The Monster didn't turn up that night.

Harry wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. On one hand, he didn't have to listen to the creature screaming at him with the voices of his loved ones. The Riddle had since told him that the Monster did it by plucking the sounds out of Harry's memories, turning his own mind back on him as a weapon.

On the other hand, the Monster not being outside his room begged the question of where the bastard was instead, and also left Harry thoroughly stuck in his room, unable to go and see the Past.

Of course, he could have sprinted across the manor; but that seemed a stupid thing to do without safe passage – and if the Monster caught him out of the room without that deal, he was probably a dead man walking. And he couldn't make a deal if the creature wasn't there to deal with.

All in all, quite the conundrum.

Which left him with the Nameless, and the Past's words sinking in his head about portraits. A hairless eyebrow arched at his staring. Harry steeled himself, before stepping close to the painting, hesitantly reaching out a hand and – he couldn't step through.

His hand was met with solid canvas, though You-Know-Who's hand shifted so that the palm pressed outward, fingers splayed against his own. It was just paint though.

Maybe he'd been wrong.

"Not yet," Nameless said clinically. Harry's head tilted with thought, working around the statement.

"I haven't unlocked you. How do I do that? Are you able to tell me? I have to confront you fully, but to confront you I have to enter your painting, right? Like I did with the Past?"

The Nameless inclined his head in turn, just slightly, scarlet eyes fixed consideringly on his face.

"You can't even tell me how to get into your painting?" Harry snapped, frustrated. "How is anyone supposed to win at this?"

"They're supposed to have a measure of intelligence, I would imagine," the Nameless drawled. Harry glared at him and yanked his hand back. "Or," the portrait continued, "they could rely on other people."

Harry followed the painting's gaze – to Hermione's diary, resting on his bed.

"I read all of it, there was nothing," he said, confused. "She said she'd write down the prices of the different moves, but –"

"Page 23," was the response. Harry's brow furrowed, but he crossed the room, squinting at Hermione's handwriting through the unnatural darkness.

If one is first, then his twin is last,
Reaching the future means exploring the past.
To find an answer, one must know what to ask,
And only then can you see behind the mask.
But offering be wary, these things come with a fine,
Though kisses exchanged can be done by the time.
But most of all be cautious in closing the door,
Everybody knows that roses have thorns.

Harry blinked. Read it again. Then once more.

"You lot really hate straight answers, don't you?" he grumbled. He rubbed his temples and tried to think, glancing at the door every so often.

"Every curse has its trials. You must prove yourself worthy," the Nameless replied. Harry resisted the urge to glare at the infuriating blob of paint again.

"Obviously, the second line refers to needing to go through the Past to reach the Prophecy. Prophecies are future events after all, or based in them at least."

He glanced at You-Know-Who, but all he got was a sly sort of smile. Harry was going to assume that meant he was correct, and bit his lip.

The Beast had indicated that Harry had unlocked the Past, and so … did that make the Past 'one', the first one to be unlocked?

"Oh god, there's an order I have to unlock and confront you in?" Harry groaned.

"All locks have their combinations," the Nameless said.

Harry had never wanted to bash his head in more. "And what happens if I open them in the wrong order?"

"Then maybe you won't open what you intended to. In which case, you will probably be sent back to your loved ones in a matchbox, and the world will fall into darkness."

Harry blinked, both at the answer and the utterly casual tone it was spoken in.

"Charming," he muttered.

Harry looked at the riddle again, repeating the lines to himself and stifling a yawn. He might actually get some sleep tonight, since the Monster wasn't screaming at him. But at the same time, he really did need to talk to the Past again.

The Prophecy could be useful too. Maybe he could deal with it, if it controlled the house.

Still…

"A riddle is a question," he murmured. "And an answer. A question that provides its own answer. The Riddle?"

All the Nameless did was stare at him.

It seemed it was going to be a very long night.

"You look remarkably rested," the Beast stated. The other was sitting opposite him at the breakfast table, apparently no longer concerned about hiding his appearance, now that Harry had already seen him.

Harry did wish he didn't have that grotesque sight in front of him whilst he was trying to eat, though. He made a pointed effort not to stare, though his eyes kept flicking back to the bloodied rose.

"So …" he began, when the silence continued to stretch awkwardly. He prodded at his breakfast, full of fine fruits and luxurious delicacies not available in the village.

The Beast continued to stare at him. Just like Nameless did. Saying nothing.

"So," Harry started again, pushing on determinedly. "You said that you and the Prophecy were counting to different clocks. Your clock is when the curse can no longer be broken, and so will spread everywhere. What's the Prophecy counting to?"

"You will find that prophecies are remarkably self-fulfilling," the Beast said softly.

Harry's brow furrowed.

"And breaking the curse is what I'm supposed to do, so why would he be counting to something else?"

This time, he knew he wasn't imagining the Beast's eyes burning white, away from scarlet, like a flare. He nearly reared back on the spot. They were scarlet once more a few seconds later, and Harry's mouth felt unbearably dry.

"I cannot say," the Beast stated.

"That was the Prophecy, wasn't it? He controls the board. He just stopped you from answering me," Harry said, heart pounding in his chest.

Hermione had said to beware the Prophecy.

The Beast pulled out a pair of scissors from the folds of his silken cloak, and held them out over the table.

"Prune them. It might give you some more time, if the rose is adequately gardened."

Harry still felt uneasy.

The Riddle had just been canvas too, not letting him through.

Each day passed, another petal fell, and the pattern of the Monster's absence repeated the next few nights, leaving him no room to move.

Having a safe room suddenly didn't seem like such a blessing.

"I would strongly advise you against this course of action," the Nameless said quietly. Harry ignored him, making sure the knives he'd taken from the kitchen were in place.

Anything that he could possibly use as a weapon, if he had to.

"Offering. Do not presume to pretend that you cannot hear –"

"Can I afford to wait?" Harry turned to the painting, eyes tight. "No, I don't think so."

"You realize this is what the abomination wants," the Nameless said, eyeing him. "And that those sharp little trinkets of yours will do you no good. He might take your strength of will first."

Bile clawed up Harry's throat.

"I must be able to do something against him."

"There's a power in names, you know that, and a power in offering."

Harry turned to look at the painting again. It gave him a cruel sort of smile.

"You're being oddly helpful today," Harry murmured. "Should I be suspicious?"

"Probably, but you seem to be a rather stupidly trusting creature, so I would not bother," the Nameless replied. Harry sneered at him.

"You'd miss me if I died and got turned into an empty husk," he muttered.

"No doubt. If only because of the wasted potential."

Harry wasn't sure if that was supposed to make him feel better or not. He studied the painting a moment longer, before bracing himself and striding out into the night of Riddle Manor.

The screaming had started the second he stepped out; but about halfway to the Past's painting, it stopped.

That was the only warning Harry got.

One second it was just ridiculously dark, the next second the darkness around him had weaponized. Vicious tendrils of shadow lashed out, coiling around his wrists and ankles and throat.

He struck back instinctively with the knife, but the blade just went through the seemingly solid shadows around him. Harry swore.

Names, names and offerings –

"My, my. You really are a beautiful little fool." The breath was hot against his ear.

Harry twisted his head, but there was no one there. He kicked at the shadows, but to no avail, and he never thought he'd be literally fighting darkness.

"Tom –" he began, hoping naming would have the same effect here as it had on the Past. Shadows wrapped tightly around his mouth, muffling the sound.

"Naming me, offering?" The Monster finally appeared in front of him, gaze colder than he'd ever seen it. "Now that's just rude. But you've already proven yourself to be a rude, foolish little thing. I expected far more from the Offering. At least you're pretty."

Harry snarled, eyes wild.

It seemed 'naming' did work, at least – if the Monster reacted to it so.

His heart was hammering wildly in his chest as he squirmed on the spot. The Monster gave him a sharp-toothed smile. Pale hands reached out, draping over his shoulders to hang against his back. The creature pressed against him, blazingly warm in comparison to the chill in the air.

Was this to be how he died? After all of this? No. Harry hadn't put up with all the crap and the mysteries to let it end like this.

"What do you think I should take first, hmm?" the Monster breathed against his neck, head tilting and tongue pressing and sucking against his throat. "The taste of your skin? The sound of your voice? Your will? I think I'd rather see you screaming and fighting me until the end. I'd like to see what sounds could come out of your mouth before I steal them."

Harry shuddered, eyes wide.

"I could take away your pain, if you asked me very nicely," the Monster continued, nails sharp against his back and dragging with excruciating slowness through the material of his shirt.

Harry would have slammed his head forward, if the Monster's other hand hadn't fisted into the back of his hair to hold him still.

He tried to think. He may not have been good at riddles, but he'd always been pretty handy in a fistfight – it was just hard to fight when he was wrapped in shadows, like the coils of some snake.

"I can't ask very nicely when you're practically gagging me." Of course, the response came out utterly muffled, but Harry hoped the Monster could at least interpret his seething sentiment by the expression on his face.

Sharp teeth bit down on his collarbone, causing Harry to give a cry and arch, not expecting it. It felt like a shock had just gone through him, searing his skin.

He felt a trail of blood bloom, trickling sticky and wet down his chest. He swore again, trying to kick out.

"Or maybe I'd take your pleasures away from you," the Monster continued, with a voice like liquid sin. Hands dipped down lower, before – "Ah, you haven't had that yet. No awkward, fumbling first times in that delightfully messy brain of yours."

It was reading his mind? Of course it was. Harry would have flushed crimson, if the situation weren't so dire. He might have flushed anyway, but he was also filled with a fresh determination.

He concentrated on his most repulsive memories; on the feeling when he once burnt his hand for the first time, on living with the Dursleys before they were taken.

Everything foul and overly bitter that was left to him.

The Monster recoiled in surprise, shadows and all, and Harry hit the floor. Lunged a split second later, grabbing the knife and putting it to the creature's throat.

Shadows were intangible and strange, but he was pretty sure the monster itself was more solid.

"Oh my dear, do you really think that would stop me?"

Harry's eyes widened again as the Monster flickered like a bad connection, vanishing from his grip and appearing a metre away from him.

"Would you like to try running, instead? We could play hide-and-seek? Past could play too; he loves that game," it continued.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

"You're not going to kill me," he stated firmly. "Tom."

"Ooh, it sends a shiver down my spine when you use that name," it said all too cheerfully. "Like somebody's walked over my grave."

Harry yelped at finding the creature suddenly behind him. It twisted his hand, sending the knife spinning away uselessly.

"I don't kill people, offering," the Monster murmured against his ear. "Their hearts are, technically, still beating."

Harry whipped around, but the Monster had flickered and vanished again. It was maddening – more like dealing with a ghost, than anything else. Some type of poltergeist.

God, it really was a monster.

Harry thought fast, the tendrils already creeping towards him again. It made his gut lurch – the startling clarity that he wouldn't be leaving this as himself. Not really. Who knew what the Monster had already taken?

"You can't take anything I haven't done yet," he said quickly. "Can you? So it seems a waste to eat me all up now. Waste of resources. Of possibility. It's like getting a starter and a salad, instead of a main meal and dessert."

The Monster came to a stop in front of him, head tilting to one side.

Harry's fists clenched at his sides – but he squared his shoulders and stared back, neither cowering nor dropping his gaze.

After a moment, the Monster began to laugh.

"You're suggesting I keep you alive so that I can get a better meal later? How thoughtful of you," it crooned.

"I'm saying that events and experiences of the future would act on a cycle, wouldn't they? The future is infinite possibility. You could get all the … uh, sustenance" – Harry swallowed – "you needed or wanted from that, without needing to leave people … as you do."

The Monster's head tilted the other way, those black eyes fixed unnaturally upon his face, seemingly drinking him. A small smile crossed its lips.

"Maybe there's hope for you yet, my offering."

"So we … uh, we have an agreement?" Harry checked warily. "Because I'm on something of a tight schedule here, and I'd rather not be on the other side of the house at dawn."

Pale fingers caught the side of his face, caressed his cheek.

"The others won't be happy with you for aligning yourself with me."

"Then maybe they should make this house less of a death trap for the guests," Harry replied. The Monster snickered almost fondly.

"I make demands on your future experiences, and take those for my own once they are done. You will be frozen in your development, just like all of us, constantly reverting each night to where you are now, like the point of trauma," it said more seriously now. "In return, I will not take any more of your past and present identity that I have not already facilitated."

"Deal," Harry managed. "Though right now, I really need to go and talk to the Past, and take a rain-check on … er, new experiences."

He clamped down on any possible panic before it could rise.

The Monster hummed.

"I'd stop trying to solve this curse, if I were you. Let the world fall to darkness; I'll look after you. I can make sure you have a good time of it, here at the centre of things."

Harry tilted his cheek away, taking a step back.

"I'm not picking sides. No matter what you or the Beast seem to think."

"You're going to have to," the Monster said quietly. "Survival will only take you so far. Prophecies are the most self-fulfilling of things."

Harry hesitated. He knew he should go to the painting now, talk to the Past, figure this out, but…

"The Prophecy," he said. "Beast suggested that he was counting down to something else. Something that wasn't the time limit of the curse. Of the clock. Do you know what it's counting down to?"

"Of course."

"Will you tell me? As a mark of goodwill?"

"Tell me your name, and I will tell you what the Prophecy is counting to."

Bloody hell. He'd be stupid to agree.

The Monster raised its brows. "Tick tock," it reminded mockingly. Harry's jaw clenched.

"I am the Offering. My name is Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter …" It snatched upon the name like a delicacy, something revered. Harry felt a shudder go down his spine.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Prophecies are self-fulfilling," the Monster said again. "Not the shadow, but the clock. Not the curse, but the lock. The curse is the lock on us. It keeps most of us frozen in our positions in the game, in these forms."

Harry's mouth felt dry.

"Most of all be cautious in closing the door. Everybody knows that roses have thorns," he whispered.

"A lock is what keeps the door shut. Doors are not one-way. If it's open, you can step in and progress … but you cannot control what comes out. The Beast told you that if the curse was not broken, then the shadow will spread."

"Yes. Which is why I'm trying to break the curse," Harry said, frustrated.

"But the future is not fixed, which is why prophecies do their best to be self-fulfilling. They are a statement of inevitability in an ever-changing world."

"So … what does that mean?"

"A child is a creature of infinite possibility. If the Past has all things before in his head, then the Prophecy is insane – for all the futures in his head are always shifting."

The house was starting to rattle warningly around him, and Harry glanced at their surroundings uneasily.

"I don't understand."

"Of course, the Prophecy wants the curse broken first and foremost, and will do anything to get its way. But it has contingency plans in place for all outcomes, not merely the one it is attempting to push. If the curse is not broken, it still requires the mainframe."

"And the Prophecy is the mainframe," Harry said, remembering how the child was chained up to the house.

"Do you really think a child wants to spend its whole life chained to the nursery wall? If the curse is unbroken, all of the rest of us are free to wander at will, but the Prophecy is not. It is at the heart of this curse." The Monster gave a vicious sort of smile. "It's the power hub that keeps the rest of us running."

"But the Prophecy doesn't want to do that," Harry realized. Why would anyone, let alone a child easily bored, want to spend its whole life in one place? It would have complete power over the future, without being able to have its own.

Each piece wanted what it didn't have. The Prophecy did not have freedom away from fate.

"But to keep the system running, a mainframe is needed," the Monster said, watching him closely, a rather cruel expression on its face. "If you cannot break the curse, Harry, I can assure you that the Prophecy will most definitely try and leave you in its place. How do you fancy spending all of eternity chained to the wall with your heart in a box?"

Harry's throat seized.

"And did you consider, perhaps, that some boxes are locked for a reason?"

Harry fled to the painting, the sound of his own laughter ringing in his ears.

The Past was watching him, clutching a doll in his small hands.

A pretty, red-headed doll, with green eyes and a look of anguish.

Harry's insides rolled as he eyed it, coming to a halt before the painting.

"Will you play with me today, Harry?" the Past asked. "We would like you to."

"Who's we? Your … uh, your doll?"

"Her name is Lily. Please come play with us."

"Lily." Harry felt like he'd been punched in the gut. Lily as in his mother Lily?

"If you stay in the painting with us, the Monster can't get you," the Past said, something almost desperate on his small face now. Desperate and hungry. "No future can."

"Maybe another time," Harry hedged. He was unable to keep his eyes off the doll. "Is that what you do? Turn people into dolls?"

"They say they'll play, but then they're just sad," the Past said softly. "Sad and boring. Not many games in here – just memories."

"I have some questions." Harry forced himself to push on, because he really didn't have the time. He'd lost time with the Monster, too much time. "I want to know how the curse started."

Harry entered his room, feeling utterly numb, as the first rays of morning rose over Riddle Manor.

There was bile in his throat.

The Riddle had an unreadable expression on his face when he appeared, though his eyes were gleaming in comparison to Nameless, who had looked like he would prefer to murder him.

"So, now you know how this all started," the painting murmured. "Why it has to be this way."

"It doesn't have to be this way," Harry whispered. Riddle smiled, holding out a hand in a way rather reminiscent of his younger self.

"Come on through, Harry. Perhaps you'd like to play with me instead?"