A/N: I know I've been gone for long time and I still don't know when the next chapter will be. :) I actually can't believe I wrote this one when I'm right in the middle of my practice exams but you know - procrastination right? ;) - so here you are.

Chapter Four

Harry had dared to ask him for a bedtime story. The smirk Harry wore as he stared at Tom from under batting eyelashes grated at his nerves. Tom exhaled. The boy was baiting him.

It reminded him, unpleasantly, of a conversation with Dumbledore back in his school days. Tom too had taken a malicious sort of delight in baiting Dumbledore. It had felt satisfying to strip away the old man's composure, layer by layer, watching him splutter as Tom waltzed off. But didn't that make him Dumbledore? And Harry him?

Tom bit down on his cheek.

No, this was not good. The boy had only been here one evening and already – Merlin – already he was drawing comparisons between that pest and himself. No, he was not losing himself down this line. He was not about to lose his sanity.

He hacked out dry laughter.

Harry stared at him as if he was insane.

"Care to share?"

"No."

Tom draped a coat over his shoulders, turned on his heels and made for the door. Harry's surprise rolled off him in waves. Hmm, the boy wore his emotions on his sleeve. Another reason he could not be Tom's son.

"Go to bed."

"Uh, where are you going?"

Tom's hand was already on the door knob. He threw it open. Breathed in the chilly air. It helped with the suffocating feeling in his lungs. Calmed him. Tom did not like disgusting things in his home. It was his sanctuary, the one place he could relax. Last time he found a cockroach infestation in his kitchen, it had taken him two seconds to burn the entire cockroach family. Harry was rather similar to those cockroaches.

If he stayed here any longer, he was going to burn the boy – reputation be damned.

"Out."

As the door slammed shut behind him, Tom muttered a spell under his breath. A precaution. While he highly doubted that Harry would try anything tonight, it was always better to be safe than sorry. Harry would be sorry if he did try anything.

Tom had planned to apparate to Abraxas's manor, but he suspected that he would end up with his poor dinner on the pavement if he tried. Ah well, it was better to walk for a bit. Clear his mind.

The first raindrop fell on his face.

It was around midnight when Tom decided to apparate the rest of the way. That was how he found himself slipping in the mud that was Abraxas's lawn, landing on his hands and knees. He gritted his teeth, fingers curling around the blades of mud-splattered grass. His poor coat. It was a small mercy that no one was here to witness his humiliation.

How the mighty had fallen. It was ironic how he wanted nothing more to kick Harry out of his home – and yet it was he who ended up in the cold, reminiscing of the time when he had his home to himself.

Tom picked himself up, sweeping his muddied coat off with one hand, and knocked on Abraxas's door with the other.

Someone else might have felt reluctant about disturbing a man so late. Tom had no such qualms. Especially not now. Abraxas knew the price for having him as an acquaintance.

To Abraxas's credit, he did not have a seizure when he saw Tom dripping water over his doorstep. His eyes did, however, widen comically. Tom might have been amused if he were in a better mood. Abraxas, half undressed and standing in nothing but a bathrobe, looked horrified at the situation.

"Tom," he said finally.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Abraxas made a fumbling motion with his hands.

"Well, it isn't the best ti – Please, come in."

With a brisk nod, Tom strode inside. He saw Abraxas take a good, sidelong look at him. A soaked Lord Voldemort – a novelty no doubt. He must look ridiculously pitiful. He felt it too. Like some half-chewed, saliva-dripping mouse the cat spat up. The headache was killing him. Tom's nails dug into his palm until pain shot up his wrist.

Composure.

"Would you like a change of clothes?"

Abraxas was paying too much attention to the wet, morose strand of hair sagging in front of his eyes. Tom felt a flash of irritation.

"Is there something on my face?"

Abraxas visibly blanched at his tone.

"No, my lor– I mean, that is – Tom."

Oh and now his followers were refusing to address him by his rightful title? Tom's eyes narrowed. He thought he had taught them better respect than this. He stepped forward and laid a hand on Abraxas's shoulder. Malfoy took two consecutive steps back, nearly stumbling in his haste. Tom caught him by the arm.

"No. Stay. I didn't quite hear what you were saying."

"I didn't say anyth –"

"Come now," Tom said sweetly. "Say it. What did you call me?"

Abraxas coughed loudly. "Tom, listen, I can't right now because there's someone –"

Tom let go of his arm, drew back, and poured himself into Abraxas's favourite armchair with slow grace, legs stretched out in front of him. He folded his hands, fingers interlacing, and stared straight at Abraxas.

"Oh dear, you're acting impudent tonight, aren't you? Now repeat yourself. What. Did. You. Call. Me?"

Abraxas's eyes widened as Tom's voice dropped to a low whisper. Now he just needed to hear the 'my lord' slide from his lips. Abraxas knew he meant business, knew that his temper was on a short tether tonight. He wouldn't –

"Tom. I called you Tom."

Distantly, Tom heard his hand slapping the wall. Enough was enough. He couldn't be losing control of his Death Eaters now this early in the game. Would they really turn their backs on him as soon as Harry appeared in the equation? Even Abraxas? Tom had always thought of him as his most loyal …

He drew out his wand.

"It is unfortunate that it has come to this," Tom said. "Still as they say, there is nothing like a good dose of the Cruciatus to help one sleep."

Except the last part of his sentence went unsaid when a busty witch, dressed in an absolutely ridiculous see-through night robe strutted into the room. A pout on her lips and a glass of champagne in her hands. And too-dark mascara on her eyelids.

Tom froze.

The witch blinked at him.

"I tried to warn you this wasn't a good time," Abraxas said helplessly. "Forgive me …"

The 'my lord' did not need to be said. If she had heard Tom addressed in such a way … Well, a bastard son was one scandal but being a Dark Lord was on a whole other level. It seemed as if Malfoy had been rather occupied …

"I didn't mean to interrupt something so private."

The witch smiled at him. "It's perfectly all right. Tom Riddle, isn't it? I've heard so much about you. Especially now. He's such a charming young man, you. Pretty hair, gorgeous green eyes. I'm not surprised he's your son. Still, children can be such a handful."

Tom couldn't find the energy to refute anything except rub at his temples.

And that was when all the alarms he placed on his manor went off.

Merlin. That brat.

"If you will excuse me," he said. "I need to get back."

This was a mess.

"Children are a handful."

Barely able to keep his fury off his face, Tom turned on his heels and apparated. When he caught Harry, he was going make sure the boy learnt to never make trouble on his territory again. Harry couldn't believe it.

-0O0-

He had just been given free reign over Tom's mansion. The empty halls echoed with a dark, unspeakable history. The billowing of the wind against the windows sent chills down his spine. This was worse than the Shrieking Shack.

With Riddle gone, it seemed as if his manor had grown more sinister. Harry swallowed as he walked past through yet another corridor. There was a portrait that Harry had thought, at first glance, was Tom. But the nose was a little too sharp, the mouth a little too thin and the face older.

The hair was the same smooth black curls, and the eyes looked remarkably like Tom's. Harry found himself standing under it for far too long. Tom Riddle Senior. The man who abandoned his son and paid the price.

He had forgotten that murder had taken place here, not too long ago. This was where Tom Riddle slaughtered what remained of his family. Talk about creepy. His father … Grandparents … Harry shuddered at the memory that Dumbledore showed him. And now he was here alone – at Riddle's mercy.

He wrapped his robes tighter around himself. It was too bloody cold. He needed to get Riddle to warm this place up. There was a damn fireplace every room. The least he could do was bloody use it.

It was probably a bad idea to ignore Riddle this early on and make an enemy of the man. He didn't know how much time he had before Voldemort returned, but all the same – Harry burned to see Riddle's private office.

What harm could it possibly do?

According to Dumbledore, he was supposed to unearth all of Riddle's secrets, find all the skeletons in his closets – and Harry was willing to bet on his neck that there were a lot of skeletons – and bring Lord Voldemort down.

As far as Harry was concerned, the sooner he took action against Voldemort, the better. With that thought in mind, he made his way to Riddle's office.

The door gave way easily enough to the incantation Dumbledore had taught him. Harry darted into the room, blinking at the borderline OCPD neatness of the desk and the shelves. Well, it'd make his job easier. He would start with the drawers to see if Riddle had left any plans for his Death Eater pals.

There was, of course, a possibility that Riddle had left warding spells. Harry breathed a sigh of relief when he opened the first drawer and nothing happened. Perhaps Riddle hadn't had time to ward him off yet. Everything did happen rather suddenly.

It was when his fingers touched the paper file – an official ministry file, not a Death Eater one – that ropes appeared out of thin air and, with great brutal strength, lashed out at Harry. There was simply not enough time to dodge. He took the blow on his shoulder. His mind went white for a second and he couldn't quite hold back the cry that exploded from his lips. Something wet was sliding down his back.

He wouldn't be surprised if it had drawn blood. God, it hurt.

Tom's papers from the open drawer went flying. No, no, no.

Harry hurled himself up, scrambling for purchase. His wand - crap – there wasn't enough time to get it. He had to thwart the ropes and right the papers before Riddle came back. He had to.

A rope wrapped itself around his wrist, taut enough that no amount of struggling could get him free, and it lifted Harry bodily into the air so that he hung from his wrist and his hurt shoulder screamed at him. And then the rope, almost with a life of its own, flung Harry against the wall.

His head collided with a crack and his glasses slid off his nose.

Why the hell did Riddle's wards have to be so bloody aggressive?

No sooner had that thought entered his mind did the other end of the rope slash down at him again. It caught him on the thigh.

Harry choked on his own saliva.

"My, what a dilemma you've found yourself in."

Crap.

Tom was gazing up at him with fury in his eyes.

"Do you want to know what happens to disobedient brats?"