A/N: Hello again everyone! Hope you're all enjoying your summers. I just wanted to give a shout-out to AvalonTheLadyKiller (whose review's no joke got me blushing like mad), Garden Gnomie, a. , 1000ships, waistedyouth, and revinzy for your kind words & encouragement. I'm Grinning. Thank you for following, favoriting, reviewing, and reading! ;)


XXVIII
Comrades in Arms
[London | April 1944]


Shoved in the back of a musty automobile, V Spektor's knees are up in her nostrils, her hospital gown traded in for a white linen dress, childish and innocent, trying with little success not to inhale the nasty mixture of odors trapped in the cabin of the vehicle. A little weed smoke, a hint of manure, more than a fair share of grain alcohol, all with a greasy mutton undertone. She's sharing the upholstered bench seat with two men and a woman, the men in olive drab, Americans judging by their accents, and the woman in a sundress splattered with red poppies, her auburn hair done up in curls, fake pearls strung around her thick neck. The wheels catch a pothole. The car lurches. V's elbow and shoulder careen into the American soldier beside her.

"Where didja say you're goin' again sweetheart?" He belches, his hand coming down hard on her thigh.

"Little Hangleton." V says, grimacing at the blast of rancid breath sprayed in her direction. "To visit my family."

"Ah good ol' mom and dad. Haven't seen my family in ages, myself. Hell, I wonder if they'll even remember me after all this is over." He squeezes her knee.

"Oh they'll remember you alright, buddy boy. Who could forget a face like that!" The American's buddy, Richie, pinches his cheek, already ruddy from the booze and the crisp spring air.

"So you're from America?" V asks, hoping to get him off on a tangent, to distract him with himself.

"New York. The big Apple. Boy the girls back home don't compare to you London ladies though, I gotta say. Just look at those _cheekbones_, those _lips_." He leans in to kiss her. She allows it, begrudgingly. "Those _eyes_. Boy howdy, never seen girl with eyes like yours before." He blinks. She doesn't.

"Must not've seen too many girls." V smirks.

"Found a feisty one, Ty. Hah! Lil' spitfire." Richie wraps his arm around his girl, the one in the poppy patterned sundress. V imagines her name is Bertha. Maybe Ethel.

"Seen plenty girls." Tyrone furrows his brow, pouts. "But you sure take the cake. Say what're your folks like?"

"Oh they're alright." V shrugs. "Bit snobby, really, but with as much money as they've got, I guess how could they not be, right?"

"Ahh I see. Heh heh Daddy's little rich girl, sneaking off to London looking for some fun… Don't worry, I always make a good impression on the folks." Tyrone slides in for another kiss. Sloppy. V smiles devilishly, shifts her knees, loops one ankle around his, pivoting to get better body contact.

The car trundles on, leaving the city in it's thick grey sun-choking exhaust, lurching now along a road snaking through the English countryside. With every bump, with every turn and lurch, V contemplates how long she can keep this snagging session up until she succumbs the urge to vomit. But thankfully Little Hangleton is not as far as she thought it was, and soon the car is slowing to a creaky halt.

"Oh say now, you're not really going to leave are you? We were just getting to know each other!" Tyrone whines when V pulls away.

"If I don't get home before supper my dad's literally going to murder me." She says, frowning, all apologies.

"I could do for some supper. Got a spare seat for a comrade in arms?" He smiles slyly.

"You get out here, you're on your own Tyrone." Richie says. "None of us got time to wait around for you."

"Go on then. I'll hitch with the next convoy coming through. See you in Newcastle, Rich. I've got my future in-laws to meet." Tyrone jumps out, cocky smile branded on his pudgy freckled face. V grabs his hand playfully and yanks him along. _Great. Fucking great. I just wanted a ride. How am I gonna get rid of this guy now?_ They walk down the main street. V didn't think this through. She has no idea where the Riddle house is.

"Fancy a drink?" She doesn't wait for a response before dragging him in the direction of the local pub, the Crow and Crown. Pushing through the doors, the pair is soaked with a roar of noise.

"Long live the Queen!" Tyrone shouts. Nobody hears him. They approach the bar and Tyrone orders a pint of beer and a shot of whiskey. "And a pint for the lady as well." He says. The bartender slaps two pints in front of the pair, and then a whiskey. While Tryone occupies himself with his cups, V turns her attention to the rest of the occupants of the bar. She tells Tyrone she'll be right back, under the pretense that she's headed to the lavatory, and slips in a the opposite end of the bar. The bartender comes over, not recognizing her from just a moment ago.

"What'll it be?" He croaks.

"Oh, nothing for me. Actually, I had a question for you. See, I'm a reporter, undercover, from the Daily Mirror in London. I was wondering if you had any information on the tragedy that befell the Riddle family. They lived in this town, didn't they?"

"Oh, them. Yes, they were very prominent. Big deal, the Riddles were. Lots of money. Big house just beyond the field there. Not very nice, but then again, they didn't need to be nice, did they? Strange business over there at that house."

"Strange?"

"They still don't know how they died. Murdered, obviously. But how?" He leans across the bar, drops his voice to a hoarse whisper. "I hear it's haunted. But that's just the kids say that, of course."

"I was thinking about going over to check it out. The house, I mean." V says, batting her eyelashes.

"I think the groundskeeper's still there. You might want to ask him some questions, I'm sure he knows more than any of these lot. Just don't go after dark, is my advice." He says. "Good luck." V smiles, thanks him, slips back into the crowd, and rejoins Tyrone, already halfway through his pint and sliding off his stool. He holds his glass out to her. She picks up hers, and they clink.

"Cheers, sweetheart." He slurs.

"Drink up." She says, tipping back her glass.


The sun's sinking low into the hazy fog collecting on the horizon, gathering it's soft white condensation around the budding trees, sleepy homes, and neatly-trimmed hedges of Little Hangleton. V Spektor and Tyrone Walters wind their way through the field that the bartender had mentioned just about an hour before. The mansion looms large in the distance, all the windows dark, and a little carriage house down the slope, a single window lit, smoke pluming from the skinny, crooked chimney. The way they're approaching, the chances of the groundskeeper noticing them is slim, as long as they keep quiet and don't make any sudden movements.

"Why are we going around the back?" Tyrone slurs.

"My parents don't like using the front door. They prefer that the kitchen entrance is used." V lies in whispers, pulling him along, still not sure what she's going to do with him. She pulls out her wand when he's not looking and mutters alohamora. The door creaks open and she slips in, Tyrone on her heels.

"Looks like nobody's home." He says, his head swiveling round, eyes taking in the odd, empty grandeur of the place.

"Hm. Strange. They must've gone out." She says, flicking on the light switches. None of them work. In the dim light she can see Tyrone's face slowly falling. He's coming to some sort of realization, noticing the dust, the furniture covered in yellowed white sheets, the stale smell of the place.

"You don't live here, do you?" He says, dead serious.

"No. No, I don't." V says, taking out her wand. She steps towards him. He backs away.

"Listen sweetheart, I got nothin' to steal. Nothin on me but my ration cards and a pack of cigs. That's all, I swear." Tyrone puts up his hands.

"I'm not interested in ration cards." She says, flicking her wand. Petrificus totalis. His body becomes rigid as a board, his eyes wide and bulging, scared out of his skull. "Or you at all, really." She frowns. "Although, this place could use a good cleaning…" She walks up close to him, slips her thin fingers inside his breast pocket, tugs out his crumpled pack of Marlboros, sticks one between her lips, lights it with his lighter, takes a long drag. She flicks her wand again and he relaxes.

"What'd you just…how'd you…?" Tyrone babbles. She plucks the cigarette from her lips, pinches it between her fingers, and plants a kiss on poor confused, drunk Tyrone.

"What do you know about magic, Tyrone?" She asks, a sinister smile curling her lips.

"M-m-agic?" Tyrone stutters. "Magic's not real. That's fake. Kid stuff."

"Kid stuff?" She kisses him again, wrapping her hand around his lower back, tucking it into the band of his trousers. She feels a stirring, an arousal.

"Wait, how old are you anyways?" Tyrone asks, slightly panicked.

"Old enough." V smirks. With a flick of her wand, his hands are bound behind his back. Tyrone is torn between intense arousal and crippling fear.


Under cover of night, concealed by the broad black expanse of an umbrella, Tom Riddle approaches his father's house. The rain careens from the troubled sky, rumbling off the roof, pooling in turbulent pockets of stone, leaking in frantic rivulets down the walkway. Tom lifts the knocker and lets it fall quietly, his other hand on his wand, ready for anything. Or so he thought. Not exactly ready for a muggle, an American soldier, to answer the door.

"How can I help you?" He says in a thick New York accent, his eyes glazed.

"Um…I don't know?" Tom says, taken aback. "Depends on who you are."

"Private Tyrone Walters." He says, extending his hand. Tom does not shake it, and instead lets it hang there, outstretched, open, waiting.

"Tom Riddle." Tom says, shifting his eyes, trying to peer into the dark corridor behind Private Tyrone Walter, whose body took up quite a bit of space.

"Come in. Please." Tyrone backs away, welcoming Tom into his family's home.

"Um. Thanks." Tom says, breezing past him, over the threshold and into the darkness within. His shoes squeak upon the polished floors. There's a fire in the grate in the living room. A dark figure, cast in shadows, slowly turns to face him.

"Well it's about time." Victoria Spektor's voice drifts towards him across the room. "Was beginning to think you didn't get my owl."

"You couldn't possibly have been more cryptic." Tom laughs coldly, striding toward her. "I see you've made yourself comfortable. Effectively taken over my dead father's house, got yourself a personal slave…"

"Oh, Tyrone? He's just…lost his way." V waves her hand, dismissing the upsetting notion of slavery, even though at that very moment she has Private Tyrone Walters under the influence of the Imperious curse. "I needed some help. This place was a mess." She picks up on Tom's tone immediately, one of annoyance, of disapproval, of great skepticism. And yet, he could not hide that smile, that lightness of step as he approaches.

"I like what you've done with it." Tom stands in front of V, looking down at her. "It suits you." She pats the space next to her. He fits himself beside her. "I was worried, you know. You just disappeared."

"I contacted you as soon as I could. I was in St. Mungo's for a while…actually I'm not even sure exactly how long. Almost died and all that. But no big deal. I tried to stay at my house, you know, my parent's place, but it wasn't safe. I figured this place would be available…"

"No need to ask permission. Just take whatever you want." Tom drips sarcasm.

"I figured you wouldn't mind…I mean it's not like it's _yours_ either…" V says, batting her eyelashes. "But I can leave, go somewhere else."

"You're not coming back to Hogwarts then?" Cold, with a hint of sadness.

"I really don't think that's a smart idea. Do you?"

"Maybe not. I've heard some talk…"

"From our good friend Avery?" V laughs.

"Not exactly." Tom frowns, moves closer, casts a sharp look over his shoulder. Private Tyrone Walters is lurking in the background, watching. "A little privacy, please?"

"Tyrone, go to sleep." V says.

Tyrone swivels on his heels, marching upstairs. Tom now casts V a sharp look.

"Oh don't act like you've never done the imperious curse." V shrugs. "Anyway, as you were saying…"

"People are talking about you. That's all." Tom says, shifting his weight, folding his arms. "Not the best things, but what do you expect?"

"I never expect anything. That's how I keep from being disappointed." She smiles wide, toothy. "What are your thoughts on Slughorn?"

"What? Why?" Tom narrows his eyes.

"Wasn't looking so great the last time I saw him. Seemed upset about something." V lies, shrugging her shoulders. "What's eating him, I wonder…"

"Probably realizes he never should've talked to us about horcruxes." Tom says, thinking about it more carefully now. "Now that you mention it, he has been keeping himself out of the way. Not his usual congenial self. That's interesting…"

"Makes sense. Wouldn't want the head boy turning you in for talking about something like that." V says, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. A silence builds between them.

"You almost died?" Tom says, unfolding his arms, placing a hand atop hers. "That must've been frightening." He speaks in his customary monotone, a hint of petulant sarcasm playing about his lips.

"Terrifying." She smiles coyly.

"I'm sure you're traumatized right and proper."

"Without a doubt." She laces her fingers through his.

"In need of some comforting, I imagine." He leans closer, planting small kisses up the slope of her neck.

"In the worst way." Her eyes flash, her lips meet his, and the strange tension that had been building between them quickly dissipates. Tom practically leaps on top of her, as though every second spent parted from her had truly been agony, and the reunion the great cleanse, wiping all that unpleasantness from history. A great lust, a powerful, intense longing. She tightens, the sinews of her muscles contracting in excitement, bracing for the impact of his forceful affection. What a brightness in his eyes, a quickness to the breath that is exchanged with hers. He smells the same, so comfortably the same. The fire crackles. Their clothing rustles. Two loud thumps on the wood floor as Tom's shoes are kicked off. Rain pelts the glass hidden behind the thick brocade drapery.