Disclaimer: All hail the creator. Which isn't me, btw. I am but a mere fangirl~

Warning: M for slash (HP/TMRLV), Post-GoF, slightly insane and definitely dark Harry

"Normal dialogue"

*Parseltongue*

'Thoughts'

July 12, 1995

Harry was irritated with himself.

He saw an empty can on the sidewalk and once again remembered what happened. He stomped and stomped on the innocent can until it was nothing but a pitiful lump of metal and kicked it as hard as he can. The few people on the street looked at him and hurried away. He was disguised as a hugely-built, unpleasant-looking, middle-aged man and had been wandering aimlessly around muggle London, trying to simmer down for almost an hour now.

He had lost his temper again with the Dark Lord. With his Lord! Really, why he still hasn't been punished for his antics was a mystery. He always tried to start every visit with him in his best behavior but Tom just really knew how to make him, in a ridiculously short amount of time, want to tear his hair out. It was so fucking frustrating. It was like they're stuck in an endless loop: Have a normal conversation. Say something insignificant that will annoy the hell out of the other. Fight. Cut the visit short. Sleep angry. Be completely refreshed come morning. Avoid talking about the previous night. Repeat.

Maybe that was the problem. This cycle was bringing him back to square one every day. He needed to be the one to take action because he was pretty sure that Tom wouldn't.

So Harry refused to let this day end like every other did.

Before he could lose his momentum, he apparated back to Riddle Manor.

Tom poured himself another glass of Firewhiskey and took a mouthful, relishing the smooth, burning sensation descending his throat. The expensive, century-old bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey, which had been a gift from a Death Eater, turned out to be quite enjoyable and good for late-night reads. He was nearly through with the Albanian book that he'd been reading for the past few days. His attention was focused on the book and his free hand brought the glass to his lips. When not a single drop met his mouth, he tore his eyes away from the tome. He reached for the bottle and frowned when he saw that only half was left. He had been too absorbed in what he was doing and had unconsciously consumed a large amount of alcohol. That wasn't like him.

Tom glanced at the grandfather clock. Beside it was the couch where he and...

He needed to sleep. His mind was wandering where it wasn't supposed to.

The clock displayed 11:47. It was still early in his opinion, considering the time he normally slept, but he admitted that his eyelids were feeling a bit heavy. Tom slightly blamed the drink. It was very potent and its warmth made him feel fuzzy and drowsy, but it was the first thing he thought of to help him calm down after...

It really was time to retire for the night.

He had just put down his glass and the leather-bound book on the surface of the desk when he felt the wards around the manor alert him of an intruder.

Tom was instantly awake. He had a guess as to who it could be. Only his Death Eaters knew about this place and only one of them was brave (and/or stupid) enough to disturb him at this hour. He waited patiently in his seat and thought he might as well have another glass of firewhiskey. He might need it.

After a while, he heard footsteps echoing in the corridor outside the study, coming closer and closer and halting to a stop on the other side of the double doors. There was a short silence. Then it was broken by two sharp knocks.

'Let's see how persistent you can get,' Tom thought, feeling particularly playful. He picked up his glass and sloshed the whiskey around.

Precisely ten seconds later came two knocks again, this time with a long pause in the middle that somehow felt like a warning.

Tom remained seated and sipped his drink.

Finally, a single knock, louder than the others before, resounded throughout the room.

He put his drink down and waited. No further knocks came and a snort escaped him.

Then the doors exploded and Stoirm walked calmly in like he hadn't blasted the wood to smithereens.

"Good evening, Tom," he said with an infuriatingly-bright smile that was obviously fake, as indicated by the faint throbbing of a vein in his temple.

The child really was amusing. Tom hid a smile behind the knuckles of his left hand. His right extracted his wand from his sleeve and casted a quick Reparo on the destroyed doors before holstering it away again. The debris floated, mending back into place and forming open double doors which shut close once fully repaired. The lock clicked audibly and Tom looked at the boy. The Death Eater robe he had been wearing earlier was replaced by a muggle ensemble; black shirt, comfortable-looking jeans and the black combat boots Tom was now getting accustomed to.

"Why are you here, Stoirm?" he asked as usual. He thought he saw Stoirm's ears redden but it could just be the fire.

"I forgot to tell you about the cobwebs," Stoirm replied confidently, his smile still in place.

Silence.

"What?" Tom had no idea what the boy was talking about.

Was he drunk after all?

"I forgot to tell you about the cobwebs," Stoirm enunciated in a slower voice. His smile was starting to look more like a grimace.

No, he wasn't.

Tom rolled his eyes.

"I heard you the first time, Stoirm. What are you talking about?"

Now there really was faint blushing on the boy's cheeks.

"The cobwebs in the corner. I thought you might want to clean it," he answered stiffly. He raised his left hand and pointed his index finger at the ceiling corner.

Tom looked at where Stoirm was pointing and saw that there was, indeed, a cobweb. The boy was looking at him expectantly so he drew his wand and muttered "Evanesco." The web vanished, along with the spider scuttling around it.

He turned back and faced a no-longer-smiling Stoirm.

"Was that all?"

Stoirm looked at Tom's eyes.

"I-"

Something on the table caught his attention.

"Is that Firewhiskey?" he inquired in an uncharacteristic rush, his words almost stumbling with each other.

"Yes," Tom answered hesitantly.

"Could I have some?" Stoirm asked, eyes burning with determination.

Tom paused for a moment before coming to a decision.

"Go ahead," he acquiesced.

Stoirm walked briskly forward. He grabbed the half-full glass Tom wasn't able to finish. He took a sip and Tom couldn't help but take note of the spot on the glass that Stoirm's lips made contact with and how it was possible that that was where his lips previously were, too.

On the glass. Not on Stoirm's lips.

Before he could chide himself for the direction his thoughts were heading, Stoirm refilled the glass to the brim and downed it all in one go.

Tom could only stare in shock.

"Ahhh, that stings," Stoirm said, clutching at his throat and eyes watering.

"Foolish boy. Firewhiskey isn't meant to be taken straight up," Tom hissed.

Harry felt immense heat envelop his entire body. His surroundings spun and he dropped down on the cold floor cross-legged.

"Come on, get up," Tom urged.

"No, the floor feels nice," he said, straightening his legs and lying completely down on the floor.

"Yes, the floor. The majority of the things it's been in contact with is the underside of peoples' shoes. It's not supposed to feel nice. It's supposed to make you wonder what kind of shit people have stepped on and brought with them, intentionally or unintentionally, to your room," Tom said with a grimace.

"Maybe I am a fool," Stoirm scowled and lifted his head. He sluggishly sat up. He tried to stand but stumbled back down.

"What is wrong with you? You were acting yourself around an hour ago," Tom seriously wondered. Stoirm's sudden change in attitude was a bit alarming.

'Is this how my Death Eaters feel?' Tom sighed.

He clutched Stoirm's left wrist in his right and tugged the struggling boy up.

The unexpected help and proximity shocked Stoirm into standing straight. His height was relatively above average for his age but he still barely reached the tall Dark Lord's chin. His face was dizzyingly close to Tom's chest and he caught a whiff of the man's scent; books, alcohol, and a unique, spicy musk of some sort. His hand gripped Tom's wrist in the similar manner Tom was holding his. But it appeared that his body can only handle so much alcohol and suffocating tension. His knees wobbled and he swayed precariously. He would've crashed back on the floor if Tom's hands hadn't flown up and steadied him by the shoulders. Delicate, long-fingered hands slid down from his shoulders to his bared arms. His left hand was still on Tom's wrist but his other hand went to the man's chest. He pressed his palm where the heart was supposed to be and chuckled lowly when he felt it beating fast. The "heartless" Dark Lord's heart was just under his hand.

"How easy it would be to transfigure my nails into sharp blades and rip your heart out," Stoirm whispered hysterically, his green eyes crazed.

*And how easssy would it be to ssssnap your neck?*

Stoirm was splayed on the nearby desk at an inhuman speed. Before he knew it, his arms were stretched on top of his head on the table, held immobile at the wrists by Tom's left hand. His other hand encircled Stoirm's neck and a finger stroked a carotid. His body hovered over Stoirm, his right knee on the desk holding him aloft. Locks of his slicked-back hair fluttered down and framed his grimly smiling face.

Stoirm's eyes lost a bit of its insane light when he saw Tom's pupils turn slitted like a snake's.

Then the clock struck 12 and broke the spell.

Tom's eyes returned to a slightly muted crimson as realization sunk in. He stood up without warning and left Stoirm lying on the desk.

Stoirm, slightly disappointed and angry at himself for being disappointed, sat up unsteadily and leaned on his hands on top of his knees. He saw Tom in his peripheral sit on the couch and run a hand through his hair to arrange it back to its normal style. His vision swam and he didn't know if he was feeling dizzy because of the alcohol or because of... recent events. He closed his eyes and counted from one to ten to focus. On ten, he opened his eyes and took a large, calming breath.

"I'm sorry, I got... carried away," Stoirm apologized, managing to sound sincere and unwilling at the same time.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Carried away? You threatened to rip my heart out, boy."

Stoirm visibly flinched at being called by that irritating pet name. He reined his temper in, nonetheless.

"It was more of a general wonderment than an actual thought, really," Stoirm tried to explain.

"Wonderment! Hah!" Tom scoffed and cruelly laughed.

"Hey! You threatened me back!"

"In defense! You started it!"

Harry unintentionally let out a giggle.

"For someone who calls me a 'little boy,' you don't seem so far from one yourself, don't you, itty bitty Tommykins?"

Tom growled and threw an unfamiliar, sickly-yellow hex at him.

Stoirm wasn't going to stay still and see what it did. He vaulted off the table and narrowly missed the beam of light. It hit the plush chair behind the desk and sliced it cleanly in half.

"Protego," he incanted and a shield was erected in front of him.

The sudden movement made him woozy and he knew duelling in this condition would get him, if not instantly killed, injured violently. So he raised his hands in the air.

"Okay, okay. I apologize, again. Let's take a minute to calm down," he said diplomatically, knees bent in a defensive stance and hands palm-up in an offer of peace.

"Don't act like a bloody circus trainer taming a wild animal!" Tom threw another spell and Stoirm's shield dissolved. He breathed heavily. His temper was teetering on edge.

"Then don't act like one! Man is a rational animal indeed! So much for rationality! I'm trying to say sorry and you-" his heated diatribe was cut off by a cutting hex flying towards him. He twisted in place but his reflexes weren't as sharp as usual. The spell grazed his right upper arm and blood flowed down on the stone floor.

Stoirm lowered his head as he watched his blood pool at his feet. He was stone still and Tom stopped casting curses. Even though they have duelled before, none of their spells really hit the each other. They were both capable of defending themselves. This was a first time.

Stoirm heard a high, ringing noise in his ears and his vision was still red even though he already looked away from the blood and directed his glare at Tom. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, his body shook and his face paled. Then, he exploded.

"Dammit, Tom! Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is for me to fucking apologize? Take it or leave it!" he roared at the top of his lungs.

He panted heavily and paled even further when he realized what he had done. "My Lord," he added meekly and looked down in an attempt to salvage the situation.

Only a few seconds had passed when Stoirm heard a strange noise and he looked back up to see Tom facing the wall and away from him. The man's back was hunched in on himself and his shoulders were shaking violently.

'Oh, this is it. I've crossed the line before but now I've infiltrated it so hard the imaginary line would probably look like the fucking horizon,' Stoirm thought grimly. All of his hard work, ruined by his temper and pride. He really was a fool.

The noise increased in volume and Stoirm knew it would be best to leave now. But with the sound getting louder, it became identifiable. He closed the distance between him and the Dark Lord to confirm his suspicions. As he neared, though, Tom turned to the other side.

'Fucking hell.'

He faked a step on the other side and watched Tom turn back to where he still was. His left arm was pressed against his stomach and while his right hand was covering the lower part of his face, his eyes gave him away.

"You bipolar bastard!" Stoirm growled.

Tom couldn't help it. His stifled laughter bubbled up and his eyes crinkled in merriment.

Stoirm colored up.

"What's so funny?!" he asked in high-pitched voice.

Tom breathed in and out and managed to push down his laughter.

"The fucking horizon," Tom answered with a straight face. But if the twitching of his mouth was any indication, he wasn't done laughing just yet.

Stoirm's eyes widened.

"My occlumency shields were firmly in place."

"Oh, yes. I didn't need to enter your mind. You said it aloud. Didn't you know you have this tendency to voice your thoughts?" Tom peered at him curiously.

"If I did, I would have stopped doing it as soon as I knew," he snarled. Stoirm sat down on the couch and reflected back on all of their meetings.

"Oh, relax," Tom waved his hand. "It just happens when you're really annoyed. And they're mostly profanities."

Stoirm didn't reply and reviewed his memories. A chuckle distracted him and he locked eyes with Tom.

"I can't believe you called me 'My Lord' a moment ago," he said with one brow raised.

Stoirm forced a fake smile. "I have called you 'My Lord' plenty of times before, My Lord."

Tom laughed again. "See? You always do it with sass. There may have been a few, I repeat, a few, times you did alright but this was the first time you sounded the way the others do."

"Oh? And that sound would be?"

"They deferred to me properly, like worms beneath my feet," Tom looked down from his stand at Stoirm's sitting form.

Stoirm rolled his eyes in annoyance. He stood on the couch and finally had the pleasure of looking down his nose at Tom.

"We need a safeword."

Tom arched a brow.

"For situations like this. When one seriously needs the other one to stop or... whatever," Stoirm explained, a hand waving in the air.

"Like the muggle sex thing."

Stoirm dropped his hand.

"Tom. How could you possibly know about that?" he asked in pure curiosity.

Tom shrugged and smirked. "I know many things," he replied breezily.

Stoirm narrowed his eyes. "So you know how it works?"

"Yes, and I think it could be a good idea."

"Alright," he drawled suspiciously. "Ideas?"

"Safeword," Tom said.

"Yes, I think we've moved past that. We need a safeword."

Tom rolled his eyes. "I meant let's use that exact word: Safeword."

Stoirm was silent for a while.

"I can't decide whether that's clever or disappointingly unimaginative."

"Let's stick with clever."

Stoirm smiled. "As you please, My Lord."

"Safeword."

"What! I haven't done anything yet!"

"I was just checking if it would work. You obviously need some practice."

"Safeword."

Silence.

"Your talent to irritate me even when you're silent amazes me."

"I have no such talent. That's just your anger management issues talking."

"Safeword."

Tom rolled his eyes. "We'll need to discuss its limitations. We wouldn't be able to communicate this way."

Stoirm's head bobbed in what Tom thought was a nod. Then he collapsed and brought Tom down the floor with him.

"What now..." he groaned and stopped short at the sight of the boy's arm.

"You bloody idiot," he hissed as he quickly lifted Stoirm and placed him on the couch.

"Yes, quite bloody," the boy drew his wand.

Tom grabbed Stoirm's wand. It felt strangely comfortable in his hand as he started healing the gash.

"I can heal myself," Stoirm muttered drowsily.

"You should have done that moments ago," Tom retorted. "Besides, I'm nearly finished."

"I honestly forgot about it."

"Your pain tolerance is questionable," Tom said.

Stoirm moaned and closed his eyes.

"Thanks."

The spell finished and a "Tergeo" cleansed Stoirm's body of the dried blood.

The boy hummed in contentment. "I really like you when you're not being a pompous ass, Tom. I wish we could actually be friends."

"Well, you really get on my nerves but your presence is more tolerable than most people I know, so I guess we're getting there."

Stoirm chuckled. "That's not really a compliment since most people you know are sniveling Death Eaters," he mumbled before sleep claimed him.

"You're a Death Eater, too, you know," Tom said in the silence.

He debated whether he should move the boy to a bed or leave him here. Deciding on the former, he crouched on the ground and pulled Stoirm in his arms. The static was still there even when the boy was asleep. Not for the first time, he wondered what it meant. His mouth opened in a yawn and his eyes grew bleary. He could think of the answer some other time. He stood up and carried Stoirm himself even though he could have used the levitation charm. As he walked towards the only inhabitable room in the manor, his expression became grimmer.

'Oh, Merlin. What have I gotten myself into?'

A/N: Sorry this took so long. I suffered (am still suffering) from a severe case of writer's block. I don't even know where I was going with this orz

I am too sleepy to check for mistakes, so help would be appreciated.

Winter, along with final exams, is coming. I don't think I'd be able to post the next chapter anytime soon. But I'd try finishing it before December so...

Until next time *salutes*