Notes:

First, this story has been published under the same username on AO3. It is complete on that site at 414k words, so feel free to hop over there to read it :) I'm currently re-reading and editing the chapters, posting them here as I go along, so the update schedule here will be pretty quick if you prefer to read on .

The original notes on AO3:

This is for Vickironica (now VoidRealmer) who has started a lovely Slave!Tom fic called Poetic Justice. Reading her fic made a plot idea which had just been a vague plot bunny turn into 27,000+ words :) If you haven't read that one, definitely do! The Last Resort by Atheraa is another inspiration and worth a read. I think mine has a different feel about it, but if you see some similarities, that's why!

In terms of relationships, I love Harry/Tom pairings, but at this point can't see it happening in this fic, not with the setup I've used. This might change later if I can see a way to bring them together into a somewhat healthy relationship, but we'll see.

NB, as of Part 3, it's confirmed to be a Tomarry pairing :D

Also, as a warning, I am inclined to leave extremely long gaps between writing my stories (usually I simply don't post them until they're finished which has only happened once), so don't be surprised if that happens here. At this point, I have some ideas of events I'd like to include later down the line, but no idea of how to get to them. Any suggestions you'd like to give of where this story might go would be welcomed and might make me write faster!

Lastly, if you want to read the slave-owners guidebook they keep mentioning, I'll be uploading that as part of the same series for your delection and delight ;)

So, enjoy reading, and I'd love to know what you think!

Please note that the slave-owner's guidebook is currently up on AO3 along with another companion piece for later in the story. At the moment I have no intention of cross-posting that here.

Part 1

The moment had finally arrived. In the midst of the battle, Harry had seen the snake die and that was his cue. Moving quickly through the combatants, spells flying everywhere, Harry made his way to the centre of the morass, towards his target. There was Voldemort, flinging green and red spells around like knuts. Before his enemy could see, and therefore cast a spell at him, he cast a sonorous and spoke, imbuing his words with all the magic he could muster. Hopefully his friends would guard his back as they had agreed or this could be a very short and messy final gamble.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," he boomed, his words momentarily making both enemy and friend alike pause. "I call on you to face judgement for your crimes. I beseech Lady Magic to hear my call and pray that she may judge if my cause is worthy." There was a waiting silence like the world was holding its breath…and then all Harry could see was white.

Everything was white. Everything. Even Harry himself – when he looked down, all he could see was more white. Then the white changed slightly, becoming more intense in one area and less in the rest of the place. The greater intensity grew until Harry felt like he needed to cover his eyes, but for some reason his arm wasn't responding. Then it seemed to take a shape, but couldn't seem to decide which shape. At one moment Harry was sure it looked like a unicorn, the next he was equally certain there were wings and a long tail. He gave up on trying to make sense of the shifting light when a voice entered his mind, not as if he was hearing with his ears, but as if the thoughts were directly inserted into his brain.

"Who calls on me for judgement?"

"I do, Lady Magic," Harry replied without any doubt that this was indeed the being he had called upon.

"And do you understand the consequences if I should consider your accusations groundless?" Harry had done his research and was fully aware of what he was risking with this.

"Yes, my Lady."

"Then on what grounds do you make your accusations?"

"On the grounds that Tom Marvolo Riddle, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort is torturing and killing those to whom you have given your gift of magic. He has a vendetta against those born of the magic-less and anyone who seeks to prevent him becoming ruler of Wizarding Britain. If his plans were allowed to come to fruition, he would destroy the British Wizarding world within a generation as he exterminated all but his most loyal supporters. He seeks to enslave all, binding us to him with chains of servitude unless we wish to die. He has even mutilated his own soul for the purpose of ensuring his immortality. We who have suffered under his reign, fought and died to prevent him, call out for justice." Harry fell silent, the words which had seemed to be pulled from his soul finally running out. There was a beat of silence and then the brightness flared.

"These are grave accusations, child of mine," Her voice boomed forebodingly. "I call on Tom Marvolo Riddle to appear before me." Just like that, Voldemort was there. No flash of light, no noise. Just one moment he wasn't there, and the next he was. He looked around wildly and then spotted Harry.

"Potter!" he hissed, his eyes flaring with fury. "What have you done now, boy?!" Harry found himself unable to reply, his voice stolen in order to allow Lady Magic her space.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, you have been summoned before me to face accusations most grave…and I can See immediately that at least some are true." Suddenly, Voldemort seemed to recognise the most powerful being in the 'room'.

"What is this?" he hissed. "Who are you?" His voice had gone higher and his eyes widened as his nose holes flared.

"Do you not recognise me, child of mine?" She asked, a hint of sadness in Her tone.

"Fairy tales – superstitions for the weak-minded," he declared, the faintest traces of fear appearing in his tone.

"Why have you wreaked havoc on my children, Tom Marvolo Riddle?" Lady Magic asked, all sadness gone with steel as its replacement. A hint of cunning crept over Voldemort's face.

"Vermin are to be exterminated with prejudice. Those coming from families without magic taint the Wizarding World and will destroy it."

"You do not truly believe that," There was no doubt in Her voice. "Tell the truth of your motivations," She commanded. Voldemort seemed to trip over his words, what he had obviously intended to say being transformed into the truth - his look of horror as the words poured out was clear enough evidence.

"As the strongest and most powerful wizard, I deserve to rule. Promising to exterminate the mudbloods gave me enough following within the ranks of the purebloods to build my power base and rise to ruler of the Wizarding world." A look of fury covered his face and he lifted his wand to cast a spell but, to no one's surprise but his, it failed.

"I have heard enough," Lady Magic declared, her voice ringing like a bell. "Harry Potter has summoned me to dispense justice. Deeming his accusations true and his motivations pure, I will do so. Tom Marvolo Riddle, as you have done and desired done, so shall it be done to you. You desired to enslave others and mould them to your will, and thus you shall be enslaved and moulded. Your followers followed you in greed for power and blood, and thus they shall follow you in punishment. Yet, you cannot face this punishment as a fragment. So I call on the parts of your soul that you have broken away to re-join and be whole." With that pronouncement, the brightness all around increased in intensity as Voldemort began to scream. The light grew until it was physically painful, and then Harry knew no more.

XXX

Voices. He couldn't understand what they were saying, nor was he sure why it mattered. Then he surfaced slightly more, and he began to recognise the familiar sound of Madame Pomfrey's stern tones. Huh. Was he in the Hospital wing? But how could he be at Hogwarts? He had been at Grimmauld Place, hadn't he? Or was it the tent? Then his memories filtered back and he recalled infiltrating Hogwarts to reclaim it from the Death Eaters, the desperate battle, and then the appearance of Voldemort which had tipped the fight against them. He remembered using the ritual Hermione had found, citing it as a last resort at the time due to its potentially severe consequences. But he was alive, so it must have worked…hadn't it?

Opening his eyes, he squinted against the brightness of the room which was confirmed to be the Hogwarts' Hospital wing. Fortunately, he didn't need glasses – they had got his eyes fixed the muggle way after one too many times of being half-blind in the middle of the battle and almost dying – so he was able to see that the place was almost empty. Not what he would have expected from a room dedicated to healing directly after a battle….

"Ah, Mr Potter! You're awake." The matron had noticed his eyes were open and quickly bustled over to start taking readings from him. "Everyone will be very relieved. It was a bit touch and go for a while with your magic levels – for a short time there we were worried you might wake up a squib!" Harry's eyes went wide at the thought and he quickly cast lumos wandlessly to make sure he still could. His heart slowed from its sudden pounding when the light shone from his index finger tip as usual.

"Madame, you almost gave me a heart attack!" he gasped, only half-joking. She tutted.

"Well, you gave the rest of us more than one in the last few days due to that little escapade of yours, so I'd say it's justified." Harry frowned, one part of her response catching his attention.

"Few days?" Madame Pomfrey paused her spell-casting to look at him steadily.

"Yes, Mr Potter. You've been unconscious for almost two weeks now." Two weeks?! He'd never been unconscious for that long before!

"W-what happened?" he asked, his words falling over themselves in his shock. She raised an eyebrow at him and put her hands on her hips.

"Complete magical exhaustion is what happened, Mr Potter. Whatever stunt you did that won the battle, and the war with it, also drained every drop of magic out of your body. When I said you've given us a few heart attacks over the last few days, I meant it. We weren't even certain you would survive for the first twenty-four hours, and then when your magic didn't start returning, we thought the experience had damaged your channels irreparably. Then it began returning two days ago, so we decided you would probably be alright." She gave him a rare smile as she returned to her work. "I think your usual luck may have played its part." Harry sighed.

"Yes, I know – the bad luck to get into the situation, but the good luck to get out of it with minimal trauma," he groused. He was silent for a few moments to get his thoughts together. "What happened while I was…unconscious?" Madame Pomfrey paused once more, hesitating.

"I'll…let the Minister explain that." And that wasn't ominous at all. Starting to worry slightly, his thoughts showing him one possibility after another – Moody and Bill's training in worst case scenarios being rather unhelpful for once – he waited for the mediwitch to finish her work. Upon doing so and pronouncing him well enough to have visitors, she opened the doors to the Hospital wing.

This was revealed to be the source of the voices he had heard while surfacing. A whole crowd of people were clustered outside and Harry had the sneaky suspicion they were waiting for him…a suspicion which was confirmed when all of them started shouting and gesticulating as soon as they saw he was awake and sitting up. Fortunately, Madame Pomfrey was as stern and foreboding as usual, only allowing three familiar faces through.

Ron and Hermione were two of them, of course, and Harry felt a wave of relief crash through him at the continued presence of his friends. He was soon wrapped in a Hermione-hug and the recipient of Ron's friendly, though somewhat too exuberant back-pats.

"Didn't I tell you he'd get through this, Hermione? Didn't I tell you!" Harry's red-headed friend said with unconcealed relief in his voice. Hermione, on the other hand, clearly wasn't listening to a word.

"I thought we'd lost you," she whisper-sobbed in his ear. "Trying that stupid, stupid ritual I found."

"It's OK," Harry murmured, at a loss as he shared a look with his best male friend. Ron mouthed at him 'mad, I tell you' and Harry grinned. The war hadn't taken everything away from them, then.

By the time Hermione was pulling away, wiping at her eyes and snuggling into Ron for a sideways hug, Harry had realised who the third person was in the room.

"Kingsley?" he said with slight surprise. Not exactly the person he might have expected to see. Though, apart from Ron and Hermione, he wasn't sure who he would otherwise have expected. The man nodded at him in acknowledgement.

"Harry, feeling better, I see." The green-eyed man smiled wryly.

"Given that I've been unconscious, I haven't exactly been feeling anything much." The man grinned back, though the troubled look in his eyes didn't go.

"I suppose not. Mr Potter...Harry…What do you remember last?" Harry paused, examining him carefully.

"I cast the Ritual of Justice," he said slowly. Kingsley looked at him intently.

"And what can you remember of your experience after casting the ritual?" Harry sighed and then gave a quick account of meeting Lady Magic, the 'trial' and the judgement. Those few in earshot, Madame Pomfrey included, listened carefully without interrupting. When he finished, Kingsley leant back in his visitor's chair.

"Hmm, well that explains a few things. It looks like the Unspeakables were right…" he trailed off as his gaze went distant.

"Kingsley?" Harry asked to prompt him.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes, I suppose you don't know about what happened after the battle. Unless Madame Pomfrey…?" he trailed off again and the woman shook her head.

"No, Minister. I told him you'd inform him about what happened." Harry's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Minister? Minister for Magic?" The dark-skinned man looked slightly embarrassed.

"Well, there wasn't much choice. What with most of the department heads either having been killed, fled or…well, incapacitated, I was the highest ranked member of the Auror department still around and, apart from Arthur, the highest ranked in the Ministry, full stop! In fact, I am interim Minister for the next six months – just enough time to start sorting out this mess and organise a proper election. Though that's going to be a mess in and of itself with, well, with everything that's happened."

"Which is what, Kingsley?" Harry asked, his tone slightly sharp at the man's frequent evasions. His erstwhile mentor eyed him and then sighed.

"The consequences of your Ritual of Justice have been…wide-ranging. Everyone, and yes, I mean everyone who followed Voldemort has been affected, marked or not. And that…is a significantly bigger number than anyone expected."

"Kingsley!" Harry half-shouted in his exasperation. "Would you just spit it out?! What. Happened?"

"They were enslaved," the man finally said bluntly, looking Harry directly in the eye. Ron and Hermione were like statues on one side of him.

"…What?" Harry asked, sure he had misheard.

"From what we can tell, everyone who ever supported Voldemort's actions was struck unconscious at the same time, healed and then woke up with a collar around their necks. Including Voldemort." Harry swallowed dryly at the thought.

"He-he can't have been happy at that," Harry said, trying to keep his voice level as his mind ran through scenarios with Voldemort waking up with a collar around his neck, each one resulting in more bloody situations than the last. Kingsley grinned wryly at him, but this time Harry saw an unfamiliar emotion lighting his eyes.

"No, he wasn't." Harry frowned. It didn't look like Kingsley was mourning more dead, but then…

"What happened?" he asked again.

"It was bloody brilliant, mate!" Ron broke in, seemingly unable to keep it back. "The bloody tosser couldn't cast a thing! Heck, as soon as he tried, he ended up screaming in pain and collapsing to the ground and blacking out."

"Ron!" Hermione scolded. "I know it's Voldemort we're talking about, but even so, it's not nice to revel in someone's pain."

"Indeed," Kingsley said dryly, taking back control of the conversation. "That was the first clue. The second was when none of the Death Eaters were able to leave the building. We were all a bit flummoxed for a while – no one really knew what to do. The Death Eaters couldn't attack anyone, not magically and not physically – they learnt quickly that trying was a quick way to suffer debilitating pain until it drove them unconscious. Next, more people started arriving, more people with collars around their necks. They started popping into the hall. At first we thought it was another invasion, but it became clear that they hadn't come by their own volition."

"Yeah, one guy arrived in the nude, covered in soap suds," Ron broke in again, ignoring Kingsley's mock-glare. Harry had to grin at the image created.

"As I was saying," the interim Minister emphasised, "those were the first clues that something strange was happening. So we got the Unspeakables in. It was them that recognised the collars, or at least the magic in the collars. Slavery…well, it isn't practised in the Wizarding world now, well, the British Wizarding world at least -"

"Except for house elves," interjected Hermione, fixing Kingsley with a familiar gimlet stare.

"- on humans," the man clarified. "But it used to be. It's not so long ago that convicted criminals were sentenced to a number of years of slavery, rather than prison time. From your tale, it looks like Lady Magic has decided to revive the punishment." Harry thought about it. It was pretty horrifying to be sure…but how was this any different from prison? In fact, wouldn't the Death Eaters be better off in a home than in a dementor-infested prison?

"Why did the law change?" he asked quietly. Kingsley raised an eyebrow.

"Not the question I thought you'd ask. In short, it was seen as…kinder."

"With the dementors?" Harry asked in disbelief. Kingsley shrugged.

"When I say slavery, I mean it. Not indentured servitude which this might otherwise be similar to. While under sentence, there are only two limits to the master's power – he or she must not kill the slave and there must be no physical damage done that would impede the slave's mobility permanently. Everything else goes." Harry took a moment to think about that and suddenly felt sick. His short life had been all too filled with the knowledge of what people would do to each other given half a chance – the atrocities he had encountered over the past two years on the run a large part of his understanding.

"How-how long?" he asked with a dry mouth. Kingsley looked at him in confusion. "How long are the sentences?" he clarified.

"Ah. Well, that changes from person to person. There is a number on each collar which the Unspeakables have suggested are the length of the sentence. From various evidence…it appears to be the length of time spent as a loyal supporter. Bellatrix, for example, has 38 written on her collar, commonly believed to mean 38 years. Severus, however, has a number 2." Harry jerked bolt upright.

"Snape's been affected? But he was on our side!" Although the man had killed Dumbledore at the end of Harry's sixth year, it had been revealed that he was a double agent three months before the final battle. In fact, his forced departure from Hogwarts had been one of the things that prompted the invasion – with him gone, it had been clear to see his effect on reining in the other Death Eaters. Without the headmaster in place, the brutality the students faced on a daily basis had sky-rocketed.

"I know, Harry," Kingsley replied, the regret clearly in his voice. "But evidently his time as a loyal supporter stands against him. I've decided to buy him ahead of the general auction in order to be sure he will be spared the brutality likely facing the other supporters during their sentences."

"But, Kingsley," Hermione started. "Can't you just change those laws as Minister? Make sure the…slaves…have basic human rights at least?" The Minister shook his head.

"Unfortunately, the magic was enacted according to the old laws, the ones which haven't changed since the eighteenth century. Plus, with the Ministry in the state it is thanks to the war, I'm not even sure we would be able to police it, even if we could change the laws."

"But-"

"No, Hermione," his tone wasn't angry, but it was final. "Frankly, my efforts for the next few months are going to be solely aimed at rebuilding the society that they have done their best to tear down. I do not have the time, nor do I really have the sympathy to invest energy in improving the lots of people who, in many cases, have ruined the lives of others, torturing, raping, and murdering."

"What about those who didn't take part in raids? Who gave information or helped the Ministry chase down muggleborns? Have they been spared or are they affected too?" Kingsley sighed and ran a hand over his bald head.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "Most of those enslaved have been those who either took part in the raids or, like Umbridge, persecuted muggleborns under Voldemort's direction. It's not clear if those who were just…following orders…have been enslaved – we're still processing them all."

"You said Umbridge?" Harry asked with a certain amount of glee that Hermione smacked his shoulder for, though he could tell from the hint of a smile at the corner of her lips that she wasn't all that displeased at the knowledge.

"Yes, sentenced for twenty years," Kingsley confirmed. "Why, do you want to place a bid?" Harry made a face.

"And spend more time with her? No thanks!" He continued more seriously. "A bid, Kingsley? You're really selling them?" The man shrugged.

"Historically, that's what happened. Well, historically, it wasn't an open auction – the prices were set according to the number of years of sentence, but honestly? The Ministry needs the money. There is so much that needs to be rebuilt, or rethought. The years under Voldemort were just the tip of the iceberg – Fudge's mixture of incompetence and corruption which flourished during the last decade and a half, due in no small part to Lucius Malfoy's pockets, has caused major problems. If we don't raise money with the sale of Voldemort's supporters, we'd have to raise taxes a huge amount – and that would end up causing us more problems when the common people revolted. It seems rather…poetic justice that the ones who caused the problems raise the money to solve them." Harry raised an eyebrow.

"If it's all so dire, Kingsley, who will have the money to buy them?" The man grinned.

"This is the best part. I heard yesterday that the vaults of all those enslaved have been liquidated and paid out in part to the family, if the slave has dependant family members who were not also Voldemort supporters, and then to those the person had most affected. I asked Gringotts about it because Neville came to me saying he had had a huge sum paid out to him from the vaults of the Lestranges. So, in fact they might be bought by their own money!"

Harry thought about the whole situation and in the end simply shrugged. In a way, Kingsley was right. In fact, taken in strictly logical terms, even if they threw all the…slaves in Azkaban, it would cost money to pay for their care and guards. This way…well, in the end, it didn't look like there was any way of changing what had happened. And Lady Magic had surely only directly punished those at fault – if the information about the vaults was true, She had even considered the families who might be left without their major bread-winner. In fact, as he thought about it, he realised how beneficial this would be to their society.

If he had just killed Voldemort , succeeding in capturing the Death Eaters in the room perhaps, they would still have had to spend months working out who among the Ministry had been marked, let alone the general population or those who hadn't been marked but who would continue spreading the poison of the Death Eaters' beliefs. This…well, it had taken care of months of hard work. The idea of slavery was uncomfortable for Harry, to say the least, especially when considering what he had been fighting for. But when balanced against the other possibilities, it came off as the lesser evil, in Harry's opinion. There was nothing saying he had to personally buy a slave, and he didn't even intend to go to the auction, but standing by and letting it happen? Yes, he could do that.

"So what now?" he asked Kingsley after gathering his thoughts.

"Now? In terms of the Death Eaters? Or for us?" Harry shrugged.

"Either? Both?" He wasn't sure himself what he was asking. Kingsley looked at him searchingly for a moment and then spoke.

"Well, for the Death Eaters, they are being interrogated to find out their crimes, in case there are names of people who haven't been enslaved, but need surveillance. Then they will have some basic training in slave behaviour according to the 1786 guidebook – the most up to date version, if you'll believe it. The auction is being arranged for three months from now, to give us some time to do all of this. For us? Well, for me, it's back to the Ministry and work. For you…" He paused and then leaned in, his eyes intense. "Harry, I strongly suggest you take some time to rest and recuperate. You and your friends have been fighting harder than any of us here in a war that should never have been yours. You're still barely more than children, for Merlin's sake. Rest, consider whether you want to finish your education and where you want to take your careers. Mourn those who have fallen. Regain a sense of normality." He patted Harry's leg, stood and walked towards the door. A few feet away from it, he paused and turned back.

"Though, Harry? You will be getting an award which you're not allowed to turn down…. And I would really suggest you give at least one reporter an interview – they'll all be hounding you otherwise, now that you're the Man-Who-Conquered." The clamouring of the people outside, that rose as Kingsley opened the door, covered the groan which Harry whole-heartedly gave voice to.

XXX

The next three months seemed to fly by in a haze of funerals, memorials and rebuilding. Harry couldn't count the number of times he had cried as another classmate or Order member was put to rest, nor the number of glasses he had raised to the dead. Of course, some families had already had their funerals before he had woken up – Harry didn't blame them for not wanting to wait indefinitely for him to recover. For those, they had a big collative wake where everyone got completely drunk as they told stories about the fallen and about the war.

To distract himself from all of the sadness and gut-rending guilt, Harry threw himself into rebuilding Hogwarts. He relished the opportunity to spend time learning spells that rebuilt, rather than demolished; created, rather than destroyed. He helped with the physical clearing of rubble, the levitating into place of new stone blocks, the re-enchanting of areas that had been damaged or destroyed over the last two years. He had also helped to completely remodel the rooms where students had been tortured, leaving no remnant to remind those who had suffered of what had occurred.

And then it was done, and Harry was left feeling adrift.

What next?

It was the question he asked himself as he sat at a table in the pub, surrounded by Order members as they saluted Dedalus Diggle, Order member and victim of the Hogwarts Battle, for all that he'd only died a week ago – he had been sent into a coma by a spell during the battle, a coma from which he had never recovered. Harry hoped desperately that this would be the final memorial he would have to visit for a while. Surely…surely now they could have some peace?

But to do what?

He could go back to Hogwarts. Minerva had offered a correspondence-style course for the 'eighth-years' where it was mostly self-study with a weekly tutorial session with each course tutor. It was supposed to allow them to start in a job and get their NEWTs at the same time. But Harry didn't have a job. Sure, he had lots of options – Kingsley had already sent several pointed letters saying that the Aurors would welcome him, with or without NEWTs. Or failing that, he could take headship in almost any Ministry department he wanted. Minerva had offered him a post at Hogwarts teaching Defence, basing the offer on his experience teaching the DA. As for the flood of letters he'd had from a whole variety of people he didn't know, offering him a job just so they could say they were employing the Man-Who-Conquered…well, the less said, the better in Harry's opinion. But…none of them called to Harry.

He'd had enough of hunting Dark Wizards, much as his skill set was suited to it. Head of a Ministry department was even more definitely a 'no' – he'd always had a wary relationship with the Ministry and didn't see that changing, despite its new leadership. No, politics was not for him. As for teaching…maybe later. Right now, he'd feel as much a fraud as Lockhart.

It wasn't even as if he needed a job. Not only had he inherited enough from his parents to keep him comfortable for a good few years, but he'd also been the beneficiary of a large sum of money from the enslaved Death Eaters. From what the goblins had said, most of that was from Voldemort himself, but he'd also received bits from other Death Eaters like Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy. Sure, he'd had to pay almost half of what he received to the goblins in blood-money for the damage and destruction he'd caused while on the horcrux hunt, but it still left plenty for him to live off – it's not like he lived lavishly, after all.

No, Harry was lost. He let his gaze wander around the room. It alighted on one of his best friends who was listening to a story about the deceased. Hermione had gone into the Ministry, accepting Kingsley's offer to run the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Being the usual over-achiever she was, she had taken the NEWTs as soon as the Ministry had started offering them again, and was now doing a part-time post-graduate degree with the International Magical University, by correspondence, of course.

As for Ron, he thought as he saw his other best friend, inevitably next to his girlfriend, the red-head had in a somewhat surprising turn of events decided to follow his elder brother's footsteps and become a curse-breaker. It appeared that their time horcrux-searching had made a significant impression on him. Of course, his school history hadn't been quite up to scratch, even notwithstanding the complicated last two years, at least one of which should have been spent at school, so he'd been scrambling during the last couple of months to try to catch up and get started with Arithmancy and Ancient Runes – apparently both courses were essential for curse-breaking… Harry wished him luck, while secretly envying that at least he knew what to do with his life, even if it looked to be a long, hard slog to get there.

Frankly, all Harry could say he was doing was renovating Grimmauld Place. Though, to be fair, that was a bit of a job all by itself – the years of being inhabited by a dark family and then neglected had not been kind to the building. Though he was quite proud that at least the ground floor was looking much more welcoming. He hadn't even begun to tackle the garden though – he suspected he would have to get some expert advice on that.

About to go over to Neville for the expert advice, his attention was caught by a conversation happening on a nearby table.

"Why didn't you bring Severus along?" Arthur asked Kingsley. "He was as much a part of the Order as any of us." He sounded accusing, though Harry wasn't sure why. Kingsley sighed and ran a hand over his face.

"Would you want to come?" Kingsley asked in return. "Would you want to parade amongst those who hold you in respect, as a slave?" Oh. That was why. Arthur, however, still looked confused.

"But he knows we wouldn't expect him to behave like one, doesn't he? I mean, you don't expect him to do it at home…do you?" Having started off sounding completely convinced, Arthur ended up trailing off questioningly. Harry was rather interested in the answer himself, remembering that Kingsley had said he was going to take Snape to protect him. Kingsley just sighed again and let the silence linger for a moment between them before replying.

"It's not as simple as that, Arthur. The collar is not just a simple symbol – it's an active behaviour enforcer."

"You mean…?"

"Yes. Now, ask yourself, would you want to come and be faced with the choice of either behaving like a slave or being in constant pain? I gave him the choice; he chose not to come. That and claiming him before the auction tomorrow was the best I could do for him." There was silence for a few moments more and then the men resumed talking, but seemed to have mutually agreed to change the subject.

Harry, however, tuned out as his thoughts took him towards the people who had caused all this pain and misery. Snape aside – in Harry's opinion, he had already worked off his time as a Death Eater in the years spent as a spy, risking life and limb – he suddenly found himself glad for the punishment Lady Magic had levied. Sure, it was extreme, but as he sat here, surrounded by people who had spent the last three months mourning those who had died because of those bastards, those who were permanently scarred by the fighting…well, it only seemed right.

After all, look at what happened after the first war. Sure, some of the worst had gone to Azkaban, but rot like Malfoy had been left to spread and set up what had happened during the second war. This way…well, with any luck, when they were released from the punishment, they would be no danger to anyone.

XXX

After that, Harry gave little mind to the Death Eaters turned slaves. At least, he didn't until Kingsley asked him to come to the Ministry two weeks later.

"Harry," Kingsley smiled, coming forward to shake his hand.

"Kingsley," greeted Harry in return. "Don't tell me you're going to give me a job offer as an Auror again…" Kingsley shook his head.

"No, though it's still there if you want it… Sure I can't tempt you to become a department head?" he finished hopefully. Harry grinned wryly at him.

"The answer hasn't changed since the last time." The man shrugged.

"Too bad. We're slowly filling up the empty spaces, but it's difficult to find people we trust." The man's expression turned more serious. "No, we've had a different problem that, according to the Unspeakables, you may be involved in."

"I swear I haven't blown up anything recently," Harry half-joked and got a half-smile in response.

"Don't worry, you're not in trouble," Kingsley reassured him and Harry found something loosen in him, despite the slightly joking tone. He'd had far too many bad experiences in this building to be completely relaxed.

The next moment, he was tense again, his wand flying into his hand as three figures entered the room, one far too familiar for his comfort.

"What is he doing here?!" Harry demanded, only sparing Kingsley the attention because he saw Voldemort was in chains. One of the Aurors escorting him in forcefully shoved him to his knees in front of Harry and Kingsley. The erstwhile Dark Lord's head was lowered, but Harry caught a furious twist at the corner of his mouth revealing his feelings towards the treatment. Nevertheless, he stayed down and kept silent.

Suddenly more curious than angry, Harry looked at the man who, until recently, had been his nemesis. He was significantly different. First, there wasn't a sign of the serpentine man he had been in the Hogwarts Battle; instead Harry could have sworn it was an older Tom Riddle kneeling in front of him. So in that respect, he was looking a lot better. In all other ways, however, he was looking significantly worse.

He was thin, very thin – his cheeks looked almost gaunt and his arms were almost as skeletal as they had been when stepping out of that cauldron all those years ago. He was dressed in a ragged tunic that did nothing to hide the bruising all over his skin. Another bruise darkened his cheekbone and his lip was split, most likely from the same blow.

"What happened to him?" Harry asked, the question seeming to spill from his lips without permission. Kingsley paused for a moment, but then he answered.

"All the slaves have been going through a…training process. As you can see, he didn't take well to it." Harry snorted at the thought. No kidding. Though a remnant of a conversation he had overheard at Dedalus Diggle's wake resurfaced.

"I thought the collars acted as behaviour controllers?" Kingsley look startled, as if he hadn't expected Harry to know that. Harry didn't bother to explain, just looking at the Minister expectantly.

"They do, normally. As usual, it seems like Voldemort here doesn't fit the norms. While all the other collars behaved as expected, his only prevents him from using his magic or trying to hurt people around him. It doesn't make him obey orders." That was rather alarming, but given that the man was still here and not outwardly fighting the Aurors, it looked like he was under control, at least for now.

"Do you know why?" Harry asked. Kingsley looked slightly shifty, but Harry didn't notice as he was concentrating too much on Voldemort who had barely moved a muscle since he had been pushed into the position.

"Well…it took a while for the Unspeakables to come to a conclusion. In fact, we tried to sell him two weeks ago – when the ownership wasn't passed over, it was a bit of an embarrassment for the Ministry. Lost us quite a bit of money too, you wouldn't believe the amount he would have sold for-" Harry looked sharply at the man. He was stalling, something straight-talking Kingsley wasn't exactly well-known for. At his look, the Minister sighed again and closed his eyes for a moment.

"In short, the Unspeakables found out that the reason his collar wasn't responding to us, the reason he couldn't be sold was because he already had a master." Harry furrowed his brow. He didn't understand and said so. "You're his master, Harry," Kingsley eventually said bluntly.

"What?" Harry exclaimed. "But I never bought him, or whatever is needed to do to have a…slave." Kingsley shrugged.

"That's what they say. But it's easy to test." He nodded at the kneeling man. "Give him an order, something he wouldn't want to do." Harry considered it. What was the harm? If it would disprove this ridiculous idea and let him go home, he would do it.

"Fine. Voldemort, call me 'master'," he ordered, looking at the slave. After a beat of silence, he turned to Kingsley with a triumphant look. "See-" he started saying when Voldemort made a sound of pain, almost a whimper. A moment later, a gritted-out 'master' emerged from his lips. Harry couldn't have stopped his mouth from falling open if his life had depended on it! What…? But… He looked at Kingsley to see the man nodding grimly.

"It looks like the Unspeakables were right – you are his master."

"But I don't want to be! Isn't there some way I can give him to you so he can be sold like the rest?"

"I-" started Kingsley, but a roar of sound and bright white light cut him off. As the roar of sound faded and Harry clutched at his eyes, a voice slid into his mind.

"He is yours, young petitioner. Yours forever."

"But I don't want him!" cried Harry.

"Your soul and that of his were entwined by my sister, Fate, and I will not untangle it. He is yours until his death, which cannot be by your hand or your intention. Consider it the consequence of summoning me."

"And if I die?" Harry asked, coming to the realisation that he wasn't going to be able to fight this, not if Lady Magic had so decreed it. "Does he go free? Free to cause havoc and chaos once more?"

"No. For his crimes, he shall never be free again. Should you die, he will follow you in your last breath." With that, the light dimmed and Harry found himself back in the Minister's office, everyone looking rather concerned. For him, or about him, Harry wasn't sure.

"Harry? Are you alright?" Kingsley asked carefully. Harry leant against the desk behind him and rubbed his still-painful eyes.

"Yeah," he finally said, looking up again.

"What happened? You suddenly…started talking to thin air." Harry chuckled grimly. Well, he supposed it made sense why they were all so concerned about him then.

"Lady Magic had a message for me," he said finally, not seeing any reason to lie. Absently, he noticed he had the full attention of everyone in the room. Even Voldemort was looking at him, calculation in his still-red eyes. "Looks like I'm stuck with him," he waved at the man in question, "until the day one of us dies. And before you get any bright ideas," he addressed Voldemort directly, "if I die, you die too." The man lowered his head so his dirty fringe once more masked his expression.

"So…you're taking him?" Kingsley asked slowly, seeming to be a bit knocked by the strange events.

"Looks like it. Do I need to sign anything? Collect anything?" The Minister thought for a moment, then rifled around his desk.

"Here's the ownership form you need to sign. We'll keep a copy, you'll keep a copy and it serves as proof of ownership should you need it. If you ever sell him, you and the new owner will need to come here to register the transfer of ownership."

"Not that that's ever going to happen," said Harry gloomily as he skimmed through the form and then, once happy it was as the Minister had said, signed it. Kingsley frowned at him so he explained. "Lady Magic talked about that too. Seems like it's going to be a one slave, one master kind of deal. Yay," he finished with unenthusiastic jazz hands.

"Oh," replied Kingsley, a hint of pity in his eyes. "In that case…well, you'll probably need this – it's the 1786 slave behaviour guidebook. The collar is probably attuned to its rules so, while you can choose to do things differently, you'll have to specify in every instance exactly how you want him to behave. Otherwise, from experience, I can tell you that the collar will enforce the guidebook's rules to the letter." Harry took it. He figured he'd look through it, if only to see what he was dealing with, but unless the rules were completely inhumane, he probably wouldn't bother to change them – this was Voldemort they were talking about, after all.

"Other than that, you can take him now." He made a sign to the Aurors - one gave Harry the end of the chain attached to Voldemort's collar that they had used to lead him into the room; the other gave him a key. "The key's for his restraints. Because of who he is…or at least was, we suggest that you don't bring him out into public unless he's restrained. Not unless you are very certain that he will follow your commands." Kingsley's face echoed Harry's inner doubt that he'd ever be able to bring Voldemort that much to heel.

Feeling somewhat numb at all the surprises of that day, Harry said his goodbyes to Kingsley, nodded at the Aurors as a respectful goodbye.

"Get up," he ordered the kneeling man, a little surprised even through his numbness when Voldemort actually obeyed without saying anything. Then, using Kingsley's floo, he grabbed Voldemort's arm so they wouldn't be separated as they whirled through its system.

Arriving in his sitting room jerked him slightly out of the daze he had fallen into, though it felt strange to be there with Voldemort. And even stranger to be there with Voldemort as his slave. Stepping away slightly so he wasn't almost touching the man, he pulled out the key the Auror had given him. Looking warily at Voldemort – and wasn't it strange to think of the man as 'Voldemort' when he looked like Tom Riddle? – he hesitated.

"If I undo your chains, are you going to attack me?" The man's lips drew into a snarl.

"It's not like I could, Potter," he spat out. A moment later, he screwed his eyes up tightly and his tendons stood out as he gritted his teeth shut. Harry just watched, half curious, half horrified as Tom…Voldemort resisted a bit longer before slumping to his knees, seemingly uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry!" he gasped out a moment later, then flinched. "I'm sorry, master," he corrected himself, his eyes still screwed shut. Oookaaay. Harry wasn't going to ask what that was about. He could probably guess anyway.

"That wasn't an answer," he pointed out instead. "A simple yes or no would suffice." Those crimson eyes opened and looked at him, lingering pain still showing in the white lines of tension at their corners. Tom looked away.

"No," he muttered in reply, his tone weary. "Master," he added on after a quick flinch. Deciding to take him at his word, and reassuring himself that his wand was easily accessible and the man in front of him wasn't allowed to use his magic, Harry used the key to unlock the handcuffs binding the man's hands behind his back and his feet together. The leash, however, seemed to just be clipped on to a ring at the front. Unclipping it, Harry paused as the number on a plaque at the front caught his attention. Or rather, the fact that it wasn't a number made him look. Instead, it looked like a sideways 8. Harry could only assume that it was to do with the fact that Voldemort would be a slave for the rest of his life.

Moving away, he collapsed into a chair and put the chains to one side. Sighing deeply, he ignored Tom for a moment and stared into the fire. How did he get himself into these situations? And, more importantly, what was he going to do now? Well, there was one thing he would get sorted out straight away.

"Look, I'm not calling you Voldemort, not with you looking like that," he told the kneeling man bluntly.

"Then what would you call me? Master," the man asked, his tone forcibly even. Harry thought about it, but there was really only one name that came to mind.

"Your real name – Tom." Harry thought the small flinch he noticed pass over Tom's features was probably less to do with the collar, and more because of how much he knew Tom hated his name. Which, Harry was not so proud to admit, was one of the reasons he'd chosen it.

"As you wish," the man replied, his dangerous tone belying the submissive nature of his words. Harry nodded, more as a confirmation of his own thoughts than in response to Tom's words. Seems he'd have to make it very clear to his…slave…how things would be. Otherwise, the man would just walk over him, and he wasn't prepared to allow that. Not again.

"Look, Tom, we're stuck together, me with you as much as you with me. Merlin knows I'd rather not have to think about you at all!" he let out a bark of mirthless laughter. "But this is the way it is. Now, you've been a pain in my life since before I was born! You won't be one now." He stared Tom directly in the eyes so the man could see his sincerity and then continued. "Be respectful, obey my orders and don't offer any harm to anyone not trying to harm me, and we'll manage. You don't have to like it – I already know you won't – but this is meant as punishment, so that doesn't really bother me. You just have to do it."

"And if I don't, master?" Tom sneered, his eyes flashing. A moment later, the collar evidently punished him, if his small noises of pain were anything to go by.

"Then you'll face a lot of that for a start," observed Harry. "And if that's not enough to motivate you, consider the fact that I have complete control over your life. I don't intend to withhold food or hurt you myself," in fact, the thought made him feel a bit sick considering what had happened to him at the Dursleys – not that he would let Tom know about that, "but I will if I have to."

"You're too soft-hearted to do that, master," Tom observed. He seemed to hold himself in readiness for pain, and when it didn't come, a faint expression of relief crossed his face. Harry shrugged.

"I'm not naturally brutal, that's true," he admitted readily. "But the war made me do some things I would never have done before. If I can be brutal now, it's entirely your fault," he emphasised, pinning the older man with his gaze. When the other man looked away first, he knew he'd won that little battle of wills. No doubt it wouldn't be the last, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it. Harry stood up abruptly.

"Come on – I'll show you to your room." He waited for Tom to climb to his feet, noticing how he swayed slightly. "When was the last time you ate?" The man clenched his teeth together and looked to the side. "Answer me," ordered Harry in exasperation. It was a simple question, for Merlin's sake!

"Yesterday morning," Tom answered, the words seemingly torn from him.

"Right, well let's go via the kitchen then, so you can have something small to eat before dinner." Harry led the way and showed Tom the cupboards with food, the drawers with implements and the way the cooking surfaces worked.

"Have you ever cooked for yourself?" he asked, pausing after the thought had occurred to him that maybe the Dark Lord had always had servants. Except for in the orphanage, of course, but he probably wouldn't have cooked there either. Wonder of wonders, Tom didn't fight him this time and just answered quietly.

"A long time ago." Harry nodded in acknowledgement.

"Well, if you have any problems, you can just ask me. I figure we'll take it in turns to make dinner. I'll do tonight. Breakfast and lunch we'll sort ourselves out, though if I'm already cooking something, I might offer to make you some too."

"You're not going to have me cooking and cleaning like a good little slave then, master?" Tom sneered, then winced as the collar punished him. Harry waited for it to finish and then replied in a mild tone.

"I don't really see that as your area of expertise, do you?" Tom half-shrugged, but didn't say anything more. Since it had been a somewhat rhetorical question, evidently the collar didn't see his non-verbal response as a punishable offence. Harry really needed to read that guidebook to see what he was working with.

After they had both made something small to eat – nothing special; just sandwiches – Harry led Tom upstairs. There was only one place he could really put the man, since he had only recently started on the first floor rooms.

"Here," he directed, opening the door closest to the staircase. "You can sleep in here. It's got an ensuite bathroom so you don't need to share with me. There's soap and we can get you some shampoo tomorrow. My bedroom's down the hall. Don't go in without permission. If you need to get my attention, knock on the door and wait for me to respond. Clear?"

"Yes," Tom responded. "Master," he added on a beat later. Harry eyed him for a moment, wondering if he'd forgotten anything. His eyes caught on the bruising and the ragged tunic. He could do something about that, at least.

"Wait here," he instructed the man, disappearing into his bedroom. He reappeared a few minutes later, carrying a small glass jar, a loose shirt and pair of sweatpants draped over his arm. "Here," he said, shoving the items at Tom. The older man took them with a hint of bemusement. Harry shrugged. "The jar is bruise balm. I thought you might like to get rid of those," he waved at the livid marks covering Tom's arms and what he could see of his shoulders. "I don't have any clothes your size, but these will do until we go to the shops tomorrow." He turned to go downstairs but threw a final instruction over his shoulder. "You probably want to shower, maybe have a nap. Dinner's at seven – I expect to see you in the dining room. Don't break anything, OK?" Without waiting for a response, he went downstairs to the sofa room, determined on reading that guidebook.

XXX

Lord Voldemort, or rather Tom as he had been so unceremoniously renamed by his master, watched as Potter walked down the steps. He winced as a shiver of pain ran down his spine. Apparently he couldn't even call his master 'Potter' in his thoughts without the damn thing reacting. Sighing once the boy was out of sight, he turned towards his 'room'.

The day had been full of surprises, most of them bad, so he was glad that at least this one was decent – his sleeping arrangements from here on out seemed to be significantly better than those he'd had to get used to at the Ministry. A private room with a bed and ensuite bathroom, however small or uncomfortable it might eventually turn out to be, was far superior to sleeping on a cold floor with no privacy from his cellmates or protection from the bars separating the different cells.

He pushed the door further open and stepped inside. He was pleasantly surprised to find a room decorated in a neutral colour scheme rather than violent red and gold as he might have expected from it being the house of a Gryffindor. It wasn't huge, but still a reasonable size with enough space to move around the double-sized bed without feeling cramped. There was even a desk in one corner of the room and a door to what Lord Voldemort supposed was the bathroom on the wall to the right, opposite the bed. He dumped the clothes he had been given and moved to the bathroom with the bruise balm. That had been another pleasant surprise. With the hostility the boy had shown him so far, he wouldn't have been shocked if he'd just been left to let them heal on their own, as had been the case for the last however many months.

Stripping off the raggedy tunic that was all he was wearing, he dropped it in the corner with disgust. With critical eyes, he inspected his appearance in the mirror. His first impression was disgust. He was ridiculously thin – back to what he'd been like after a summer on wartime rations at the orphanage. The ugly bruises that painted a picture of victimhood over the canvas of his pale skin were another unwelcome feature, but those at least were soon to be gone. Pot-the boy had no doubt thought that they were from the guards. Some of them certainly had been, but a good portion had been from once-followers taking advantage of his being as helpless as they to get their revenge for their enslavement. Apparently the standing order to not hurt people didn't apply to other slaves…

The few followers who had stayed loyal – Bellatrix namely – had helped protect him at first, but once they got separated for their interrogations and then 'training' he had been forced to defend himself, to more or less success depending on how many ganged up against him, of course. Their guards had seemed to enjoy watching the in-fighting, only getting involved when it started getting serious.

Lord Voldemort ran his hands over his face and through his dirty and matted hair. His eyes took on a hint of calculation as he considered the possible advantages of his change. With the other slaves it had been a disadvantage – he had lost any factor of intimidation which might otherwise have helped. Here though…Pot-the boy obviously had recognised him even in this guise, so he had to conclude that Dumbledore, curse his soul, had shown the boy some memories of him in earlier years. Know thine enemy, and all that. But there probably wasn't the same animosity attached to this appearance as his more serpentine one. Maybe that could be an advantage – looking more human might evoke more sympathy and thus fewer restrictions…perhaps even that damnable name was in the end a good thing? If the boy called him 'Voldemort', he would be constantly reminded of his enemy, the one who had killed his parents and threatened him for years. Tom, however…

His mind made up, Tom, decided that for now, at least, Lord Voldemort should be…retired. Stepping into the shower, he ran the water until it was nice and hot and then stepped into the spray. Ah…heaven! He hadn't had a nice hot shower in far too long. The last time was before the…the Battle – in the Ministry prison, they were lucky to get a cold shower, let alone a hot one.

Using the soap, he scrubbed away at the ingrained dirt in his skin, though tried to avoid pushing on his bruises too much. He would be glad when they were gone – the constant low-level of pain was…irritating. Much like the collar, really. Though, he found it interesting that a constant ache he hadn't even been aware of had disappeared as soon as he entered the room with…his master. He clenched his fists and his teeth for the nth time since The Event. A furious scream lurked behind his teeth, longing to be set free but, as always, he choked it down. Unlike the Ministry where letting it loose would have brought the guards on him, this time it would be P-the boy who came, and despite himself, Tom was reluctant to have that happen.

It was just too…disconcerting. Until today his collar had been mostly inactive, except when he had tried to hurt the guards or use his magic to hurt or control others. Other attempts to use magic had just failed, but hadn't caused pain. No, he'd experienced plenty of pain over the last few weeks, but very little of it from the collar after the first week or so. For the other slaves it hadn't been the same case. When they had disobeyed an order, they had clearly felt pain. In fact, once Tom had realised that there was no way out of either the collar or the place where they had been kept, he had taken some amusement in causing those who had betrayed him to accidentally disobey orders and suffer the punishment. Now, feeling it for himself he, well, he didn't regret it, but he understood why they hadn't liked it when it happened at least.

But there was something more disturbing than the pain itself. With sufficient applications of pain, anyone could be broken; Tom knew that all too well. The pain of the collar could also be compared to the Cruciatus – not because it was necessarily intense, but because it was constant. The pain of a broken arm, the pain of a whip weal, the pain of a bruise…all those dulled over time: the human mind became used to it and it lost some of its effect. The Cruciatus was unforgivable for one particular reason, and it wasn't simply because it could bypass most magical shields; it was because every moment of pain under Cruciatus was as excruciating as the previous.* The magic of the curse made it so that the human brain couldn't become used to the pain. It was because of this that it drove its victims insane – because the brain couldn't use its normal coping mechanisms, it retreated into itself, disconnecting from reality.

The collar was the same. If Tom tried to hurt someone or cast damaging magic, he was hit by a fireball of pain so intense that he was unable to think past it, to even breathe, every moment of it as bad, or worse, than the previous. The blackness of unconsciousness followed swiftly after. And that's what he had avoided the last few weeks, even while he had defied the guards where possible in his refusal to submit to their lesser pain. Now, however…. When he defied his master, the initial pulse of pain was nasty, but not overwhelming. The subsequent pulses, however, grew more and more intense until he submitted to it. He could see how the pain alone could mould an obedient pet, a terrified cur that would do anything to avoid further punishment.

But it wasn't the pain that Tom feared. It was the pleasure. Because after submitting, as painful as the punishment had been, the wave of pleasure was just as great. It even occurred when he hadn't been punished. He had experimented a bit since arriving at the house – when he answered a question in good time and respectfully, when he used 'master' without being prompted…he felt pleasure. And that…that he had no defences against. Who had defences against pleasure? No one. The human brain was designed to remould itself according to signals of pleasure, to chase the hits of dopamine. Why else would so many humans, both wizard and muggle, be addicted to substances, experiences, magic?

And he didn't see a way around it. Either he behaved in the way the collar would like him to do so, and he felt doses of pleasure that would eventually turn him into a…an obedient slave, happy in his confinement, or he fought against it, kicked against the traces and was punished for it…and then rewarded when he eventually submitted with the same ultimate result.

So, what was he to do? He switched off the shower and stepped out, reaching for a towel to dry himself. He refused to go quietly into the night, allowing the feedback system to turn him, inevitably, into a needy pet. But that meant that he had to break free of the collar. And to break free of the collar, he had to maintain his sanity. And that meant he had to avoid exposing himself to the feedback system for as long as possible at all times. He looked in the mirror and traced the symbol of eternity that had taken the place of a number. As Potter said…as the boy said, he corrected his thoughts as pain lanced into him, they were stuck together until one of them died. And then apparently, if it was the boy, Tom would die too.

Perhaps he could turn this to an advantage. The others had a finite sentence, true, but there was no guarantee they would be with the same master for the whole of it. Any progress they might make in manipulating their masters could be wiped away in an instant if the master decided to sell them. Tom, however…Perhaps here was another advantage to becoming 'Tom' again.

Lord Voldemort had been a blunt instrument – subtlety discarded once he had reached a position of power where he didn't need it. For all that he was a Slytherin through and through, subtlety had never come as easily to him as plain intimidation, though he was certainly capable of it, as could be seen from his time at Hogwarts. As Tom, a penniless, suspected muggleborn orphan in Slytherin, it had taken a long time before he could use intimidation to achieve his goals. In the meantime, he had had to build his position with subtlety. Perfecting a mask of geniality and kindness, he had become liked by the vast majority of the school's population; even his hostile house-mates had had to give into his charm and charisma eventually.

Maybe it was necessary to go back to that since intimidation was clearly not going to work here – it had had a limited effect on P-the boy when Lord Voldemort had been at his height of power; now as a bound slave, it would have no effect, and trying would just expose him to more of the pain-pleasure feedback.

No, what he needed was the time and freedom to research the magic of this collar – he had never encountered a spell or enchantment that didn't have a counter. This would surely be the same. So, he needed to do some research – to find a way to eliminate the pleasure-pain feedback at least. To do that, he had to be trusted or ignored sufficiently to be able to use the Black library – what luck it was that of all places, he had been confined here with a library that was reputed to be one of the most extensive Dark libraries in the country. Plus, the longer he stayed away from the boy, the longer he could avoid situations where he was forced to encounter the feedback system.

So, how to accomplish these goals? Certainly not by being outwardly defiant. That would just earn punishments and more scrutiny, if not a whole load of make-work tasks to keep him 'busy'. But if he just suddenly 'submitted', the boy would no doubt be suspicious. That meant it would have to be a delicate balancing act – a slow movement from defiance to 'submission' in a way that seemed natural. And of course, all the while he would have to keep his sanity…somehow. And hope that his master wouldn't want to keep him close anyway, to further punish him, though Tom thought this unlikely. Based on what he had observed so far, out of sight, out of mind was likely to be the order of the day, which suited him fine.

"Tempus," Tom muttered absently, expecting the time to appear over his hand. When the spell caused a lance of pain to spike through him so he lost focus and it therefore fizzled out fruitlessly, he felt a surge of anger and bitterness once again. Damn this stupid- he cut his thoughts off. Anger and bitterness would serve to keep him motivated, but if he let them out at the wrong moment, he might completely destroy any progress he had made and risk his ultimate freedom.

Pushing down the feelings, he used his Occlumency to create a sense of calm in his mind. Then, slipping on the clothes lying on the bed, he went downstairs. Without knowing the time, he didn't want to risk being late for dinner.

XXX

Harry rubbed his eyes as he came to the end of the guidebook. The best thing he could say about it was that it was mercifully short. With only five sections, he had been able to read it in less than half an hour.

As it said on the cover, it was a guidebook to owning a slave according to the 1786 standards of slave behaviour. It seemed like, as Kingsley had said when Harry had first woken up, Lady Magic hadn't invented anything new; She had just imposed the ritual of enslavement which hadn't been used as a punishment since 1854. It seemed a long time ago to Harry, but given how long wizards could live, it seemed likely that there were still one or two wizards or witches alive in Britain who had known of or even come into contact with the slaves of that time.

The guidebook had explained how the collars functioned. Apparently they were at least semi-sentient and interpreted the slave's actions and intentions, giving rewards for good behaviour and punishment for bad. Apparently this could even extend to thoughts. If the slave thought about crossing one of the basic rules, he or she would experience a taste of the punishment which would ensue if he or she followed through. As the guide had so helpfully explained, the collar's function was to make life easier for the master. Instead of having to monitor the slave's behaviour, the master could simply give a command and the collar would ensure it was followed. And as for the basic standards of behaviour outlined in the guidebook, the master didn't even need to command the slave to follow them – they were hardwired in. Over time, slaves would naturally gravitate towards actions that earned them rewards and away from actions that lead to punishment. Et voilà – a perfectly trained slave without the master raising a finger.

Of course, the guide had emphasised that the master should be active in the discipline of slaves, so regardless of the guidebook rules, if the master clearly stated that he wished his slave to behave differently, the collar would take note. Having looked through the rules which were hard-wired in, Harry had cringed slightly inside at some of them, but most of the time he didn't care enough about them to take the trouble to specify something different. The rule about the slave only eating or drinking with permission from the master, however… yeah, he'd be changing that. He forgot to feed himself half the time, and there was a reason the only pets he'd ever had were owls who could take care of themselves.

That said, it did make him wonder how Voldemort…Tom…had been surviving the past few months. Though, Tom had said he had eaten the previous day…maybe the collar hadn't been active until Harry became aware of his claim? That was the only explanation Harry could think of.

The suggested punishments at the back of the book had definitely made him cringe. It was clear that the guidebook had been written by someone who didn't even see the slaves as human. Harry would certainly not be following their suggestions, and hated to think of what Hermione would do to him if he did! Especially the one about nightmares, Merlin! Harry was starting to realise why Kingsley had said that Azkaban was kinder, dementors and all…

He put the book down and sighed, stretching muscles that had got a bit stiff from sitting still for a while. Something caught his eye and he jumped up, whirling around with his wand leaping to his hand. Tom was standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorpost with his arms folded, staring at Harry with a strange look in his red eyes. His heart pounding, Harry felt a wave of anger at the man for sneaking up on him. A thought occurred which made him inwardly smirk. He pointed at the guidebook.

"That says you're supposed to kneel when entering the presence of your master," he stated neutrally, wondering what the other man would do, half-hoping he would defy the rule and be punished as a small revenge for startling Harry. To his surprise, the man didn't resist, but slid to his knees, the small flash of anger in his eyes and the way he refused to dip his head the only signs that he was unhappy about the action.

"Anything else, master?" Tom murmured, his voice deceptively mild. Harry felt a bit disconcerted and decided to sit down again.

"Have you read this?" he asked, picking up the guidebook.

"No. Master."

"Do you know the contents?"

"Not having read it, no," Tom replied, slightly snidely. He clearly paid for a moment later if the slight wince was anything to go by. "No, master," he amended shortly after, his tone much more respectful. Harry observed his reactions with interest. Clearly the collar was pretty strict… Well, at least he knew what to do next, then.

"Here." He tossed the book at Tom. The other man caught it, though fumbled slightly in his surprise. Harry stood up. "Read that while I make dinner. I'll be amending a couple of those rules slightly, but at least if you know the contents, we'll at least be working from the same guidebook." He smiled wryly. "Literally. I'll call you when dinner's ready." He walked out of the room, though paused just before he exited. "By the way, you're allowed to use the items of furniture in this house for their designated purposes, as long as you don't damage them purposefully. I'm sure you'll be grateful not having to sit on the floor all the time." The last he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm as he was certain that Tom wouldn't be grateful in the slightest.

As he prepared dinner, he thought over all the information he had just learned and considered what he would say to Tom when he came through. He decided that they could talk after dinner just as he started plating the spaghetti bolognaise. Putting the food on the table, he called for Tom to come. The man appeared in the doorway a few moments later. He hesitated as he saw the table set for two and Harry already sitting down behind one plate, then sat in the other place. He waited, though Harry could see him eyeing the food hungrily. Hmm, so he was following the rules, was he?

"You can eat," Harry told him quietly, beginning to dig into his own food. "We'll talk after the meal." Tom looked at him for a heartbeat, and Harry couldn't decipher the look in it, then started digging in as well.

They ate in silence, both devouring their food. Harry had missed lunch earlier because he had been cleaning out a room on the first floor and had got pretty engrossed. Without Kreacher around anymore to remind him to eat, he kept forgetting as soon as he got into an activity. Tom, on the other hand, had apparently barely eaten in the last couple of days, so Harry couldn't blame him for being hungry.

When they had both finished, Harry waved his wand to send the dishes to the sink. With a couple more applications of household magic, the dishes were washing, drying and putting themselves away. Honestly, it had been the best idea he'd ever had to ask Molly about household charms – his intention had been to distract her from Fred's death, but they had turned out to be really useful. He still cooked by hand, though – not used yet to all the cooking spells she had demonstrated for him. She still gave him a lesson every time he went round with a couple more spells he might need.

"Come on," he told the older man, leading the way back to the sitting room. Relaxing into his usual armchair, he watched to see what Tom would do next. The man hesitated for a moment, but then stepped a bit closer and sank to his knees. He didn't lower his eyes, though, allowing Harry to see the smouldering defiance that still burned in them. If Harry was honest, however, he had to admit that he was glad for that, regardless of what the book said – if the man had pretended to be completely submissive, he would have known that there was a plot being concocted. As it was, he suspected that Tom was biding his time, waiting for an opportunity, rather than outright plotting.

Well, Harry had at least some faith that the ex-Dark Lord wouldn't leave him to die if he could do anything to help it, given that his life was tied to his enemy's. And he was relatively confident that the man couldn't hurt him because of the magic of the collar. So, while he was confined to the house, Harry didn't think his slave could cause too much trouble.

He realised he had been sitting there for more than a few moments, just staring blankly at the man kneeling before him. Tom's hands were balled into fists and he had maintained eye contact, the defiance turning into anger as time wore on. It was as if he couldn't stand potentially losing that little battle of wills. At that moment Harry really couldn't be bothered, so he blinked and pointedly looked towards the fire, clearing his throat.

"So, you've read the book?" When the man didn't respond, he looked back and raised his eyebrows in expectation.

"Yes, master," Tom responded, his tone slightly disrespectful, but clearly on the right side of the line for the collar not to punish him. Harry nodded in acknowledgement.

"Right. Well, I'm not going to change most of those rules. Frankly, I think you deserve a bit of humble-pie after everything you did and all the pain you caused." Hearing his tone start to rise, he reined back his anger and continued a moment later. "Anyway. So, I'm going to change the rules that I can't live with. First, food and water…" He paused for a moment, watching Tom's reaction. When he found a hint of trepidation passing across the man's face, he felt a bit of satisfaction…which was immediately followed by a bit of guilt. After his experience with the Dursleys, a part of himself – probably the part of him called 'Hermione' – was disgusted at himself for letting someone believe, even for a moment, that he would deny them the basics without cause. And frankly, to hell with what the book said – a bowl of gruel every day was not enough to do more than keep someone from starvation. Pushing both feelings aside, he rushed on. "I'm not going to tell you when you can eat or drink. If you're hungry, go and make yourself something. If you're thirsty, go drink some water from the tap. You're allowed any food in the cupboards, as long as I don't tell you differently. You are not allowed any alcohol. Is that clear?" he asked, staring into those crimson eyes.

"Yes, master," the man replied with the same borderline disrespectful tone as before. Harry couldn't really care less – if Voldemort had started speaking to him with respect, when it wasn't forced, he'd leave the room straight away and go to St Mungo's to get checked out for potions or spells immediately. Then he reminded himself that this wasn't Voldemort anymore. Without his magic, without his Death Eaters, with Harry's every command enforced by magic, there was little of the fearsome Dark Lord left.

"Good. I do expect for us to have dinner together every day, so don't eat a big meal directly before. You are also forbidden to drink any potions without permission. If you are injured or sick for some reason, come and tell me. I won't leave you to suffer…if you haven't displeased me," he added on spitefully. "That also applies to any accidents or incidents that you cause. Come tell me about it – I won't punish you if it was truly an accident, but if I found out you hid it, I definitely will. And just to add to that," he leaned forward and his gaze bore into Tom's red eyes leaving no doubt that he meant his next words. "Do. Not. Lie. To me." He paused until he saw the acknowledgement in his slave's gaze. Satisfied, he sat back again. "I know you're going to plot, and I know you're going to try to turn things your way. But if you ever intentionally lie to me, I will make you suffer. And if you think I don't know how to do that, you haven't been paying enough attention in the last two years."

Tom looked away and Harry saw that his balled hands had started to shake slightly. He wasn't sure whether it was from anger or fear, or a mixture of the two, but the dark beast inside him, which had been fed well in the years of war, was satisfied.

"Next, furniture. As I said earlier, you're allowed to use it."

"Then, may I sit in a chair, master?" the man asked, his tone belying the submissive words. Harry pretended to think it over.

"Not right now. I think that when we have serious discussions like this one, we should make it clear exactly who's the master and who's the slave here." There was a faint noise like a scoff.

"I didn't realise that was your kink, master," Tom said snidely. He then winced as the collar punished him, having evidently crossed the line that the collar judged between allowable and disrespectful. "I'm sorry for my disrespect, master," he said hurriedly, his tone a lot more respectful. Evidently that did the trick as the lines on his forehead smoothed themselves out.

"It's not," Harry answered finally, pushing away the part of himself that might be enjoying the sight of Tom Riddle on his knees in front of him a little too much. "But it seems…just…for you to suffer what you put your Death Eaters through. Not to mention everyone else. After all," he continued, the anger rising once more, "wasn't it you who once forced me to bow? Bow to death, wasn't it?" his tone would have sounded idle if not for the undercurrent of past fury. "Well, death, how does it feel now you're forced to bow before someone you hate?"

Those hands were balled into fists once more and Tom had lowered his head. Harry suspected it was more to hide the hatred that was no doubt lighting his eyes rather than because of any sort of remorse or submission. Harry didn't push it – knowing that the man who had tried to victimise him, who had victimised so many, was completely at his mercy, bar the limit on killing him, was enough to allow his emotions to abate. He took a couple more deep breaths before leaning back in his chair.

"In your free time, you're allowed to read, but only novels. If you want to read an information text, bring it to me first for my permission. Clear?" He waited until a resentful acknowledgement was given before continuing. "But you may not have much of that anyway. This house has been left neglected for years. I've been trying to renovate it, and that will probably be my task for a good few months. You'll help me with that, and in the meantime, you can keep the house which has been renovated so far clean."

"I thought you said you weren't going to have me cooking and cleaning?" Tom said, somewhat accusingly. "Master," he added on quickly. Harry shrugged. The book had suggested giving slaves lots of work to avoid them becoming problematic. Of course, the way the book had phrased it made them sound more like a dog or cat, but Harry agreed with the sentiment – giving Tom lots of time to think was definitely a bad idea.

"I changed my mind," he said simply. "Besides, I said I didn't think it was your area of expertise, not that you wouldn't be doing it. Cooking, like I said, we'll take turns with dinner and sort ourselves out the rest of the time. Cleaning…well, I don't like doing it, and since both house elves I had died as a result of your Death Eaters, it just seems right for you to take their place." His tone was mild, but the emotions swirling inside him were not. The memory of Dobby as he took the knife in his chest that was meant for Harry….The memory of coming back to Grimmauld Place after the war ended, having avoided it since they had seen Death Eaters lurking nearby, only to find Kreacher's mangled, long-dead corpse in the hallway…. He pushed the thoughts aside. He had mourned for both of them, and dwelling on their deaths would do no one good – he had learned that the hard way.

"For now, I don't expect to have guests around, but if I do, you're to behave respectfully and keep out of the way as much as possible. I trust that won't be too difficult for you." His tone and gaze warned Tom that it better not. "Hmm, what else? I don't expect you to wait on me hand and foot – in fact, I think we'll both get on better if you stay out of my way as much as possible too. If I want you, I'll call you or send a patronus. Then, I expect you to come as quickly as possible, as long as you don't put yourself or anyone else in danger."

He considered the other rules for a moment. "Also, the rule about not speaking without permission…as long as you speak to me or anyone else in this house respectfully, I don't see the need to restrict your ability to speak. Don't test me too much, though," he warned, knowing that the man would definitely do some testing. Harry thought through what he'd said and what he'd intended to say. He couldn't think of anthing else. "Any questions?"

"What about my…magic, master?" Harry eyed him, his lazy look belying the tension that had sprung into existence at the question.

"What about it?"

"Will I be able to use it? Perhaps for this cleaning you require me to do?" Tom's tone was very polite and Harry trusted it far less than the borderline disrespectful tone he had used earlier – as much as a snake about to strike, in fact.

"No," he responded unequivocally. "Right now, you are not allowed to use any magic, for any reason. Do you understand?" Tom's fists were balled so tightly, the tendons stood out whitely.

"But why, master?" he asked, clearly fighting his rage to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

"Because my word is your law and I cannot trust you with it," Harry told him firmly, watching him carefully. If ever he would lose control and try to attack, this would be the moment. Tom clearly battled with his urge to wring Harry's neck or something else equally violent, but apart from a few twitches caused by the collar's warning that he was about to break one of the cardinal rules, he managed to keep his temper. Harry decided to dangle a carrot in front of him as a reward for his restraint. "If you manage to follow the rules and prove to me that I can trust you even the slightest bit, I will give you access to enough magic to help you clean."

He figured that along with the possibility of reading non-fiction books would be enough to motivate Tom to play along, if the collar's reward –whatever the book had meant – wasn't enough. After all, a cornered rat was the most dangerous – regardless of how little threat Tom seemed to pose to Harry at the moment, if he ever started hating his life enough not to want to live it…well, Harry couldn't trust that he would be safe if that ever occurred.

"Any other questions?" he asked, a little impatient to have this over with. It hadn't exactly been fun after all. Tom thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Good. Then I'm going to sit here and relax. You go do whatever you want, as long as you don't get into trouble. I expect you to be here and ready to go shopping at nine tomorrow morning." He saw Tom open his mouth as if he wished to speak, but hesitate. "Yes?" he asked with a hint of exasperation. Couldn't they be finished this conversation already?

"Master…how can I tell the time?" Harry frowned. What kind of a question was that? Use a clock for Merlin's sake. He opened his mouth to tell Tom that sarcastically, then paused. Was there actually a clock in that room? Or in any room, for that matter? He always used tempus to tell the time, had got it down to a wandless spell, in fact, so hadn't really noticed. Actually, the only clock he knew was in the house was the one here in the sitting room.

"I'll wake you at half past eight," he said after a moment of thought. "We'll add getting you a watch to tomorrow's shopping list."

"Thank you, master," responded Tom, and for once, it actually sounded genuine. Discomforted by Voldemort…Tom thanking him, Harry waved it off absently. Summoning the book about charms that he had to read before starting his courses at Hogwarts again, he signalled that the conversation was over. A few moments later, he was aware of Tom standing and walking out of the room without a word. Good riddance.

XXX

Tom walked through the corridors of his new home with a split focus. Partially, he was determined to learn the layout of this place he would be inhabiting for the foreseeable future. The other part of him was musing over the 'conversation' they had just had. He had learnt a lot, perhaps more than the boy had thought he had. He was tired from a day that had been far too full of surprises and pain, but his mind was racing far too much to let him sleep.

First, the collar. Thanks to reading that guidebook, he had a much better understanding of what exactly he was expected to do, which would be invaluable in avoiding punishment and the ensuing pleasure. It had had another, unexpected, effect: now he realised why the guards had never told the prisonners the rules, but had let them discover them by being punished when they had inadvertently broken them. It seemed that if he followed a rule without being told to, either by his master or the collar, he would receive a dose of pleasure, but it was significantly less than if he had been previously punished for it or ordered to do it. It seemed slightly counter intuitive on the face of it – if the greatest doses of pleasure were after punishment or being ordered, what benefit was there in being obedient and perceptive?

But that was the deviousness of it – the pleasure after pain would addict the slave to submission, and then the small dribbles of other pleasure would send the slave chasing after what they could get, by inviting orders and, essentially, becoming eager to please because they were desperate for that dose of addiction while also trying to avoid the pain. And of course, the master had the ability to give a reward through the collar, no doubt as overwhelming pleasure as the punishment word would cause overwhelming pain. At least, that's what Tom had interpreted from the guidebook. Having already felt some small tastes of pleasure, he could feel how seductive it was. Perhaps in some cases it would backfire – Voldemort was certain that it would in Bellatrix's case because he knew she had been a masochist for decades – but in most cases, it would work remarkably well.

Ultimately, he didn't know if the guards had actually known about this functionality, or whether they had been following their own training guide, but given what he had seen of the other slaves at the end of their 'training' period, the devious combination of pleasure and pain had at least half-broken most of them. But because Tom now knew about it, he could steer his course on the path of least resistance. By knowing and following the rules without explicit command or punishment, he could avoid as much of the feedback system as possible. While to others that might seem semantic since he would have to be equally submissive to his master's desires either way, to Tom it made the world of difference. He would always choose the route where he had the greatest control over his actions.

The second important thing he had learned was that the boy wasn't as 'light' as he had thought. Tom had imagined that rules such as requiring him to kneel in the presence of his master or being forbidden to use any of his master's belongings without his permission would have been immediately waived. But they hadn't. And his attempt to sting the boy into letting him shift out of the submissive position had backfired – he had underestimated the amount of resentment and anger held against him. So, he would need to take that into account in his movements. Unfortunately, it seemed like he'd have to invite at least some pain in order to satisfy the darkness inside the boy. Otherwise, it was likely the boy would force it, either consciously or unconsciously, and again, Tom would rather the choice be in his hands that those of his master.

It was…irritating that the boy had forbidden him from reading anything other than novels. He would have to test that – technically history books could be considered stories, after all, so maybe…Well, he would try at the first opportunity. If it was a no go at the moment, at least he hadn't been forbidden to read his master's books full stop, as would have been the case according to the guidebook. His mind was already absently ticking over plans to get the information he would need.

As for the cleaning…he shouldn't really have expected anything else. If the roles had been reversed, Voldemort would have tortured and humiliated his rival as much as possible, while keeping him alive as a symbol of the Light's failure and his superiority. He had to admit that doing a bit of cleaning by hand was better than that, though only a bit. And the boy hadn't said that he would never have access to his magic; in fact, he had opened the door slightly to the possibility of Tom using magic for cleaning. It surely wouldn't take too much to move from there to giving him access to his magic under supervision and then freely. All, of course, if Tom managed to 'prove' to the boy that he was 'trustworthy'.

How he was going to do that…he was sure he would have some ideas later, even if he was a bit lacking in them now. In the meantime, he would watch, he would wait, he would obey, and he would endure. Eventually, his time would come, and then…and then, Lord Voldemort would rise again.

Satisfaction at his plan suffusing him, Tom felt his tiredness creep up on him, the energy having left him during his walk. He headed back to his room and lay down on the bed, enjoying the softness of the mattress and covers as much as he had enjoyed the taste of the food earlier. Unconscious came swiftly to claim him. The last thought he remembered having was also filled with satisfaction at a theory having been proven true – throughout his plotting, the collar had remained docile thereby proving that it couldn't read his intentions as long as they didn't break any rules on the face of them. He could work with that.

XXX

Tom slept deeply, and woke disorientated. Memories of being woken by the lash of a curse cast from the doorway brought him to wakefulness too quickly. He curled up in a ball and raised his arm in protection against the next hit, but it didn't come. Opening his eyes carefully, he saw in the dim light cast by the street light outside that the door was closed. Then, realising he was actually on a bed rather than on the cold floor of a cell in the Ministry's basement, the memories of the previous day came back. He groaned, rubbing his face with a hand. Oh yes. Let operation Walking the Tightrope begin…

Not knowing the time, but certain he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, he stood up. Not having taken off his clothes to go to bed – habit from being in the Ministry's care still with him – he was immediately ready to leave. Now the question remained whether he could. The door hadn't automatically locked when he had entered the room last night, but he wouldn't be surprised if his master had locked it on his own way to bed. Certainly, Lord Voldemort would never have left an enemy in an unlocked the room, but the boy had done many things that Lord Voldemort wouldn't have done, so Tom decided to try the handle anyway.

It was unlocked. Tom found himself caught between incredulity and relief. Was the boy honestly so trustful in the powers of the collar that he didn't even take basic precautions? He stepped out of the door. Everything was dark and quiet in the way that said it was still far too early. Given that it was summer, Tom would guess it was somewhere between three and five in the morning. It certainly felt like that. At least he had probably gone to bed early enough to still get enough sleep, though he was sure he would have slept longer if not for the memory waking him with a shot of adrenaline.

Well, there was nothing for it but to distract himself somehow. He headed towards the library which he had found while walking the corridors. It was only when he got there that he realised the problem: he had no way of actually reading the books. Sure, he had got here well enough with the light let in from the street outside, but the dim shadowy landscape was only enough to show him that there were books, not what they said. He highly doubted that the muggle-hating Blacks had installed electricity, were it even possible in such a thoroughly wizarding home, and without his magic he couldn't cast a lumos.

Snarling in frustration, he thought carefully. Maybe there were candles or torches somewhere? Perhaps in the parlour or kitchen? The fire would probably still be burning in the parlour, at least, so if he managed to find a book he could read, he should be able to do so there without straining his eyes too much.

Walking down the stairs as quietly as he could, he first entered the kitchen and searched through the various cupboards and drawers. Nothing. Grumbling to himself, he went to the parlour instead and started looking through the various cupboards. Again. Nothing. Then he almost jumped out of his skin when he heard a voice behind him.

"What are you doing?" He whirled around, his hand extending automatically as if holding a wand. He registered that his master was standing in the doorway looking sleepy and grumpy a moment before a small shock of pain reminded him there was something he was supposed to be doing. Grimacing, he allowed his hand to drop and went to his knees, glaring a hole in the floor as a small dose of pleasure hit him in reward.

"Master," he muttered with the border-line defiance – by this point he had figured out where the line was between outright defiance and submission, and hopefully by treading it carefully, it would help to allay the boy's eventual suspicions.

"No, seriously. What are you doing? It's just past four am."

"I was looking for a candle," Tom replied. "Master," he added on just before the collar would have punished him. There was a beat of silence.

"Why were you looking for a candle?" the boy sounded incredulous. Tom wondered whether he had believed his enemy was up to no good and was now trying to work out how a candle featured into that. No doubt the exercise was overly straining his pitiful mind. He winced as pain shivered down his spine at his mental disrespect towards his master.

"Because I can't cast a lumos," he answered the question, knowing full well that wasn't what the boy meant, but taking some pleasure in being difficult. He heard the boy breathe in deeply.

"Tom," he started and the tone of his voice warned the man that perhaps he was pushing his luck a bit. "It's a magic-forsaken time in the morning, and you're down here waking me up by triggering my wards to look for a candle, because you can't cast a lumos. Why, in Merlin's name, can't you just sleep?! That is what the night is meant for, you know! So, I will ask one more time before I punish you for lying to me. What. Are. You. Doing?" Tom looked up at the boy in outrage, opening his mouth to object that he hadn't lied, but his master cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Yes, I know, you probably weren't outright lying. But you can't say you weren't being intentionally obstructive. And I won't tolerate that from you." He stared into Tom's gaze intently and the kneeling man could see the depths of his annoyance. He flicked his gaze away to look back at the floor. Maybe…maybe this was not the best time for defiance. Being woken up in the very early morning clearly hadn't improved the boy's temper.

"Master," he started, figuring that might help soothe the boy's irritation, "I couldn't sleep. I knew it was early, but not the time. I was just looking for a book to read to pass the time. But without being able to use magic to cast a light, I couldn't choose a novel from the library." There was another moment of silence.

"Why couldn't you sleep?" As much as the question itself made Tom grit his teeth, disinclined to reveal weaknesses to enemies, the smoothing out of his master's tone made the nervous ball in his stomach relax slightly.

"Nightmares," he muttered finally.

"Of what?" Now the boy sounded curious. No doubt for his own satisfaction at the bringing low of his nemesis. The thought rankled and before Tom considered his response carefully, he was staring into those hated emerald orbs and retorting with anger.

"For Merlin's sake, Potter. Hasn't your incessant curiosity killed enough of your family?" The moment the words left his lips, he wished desperately that he could take them back. Referring to his plan a few years ago to lure the boy to the Ministry, resulting in the previous owner of this house's death was sure to be a bad idea. Then, his thoughts were completely scrambled as pain overtook his mind.

He was dimly aware of the sound of sobbing and of his fingers scrabbling at the stone around him and then at his own flesh as if to find something to stop the pain or at least to make it bearable. A long moment later, it was gone, the twitching of his over-wrought muscles and the furrows his nails had carved in his own flesh the only sign it had been there. Tom realised he was prostrate in front of his master, his forehead resting on the floor, his hands now limp against it, next to his head. A few breaths later, he found the strength to sit up. Now, that was the equivalent of the Cruciatus Curse. He looked up at the boy and his breath caught in his throat as he took in the look in those shadowed emerald eyes. The dark beast was out, and the collar's torture hadn't been enough to sate it.

"You do not get to talk about my friends or family," his master said, his tone low and vicious. Intent coalesced in his eyes and Tom's eyes widened as he realised what was about to happen.

"Please, master! Please, no!" he begged as his master's lips formed the dreaded word.

"Punire." Then, pain was all that filled his world once more.

It seemed to last for an eternity. An eternity of suffering with no respite, not even the possibility of unconsciousness to rescue him. It was the worst pain he had ever felt.

Then it ended. Tom was left collapsed once more on the floor. He was breathing heavily, sobbing, open-mouthed pants that condensed on the cold wooden floor beneath him. Inadvertent tears had made his cheeks wet and stung in the furrows he'd caused with his nails. His muscles twitched and trembled in aftershocks and fatigue. He felt too weak to even lift his head.

"Go to bed, Tom," his master ordered him, the tone in his voice undecipherable. Then footsteps sounded as he left the room.

His desperate breaths slowing, Tom tried to sit up, to even lift his head, but he felt too weak. He gave up, deciding to spend the night on the floor, but the collar wouldn't even let him do that. As soon as he had decided to disobey his master's order, it shocked him once more, drawing a whimper from his lips despite the low intensity – after the ordeal he had just endured, his mind and body simply couldn't take any more pain right then. So, with no other choice, he kept trying, eventually able to push himself to a kneeling position. Then, with the help of a nearby chair, he managed to leverage himself up to his feet. Using the available furniture and then the wall to help support him, he climbed back to his room on shaky legs that threatened to give up at any moment.

Finally, he got to his destination and was able to collapse on his bed. He was sweaty and his cheeks were striped with tears and blood, but he simply couldn't face a shower or even going to wash his face. Instead, he fell back into a dreamless sleep, his exhaustion from the torture managing to do what he hadn't been able to earlier.

XXX

Harry woke when his wand started vibrating from the alarm he had cast the previous night. He groaned and rubbed his face with a hand. Why…? Oh. Now he remembered why he'd set it – he had to go shopping with his unwelcome houseguest. Who he had tortured only a few hours ago. Merlin.

Guilt clawed at his insides. He'd really done it, hadn't he? Used the punishment function of the collar that, when he'd read the guidebook such a long time ago, he'd decided he wouldn't need. Tortured a helpless man, a helpless kneeling man. Made the collar punish him until he couldn't even sit up.

It was just…when Tom had referred to Sirius' death…well, Harry had seen red. Literally. In that moment, he had seen Voldemort's red eyes, the eyes of the creature who had killed his parents, who had led the men and women who had almost destroyed the Wizarding world, taking so many of Harry's friends and family with them. And the beast had risen inside him.

He almost wished he could blame the horcrux inside him for his more violent tendencies, the rage and hatred that had driven him to torture Death Eaters in the past for information, or simply in revenge for the horrors they had committed. But he was pretty sure that Lady Magic had restored Voldemort's soul to remake him as Tom Riddle once more, so that meant he couldn't use the horcrux as an explanation.

No, Harry just had to face the fact that there was a very dark part of him that yearned to destroy those who had hurt his friends and family. Destroy them so they couldn't do it again. But was that a valid reason in this case?

Tom could never be Lord Voldemort again – he would be Harry's slave until one of them died. Voldemort was already destroyed – everything else seemed somewhat petty in comparison. But when he made nasty comments like that….But you did ask him about his nightmares, a little voice reminded him. He could be touchy about his own nightmares, and certainly wouldn't have reacted well if Tom had asked him about them, especially if the man had just been asking from prurient curiosity, the way Harry had been.

Groaning, Harry wondered if he actually owed the other man an apology. Because, on one hand, torture, but on the other, Voldemort. How many more times had Voldemort tortured someone rather than being tortured? Unfortunately, Harry had a sneaky suspicion that that kind of karmic measurement didn't exist, and wouldn't actually make him feel better even if it did.

For now, he decided that he would see what the man was like, and then go from there. He would try to keep more of a leash on his temper – the collar's punishment alone seemed enough; no need to add to it unless the transgression was really severe. And he wouldn't be mentioning all of this to Hermione. Definitely not.

Getting out of bed, he had a quick shower and then headed down the corridor to Tom's door. He hesitated for a moment before knocking, then told himself he was being ridiculous and did it. The door swung open a moment later and Tom knelt with his head bent in the space where he had obviously been waiting to be summoned. Summoned. Harry mentally winced at the thought. Then he spotted some red on Tom's face, much as it was hidden by his hair, and winced again. He reached out towards Tom. The man flinched. It was small, but with Harry watching as closely as he was, it was clear. Biting his lip, guilt flaring in his gut again, he continued his movement to lift Tom's chin.

Sure enough, although the man had clearly washed his face since…the incident, there were scabbed red furrows in his cheeks from where he had clawed at himself in the midst of pain. Moving slowly, Harry brought his wand out and cast a light healing spell – enough to close the wounds and leave them only as thin red lines. Better. About to apologise, Harry caught Tom's gaze and paused.

There was fear there, definitely, and it made the guilt in Harry's gut squirm a bit more. But what had stopped him from apologising was the other emotion: respect. Harry frowned, searching Tom's face more deeply, but all the indications told him that his first instinct had been correct. Huh. It figured that Voldemort…Tom would be the kind of person to only respect someone once they had shown their strength. And to Tom, strength wasn't in self-sacrifice or endurance like it was for Harry; it was in the victimisation of others. It followed that if Harry apologised, Tom would probably see that as a weakness. So, maybe he wouldn't be apologising. But that didn't mean he had to be a brute.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, trying to keep the guilt he felt out of his voice. He wasn't sure how well he had succeeded.

"A bit sore, master," Tom replied, his tone also showing a hint more of respect in comparison to the previous day. "But well enough," he added. Harry wasn't sure if the last bit was to reassure him or a kind of manipulation…probably the latter more than the former, but he decided to ignore it for now. The thought that Tom was back to trying to manipulate was surprisingly reassuring – it proved he hadn't broken the man. Harry refused to dig into why he might not want that to happen. Letting go of Tom's chin, he leant back to stand properly upright.

"Come on, then. We'll have some breakfast and then go out." He headed down to the kitchen and they both got themselves something to eat. Apart from a few comments and questions passed between them which were directly related to the food, they were silent. It was pretty tense, but the longer they managed to go without a problem, the more Harry noticed Tom's shoulders relaxing. Deciding to ignore it for now, Harry considered what he needed to take with him on their shopping trip.

He fetched his wallet and a couple of bags for the actual shopping – he could use the plastic bags from the shop, of course, but these ones were charmed to be lighter and less bulky. Then, thoughtfully looking at Tom, he went to get a scarf.

"Here," he said, throwing it at the man. Tom looked quizzically at him.

"We're going into muggle London, so you'll need to hide that collar of yours," Harry explained. Tom made an expression of distaste.

"Can't we go to Diagon Alley? Master," he asked, disgust in his voice. Then he seemed to flinch slightly, an expression of wariness flashing across his face. Harry ignored it.

"Why, would you prefer to walk among wizards and witches who know you're a slave?" he asked pointedly in return. When Tom grimaced and looked away, he got his answer. "Besides, we're just going to some local shops. A short walk will do us both good." Tom just wrapped the scarf around his neck so the collar was hidden.

When they were both ready, including a pair of transfigured shoes for Tom's bare feet, they headed towards the front door. Opening the door, Harry stepped out and off the doorstep. A moment later, he heard a hiss of pain. Looking back, he saw Tom lingering in the doorway.

"Well? Come on, then," Harry commanded briskly. Tom gingerly crossed the threshold with one foot, but as soon as he put any weight on it, he winced and withdrew. Harry frowned. What…? Oh. Yes, he had read that in the guidebook. Slaves were bound within the wards of any building they were taken to by their masters. To leave the building, they had to be in contact with their masters or their masters had to touch their collars. Then they would be bound to a small radius around their masters. If Harry remembered it correctly, it was about ten metres away.

Harry walked back to the house and reached towards Tom's neck. Ignoring the slight flinch, he slid his hand under the scarf so he was in contact with the collar.

"OK, let's go," he said, twisting to face forwards. This time when Tom stepped out, there was no reaction from the collar. Harry heard him breathe a small sigh of relief. He let go of the collar and continued striding forwards without a backwards glance. The sound of footsteps told him what he had known would happen.

They walked past the park and then through a few streets before they arrived at the shop Harry wanted to visit. Heading directly towards the door, Harry heard the intake of air by the man behind him.

"Master, surely not!" Harry smiled slightly. Go figure – Tom Riddle, who had always wanted to be unique and different, disapproved of his destination.

"Come now, Tom," he said, the slightest bit of amusement in his voice. "As we get your clothes here, you can feel happy that the money spent is going to a good cause: alleviating world poverty!"

"But master," and why exactly did the Dark Lord sound like a whinging teenager? "They're…second hand." Harry stopped and turned around to look him in the eye, drawing close to speak to him quietly but intensely.

"Tom, first of all, I'm sure both of us have worn clothes in significantly worse condition than barely-worn, second-hand clothing sold in one of the most expensive areas of London. Second of all, I buy my muggle clothes from here – they're perfectly decent." For the next bit, he lost all jocularity from his voice and both tone and look communicated his seriousness. "Third of all, and perhaps most importantly, you're a slave. You read that guidebook last night as much as I did. You know that if I chose to, I would be perfectly entitled to have you walk around in a pillowcase like a house elf, or even nothing at all. So, stop complaining." By the end, Tom had dropped his eyes to the pavement.

"Yes, master," he acknowledged, sounding grumpy, but subdued. Harry wondered how much of that was the lingering effects from earlier that morning and how much was Tom finally realising his new position in society.

"Right then," Harry said, turning to go into the Oxfam charity shop, his own mood sobered a bit too – he still hadn't quite come to terms with his own feelings about this slavery business, but he knew that allowing Tom even the slightest leeway would come around to bite him. Inside, he pointed out the various areas – shirts, trousers, jackets, shoes. "Go pick out five or six sets of shirts and trousers. Make sure you remember what you'll be doing and that you choose suitable clothes for it. Get a couple of jackets too – at least one for warmth and one for rain. If you see any decent shoes, pick out a pair. We'll go elsewhere for underwear." Harry was pretty sure he saw a look of relief cross Tom's face at the last comment and Harry smirked slightly to himself. He then went to browse the shirts – if he was going to start looking for jobs soon, he ought to have some decent clothes. He would have to head to Diagon Alley too for robes…but that was later. And without Tom. Definitely.

A few minutes later, Tom returned with five pairs of trousers. Harry took one look at two of the pairs and immediately shook his head. Tom glared at him defiantly.

"Why not?" he asked resentfully. "Master," he quickly added on. Harry reached out to feel the fabric pointedly.

"Think about it. As soon as you kneel in these, they're going to cut off your circulation. Go choose other ones." Harry rolled his eyes as his slave grumpily acknowledged his order. Honestly, one would think Tom didn't actually want clothes with the way he was carrying on. Harry turned back to looking at the shirts.

"Well, it's nice to see a young couple be all open about their dynamic," came a voice from the other side of the rack. Harry startled slightly, but peering through the hangers, he saw the source of it. A slightly plump middle-aged woman was smiling at him.

"Excuse me?" Harry said, confused. The woman tapped her neck and nodded at Tom's back. Harry flushed as he realised she must have either caught sight of the collar or heard him say 'master', or maybe both. The woman winked at him.

"No need to blush, dear. Though," she continued in a thoughtful tone, "if one of my boys had given me that attitude, he'd be over my knee and getting a good spanking, middle of a shop or not! Still, you know your own dynamic better than me." Harry was now totally confused. "Say, are you new around here?" the woman asked. Harry was off-kilter enough to answer honestly.

"Only started living here full time a few months ago."

"That'd explain why I don't know you. Haven't had time to find all the local clubs, then?" Harry felt it safest to give a non-committal noise. The woman nodded sympathetically and started rooting around in her bag, muttering to herself. Harry was wondering whether he could go and hide in the jackets section, damn getting himself a couple of shirts, but before he could move, the woman was paying attention to him again.

"Here you are," she said cheerfully, holding out a card. Harry took it, figuring it was the best option to end this conversation. "If you want to play in company, come along to this place – it's friendly and well-equipped, I promise, though the membership fee is a bit steep." Harry nodded mutely. The woman looked at her watch. "Oh! Sorry to have to run, but my Albert is waiting for me. We've got some fun planned for today, if you know what I mean." She finished with another wink and then rushed off leaving Harry to wonder if that had been a particularly vivid hallucination. Only the card in his hand indicated otherwise. He looked at it.

'Klub Verboten', it read, and the logo looked suspiciously like a collar crossed with a whip. Harry frowned at it and then jumped as Tom's voice sounded from far too close next to him.

"A sex club, master?" The damn man sounded far too amused for Harry's liking.

"What are you talking about?" he asked in frustration and embarrassment. Now his slave was being confusing too! Tom nodded at the card.

"From the name and logo, I guess it's a BDSM sex club." Harry flushed darkly. He'd heard of BDSM in the boys dorms at Hogwarts, though it had only ever been in whispers – somehow, talking about tying people up and spanking them had felt so much more illicit than the usual lurid tales of kissing and fumbling in closets. He looked up at Tom. Sure enough, the damnable man was smirking.

"You do realise," Harry said in a fit of pique, "that the woman thought we were practitioners due to that little accessory of yours. And," he continued, trying to wipe that smirk off, "she practically suggested that I take you over my knee and spank the attitude out of you." The smirk vanished and Tom actually took a step back. His crimson eyes searched Harry's as if to work out whether his master was actually intending to do it or not.

"Master, you wouldn't…" he trailed off. Harry smirked back at him.

"No probably not," he replied. Then his own quirked lips disappeared. "But never forget that I could." Tom raised his hand to his neck over where the collar was.

"I don't think I could, master," he said. And for once, there was complete honesty in his voice.

XXX

After getting approval on the new trousers he'd found, Tom continued looking for some shirts. Reluctant as he was to admit it, the quality of these clothes was actually pretty good. Some of them even had the original labels from the shops on them showing that they had been barely, if ever, used. He still resented having to wear second-hand clothes again – he thought he'd escaped that once he'd started making his own money after school. It was one more reminder that he was Tom again, not Lord Voldemort.

That morning had been…interesting, so far. He had been dreading his master's appearance at his door and had slept somewhat fitfully in the final parts of the night in order to ensure that he was ready when his master came to fetch him. To his relief, he had seen the signs of guilt within the boy's eyes and felt them in his touch as he healed the wounds on Tom's face. It was good to know that he hadn't completely misjudged how his master would react, even if he had been taken by surprise at the brutality shown early that morning.

He had considered taking advantage of the guilt, using words to twist the knife and make the boy more amenable to his suggestions. In the end, he had decided against it – from what he'd heard and seen of the boy, he suspected that he could only push so far before it backfired. No, he was playing the long game here, and if that required passing up a few opportunities, so be it.

He had to admit, though, that he felt more respect for the boy knowing that he would enforce his will when necessary, as much as he wished for his own sake that it wasn't true. There was nothing that he despised more than weak-willed wizards who shouted out threats when they knew they were safe, then scurried away with their tails between their legs if called out on them. But he was rather glad that the punishment earlier that morning hadn't been the indication of what the rest of the time would be like. At least, it didn't seem so.

He had even risked some amusement at his master's expense, seeing that things had been rather smooth, and hadn't received punishment for it, either from the collar or his master directly. Though for a moment, the comment about spanking had worried him…Perhaps it was better to be in the muggle world – surely the boy would be less likely to punish him in front of a whole load of muggles than in front of wizards who would recognise the situation.

Calling the boy 'master' was coming easier now. Tom wasn't really sure how to feel about that. Sure, it helped to avoid punishment – so far that morning, the only time his collar had punished him had been when he tried to leave the house without his master touching him, and even then it had only been a warning shock. On the other hand, Tom hated the idea that the slave behaviours would eventually become automatic.

He reminded himself that it was inevitable for at least some of the most common behaviours to become habits: it only took twenty-one days for an action to become habitual, so considering he was unlikely to find a solution to the slave collar in less than a few months – and that was once he had access to the books and magic he needed – many behaviours were inevitably going to become habit. The most important thing, he told himself, was that his mind wasn't affected. His body could do what it liked – habits could be broken later. But if his mind was changed by the feedback system of the collar so that he came to desire his own slavery, which was entirely possible, he was lost.

In a way, the suffering that morning had had at least one good consequence: the boy expected him to be subdued and fearful, so he didn't need to work as hard at 'testing' his limits. This, then, had the positive consequence of him not being exposed to the feedback system as intensely. He would take his victories where he could.

Once Tom had chosen his clothes, they went to the check-out where the boy proved his earlier words and added some items to the pile for himself. It still confused Tom why someone with as much money as the Potters were reputed to have would come to a charity shop for clothes. They then headed to a Marks & Spencer's where Tom picked out some underwear, his master hovering nearby.

After that, they visited a Sainsbury's where the boy told him to pick out some toiletries. This was a bit strange as a thought – Tom hadn't had to buy toiletries, well, ever. At the orphanage, soap had been available, and that had been the extent of it. At Hogwarts, he had quickly learned the grooming spells from watching his meticulous dorm-mates and then looking them up in the library. After he had come back to life, they hadn't really been necessary. Shampoo had definitely been pointless and due to his insanity and inhumanity, the other personal grooming had been unnecessary and ignored too. So, in the end, he just picked items somewhat at random. His master smirked at one of the items, but Tom didn't bother to ask him why the nice smelling deodorant with flowers on the bottle was worth such amusement.

After a short ordeal of wandering around the supermarket for the boy to collect some food items, they were done. If Tom was honest, once he knew his part was done, he hadn't paid much attention to what his master was doing, apart from ensuring he wasn't moving too far away. Instead, he had found himself staring at the shop and the shoppers.

Things had changed so much since Lord Voldemort had walked the muggle world. In fact, the last time Tom could remember spending actual time there had to be in the 50s at the latest. The shops he had seen then and the shops he saw now were completely different. Things were cleaner, more spaced out, and there was so much more technology – it was everywhere. From the devices that muggles carried around and spoke into to the machines used to decide how much the shoppers had to pay at the end of their trip…. Tom found himself idly wondering what other changes had happened in the muggle world.

So when the boy pulled something out of the bags that Tom didn't remember seeing him put in, once they had returned to the house, he wasn't all that surprised. What it was though…

"Here," his master said, holding out a long, slim stick to him. He took it and turned it over in his hands. The glass section at one end made a mostly-faded memory come back to him. Was this…?

"Master?" he said, for once not even thinking about the word in his wonder. The boy looked slightly embarrassed.

"I thought…well, you won't need to search for a candle if you've got this, right? Oh, you need these too." He dug something else out of the bag and handed it over. Tom took it. AA batteries, it said. "You'll need to put those in the torch. When they get really dim or stop working, tell me and I'll get some new ones." Tom looked at the items in his hand and then looked at his master. For the first time in a long time, he felt…gratitude. It was such a small gesture and he knew that Harry was probably doing this out of guilt, but still…

"Thank you, master," he said. And for once, he meant it.

It wasn't until much later that he realised he'd referred to the boy as 'Harry' in his mind, and the collar hadn't punished him.

XXX

The next two weeks went by suspiciously smoothly, Harry thought. He wasn't sure if it was paranoia or instinct making him uncomfortable at Tom's docility, but regardless of the cause, he was. For the first few days, Harry could understand it as being a result of him torturing the man in punishment. But when it continued past a week and then into two weeks, he found his suspicions rising. There was no way the man who had been Voldemort could have been cowed into submission by a few seconds of torture, regardless of how bad it was…could he?

But that's what seemed to have happened. Tom spoke to him quasi-respectfully, he carried out Harry's orders without defiance, and he behaved in all ways as the guidebook's rules expected him to. In his free time, he curled up near the fire in the parlour with a book – on the floor if Harry was in there too. Their evening meals were silent and quick, but Tom had taken to the cooking facilities well enough for simple dishes. In fact, Harry didn't think the collar had punished him at all in the last week, at least.

And frankly, it was worrying. After all, Harry was very much a person to look a gift horse in the mouth, after having had far too many experiences where the gift horse turned out to be a disguised threat. A Tom who seemed to have lost all defiance and to have become some submissive slave was a cause for concern, not celebration. Because if Tom was anything like Voldemort, and surely he must be, then a quiet Tom was a plotting Tom.

There was little Harry felt he could do, however. Without any evidence, and after the way he had overreacted a couple of weeks ago, he was reluctant to confront the man. For all that he felt uncomfortable with the docility his slave was displaying at the moment, he would rather have it than constant aggression or defiance. If only he could be certain that Tom's plotting was either harmless or destined to fail…

Well, the man would have an opportunity today if he was going to try anything – Harry was going to Hogwarts for the day. He had decided to sign up to the 'eight-year' courses like many of those in his year and the year below who had found their education completely disrupted. He'd done the reading required and was now going to have some face to face tutorials with the teachers. At least it would keep him busy, and who knows? Maybe he would find something he was interested in doing for longer term.

After leaving some instructions with Tom on what to clean that day, he apparated to Hogwarts' gates. There, he found a milling group of other students from his year and the year below.

"Ron!" he called, seeing a familiar red head. A hand was raised in a responded greeting. He made his way through the crowd, exchanging words with the people he knew, which was the vast majority. At least ten minutes later, he managed to reach Ron. His smile slipped slightly as he realised Ginny was there too.

"Hi Ginny," he tried to say brightly, but wasn't sure he had succeeded.

"Hi Harry," she responded, also a bit more subdued than he might have expected of her normal self. There was a few moments of awkward quiet.

"Uh, how are you?" Harry asked to break the silence, wincing slightly at how it sounded.

"Fine, thanks," she responded, just as lost. "Uh, and you?"

"Fine, thanks," he echoed. They were silent for a few more moments.

"Um, Harry, I think I see some friends over there," she waved vaguely towards the crowd. "I'll see you later, alright." Without another word she disappeared into the people. Harry watched her go and then turned back to his friend only to see Ron shaking his head.

"Seriously, you two. I would have thought you'd have been able to talk together again at this point." Harry shrugged. It had been a mutual decision not to rekindle what they had started before the horcrux hunt, but it had left them not really knowing where they stood. "I still don't understand why you just gave up," Ron continued, a note of frustration in his voice. Harry shrugged again.

"I told you. We both changed over the war."

"Yeah, but couldn't that bring you together?" Harry didn't reply. He never did when Ron raised that question. Because truthfully, he didn't know the answer. All he knew was that they had been both damaged by their experiences: he with the horcrux hunt and his capture and torture of Death Eaters to try to find clues to the final horcruxes; Ginny with her experience with the Carrows in Hogwarts and then doing raids with her Resistance comrades during what should have been her seventh year.

That was why so many of them were here – it wasn't just Harry's year group who missed out on a significant amount of their education due to the war. After one year of a Death Eater controlled Hogwarts, the majority of the Resistance members had pulled out, leaving only those members who hadn't been identified. For those who were still in Sixth year or below, they would have time to catch up for their NEWTS. For Ginny's year who should have done their Seventh last year, or for Harry's year who either missed out entirely on their Seventh year, like Harry, or just had a very disrupted year, like Neville, they needed more focused help to be prepared.

Thus, the arrangement Minerva had come to. They would do mostly self-study out of books, but they would have this time to discuss questions with the teachers and do practical lessons under supervision.

"So what did you decide to take?" Harry asked Ron, desperate to change the conversation.

"Charms, Defence, Transfiguration, and Potions. I figured with Snape gone, I might have a chance of passing that one." Ron grinned and Harry returned it, gratefully for things to be back to something like normal. "I'm going to be studying Arithmancy and Runes on the side, probably will take the NEWTs for them at the Ministry when I'm good enough. You?"

"Same. No point in Divination and I'm not good enough in Herbology or Magical Creatures to focus on them, I think."

"Are you going to take Kingsley up on his offer to make you an Auror recruit?" Ron looked at Harry meaningfully. Harry sighed.

"I haven't decided," he admitted. Ron shrugged.

"Well, he'll wait for a bit. But not forever. They need more fighters, Harry, and you're a bloody good one."

"Too good," snapped Harry quietly. He was about to continue when the gates of Hogwarts creaked open. Minerva McGonagall stood on the other side of them, looking as stern as always. There was a moment of silence, then she smiled slightly.

"Welcome back," is all she said. They cheered. She let it continue for a moment before raising a hand. Such was the respect for her that the cheers died away almost instantly. "I'm glad to see so many of you have decided to finish your education despite the disruption of the last two years. Now, you should all have received your reading lists." She paused for a moment as if to invite anyone to say they hadn't. No one spoke so she continued. "Today will be mostly tests." There were a few groans, but Harry figured it was inevitable – they had changed a lot since the last time they had been learning at Hogwarts. "We will use these tests to decide your timetables along with what supplementary reading is suggested for you to catch up in the necessary areas. I have some provisional timetables here for your practical and theoretical tests." She withdrew a small pack of papers and used a spell to send them to the correct people. Harry looked at his.

Defence theory, then Defence practical, Charms theory then practical, a pause, lunch, then Transfiguration theory and practical, and finally, Potions theory and practical. It was going to be absolutely exhausting, he already knew. He looked over at Ron's. His friend had the same lessons, but their practicals and theories were reversed. Harry guessed that made sense – they were trying to fit about forty students into all their tests in one day; it must have taken a significant amount of time to timetable!

"Before you may enter, however, I must make myself clear. As adults returning to Hogwarts for your missed education, you are set apart from the other students. You no longer reside here, so there is no need for houses. You will sit at a different table in the Great Hall if you choose to stay for lunch. Of course, if you wish to wear your house colours, you are welcome to do so, but your actions will not earn or lose house points. Instead, I am trusting you to behave appropriately. You are all here because you wish to finish your education – if that is not your goal, there is nothing obliging you to stay." She paused to let that sink in. Harry got the message; he thought they all did – behave or be kicked out of the programme. Well, without Snape or Malfoy around, he didn't think he'd be getting into nearly as much trouble as in previous years. He was here to learn, that was all. Apparently, the Headmistress was satisfied with whatever she saw in their faces.

"Be welcome, then, all of you," she said, moving aside to allow them to start stepping into Hogwarts' grounds. "And remember, your teachers are giving up their free periods for this, so you might want to say thank you," she reminded them.

"Nice to be treated like adults, right Harry?" Ron asked, a hint of glee in his voice. Harry smiled at him because yes, after all the years of clearing up after the messes made by adults, of being expected to grow up far too fast, yes, they were being treated like they could make their own decisions. "So, Harry, what did you mean by 'too good'? How can you be too good at something?" Harry groaned. He'd hoped Ron would leave it be, but, like his patronus, unfortunately he could be a bit of a dog with a bone sometimes.

"Look, I just don't like the person it made me into, OK?"

"You mean the guy who found a way to defeat Voldemort, right?" Ron asked sceptically. Harry sighed.

"No, I mean the guy who tortured Death Eaters," and enjoyed it, he finished in his own mind, not able to say it aloud, even to his best friend. Ron stopped moving and put a hand out to stop Harry too. They got a few looks but no one interrupted them.

"Harry, you've got to stop beating yourself up about it. It was war. And we were desperate. It doesn't mean you've become, like, some kind of sadist!" He waited until Harry gave a non-committal shrug before sighing and letting them move off again, now at the back of the parade. He didn't push it any further, but Harry had a gut-feeling he hadn't heard the last of it.

XXX

Maybe I should have taken Divination was Harry's grumpy thought when, sitting at the fifth table in the Great Hall for lunch, Ron restarted the conversation. And this time, he brought Neville into it.

"Harry's not sure he wants to become an Auror. I think he'd be great at it! What do you think, Neville?"

Harry had been thinking about the previous two periods. He'd actually been in quite a good mood – despite some of his theory definitely having gaps in, he'd found the practicals fun and thought he'd done quite well in them. For Defence, he'd had to shoot targets with different spells. Some of the targets were moving for testing accuracy, some flashed different colours depending on the spell required and then showed with brightness how powerful it needed to be, and some of them vanished and then re-appeared requiring quick casts. As for Charms, he'd actually had a short duel with Professor Flitwick, which had been really fun.

So yeah, he'd actually been smiling until his so-called best friend decided to bring up the conversation he'd thought they'd finished that morning. Neville looked at him, actually studied his eyes for a moment.

"I think you should leave it be, Ron." Neville's voice was quiet but firm. Harry grinned at the sound. They'd barely come into contact with Neville during the last two years – with him leading the Hogwarts Resistance and them chasing after horcruxes, there hadn't been many times when their paths had crossed. Nonetheless, they'd heard a lot about him, the man who had stood up to the Carrows for an entire year, tortured and threatened with his life, but still unwilling to give up. Harry thought he could see that in Neville now. His eyes were older and he had a scar down the side of his face, but he had a quiet confidence and presence that made you think he was someone who could be trusted. In many ways, Harry mused, Neville was a much better leader than he was.

"But Neville, think about it. What does Harry like doing? Protecting people. What does Harry do well? Fighting. Who fights while protecting people? Aurors! And we need some good ones after the deaths during the war!" He sounded frustrated. Harry understood. To be honest, he wasn't sure why he didn't want to do it. Sure, he was worried about the dark beast which had woken inside him. Sure he was tired of his whole life being about Dark wizards. But were those just excuses? Nevertheless, he was glad when Neville shut the conversation down.

"Harry will do what's best for him. Just like you've chosen to go into curse-breaking instead of the Aurors," he pointed out. Ron blushed slightly.

"Yeah, but I'm not as good as Harry at fighting," he objected. Neville shrugged.

"You're much better than most of those who will be entering the ranks thanks to Kingsley's offer. But that's not my point. You've chosen to do cursebreaking, which is fine, when you could have been an Auror recruit."

"Yeah, but…" Ron trailed off for a moment before catching his train of thought. "Honestly, I can't see Harry doing anything else. Solving mysteries, catching bad guys and helping others has been the story of his Hogwarts years." He shrugged, but then seemed to concede that Harry didn't want to talk about it and shifted focus. Harry was sure that was Hermione's influence – the Ron of Fourth year with an emotional range of a teaspoon probably wouldn't have even realised. "Anyway, what are you doing, Neville?" Neville smiled

"I'm an Auror recruit right now."

"See!" exclaimed Ron, rounding on Harry, seemingly unable to resist.

"But," emphasised Neville, continuing, "I chose to do that not because my father was an Auror or because people were telling me to do so, but because I wanted to do it."

"So is Kingsley making allowances for you to come here once a week?" Harry asked, intrigued despite himself. Neville nodded.

"Well, Gwaine Robards is, not Kingsley exactly since Robards has been appointed the Head of the Auror Office, but I'm sure Kingsley had a hand in it. We're at the Ministry every day between nine and seven, Tuesday to Friday for our Auror training, and we have the time on Monday for this. I think that Robards would take us without our NEWTs, because of Kingsley's decree, but would rather we had them. It's going to be hard work, but it'll be worth it."

"Are there many people who have decided to go for it?" Harry asked, wondering if Kingsley, or Robards, had been flooded with applicants due to the relaxed entry requirements.

"Several of the Resistance have decided to do it." Neville looked around the table at the other Eighth year students who had chosen to stay for lunch, then pointed out a few. "I've seen Dean and Seamus in my classes, so they're doing it. So are Padma, Susan and Justin. Of people not in the Resistance, Jim and Lucy there are doing it," Harry recognised them as Ravenclaws in Ginny's year, but hadn't known their names. "And there are even a couple of Slytherins – Blaise Zabini from our year and Richard Goldstein from the year below."

"Is that everyone in your classes?" Neville shrugged.

"Pretty much. But not everyone will become an Auror – the usual drop-out or failure rate is about seventy percent. So, it might seem a lot, but probably only two or three of us will be accepted into the Aurors proper." Harry was quiet for a moment.

"Why do you think other members of the Resistance didn't want to join?" Neville shrugged.

"A mixture of reasons, I think. For some, the Resistance was something they did because they couldn't bear submitting to the Carrows and to Voldemort as an extension – when they were defeated, the Resistance members happily gave up fighting. For others, like you, they had enough of fighting wizards during the war. For the rest, they simply had other interests. Ginny, for example, is a very good fighter, but she wants to become a professional quidditch player, not an Auror." Harry hummed in acknowledgement. A thought occurred to him that he had wondered the answer to in the past. It seemed a good opportunity now.

"Neville, when you first started the Resistance with Ginny and Luna, you called it Dumbledore's Army, reviving the group that we had. When and why did it change to the Hogwarts Resistance?" Ron looked rather interested in the answer too. Neville looked thoughtful, then met Harry's eyes, his gaze far older than his otherwise youthful appearance.

"Do you remember Blackpool?" Harry nodded. That had been one of the few times his group had worked directly with Neville's, shortly after the Resistance had pulled out from Hogwarts. They had needed to conduct a raid on a Death Eater stronghold in Blackpool to gain access to some critical information. Harry, Ron and Hermione had been there because they had hoped to capture Rodolphus Lestrange in the hope that he might have information on the horcruxes – they had succeeded, but he hadn't known anything, regardless of what they did to him. It had been both a high point – being briefly reunited with friends – and low point – for all the lives that had been lost, it hadn't been as helpful as they had hoped.

"I remember," he replied, keeping his voice steady as he remembered the war-time funerals they had done, sometimes without the body, always hurried.

"Ron spoke to me about how you discovered what Dumbledore had planned." Harry looked sharply at the friend in question. Ron just looked back at him.

"He deserved to know why we were so keen to join in. He deserved to know our chances of winning," the red-head said steadily. Harry looked away. It was true. Neville, as the leader of the Resistance, definitely deserved to know that they were continuing to fight because of Harry's cowardice. Neville seemed to read the thoughts from his face because he sharply interjected.

"No! You don't deserve to feel guilt for that, Harry. It was unreasonable to ask you to step in front of Voldemort's wand, willingly dying when you didn't even know for certain it would work, nor whether you had eliminated all of his horcruxes." He lowered his voice on the last word, not wanting it to be overheard. "It was then that I realised I had lost all respect for the man who expected a teenager to die to win a war that had happened under his purview. I talked to the other leaders of the group and we all agreed to name it something different. We wanted to call it 'Harry's Army', but I was pretty sure you wouldn't accept that, so we ended up with the Hogwarts Resistance, since that's where we had started." Harry found himself relieved at the clear thinking of his friend; he certainly wouldn't have wanted to hear about 'Harry's Army'! In the end, there was only one thing he could say.

"Thank you," he breathed, his eyes shining with gratitude for Neville's understanding, for his support. Neville simply smiled at him.

"No need, Harry. I had faith in you and you succeeded. That's all that matters," he said simply.

XXX

By the end of the day another of Harry's predictions had come true: he was exhausted. The Transfiguration practical had been a simple but demanding series of transfigurations from one object to another. Of course, the fact that every time an object was transfigured, it was harder to transfigure it again made the task more and more demanding. Still, he felt he'd done well enough – his transfiguration skills had certainly had a work out over the last two years after all.

Not so with the Potions practical. He had had to brew a nutrient potion, tricky in many places, and was not certain at all that the potion hadn't turned instead into a poison. He wouldn't have drunk it, not even if Snape had threatened him. At least Slughorn hadn't made much comment. He suspected that his theory was spotty as always, but would wait until he got the results to do much reading.

As a consolation, when he met up with Ron afterwards, he looked just as tired. Then, Harry had a brainwave. It had been so nice to catch up a bit with Ron, despite him hounding Harry a bit about joining the Aurors, and even though he had seen his friends in the previous months, they hadn't taken time to just relax together. Rebuilding Hogwarts and going to funerals and wakes just wasn't the same as taking some time together.

"Hey Ron," said Harry. "Why don't we go get Hermione and bring her to Grimmauld Place? We could have dinner together. It would be good to catch up properly," he finished, a slight note of wistfulness in his voice. Ron grinned widely and clapped him on the back.

"Great idea, mate! It'll be like old times." Harry grinned. They walked to Hogwarts' gates, chatting all the while, then Ron side-along apparated Harry to where they were staying – apparently they had chosen to move away from the Burrow in order to be more independent. Knowing Molly Weasley as he did, Harry wasn't surprised at their decision.

Popping his head in the door, Ron shouted for Hermione, then explained the idea.

"Wonderful suggestion, Harry!" exclaimed Hermione. "And good timing – I've just finished my work for the day too."

Apparating back to Grimmauld Place – at least they all knew the destination well enough – they landed on the doorstep. Harry opened the door and let his friends in. They went to the sitting room where, like an anvil landing on his head, Harry was abruptly reminded of why he hadn't invited his friends around in the last two weeks, despite having finished the rebuilding and funerals. Ron snarled behind him, whipping out his wand to point at the man frozen in the act of cleaning an ornament on the mantelpiece. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione copying Ron, though seeming confused about why – Harry abruptly remembered that she had never seen Tom Riddle. Ron had, if only briefly, when he had come out of the locket horcrux as it was destroyed. Turning around, he held up his hands to halt his friends.

"It's OK, he's no danger," he told them. Ron didn't seem to believe him and Hermione just looked confused.

"No danger? That's bloody Voldemort, Harry!" Ron protested. At that, Hermione's eyes widened and her grip on her wand tightened as her lips pressed together more firmly.

"I know, Ron. But look at his neck." His friends did so, Hermione gasping and raising her free hand to her mouth as she lowered her wand.

"Harry…tell me you didn't…" she said quietly, pleadingly, but Harry's attention was on Ron who was still staring at the menacing-looking figure standing by the fire, his wand raised threateningly. He didn't seem to see the collar wrapped around Tom's throat, nor the cleaning cloth and ornament in his hand. Harry didn't really blame him – maybe a demonstration was in order.

Turning slightly so his body was slightly more angled towards the fire than his friends, he twisted his head towards his slave.

"Tom, kneel," he ordered.

XXX

Tom heard the command. It was somewhat unnecessary since the collar had been sending shivers of pain down his spine since his master's entry, reminding him that his correct position in the presence of his master was on his knees. All the command did was to hasten his inevitable submission. But inevitable as it might be…he couldn't do it. Not willingly.

Two weeks of suppressing his feelings of humiliation when he had to kneel to a boy less than half his age and with only a fraction of his power or talent, to call him 'master'. Two weeks of cleaning items like a muggle because he was not allowed to use his magic. Two weeks of forcing himself to keep biting comments and insults behind his teeth because he was afraid of the consequences. Two weeks of being a slave in a way that the guards at the Ministry had never managed to make him be.

All those feelings had come crashing down on him all at once with the appearance of those two sidekicks who had helped the boy defy him so many times. The blood traitor and mudblood who were even less talented than the one he was forced to call 'master'. And he was supposed to kneel before them? To show them respect? When they were already seeing him brought so low?

He simply couldn't.

Never mind how 'well' he had been doing recently. Never mind that his theory of diminishing returns of pleasure when following the same rules had been proven. Never mind that a part of him had already started hankering for more reward every time the pleasure lessened. Never mind that the collar would certainly punish him, and his master perhaps more. He couldn't kneel willingly before them.

So he set his teeth in a defiant snarl and stayed standing, his fingers tight enough around the ornament that a small part of his brain was worried about breaking it. In that moment he wished he could see answering anger in the boy's eyes, anger at his defiance, proof that he still meant something to somebody, if only as an opponent.

Waves of pain battered him, small warnings at first at his defiance, and then greater shocks designed to punish, to defeat. He stood against them as they intensified, waiting for the flare of anger to come in those emerald eyes. Waiting for the boy to lose control, to force him to his knees or insult him or do something. But he didn't.

The boy's eyes were calm and expectant with no anger to be seen. And it was the realisation of why that finally broke Tom's resolve. Because as much as Tom knew his submission was inevitable, so did his master.

Whimpers being forced from his throat as the pain attacked his nerves and dipped them in fire and lightening, the physical pain no greater than his mental anguish at the soul-deep realisation of his utter helplessness, Tom finally gave up. He slumped to his knees and lowered his head, his hands on the floor to stop him from prostrating himself completely.

The pain stopped immediately and Tom shuddered as a huge dose of pleasure ripped through him. As soon as it, too, faded, he felt the beginnings of a craving to have it back, to feel it again. Pushing that firmly aside, he grounded himself in the twitches of abused muscles and the small shivers of residual pain that ran through his nerves. It wasn't pleasant, but that was the point – pain was so much less effective than pleasure. He wished he'd realised that all those years ago when starting his campaign – he would have been unstoppable.

His master was talking. Tom paid attention, in case either there was anything he had to do, or that he could use.

"-you see, he's unable to resist my commands. Voldemort is gone. He's defeated. Tom's all that remains."

"But Harry! A slave?" that was the mudblood. "It's inhumane this punishment – how could you support it by buying a slave?" At hearing the outrage in her voice, Tom turned over the idea in his mind of perhaps getting her on side, using her feelings to create sympathy for him. Then, maybe she could convince his master to be more lenient…maybe even allow him to read any book he wanted…

"First of all, I didn't buy him. Lady Magic made me his master because of the way our souls are apparently 'entwined' thanks to the prophecy. The Ministry gave him to me when they realised that no one else could gain ownership over his collar. Second, it's Voldemort. Frankly, I think that the punishment is actually pretty fair in general, and in this case in particular…definitely deserved."

"Being a slave is deserved? No one deserves to have their will stripped away from them, to be forced to take actions because of their fear of torture. Tell me you see something wrong in how he was just forced to obey you?!" There was a pause and then his master continued, speaking much more gently and calmly than Tom would have expected.

"Hermione, your defence of the defenceless has always been laudable. I've heard about the waves you're already making in your department, the legislation you're starting to put forward to protect house elves and werewolves. But we're not talking about defenceless, much-maligned victims of the Wizarding world here. We're talking about Voldemort, the man who would have done a lot worse to us and did do a lot worse to many people, either by his own action or by his orders. If the tables were turned, do you think I'd be kneeling in his house, given decent clothes and plenty of food?

"No, I'd be in his dungeon, tortured to within an inch of my life every day and barely given enough sustenance to live. All assuming he didn't just kill me or let one of his Death Eaters kill me. And the same would be true for you guys. So frankly, I'm not feeling guilty at treating him like a slave when I could be treating him far worse." And there went Tom's thoughts of using his mudblood friend against him. Because when he heard his master speaking like that, when he remembered the pain he had been subjected to for simply referencing his godfather's death…he knew it was too risky.

"I agree with you, mate," spoke up the red-haired blood traitor, his voice grim. "When I think about what Voldemort and his Death Eaters did…death is too good for them. I want them to suffer!"

"Ron!" Her voice was even more outraged than previously.

"Do you know what they did to Ginny in Hogwarts?" he demanded. "Do you? Because I don't. But I do know that she still wakes up screaming from nightmares. I know that she flinches when a man stands over her. I know that she has a hair-trigger alert on drawing her wand whenever she hears even the faintest sound. So, knowing that the bastards who made my baby sister so afraid are currently being treated like the nothing that they tried to make everyone else be? Yeah, I'm glad of it. Honestly, mate, if I were you, that monster would be in a significantly worse condition than he appears to be."

Tom shuddered slightly at the hate in his voice. He was starting to wonder if he had maybe dodged a curse by being tied to his strangely moral nemesis. Because really, the boy's words had been correct – if the tables had been turned and his master had been his slave…oh the fun he would have had. He still would if he could get rid of this thing around his neck. He was pulled out of daydreams of torturing the three in the room with him by a small pain from the collar, a warning that danced along his spine and to his fingertips.

"But…Ron, Harry…" the mudblood seemed to struggle for words. "We should be rising above that. How can we say we have the moral high ground when we turn around and enslave our enemies? Yes, they would do it to us, but we should be better than that." There was a pause for a moment. Tom had to admit that he was curious about the answer, so made sure that he stayed as still as possible – let them forget that he was there.

"Hermione, to me, it's not so much about revenge," his master murmured. "Sure, sometimes I wake up from nightmares of the war and I remember that I have their architect sleeping in a bedroom down the corridor. And there's a part of me that urges me to get up, to go and wake him up, to make him feel my pain and the pain of those I watched him hurt." Tom swallowed at the thought and suddenly felt less safe in his room at night. "But to me, it's about justice – those who harmed others can no longer do so. And, while they are serving their sentences, they are no longer able to influence the Wizarding world – we have a chance to create the world we want now."

"But mate, when they are freed, when they finish their sentences, they'll be able to hurt and influence others again."

"I don't think so, Ron. I mean, sure, the ones who served him only a short time have short sentences, but they were probably less affected by his influence, anyway. And maybe, their experience in being on the losing side might make them think more carefully about how they wish to defy the law in the future. But for those like Bellatrix Lestrange or Walden Mcnair? Death Eaters who were in his service for a long time and hurt a lot of people? They're going to be very different when they come out."

"What do you mean, Harry?" The mudblood.

"Have you seen the slavery guidebook?" he paused and Tom assumed there was some non-verbal gesture that he couldn't see and didn't want to move to see in case he was sent out. "There's some sort of punishment-reward system in the collar designed to make obedient slaves of their wearers. You saw the punishment bit just now. So for those Death Eaters who are going to be slaves for a good decade or more? Yeah, I doubt they're going to be much of a problem when they're free."

"Uh, Harry?" the blood traitor sounded uncertain. "Do you think…?" There was a pause.

"Oh! No, it doesn't matter that he's listening. He read the guidebook too and is plenty intelligent to work out the implications. Plus, he's never going free. It's a life sentence for both of us." Here, Tom's master gave a humourless chuckle. That's what you think, thought Tom, determined to make sure it didn't come true.

The blood traitor and the mudblood didn't stay for much longer. Tom felt perversely glad that he made them feel uncomfortable with his presence. When the boy came back from seeing them out, he threw himself into his chair and sighed.

"You can get up, you know," he said wearily in Tom's direction. Tom lifted his head and looked at him.

"Does my master not enjoy seeing his slave on his knees?" he asked neutrally. The boy stilled, staring into the fire.

"Do I enjoy it?" his master repeated softly, musingly. "Actually, as much as I hate to recognise it in myself, yes." He twisted his head and looked Tom directly in the eyes. At the fiery embers glowing in those emeralds, Tom almost recoiled. Instead, though, he found a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. His erstwhile nemesis still felt something for him – if he could still kindle strong emotions, maybe he wasn't completely lost.

"For what you did to the Boneses, the Smiths, the Petersons, the McKinnons, the Wilsons, the Johnsons, the Woods, the Robinsons and everyone else who died by your wand or by the wands of your Death Eaters, on your orders, I would gladly see you suffer a lot more than simply kneeling."

"Then why don't you, master?" Tom challenged, not quite sure why he did so. Perhaps the last few months had made him more reckless because he had less to lose. Although, was that true? His mind for one had never been this much under threat. So why? The boy sat back and the intensity in his eyes faded.

"Because it would make me feel worse than it would you," he replied simply. Tom frowned, unable to understand that. His master continued speaking. "So you don't need to worry, Tom – I'm not going to come into your room in the middle of the night and curse you, because with that collar on your neck, you are helpless. And torturing the helpless has always been Voldemort's thing, not mine. But if you act like Voldemort in any way…" he trailed off, but Tom could finish the sentence himself. If he acted like Voldemort, he would be treated like him, and that meant all bets were off.

XXX

*The explanation of the Cruciatus Curse is not originally mine. I can't remember whose story I got it from, but if anyone else knows, please tell me and I'll credit them for it.

**Voldemort – in case you were wondering about my characterisation here, I've tried to keep it somewhat true to the books. You know, flipping through the books for scenes with Voldemort in, I've come to realise that for the main antagonist of the series, he gets surprisingly little 'screen-time'. At maximum we see him in about seven chapters in the sixth book, but that's only if you count the memories as 'screen-time'. Probably this was intentional to keep him as a 'mysterious' and 'dangerous' figure – nothing ruins horror quite so much as seeing whatever the scary thing was. Anyway, it makes attempting a somewhat canon characterisation quite difficult.

What I've come to the conclusion of is, however, that Voldemort really isn't that subtle, preferring intimidation over subtle manipulation. Even as a child, Tom chose to kill the rabbit and suspend it as a fear tactic rather than anything subtler. As an adult, instead of going through the political system to make his changes, he travels to learn and practice the dark arts, then returns to have an interview with Dumbledore where he all but shouts his intentions. Then he runs a war which is characterised by loud, obvious murders of important people in a clear method of intimidation. The plans which we see carried out – his attempt to gain the philosopher's stone, the Triwizard Tournament, gaining the prophecy, invading Hogwarts…most of them work, to an extent, with Harry being the main reason they don't succeed, but they're not all that subtle either. I mean, going after the philosopher's stone himself, thereby risking letting his enemy know for certain that he was alive and weak is not a very good tactic, in my opinion. The Triwizard Tournament plot was a bit better, but seemed more of a capitalisation on an opportunity than a complex, subtle scheme which he set in motion. Going after the prophecy was also a bit better – he used his enemy's 'weakness' against him, but sending a whole platoon of Death Eaters into the Ministry, after trying to pretend for a year that he didn't exist, was not very subtle. And so on.

Frankly, the only time when he seemed to show any real kind of subtle manipulation was when he was at school. This, presumably, was actually one of the weakest times of his life. I mean, sure, as a baby, he would have been physically weaker. But the threat might have been less until he started demonstrating magic. Then, as he started controlling the magic, he rose to a position of power, or at least fear, within the orphanage. At school, he was a first year, one of the weakest in the school. Added to that, he was a penniless orphan in Slytherin whose last name didn't connect him to any known pureblood family. As a result, I would imagine he was picked on by many people, especially in his house. Without his magic being able to give him an edge, I imagine he constructed the persona of 'Tom Riddle – model student' to have some protection and slowly start gaining influence.

And that's the position I envision he's in now – unable to access his magic, with someone who is unimpressed by him, forced to obey commands and faced with a positive-negative feedback system which will slowly turn his very brain chemistry against him, he's scrambling for a way to come out on top once more. And since he has already had experience with what to do when he's at the bottom, it's back to Tom Riddle's tactics he goes.

***Harry – In contrast to Voldemort, Harry gets a huge amount of 'screen-time', presumably because he's the main character so we're supposed to get to know and love him. Which I did, it's true I see Harry as ultimately well-meaning, with a fierce spirit towards defending his friends and family – growing up with the Dursleys has no doubt made him cling to those who show him affection, something Dumbledore may have intentionally manipulated. But I'm not going to discuss Dumbledore at this point. Harry is capable of great courage and great self-sacrifice, as is shown at several points but never more so than at the end of the seventh book. He's a loyal friend, shown by his acceptance of Ron's apology in the fourth book. He's also independent, thinking for himself and often not following directions from others that he sees no point for.

He can also be petty – that's clear from his behaviour with Snape (the poster child for pettiness) and Draco Malfoy. He can take joy in the suffering of those he dislikes as long as he can justify it – think about the bouncing ferret moment if you doubt me. The last two are what I'm trying to show here. Voldemort is not a friend. He is not family. He's also not a victim that might evoke Harry's protective tendencies – I love Poetic Justice by Vickironica and Last Resort by Altheraa, but they have set up much more of a victim!Tom than I have and therefore it makes sense that Harry would be kinder to the half-broken Tom that he encounters in those stories than the still defiant Tom that he encounters here.

So, in short, Harry's not going to be intentionally cruel – he's not going to go out of his way to torture the man, but he's also not going to go out of his way to be kind. And if Tom does something that reminds Harry that he used to be Voldemort…well, Harry's going to react based on the suffering he and his family experienced at the hands of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.