AN: Told you I'd try and update more. Some of you may not like this chapter... However, I thought about the direction I was taking this in for a long time, and I just hope you can trust me! Please review :)


Chapter 26

Two Years Later - 23rd July 1999

Hermione Black was exhausted. She'd been in the gloriously well-equipped potions labs of the Ministry Offices for almost eleven hours, and had only paused in her work once for refreshment, when she'd begun to feel faint. She was so close to a breakthrough. So close that she could hardly bear to leave the laboratory to eat and sleep, and regularly had to be torn away by her colleagues. She knew that she was beginning to look worn. Long weeks of rigorous testing, experimenting and research had left her a little pale. The long, dark robes of the Death Eater uniform had become stifling in the heat of her cauldron fire, and she'd cast it behind her onto a bench. She stood with her messy hair tied haphazardly in a bun, in just a vest and a pair of shorts, her dark mark the only thing giving her pale form colour. At this time of night, there was no one around to see anyway.

"You're wasting away in here, my darling," came a female voice behind her, startling her into almost dropping a vial.

"Mother!" she turned, unable to avoid glaring at the woman for sneaking up on her. Bellatrix Lestrange was leaning against the doorframe, a thoughtful and perhaps concerned expression donning her features. Her mother looked far more put together; wearing her freshly pressed Death Eater uniform with pride, the golden skull pin indicating her supreme rank to all.

Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "You shouldn't allow yourself to become so engrossed that you aren't aware of someone waltzing up to you. Honestly, my girl. I've taught you better."

There was little real admonishment in the scolding as she pushed away from the doorway and approached her daughter. She lay a hand gently on the younger woman's face and tsked audibly.

"When was the last time you saw sunlight, Hermione? You're beginning to look like Snivellus," she said indignantly, moving her child's head from side to side, as if to inspect her for further signs of neglect. Snivellus was a name she had for Severus Snape, another Death Eater and renowned potions master. Of all the names her Mother threw at him in ire, this seemed to bother him the most. "And you're too thin; honestly, you realise you can call the house elves here if you wish."

"It's not good to eat where you brew," Hermione said with a helpless shrug.

"I missed you at the feast tonight," Bellatrix said, carefully. There had been a celebration tonight; a feast to celebrate some ancient rite associated with the Summer Solstice. It had been grand; every one who was anyone had been invited, and the highest ranking Death Eaters and their families had been expected to attend, if only to be gazed at in awe and partake in the ritualism. Hermione should have been there.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Hermione said, flushing slightly. "I'm just so close now! I can feel it, a few more tweaks to the formula and it'll be ready."

Bellatrix sighed, and flashed an indulgent smile that few others had ever been party to. "I know, my sweet, and when it is I imagine the Dark Lord will throw another feast in your honour. However, that doesn't mean I expect you to waste away in some dungeon. Eat, sleep, go for a walk. You're a Black witch! I can only imagine what my Mother would think, her grandchild pale as death, stood in her knickers in a ministry lab," this thought seemed to amuse Bellatrix, and she chuckled to herself. "Actually, I'd pay to see the look on her face."

For several months now Hermione had been working on a potion that would allow a witch or wizards spells to translate into their equivalents in other magical languages. For example, if one cast a reducto at the Arabic equivalent of a protego charm, it would transliterate into the Arabic equivalent upon casting and thus be rendered far more effective. This was a top secret potion that she had begun working on some months before, and was highly complex. Until a few months ago, Hermione would have even said it impossible, but now she was so close she could taste it. It would give the Death Eater army an incredible advantage; especially as, several years later, they were still at a stalemate on the Eastern Front.

"Is my swot of a nephew coming to see you soon? The wedding isn't far off now," Bellatrix said, breaking her from her thoughts before she could continue mentally calculating molar quantities once more.

"Yes," Hermione said, startled at the thought. "Yes, I suppose he is. It was the solstice today so… I suppose he's coming in a few days time."

"You don't sound thrilled," Bellatrix said, raising an eyebrow questioningly. "Are you not as disgustingly besotted as ever with the little twerp?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "We both know how fond you are of him. No, it's not that. I adore Draco. It's just… the wedding. It's only five months away now."

"Are you getting wedding night jitters?" Bellatrix asked, nodding to herself. "It's very simple, my love. You simply grasp like so, and-" Hermione shook her head furiously as her Mother began to give a rather lewd demonstration.

"No, No! No, it's not that. It's just- I- it feels wrong, without Harry..." Hermione looked away, unable to stop her shoulders slumping slightly. Harry had been gone for over two years now. On her worst days, she wondered if he would ever return. Hermione never allowed herself to entertain the idea that the worst had happened; she wouldn't be able to bear that.

Bellatrix sighed, throwing an irritated look at the ceiling. "That boy. When he does return, I'm going to tan his hide."

Hermione was so startled by the mental image that she laughed despite herself, though her eyes were watering with unshed tears. "If he returns..." she said, after a moment.

Bellatrix shook her head. "Harry Potter is a force of nature, damn him. He didn't like it with the Russians so he blew out of town, but he will be back my love. Wherever he is, I'm sure he misses you too, but you can't all stop living because he's gone."

"Harry wouldn't just leave like that, Mum! He knows how much we'd worry, that we'd search for him. He wouldn't do that to us," Hermione protested, pausing even in her worry to stir the cauldron as her wand vibrated indicating five minutes had passed.

"The mind is a complicated thing, Hermione. Harry was very shaken by that witches death, and it sounds like Karkaroff didn't exactly help matters," Bellatrix said this a little darkly. If it were anyone else who had absconded against the Dark Lord's orders, Bellatrix would have been baying for their blood, but she had a well known soft spot for Harry. It helped that Voldemort himself seemed to have little belief that Harry was a traitor, or a desire for his disposal; he'd been tight lipped about it, but Bellatrix believed – and therefore Hermione believed – that the powerful wizard knew more about Harry's disappearance that had been said.

"I hope you're right," Hermione said, distractedly adding the final ingredient. "I just hope Blaise and Draco find something soon. Draco has been somewhat distracted by his finals, but they're both planning some more sweeps of Eastern Europe once he's finished."

The potion was finished. The latest version at least. All the previous attempts had been flops, and though she knew she was close to the answer, she didn't hold out much hope for this version.

"Mum, you know some spells in Arabic or Greek, don't you? Any language you can cast a shield in," Hermione asked. Her testing partners were all probably fast asleep. Bellatrix scoffed and gave her a look that suggested it were insulting she'd suggest otherwise. "Could you go over there and cast one for me. I want to test this batch before I go to bed."

She'd planned to write some notes before she slept. All the failures had failed in different ways, which was positive at least.

Her Mother did as instructed while Hermione ingested the sweet, luminescent blue potion and waited for the tingling feeling in her chest to dissipate.

"Soteria," her Mother cast, a faint yellow light forming a dome around her.

"Expelliarmus," Hermione cast.

And the dome shattered. She was so numb with amazement that she failed to even catch her Mother's wand as it sailed towards her.

"Mum," she said, eyes wide and feeling faint from shock. "It worked."


Duca Blaise Zabini and his beautiful Duchessa were enjoying the night air outside their villa in Tuscany. As they sat on the porch admiring the stars, Blaise had a tender arm around his wife, who was leaning heavily against him; tired from a day of beautiful scenery, good food, and if Blaise did say so himself, spectacular sex.

"I love you," Daphne said sleepily, as she nestled herself into the crook of his arm and draped her legs over his. Fierce and independent as she may be, she loved physical proximity in a way that delighted her husband. "I love you, and I love this place. Sometimes I wish we never had to go back."

Blaise smiled, kissing her forehead and inhaling the delightful scent of her hair; like wildflowers and baking bread, though Daphne Zabini had surely never baked a day in her life. "Alas, darling. I've got to report back east soon, and they surely couldn't miss you in the Ministry," he said, hiding his smug expression.

Blaise was an excellent Death Eater. He was powerful, clever and well connected. Bellatrix had been pleased enough with him to clear him from combat training six months earlier than most, and he'd continued to learn and grow in the field. Nonetheless, he was a pale shadow next to the rising star that was his wife. Daphne had turned out to be quite the clever politician; she worked directly for the Central Authority, in a role that was public relations on paper. In practice, she was a diplomatic genius; she could spin gold from copper and sell it for twice it's worth. These days she spent half her time briefing newspapers, and the other half at the ear of Lucius Malfoy and an assortment of other powerful Death Eaters. Last time he and Draco had been together, he'd joked that they were both to be house husbands, forever in the shadow of their brilliant wives. Draco had not taken the joke quite as well as Blaise had intended it, however.

"I know," she said with a sigh. "They're going to hate it when I have to take time off," she added, sitting up with a curious smile on her face.

"Time off? Do you want another holiday?" he asked with a smile. The week had been glorious after all. Naked swims under full moons, long conversations and laughter, alcohol and dancing and showing all the jealous onlookers what a beautiful bride he had. Having been married now for just over a year, the novelty was yet to wear off.

"I wouldn't call it a holiday, no. It's more the type of time off any woman is entitled to for such a thing," she said this coyly, throwing him a mischievous look. She had emphasised the word 'woman' meaningfully.

"I don't understand," he frowned, feeling as though he were missing something obvious. "What do you-?"

She raised an eyebrow, mocking his slowness, as it dawned on him what she meant. "Are you-?"

She nodded, grinning. "Yes."


Harry Potter was stretched out in the luxurious, bubbly waters of the prefect's bathroom. The heat and steam were doing his aching muscles a world of good, and as he extended his arms and yawned, the book he had been holding dropped unceremoniously from his relaxed grip into the water.

"Oops," he said, fishing it out quickly and dumping the sodden tome onto the side. As he did so, however, the book vanished.

"You know," came the silky voice of Tom Riddle, who had appeared silently at the other side of the room. "If that were one of the real ones, I'd have been most upset."

Tom was wearing a combination of dark jeans and a black polo neck jumper that Harry had imagined into existence quite recently. Or perhaps they'd summoned them; the difference between objects they had summoned into the diary and ones that existed only in Tom's memory blurred together so. The outfit looked very handsome on the young Dark Lord, bringing out the vibrant colour of his penetrating eyes. Harry flashed him a wicked grin.

"And you know how much I hate to draw your ire, my Lord," Harry said, challenging the young man with his eyes. "Where have you been? I was about to grow bored."

Tom rolled his eyes. "And heaven forbid your boredom. I was elsewhere, reading. I occasionally need intelligent companionship, if only in the form of long dead historians," he said, smirking.

Harry splashed him. It was a good splash too, helped along through the considerable distance of the prefect baths by a little wandless magic.

"You've soaked my trousers, Potter!" Tom seethed, throwing a poisonous look with no real heat to it at Harry, who merely flashed an easy smile back.

"Take them off then, Tom," Harry said in a low, playful tone.

Tom shook his head in exasperation, as if tired of Harry's antics. Yet he unzipped the jeans, and fluidly drew them down. He tossed the jeans away into a nearby corner.

Harry splashed him again.

"Harry-!" Tom began, glaring at him properly now.

"Now your shirts wet," Harry said simply, leaning back against the tiled sides, his expression growing more serious. Hungry.

"Indeed?" Tom said. He peeled off the top, revealing the delightfully well-built frame beneath, and stepped into the water via the stairs, not taking his eyes from Harry, who's cheeks had flushed with a combination of heat from the baths and anticipation. Once they were close, Tom seized Harry's chin, his eyes amused.

"You're being awfully irritating today, Potter," Tom said, his own voice had turned wolfish. Playfully predatory.

"Perhaps you should spank me," Harry said seriously, his eyes alight with amusement. Daring.

"Hm," Tom pretended to consider. "Perhaps I should."

Tom moved closer, as graceful in water as a shark, and pinned Harry against the tiled wall with a knee between his legs. "Or perhaps there are other ways to shut you up."

Tom kissed him; rough and soft all at once. As always, Harry was putty in his hands, moaning softly as Tom lightly bit his lip and held his hips possessively. After several minutes of this, they broke apart.

"So-" Harry panted. "You intend to keep me quiet by keeping my mouth busy with kissing?" he asked, his mouth red and bruised in the most wonderful way.

Moving close to his ear, Tom whispered; "I can think of better uses for your mouth."


Somewhat later, Harry lay sated and satisfied, sprawled atop the large four-poster bed Tom and he shared together. His head was resting against Tom's leg, who was still naked but for a small towel, but was now engaged in one of his new books.

The intricacies of the diary realm were still somewhat of a mystery to Harry. The magic was unbelievably complex, and old. It operated partially by a network of wards and charms, partially by blood magic, and partially by an ancient form of magick so old it had developed a k. In academia, they referred to this magic as 'unbound principles'. Magick so old and detached from the present that no one alive understood it. The explanation for how it worked was simply 'by magic'. How unbound principles had become enveloped in a diary realm created by a teenage boy in the 1940's was truly a mystery. Still, Harry understood more now than he had two years prior.

When Harry had first agreed to remain with Tom, their relationship had been…rocky. Harry had been depressed; determined to reach self-destruction as penitence for the accidental murder of a muggleborn witch. Tom had been…Tom. Cold, impatient, passionate, and utterly terrified to feel. The beginning of their sexual relationship had not resolved either of these issues, but instead had added another layer of complication.

Back then, they'd sleep together. Tom would be rough, dominating; magnificent in the act. It would always be quick; all pulled hair, bruised mouths and eager hands. As soon as it was over, Tom would always disappear for several hours. When he came back, he'd always be cold for a time; distant. Quick with his wand. Harry had been in no state to deal with it diplomatically. One day, whilst Tom had been pushing his legs apart and pushing him hard against the wall of the empty common room, Harry had sought to reverse the power dynamic. He'd caught Tom by the neck, and reversed their positions, pushing him to the wall playfully. The result had been far from playful, however, when Tom had blasted him away with a crack of raw magic so powerful that it had sent Harry careening to the opposite side of the room, and swiftly stormed away.

Later that night, Harry had approached Tom in the common room and prepared for a conversation that may very well end in his untimely and messy death. Tom was pretending to ignore him while making notes from some obscure potions textbook, when Harry began.

"It was a muggle, wasn't it?" Harry began, his tone profoundly serious.

Tom had flashed him an irritated, guarded look. "What? What was a muggle?"

"Someone hurt you, hurt you badly. It was a muggle, wasn't it?" he'd asked again, his tone level.

Tom had almost snarled. "You think I, Lord Voldemort, could be hurt by some muggle? I don't know what you're talking about, but you're obviously more addled than usual."

"I think anyone, no matter how powerful, were once helpless children," he said, simply.

"Fuck off, Potter!" Tom said, fingering his wand maliciously. "I don't know what you're talking about, or care to."

"You know, Tom, if I'm meant to trust you to 'put me back together', it might help if you trusted me too. I'm here because I'm loyal to you," he offered.

"You're here to hide from the world," Tom spat, bitterly.

"So are you," Harry responded simply.

He'd left it alone at that, and Tom's coldness eventually thawed. For long months, they never discussed it, until one day, whilst sat on the plush sofas together, Tom had simply said;

"If there was anyone, then they are dead now and have been for a long, long time," Tom said simply.

"Did you ever tell anyone?" Harry asked softly, as though to speak any louder might break the moment, might startle Tom back into recalcitrance.

"Of course not," Tom said bitterly. "No one would have believed me, and even if they had, they'd have thought less of me for it."

"What about when you got to Hogwarts?"

"That would have been even worse. Bad enough to be a half-blood orphan in Slytherin, but to have…have that blemish too? No. I disposed of him at the end of my second year, and then I forgot all about it," Tom said, agitated.

Harry nodded. "There was a man in our orphanage, a wizard that… that... 'hurt' a young girl there."
Tom, who was still pointedly avoiding eye contact. "Oh?"

"You- Your older self, I mean. Well, you had him flayed alive. The girl had the best mind healers in the country. She's Captain of the Hollyhead Harpies now."

"Good," Tom said briskly. "Now, talk about something else for Salazars sake."

And so they had. Over time, Tom had opened up to him more. Oftentimes it was Harry that just talked and talked; he told Tom about his friends, his childhood, his hopes and dreams. Over time he told him things that were more and more secret; about Michael, about his feelings on the muggle world, on their relationship with muggleborns, his curiosity about the resistance. These discussions would devolve into arguments often, but fundamentally they were equals, and debate was the only consequence for his controversial thoughts in this world.

Tom in turn told Harry more and more about his childhood. About the hunger; the terrible poverty, and their ill treatment at the hands of poorly paid staff. He talked about going back to the orphanage during the blitz and not being allowed to use his wand, even to remove rubble that had buried a nearby primary school. He talked about Hogwarts; Slytherin, and the prejudice he had faced as a first year boy. How ruthless he'd had to be to establish himself; how much he'd had to be better than everyone else to gain a shred of respect. After over a year together, Tom had finally told Harry about the Horcruxes. Not only did it shed light on a great deal of mystery surrounding Voldemort for Harry, but it helped explain the diary. Tom was a piece of Voldemort's soul, animated inside a diary. Tom had grown far more powerful as a horcrux in the time he'd known Harry, by siphoning away the excess magic Harry produced. Similarly, Harry realised of his own accord that the locket was another horcrux, that functioned the same way. Tom confessed that having Harry wearing the locket inside the diary had effectively reinforced his power; allowed him to more easily construct the magic for this realm, to summon objects from the outside, etc.

Over two years together and they had become lovers and friends; fiercely loyal to one another. Tom taught Harry more magical theory than he had ever thought possible. He also taught Harry how to fight like a muggle, in a series of sparring sessions that always ended in what was most certainly not 'fighting'. Harry taught Tom about fiction, taught him jokes and how to be at ease, how to laugh. Tom once told him that Harry was the first person he'd truly relaxed around, for he was the first person 'utterly without guile'. Still, for all that, they weren't in love.

There were times when he thought they could be. When Tom laughed, really laughed, it took Harry's breath away. When they spent hours arguing, growing so heated that he wanted to tear his head and clothes off in equal measure. When Tom was a patient teacher; when he confided in him. Those rare, perfect moments of vulnerability. In those moments, Harry thought he could love him. May already love him. However, there was always something missing. Something muted. Tom Riddle wasn't properly a person, not really, and he knew it. What's more, he would never grow up. Tom Riddle would be 16 forever, and Harry Potter was rapidly approaching his nineteenth birthday.

Tom wasn't unaware of Harry's feelings. Only weeks ago, while they lay in the dark with Harry resting on Tom's chest, listening to his heartbeat, Tom had spoken.

"I could have loved you, you know. Before. Before I was this," he'd said, softly.

Harry had sighed against his skin. "I know. I think I could have loved you too. Is it the horcruxes?"

Tom had shaken his head. "I don't think so. I think it's the nature of the diary; this version of me, it can't truly change. People change when they interact with each other, when things happen to them. I'm just… stuck. I'll always be who I am. I will always be the sixteen year old memory of Tom Riddle; not Tom Riddle himself."

Harry had made a noise of understanding and neither of them had mentioned it again. Somehow however, they both knew that this was the beginning of the end. Harry had entered the diary a frail sixteen year old boy determined to tear himself apart; he left a well-fed, physically and mentally fit almost-nineteen year old with a new retinue of magic and a better understanding of the world around him, and the man that ruled it. It was almost time for him to go home.

Back in the present, Harry had finally made a decision.

"Tom," he began.

"Mm?" Tom replied.

"It's time for me to go," Harry said, calmly.

Tom stilled imperceptibly. Harry knew his movement and his every inflection by now. "Yes, I suppose it is," he said finally, voice tight. Harry leaving would be back to an eternity of loneliness for Tom.

"So I was thinking," Harry sat up, looking at him intently. "I want your help with something."

Tom gave him a questioning look; evidently still absorbing the news to the point that he couldn't even properly mock Harry.

"I want you to help me make a Horcrux."

"What?" Tom asked, frowning.

"I can make a horcrux, and that horcrux can live in the provably secure location of… the diary of Tom Riddle."

"Do you even know what you're suggesting? What it requires? What it means to live forever?" he asked, obviously reeling.

"Let's not grow old together."


31st July 1999

Draco Malfoy sat with his arm around his fiancée in one of the many sitting rooms of Malfoy Manor. In front of him, in a similarly cosy position was his best friend Blaise with his beautiful wife, Daphne. They, along with Theodore Nott, were having a subdued drink together. All of them were aware of the significance of the date, but none of them mentioned it.

"A toast," Blaise said after a long pause in conversation, lifting his glass of Ogden's finest. "To our dear Draco, on his potions mastership."
Draco smiled, not uncomfortable with praise and attention. He had, after all, been raised to expect it.

"And a whole six months earlier than expected, too," said Hermione. She smiled fondly at him, and Draco was relieved to see the fatigue she'd been wearing in her features had faded in recent weeks.

"And to Hermione," Daphne said, grinning, lifting her own glass of lemonade. "For whatever secret project had the higher ups all in a dither this afternoon."

Hermione blushed a little. She hadn't been able to tell her friends all the details; not yet. They knew it was something she had invented for the war effort, however, and that it was significant. Draco knew, of course. They kept no secrets.

"To Theo," Draco said, jumping in on the game, "who is off to travel the world and find himself, and hopefully finally get himself a girlfriend."

Theodore grinned, and rolled his eyes. Theo had a different girlfriend every week, hence the amusement.

"To Daphne," Hermione said, who was now a little tipsy. "Who will surely perfect motherhood in the same way she does all else."

Daphne smiled, her eyes a little watery at that. She and Hermione had grown rather close in recent years, brought together by their respective partners and finding each other to be intelligent, witty and loyal. It was a wonder they had never been close in school.

Another long moment followed, before Theo finally added; "to absent friends."

They all drank, and said nothing.

An hour or so later, once they were all – with the exception of Daphne – a little drunk, they'd begun to play cards and chat amicably about their respective work. It was quiet enough that when the door banged open behind them, it startled them all to their feet, their wands drawn.

Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway, having clearly rushed to the room from some other part of the manor. He almost looked out of breath, though Draco couldn't recall ever seeing his Father run.

"I thought I should let you all know immediately," he said, his expression profoundly serious. "Harry Potter has been found."


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