Chapter 6

"Confringo."

All Harry could hear was the shattering of bones in Tom Riddle's shoulder as it exploded.

Everything happened in a split second. The force of the blast rang in Harry's ears. Riddle reeled back. Whether it was from the blast or on instinct, Harry could not tell. Riddle's stone-perfect face twisted with pain, a mute cry on his lips. In disbelief, Tom clutched at his mangled arm.

Harry's wand slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

Riddle's eyes followed it.

For a moment, they both froze. Harry tensed, heart in his throat as he waited for the whispered curse and lightning retaliation. Riddle was staring at him, something unreadable lurking behind his eyes – Voldemort was going to curse him, Harry was certain, was going to kill him for daring to fight back. And it wasn't going to be a dislocated shoulder this time. All of Harry's anger deserted him, leaving behind quiet dread.

The moment passed.

The curse never came.

Harry watched with wide eyes from his foetal position on the floor as Riddle sunk to his knees. If this were in a muggle movie, the earth itself would have quaked when Riddle's knees connected with the ground. Instead, Riddle slid forward, soundness, eyes closed.

With new adrenaline pounding through him, Harry's own pain and dizziness seemed to ebb away. Harry's gaze tailed the blood that ran down Riddle's entire side, not in rivets but in floods. He couldn't get a good glimpse of Tom's arm beneath all that blood; it could have been a blackened stump for all he knew.

They were almost collapsed on top of each other. Harry lying down and Tom nearly kneeling into him. Within touching distance. They made for quite a pair. It was awkward to say the least. Harry waited for the no-longer-smug bastard to say something.

As if to spite him, Tom Riddle, politician and dark lord extraordinaire, refused to move. He kneeled there like a broken marionette, neither folding fully nor standing up.

Harry suddenly didn't know what to do.

On second thoughts, Riddle was starting to look dangerously pale. The blood was still flowing freely. Harry gritted his teeth. This was their first night together. The first night, damn it. It was clear now that they were going to kill each other before the week was out. He should never have gone along with this stupid plan.

"Riddle?" Harry ventured.

There was no response.

"Are you all right? I'm sorry," Harry said. He didn't have to fake the tremor in his voice, but he did have to work to stop the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble through his lips. The 'sorry' was so inappropriate in the moment that it was hilarious – but. Apologies first, everything else later. Harry was going to need a good foundation and a hell of a lot of effort to explain why he just tried to murder his new father.

No reply.

Now slightly anxious, though not for the snake himself, Harry raised his good arm and tentatively reached for Tom. The motion jolted his dislocated shoulder and he curled inwards, hand planting on the floor to steady himself.

Right into a pool of blood. It stuck between his fingers. Like webs. And there was so much of it that Harry wanted to retch. Tom Riddle's blood.

"That wasn't very clever."

Harry stiffened.

He chanced a look at Riddle who still hadn't moved. But it was definitely Tom who had spoken, the words rumbling out of his chest.

"What if I am not all right?" The young Dark Lord had apparently composed himself enough for the sneer to creep back into his voice, stilted as it was. "Will you be the one to stand up and heal yourself and take yourself to bed? Injuring me does no one any good. You snivelling idiot."

To be fair, Harry had never done any snivelling. But he kept his mouth shut.

He watched as Tom pulled his wand – for the first time that evening – from his sleeve and murmur something. He watched as the blood on the floor, by miracle, came gushing back into Riddle's arm. Watched as the flesh, rapidly, began sewing itself together, travelling up from the finger right up to the shoulder. Where Riddle had worked his spell, the flesh was smooth as opal, unmarred and perfect.

Within minutes, Riddle had stitched himself back together. The incredible damage had disappeared, erased by unmarked skin. With a sigh, Tom heaved himself off the floor – and Harry watched him intently with a dry mouth for any hint of pain. There were none.

It was nothing short of –

It took Harry's breath away. The power behind the healing spell, the warm flush as it radiated into and out of Riddle's skin. So this was what Voldemort was capable of even as a young man. To get back up after taking an exploding curse point blank when if it was Harry, he would have needed to be carted off straight to St Mungo's …

Cold sweat broke over Harry's neck.

How was he supposed to compete with this –? Dumbledore was out of his mind, he –

Harry's thoughts broke off.

Tom Riddle had his wand levelled at Harry's shoulder. Annoyance rolled off the man in pulsating waves, making Harry want to recoil, and he had an expression that – if Harry had to find a description for it – was too similar for Harry's liking to a pissed off Hippogriff.

The Slytherin Heir muttered something under his breath.

And a green light shot out from his wand.

Harry choked, eyes closing on instinct.

Really? An Avada Kedavra just for this? No way, Riddle wouldn't just kill him, not like this –

Harry flinched, felt the spell graze his arm, and then instantly wished he had dodged. The popping sound of his humerus back into its socket was grotesque.

When Harry opened his eyes, Riddle still looked annoyed as hell.

"I should leave you lying here all night," Tom said, voice tinged with infuriation, "and come back tomorrow morning to check if you managed to pop your shoulder back into place."

Harry was glad Riddle didn't, even if it meant he had to endure his face for a bit longer. It wouldn't have been fun. But he was still in disbelief that Riddle hadn't cursed him again – he'd thought for sure that Riddle would get him back for exploding his shoulder.

Well. It seemed this young copy of Voldemort had immense self-control.

And yet …

"You will go to bed right now. Tomorrow, you will tidy up the mess you made in my office."

Harry cast an eye over the office. Papers were scattered across the room, more on the floor than on the desk, some black and charred and still smoking. A stray paperweight seemed to have pummelled a dent in the floor. The wallpapers had been torn and scratched by the wards.

"For what it's worth," Harry offered, deciding that it was time to salvage a bit of good will before Riddle could look any more aggrieved than he already did, "I'm sorry about …" – he made a vague gesture at the room and at Tom – "…this. I didn't mean to –"

"Shut up," Tom Riddle said.

It was more that Harry was shocked into silence by Dark Lord's language than actual obedience. As Harry stared at Riddle, he had an absurd urge to laugh. The tone of finality, the irritation, it was all expected – but Riddle looked so wrung out that Harry had a hard time associating it with Voldemort.

"Bed," Riddle bit out. "Talk tomorrow."

Harry was starting to think he was bipolar – swinging so quickly from fear to glee and back again, but how was he not supposed to feel a sense of savage pleasure at reducing Voldemort to single syllables?