lid, and then blinked when he caught sight of its contents.

"Bill C54-2 of 1998," he read, "concerning the marriages of—"

His words turned into a shout of alarm and he dropped the box to the floor as it suddenly burst into flames. And he stood there, frozen, as the Old Blood and New Blood marriage legislation that he'd challenged Voldemort to 'chuck in the bin and burn' went up in smoke.