VI.

When Harry sees him, his whole brain whites out. His whole body tenses, his jaw clenches, his muscles tighten, and all he can think is, Murderer.

And then, all he knows is that instead of going back to the tent, instead of warning Ron and Hermione like someone smart would do, he's rushing the man, tackling him to the ground like he's never held a wand a day in his life.

A strong punch to Tom Riddle's pretty face, the satisfying thud of a hit well-landed, and then Harry's being wrestled flat onto his back.

Harry thrashes under Riddle, his wrists pinned to either side of his head, his legs trapped beneath the other's. He glares up hatefully into dark, wide eyes, watching him with something like shock, blood smearing the corner of his mouth.

Harry smiles at the sight.

Riddle's eyebrow ticks up.

"Well, that wasn't a very pleasant greeting."

Harry's face quickly morphs into a snarl. "Which one are you?" he spits, twisting and turning, but he is pinned tight. The only way out is distraction. Stalling.

Riddle's caught so off guard he forgets to don his perfect mask. "Excuse me?" he says, almost offended. As if being compared to anyone else even vaguely similar is the highest insult.

"Which fucking horcrux?" he hisses, and Riddle's so utterly shocked that Harry would even know that word, especially in conjunction with him , that his grip loosens just a fraction.

It's all Harry needs.

In a flash Harry is straddling Riddle, one hand clenched tight around his throat; not enough to choke, but too much to ignore. To be comfortable.

"Which horcrux?" Harry says, and he belatedly curses his rash, stupid, empty-headed decision to run head-on into this situation without reaching for his wand, first.

Riddle's face quickly smooths into a mask, collected even in the face of such a sudden revelation like this. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do! You came out of something, so tell me or I swear to–– "

"The only thing I came out of was my mother's womb," Riddle retorts, lip curling, before he seems to fall quiet, thoughtful. He studies Harry a moment, taking in his furious expression, a glint coming to his eye. "But…"

"But what ?" Harry snarls, eyes flashing. He presses just the tiniest bit down on the man's throat, in warning.

And suddenly Harry remembers that he never captured Riddle's hands.

Because two, scorching hot palms, even in the freezing snow, are settling tight to his waist. Riddle tilts his chin up, exposing more of his throat. "But, if you let me go, maybe there can be a… sharing, of sorts."

Harry's eyes narrow.

That sounds dangerously like a...

"Like a negotiation?" Harry says suspiciously, fingers flexing around his neck.

"In a manner of speaking…" Riddle smirks, adjusting his hips, and Harry gasps just the lightest bit at the motion, "We'll both be satisfied by the end, I'm sure."

...Like a proposition.

Harry's face heats, and his breath leaves him in a low, hissed stream of air. "Look, fucker ," Harry says, clenching tighter, revelling in the slight rush of color to Riddle's face. "I'm not here to indulge your games. Either tell me who you are, what you are, tell me what you want , or run back to your fucking maker ."

Riddle's eyes are wide with lack of air, his lips parted, but still, there is a glint to his eyes. There is a heat, there.

Harry releases just the littlest bit when Riddle's lips move, trying to say something, but unable to find the air. And then, immediately clenches back up when he says, "My, you're feisty, aren't you?"

Harry sneers down at him. "I'm about to go from feisty to fucking furious if you don't start answering questions."

Riddle's smile goes sharp. "Fine. But only…"

And then he's got a finger tracing the locket's chain where it rests against Harry's neck, his long fingers curving around the metal casing of the engraved 'S'.

"...On my conditions."

And then they're Disapparating with a pop , the only evidence they were ever there Harry's holly wand resting on the snow.

Harry glares at Riddle over the table, the mug of hot chocolate cradled in his palms the only thing warming his hands up. Riddle had dragged Harry, kicking and screaming, into a muggle pub after Harry's insistence that they couldn't go to a magical one (surprisingly enough, with only a lifted eyebrow, he'd complied), and then threatened him with turning him straight in to Voldemort if he didn't obey.

And though he is prideful, though he is brimming with hatred, loathing, utter irritation for this man…

He did as he was told.

And now, here they are.

"So," Riddle says after a moment, sipping his coffee (black, because of course). "How do you know me? How is it… that you have come to know my horcruxes ?"

Harry looks away, rubbing his hands up and down the mug; anything to distract from the piercing eyes drilling holes into the side of his head. From the faint echo of Riddle's empty flirtations.

Now, he knows exactly how people were pulled under his spell.

"That's none of your business."

Riddle's hand snatches one of Harry's, his teeth baring in a snarl. No need for pretences, evidently, since Harry already knows his darkest secrets.

Harry resists the urge to flex his hand at the tingles he feels from that single point of contact around his wrist.

God, what is wrong with him?

Even when he is aware there is a spell, he can't seem to break free from the trance Riddle's natural charm puts him under.

"It is most definitely my business," Riddle says in a low voice, eyes flashing under the dull yellow bulb hanging precariously close to their heads. "This is my soul we speak of."

Harry tries to pull out of the grip, to no effect. He almost wants to say, The soul you tore away. The soul you mutilated .

But this night is already steadily descending into madness and misery, and the sooner he gets out of this, the sooner he gets back to Ron and Hermione. The sooner he gets back to relative safety.

Because really, nowhere is safe; it's just that being away from Riddle suddenly seems one of the least dangerous of all his options, right now.

"If I tell you, if I answer your questions… I want you to do something for me."

Riddle's finger trails the length of Harry's wrist, and Harry's eyes narrow, tensing against the shiver like electricity that wants to rush down his spine. He eyes Harry speculatively, before twisting their wrists around, bringing the palms of their hands together. Interlacing their fingers, like some mockery of intimacy.

"Alright. Name it, and I'll see what I can do."

Harry could've thought about it. He could have called Ron, or Hermione, or hesitated, even just a moment.

But he doesn't. No, instead, he says,

"Tell me where you came from. Tell me what you are ."

Riddle's face breaks out into a smile, though his eyes are still cutting in their observance.

"I, my prickly companion, am from the past."

Harry feels his whole world drop around his ears.

Four hours later, Harry bends down, picking up the holly wand from where he'd left it.

He and Riddle had talked for hours, Harry reeling, Riddle revelling in all of the new information laid at his feet. They hadn't touched on the possibilities or impossibilities of it, the new questions and concerns an event like this presents.

No. Instead, they'd toyed with each other.

A question for a question, that's the game they'd played, under all the other riddles and sly innuendos.

Harry knows what the other horcruxes are, now.

And Riddle knows exactly what he will grow to be.

At the end of it, they'd stood outside, under the streetlamp, staring out into the streets, into the skies. Harry had, at least. He'd pretended to ignore the heavy weight of Riddle's regard on the side of his face.

"Come with me," Riddle had said suddenly, taking Harry's arm, pulling him to him. "We could have fun together, you and I."

Harry, after a moment of bewilderment, had laughed in his face. "I already have friends to run around the world with, Riddle."

Riddle's eyes searched his face, as if looking for a lie in the statement. And then, because he was insufferable, he'd said, "Come with me anyway."

Harry had shaken his head, stepping away. "Not a chance."

He looked to the moon, looked at that cold, creamy light of it, and then turned to Riddle's face. The reflected moonlight in his eyes made him look almost innocent. Almost hopeful.

And Harry… Well. It's always good to keep track of your enemies, isn't it?

"Let's make a deal," he'd said, and Riddle had watched him with open fascination.

"What kind of deal?" he'd asked, his voice simultaneously skeptical and intrigued.

Harry grinned, carefree and playful. Mischievous, and Riddle's eyes seemed glued to it.

"A wager, almost. If you manage to stay out of Voldemort's regime, out of his machinations… I'll tell you where to find me, every once in a while. We'll see if you can keep up. "

Riddle's eyes flashed at the challenge.

Ah, there was that red spark.

"It's a deal, Harry Potter."

But he'd said it like, It's a date.

Now, as Harry cradles the dark wood of his holly in one hand, another wrapped around the locket, he stares up at the moon again.

Harry has been running for months, now. He has been running his whole life from every version of Tom Riddle there is.

And this––this is a game of cat and mouse that Harry––more than just surviving, more than just existing, like he has for so long––wants to win .

He grins up at the sky, wild and raw and untamed.

And he laughs, giddy.

After Voldemort, after all of this is over––Tom Riddle won't know what hit him.