AN/: Hey guys! I know, it's been a century! I never meant to take that long off of the story, however I had a few things going on in my life that kept me from writing. I don't really share much about my life but with me being gone for so long, I figured those few who are still sticking around ought to have a little insight. And sorry if this is TMI, you can totally skip this!

I have depression and very debilitating anxiety. It totally took over my life and since I've always been really bad at asking for help or saying when I'm having a hard time, it took a long time for me to start back on a road to getting better and finding my love for the world again. I still struggle a lot, and I can't promise that I won't go into anxiety-hibernation again, but writing will always be something I return to. It's my voice, my passion, my love.

As for this story, after coming out of the dodgy-mental haze, I wasn't really happy with what I had planned for the story going forward and it took me a while to realize just what was wrong and what I wanted to change. I had a plot-epiphany though! And I'm very excited for what I have lined up.

I got a new job, so I don't know how regular the updates will be, but they'll come eventually! Hope you all have a wonderful night/morning/day!

And remember, deep breaths, the world has a lot of wonderful, effervescent things coming your way.


The horrible and yet wonderful thing about Harry Potter, was that he's inescapable. Unavoidable. He entangles himself in your thoughts and confronts you even in your dreams. He is such gentle corruption. . .

Which would have been fine, had Tom been anyone else.

But he wasn't. He thought he had confronted his demons and his past after the resurrection. He thought he could come to terms with who he was and still be close to Harry. However, once the truth of his draw to Harry revealed itself in the dead of night and he realized that his feelings were not quite so platonic . . . well . . . he could no longer cope with his relationship with Harry. It was one thing to be his friend. But that apparently wasn't all that Tom wanted.

And he . . . he couldn't. . .

Harry was still so young and Tom killed his parents!

These thoughts circled his mind like a murder of crows in the days following his revelation. For the first time, he couldn't bring himself to write Harry. His chest was just too tight with guilt. For his feelings, for his desires, for Harry's parents, for not being able to write Harry, for starting a blaze under the bridge of their beautiful friendship. But mostly, he felt guilty for not being able to stamp out his feelings despite knowing that they would eventually ruin the best thing in his life.

When he finally wrote to Harry, it was a lie about being too busy for the next week or so to be able to write again.

He couldn't crush the beautiful thing in his chest, so he ran from it.


Albus Dumbledore has failed. He's looked everywhere for signs of Voldemort and the Horcruxes he knew the wizard must have made. But there was nothing. Not even a flicker of his influence or Death Eater resurgence. The incident at the World Cup was already proven to have been a few desperate ex-Death Eaters trying to spread a bit of terror again. He's been reading between lines that didn't exist and counting stars that turned into muggle satellites.

And with every false thread he's followed, his only solace at the end of the night became the increasingly inviting amber pool in his crystal tumbler. On this night in particular, the flow of fire down his throat was especially sweet. He's stopped looking for ways to stop a war that didn't seem to be coming. Or maybe it was. Either way, he wouldn't be saving the world this time. 'Lost his touch' as they said.

And while he was chasing a ghost through rural Britain, he'd apparently left the children he was charged with protecting in the hands of a tyrant. He'd failed them as well. He'd ignored the signs and the worried testaments of his staff because he'd thought that an immortal Dark Lord was more important. However, there were still no signs that Voldemort was even alive and he had an entire school of terrified children on his hands. He was quite useless in both matters, and so he drowned his failures a glass of saccharine poison.

A few drinks later, Albus found himself digging through cabinets and storage closets in the back of his office for something he thought he'd never bring out again. It was in the bottom of an old locked chest that he found it. With leaden feet, he shuffled back to his desk and poured another drink before he even plopped into his chair.

The leather-bound photo album had faded with age and cracked along the spine. A few decades ago, when he had another Dark Lord terrorizing his dreams, he'd lose himself in this very album nearly every night. When he defeated Gellert, he promised himself that he would never let himself look again. And now his five-decade streak was broken on a whim as he flipped the cover to greet faded, sluggishly moving photos. Achromatic shots of classmates he didn't remember the names of anymore, or scenic shots he liked to collect as a schoolboy. However, only one picture called to him that night and he flipped to the very back where he knew it was stuffed haphazardly without an official place amongst the others.

A curly-haired and bright-eyed boy he barely recognized as himself stared out from the aged film. Smile gleaming freely and arm looped loosely around the broad shoulders of a blonde boy.

"Gellert." Albus uttered with a tangible pain still in his voice, even after all these years.

Instead of looking at the camera like Albus, Gellert was gazing at his younger self, arms wrapped around his waist and something in his gaze that Albus desperately wished had been fully captured in the photo. And now, a twisted and jaded old man, he'd give anything to go back to that afternoon. To feel the blaze of the sun at their backs, to be surrounded by Gellert's distinct spiced cologne and rasping laugh. Before they fell apart drew lines in the sand between them that they'd never again cross.

And then Albus became a savior when he hardly felt like a proper man.

He's starting to realize that it's no longer his job to save the world.

But. . . perhaps . . . perhaps there was one last thing he could do for them . . .

Dumbledore threw back the rest of his drink and unsteadily rose to his feet.


The train ride had never felt this long before. Harry counted the hours as the pit in his stomach grew heavier and harder. After days of silence Tom had sent a short note saying he wasn't going to be able to write to him until winter hols began. Something was wrong and his thoughts wouldn't leave him alone even at night to sleep. He couldn't do anything while he was at Hogwarts except wait it out. But now that he was on the train, all he had to do was get home, say his hellos to his parents, and then slip away when night fell so that he could finally go to Riddle Manor and see for himself what had gotten into Tom.

And Harry knew that it wasn't some external problem because he'd already wrote to Philias for answers and only got vague ideas and tales of Tom holing up in his room all day similar to right after his resurrection. Frankly, Harry was a strange blend of worried and frustrated. He'd thought that Tom had sorted that all out. And even if he hadn't, Harry had at the very least hoped that Tom wouldn't shut him out when he went through it again.

Harry needed answers and waiting for them was turning torturous.

He had tried fruitlessly to push such thoughts to the wayside and focus on something else. Like the fact that he was about to finally visit home after such a long and arduous term, or that for the first time he had prospects for the future that were promising. But all he could think about, all he could focus on, was the foreboding silence that had taken residence between him and Tom.

And as improbable as it seemed, the timing of it all coincided just a little too well with his moment of . . . well . . . 'self-maintenance.' That night he'd thought of Tom in a way he'd never thought about anyone ever before, and the very next day: radio silence. But he wasn't sure of there was any validity to his concern, or if he was just being overly paranoid after doing something so unlike him.

However, if—somehow—he was correct and Tom knew of his feelings, he had to be prepared for any possible outcome to Harry confronting him later. Which meant that the majority of the train ride was spent in tense silence on his part as he ran through every horrible scenario in his mind of how Tom might react. Harry had never felt so insecure about where he stood with Tom before. It left him feeling queasy and anxious as the hours dragged on.

By the time Harry stepped off the Hogwarts express with the rest of his friends and departed for the duo of relieved Marauders, he had thoroughly exhausted his mind of all thoughts surrounding Tom Riddle and could think only of the two men who eagerly embraced him.

"Come on, pup, let's get you home." Remus kept his arm around Harry as they walked.


Riddle Manor was a wonder to behold at night. The rustling whisper of wind through the trees, the silver-spun blankets of snow reflecting the moonlight, and delicate flowers of frost that crept over each window pane. Harry was almost tempted to stay in the serene night for a while longer to avoid the uncertainty that awaited him with those quiet walls. But unfortunately, his choice was taken from him as the chill began to burn his exposed cheeks and buzz numbly in his toes during his walk up the long driveway.

The darkened foyer he stepped into wasn't much warmer than the blistering winter night, but at least the wind no longer assaulted his cheeks and nose. It was just after midnight and the nervous voice in the back of his mind hoped that Tom was asleep and Harry would be sent away by an elf. However, that was not what happened.

"Master Riddle be in the blue room. Hermie show you." The little elf was shuffling away before he'd even finished speaking. As Harry walked the darkened halls behind the quick-footed little elf, he was reminded of his first time in Riddle Manor. In truth, it was the last time Harry had felt this uncertain about seeking out Tom's company. However, in comparison, his current nerves seemed ridiculous. Back then he'd been prepared to have to raise his own wand to Tom if he continued his path of war and blood. He had been ready to destroy the very life he'd tried so hard to save. . .

Why then . . . why did it feel like there was more at stake now?

Tom looked up from his book in surprise when Harry entered the room.

"Harry? What are you doing here?" Slivers of apprehension between the shock in his deep voice tightened something uncomfortable in Harry's gut as he donned a placid smile for a moment before it slipped too soon from his face.

"I'm home for winter break and thought I'd check in. You said in your last letter that something happened and you wouldn't be able to write for a while. I was worried so I came to see if there's anything I can do." Harry took a few steps further into the room but felt too restless to sit on the armchair across from Tom. So, instead he rested a hand on the back of the chair to keep himself from wringing his hands together when Tom's eyes left his to hide something that flickered in their depths. There was suddenly a stone in his throat he struggled to swallow around

"That's alright, Harry. It's nothing to worry about. I can handle it." The lies were flimsy and Tom seemed to realize it as he spoke, his eyes closing for a beat and smooth forehead wrinkling with a grimace. The stone in his throat sank painfully into his stomach.

"Tom."

What a fragile creature his voice made, transparent and bleeding to his own ears. Tom's eyes snapped open and the dark stones that Harry had lost hours stargazing into now looked dark and guarded.

"Don't, Harry." Warned the other man, and Harry could feel the push like a real thing against his chest. But that was why he was here, wasn't it? To push back.

"Look me in the eyes, Tom, and tell me you're not avoiding me." Harry demanded and advanced a step. Tom shot up from his seat and skirted the couch, fleeing Harry while roughly scrubbing his hands over his face. "Come on, we're friends. You know you can trust me-"

"That's the problem!" He didn't shout, but the force of his words was just as jarring. Tom turned and finally met his gaze. "We shouldn't be friends! Harry—I . . . I killed your parents. I murdered two innocent people in cold-blood—and many others. And you say it doesn't matter: that you didn't really know them, but it does matter. They were your parents and they probably loved you. I took that from you. And no matter what, no matter how much I change or regret, it was still my hands that took them from you. I'm a monster, Harry."

A pained noise escaped Harry's throat unbidden and his fingernails dug into the upholstery underhand.

"No." He shook his head. "That wasn't you. You were out of your mind and didn't have any control. You aren't that person anymore. You aren't Voldemort." Harry argued, but it felt like he was already losing a battle he didn't know he'd been fighting.

"I am Voldemort. We aren't separate people, little bird. I regret what I've done, more than anything. And I thought I had come to terms with what I've done—who I was and who I am now—but not with you. You've become my most precious person, and that's exactly why I can't let you get too close. I have been such a destructive force in your life—in everyone's lives—and befriending someone like me is-. . . is fucked. You should have a problem with it, you should be angry, and just the fact that you're alright with it means to me that you're not alright." Gone was the guarded look in his eye, but the sincerity and earnestness were almost worse. Harry felt the protests die in his throat and his heart tore in two at the use of Tom's endearment for him.

"And God, you're still so bloody young, Harry! You're only fifteen, you have exams and school friends and growing up to worry about. I may look like a teenager, but am much older than I seem. I've already grown up. As mature as you seem, and no matter how much hardship you've faced in your life, you still have so much more to learn and discover. I care about you more than I can even say, and that's why I never want to be what stands between you and your future." He wanted to be angry. He wanted to shout at Tom for being an idiot and trying to tell Harry what was best for him.

"I don't want to hurt you, and that why I need to put some distance between us before you let me." Tom's words trailed off quietly as a dry rasp scraped at his vocal cords. His tone at the edge of a break that would have broken his heart.

He wanted to be angry . . . but . . . damnit, he was right. Harry should have a problem with who Tom was. Even more, the feelings he had for Tom had come with so little fight on his part. And if anything had become apparent since the start of the year, it was that Harry was in way over his head. In almost every avenue of his life, Harry had no idea what he was doing.

"I'm sorry—I can't-" Tom's head had dropped low and with a painful clenching in his chest, Harry crossed the room and lifted his chin with his fingertips.

"I know. You're right." It hurt to admit, knowing it would only hurt him more when he left the manor. "We have to sort ourselves out a bit. I'll give you space, just . . . don't cut me out completely, Tom. Because you're pretty damn important to me too." He caressed the soft plane of Tom's cheek and he smiled, but it was painful and fleeting. Tom grabbed his hand as if to pull it away, but instead he hung onto it like a lifeline. With the tickle of his breath against his wrist, Tom caught Harry's gaze and the stars brimming at the corners of his eyes gleamed in the low light.

Tom didn't speak, but his eyes said 'good bye.'

Harry gently pulled his hand from Tom's loosening hold and walked away before he said something stupid. Each shadow he waded through on his way out of the manor seemed to cling to his clothes and the soles of his shoes, begging him to stay. The first harsh gust that hit him when he opened the door tried to shove him back inside. The icy breath he sucked in seemed to wrap around his core and chill him to the bone. Even still, he breathed in like a drowning man, needing that burn to clear the fog in his lungs and hitch in his breath.

When he reached the edge of the apparition wards, Harry turned to look back at the manor. He could practically feel the presence of the man within from there and he imagined Tom was looking back from one of the frosted windows as he finally let himself say what he couldn't before.

"Not 'goodbye,' but goodnight, my heart."


It took several days to smile around his parents without wincing, and a few more to go to bed without hours of tossing and turning for hours on end. Harry wasn't okay, but distracting himself with his studies, spending time with Sirius and Remus, and focusing on the other problems he was facing kept him from dwelling too long on the sudden trench between him and Tom.

All the way up until Christmas he forcibly thought of nothing but the budding case against Umbridge. Sirius and Lucius had done as he'd asked and visited the Department of Education and Department of Magical Children Services to open a discrete investigation into Dolores Umbridge. According to Sirius they hadn't made much headway, but with a little more time they would be able to lock down a case and get her removed from Hogwarts. Harry had hoped that they would be able to do it over break, but it now seemed likely to drag into early spring. It was frustrating, to say the least, to tip-toe around all of the legal hurdles in an effort to keep it secret until the right moment. But to rush the process would be to put many lives and livelihoods at stake.

However, with how slow that matter was progressing, there was only so much Harry could do and so much to distract him, before he found himself falling back into recalled replays of his fight with Tom. He mauled over every word, every look, every insinuation for hours on end each night until he finally dropped off into a restless sleep sometime in the early morning. Then his exhaustion had him sleeping the mornings away and staying in the comfort of his bed until midday.

He was falling into a funk that he wasn't able to snap out of until his worried parents invited Anthony over without his knowledge.

"What happened, Harry?" Anthony asked as he sat down on the edge of his bed and Harry fought off a flush of embarrassment at being caught in bed past noon.

"Nothing, I've just been thinking." He could tell that his dear friend didn't believe him, but Anthony just nodded and went along with his non-answer.

"Oh? What're you thinking about?" Such a simple question but he knew that Anthony wouldn't accept another simple answer from him. Harry sighed deeply as he sat up in bed and sought after the right response.

" . . . Is it wrong to love someone you shouldn't? If they've done horrible things, if they see themselves as a monster, if there're countless reasons for you to hate each other and stay apart, should you?" As he spoke, a ripple of understanding spread across Anthony's face.

The blonde took his time answering.

"Love is never wrong, Harry. Loving and being loved is one of the easiest things in the world. It's all the extra bits that come along with it that make it so difficult. Timing, doubt, insecurity, history, even politics can put a wedge between two people. Though . . . if it's worth it, if you can wait for them, if you can forgive them, if you can fight with them and fight for them, if you still love them at the end of the day, then: no, it's not wrong to love them. Give it time, Harry. Like I said, loving is the easiest part, now you have to sort through all the rest of it in order to make it work." Anthony ruffled his hair affectionately with a warm smile on his face. After a few more heartfelt encouragements, the other boy managed to drag Harry out of bed and they spent the day together.

After that, Harry felt a lot better—not great, but a part of him had settled and accepted the situation for what it was. He could see that there was a ton of baggage and hurdles between him and Tom and ignoring it wouldn't make it go away. Tom had stuff to sort out, and so did Harry. It would hurt like hell, but if distance and time would help them to figure it out, then he would just have to accept that.

And it was with that in mind, that Harry finally found a bit of peace at night to rest before the next school term and didn't have to fake all of his smiles around Remus and Sirius.

For, as difficult as the past few months had been, and how hard the next few would likely be, Harry was beginning to settle his hopes on the fact that hardship was temporary. Unfortunately, as he learned on the last day of his holiday, so was peace.

He was awoken earlier than usual by the familiar quiet rasp of his name and the brush of the veil against his knuckles. In retrospect, he didn't know how he knew something was wrong just by that. He just knew, and he was descending the stairs with his heart in his throat until he reached the kitchen. Looking back, it was a bit like a dream, everything hazy and slow as he took in the glistening streaks lit by morning light on Remus's cheeks and the grim pallor of Sirius' expression when he turned away from the table to look at Harry.

And there, laid out flat and innocuous on the tabletop, the source of such reactions. A newspaper.

"Harry-" Sirius tried to stop him, but remnants of his seeker training kicked in as he ducked under the man's arms and grabbed the paper.

DUMBLEDORE RESIGNS AS HEADMASTER AFTER TELL-ALL ABOUT ABUSE SCANDAL

The air gushes from his lungs and he rips through the thin pages of the Prophet until he reaches the exclusive. It was so much worse than he could have imagined. Each case plastered over the page with graphic photos and testimonies complete with the identity of each student abused by Dolores Umbridge. Even his own took up a large section at the center of the page, achromatic copies of the gruesome lines he'd written there for everyone to see. But that wasn't important, not when the identities were leaked to the whole of Wizarding Britain like some cheap scandal when over half of these students had never wanted their testimony or evidence used in the first place. Harry had been the one to convince them to let them document it. He was the one that promised nothing would ever be done with their information without their explicit consent. He promised to protect them. . .

Harry barely reached the kitchen sink before he was ill.