A traitor.

That's what Harry sees when he looks in the mirror.

A dirty, treacherous, back-stabbing traitor.

He resists the urge to slam his fist into the mirror. While the sound of glass shattering surely would be satisfying, he knows from experience that no one's going to heal the cuts. He's still got some from previous episodes that won't go away.

It's been a week since school ended. Four days since Harry collapsed in the Dursleys back garden. Three since he woke up in Malfoy Manor with a concerned Medi-Witch by his side. Almost two weeks since he'd aided the murderer of his parents in regaining a body.

Voldemort is back, and Harry is to blame.

Harry stomps out of the bathroom. Raking his fingers through his mop of dark hair, he sits down heavily in the chair closest to him. He's being treated like a human being. Voldemort's given him his personal rooms, and he has enough clothes and is fed lots of delicious food.

It both surprises and disgusts him. He doesn't deserve that. He'd rather be treated like a cockroach, thrown into dungeons, burned at the stake, anything, anything other than this. He doesn't deserve praise for what he's done!

There's a knock on the door, interrupting his thoughts before they can take a violent (and familiar) turn. Harry looks up from the table, purses his lips, and doesn't say anything.

The door opens, and Lucius Malfoy step in. "My Lord," he says, bowing at the waist.

"I wish you'd stop calling me that," Harry mutters darkly, looking away from the man with a disgusted scowl.

"So do I," replies Malfoy, frowning grimly. "But as you very well know, my Lord – "

"Bond, yes, yes," Harry sighs, waving his hand dismissively in the air. "What does the snake want?"

Looking grateful for the change of subject, Malfoy bows again. "He wishes for your presence."

Harry slams his head into the table. God. The worst part of all of this is that he has to meet with Voldemort on a weekly basis. He can't even do that much about it, either – he's tried cursing him, both magically and verbally, but his words are always cut off half-way through by some outside source. Blasted bond.

"Where is he?" he asks, dejectedly pulling himself up from the chair.

"The office, my Lord."

Harry steps out of the room without a second look at the man. He frowns, wraps his arms around his torso, and looks down at his feet as he walks.

Maybe he should be hopping in joy; the father of his nemesis having to bow to his feet, Voldemort bound to him and giving him access to some of his secrets, the whole Malfoy Manor at his feet… but this wasn't what he wanted. He misses his friends, misses Hogwarts, misses even the Dursleys. In truth, he misses his dull daily life.

He's never liked change.

Malfoy falls into the step behind him, as he's taken to doing ever since a lone Death Eater attacked Harry upon sight. He isn't supposed to be seen or noticed, he's learned. God, he's really done it this year. As if being the Wizarding World's rag doll isn't bad enough, now he's an item to be stowed away whenever his owner feels like it.

Harry shudders at thinking of Voldemort as his owner.

The trek through the Manor is uneventful and boring. Malfoy doesn't speak, Harry's barely conscious, and the portraits they walk past keep their mutterings to themselves.

When they arrive, Malfoy steps past Harry to knock quietly on the solid oak door leading to the office. Moments later the door swings open. Magically, of curse. Voldemort can't be bothered to open his own doors, after all.

Voldemort is sitting by the desk, head bowed over a book of some kind, quill scratching against a parchment to his left. Upon Malfoy's entrance he looks up and grins. The scratch of quill against parchment doesn't stop. "Ah, Lucius," Voldemort says, voice smooth like water and so unlike what Harry heard in his first year.

The instincts formed by the mysterious bond flare up, and Harry grits his teeth and tenses. The swell of affection and protectiveness is easier to push aside now that he's gotten more familiar with it, but it's still bothersome and needs a lot of willpower to not rush over to the desk and throw himself at Voldemort's feet.

Not that he'd ever actually throw himself to his feet, more like into his lap – or around his neck, or – or something and why is Harry thinking about this?

Blasted, bloody bond –

"And Harry," Voldemort adds. "How nice to see you."

"Voldemort," Harry greets coldly, though he is relieved for the interruption.

Pleased grin still plastered on his face, Voldemort turns back to Lucius and nods. "Leave us," he orders shortly, and Malfoy bows out of the room without a word.

Immediately the atmosphere in the room shifts. Voldemort slumps forward, pinching the bridge of his nose (and wasn't that a surprise; Harry actually thought he'd been born without one) and sighing. "Harry," he says slowly, "I think we're on first-name basis, don't you?"

"Don't push it," Harry growls as he crosses his arms. "No way am I calling you Tom."

"Riddle, then," Voldemort offers. Harry nods tightly, if nothing else to get him off of his heels. "I wished to talk to you about the war."

Harry spins around and makes for the door, reaching for the door-handle. No way in fuck is he staying to listen to the Dark Lord talk about the war. Before he can open it the key turns with a soft click.

That blasted, cheating, fork-tongued –

"Really, Harry," Voldemort – Riddle, whatever – says, "I'd think you were more mature than that."

"This isn't a question about being mature," Harry spits back, turning around sharply to glare at him, "this is a question of being a murderous mad-man!"

Riddle's expression has gone dark while Harry was looking away. "Exactly," he growls.

Sighing angrily, Harry crosses his arms and falls into the chair opposite of Riddle's desk. The door is locked and he'll get nowhere by begging, he knows as much. "Fine," he grumbles darkly. "I'll listen."

Instead of starting a monologue, like Harry expects him to, Riddle leans forward and frowns. "What do you know about me, Harry?"

Harry raises his eyebrows. Is he for real? "That you're a crazy old man who slaughtered thousands of innocent people for the fun of it. That you're Evil and Dark and hate people who're different than you – that you're a disgusting, horrifying monster who cannot be tamed!" The last part is a shrill cry, and Harry lurches forward as he utters it, causing his bangs to fall into his eyes. He huffs, angrily flicking it away with a sharp jab of his chin.

Riddle offers him a dry look. "What you know, Harry. Not what you think you know."

Harry gapes, the anger vanishing in favour of shock. How the - barmy, old, fucking – "But – that's – " he stutters.

"The facts, Harry."

Harry shuts his mouth with a soft snap and looks down at his lap. He'd rather not anger Riddle too much. Maybe he should comply. Mysterious bonds aside, the man is insane. "You… ah, your real name is Tom Riddle," he begins, peering through his bangs. At Riddle's approving nod he continues. "You went to Hogwarts. You fought in the first Wizarding War. Your supporters are Death Eaters. You killed my parents and tried to kill me." – here he shoots him a dark, furious look – "You killed Cedric. You live in Malfoy Manor. You own a snake."

…is that really all he knows about him? God. There should be more, the man is his sworn enemy – by Jesus, Harry knows more about Malfoy – junior, that is – than Riddle, at this point.

"Very good, Harry," Riddle hisses quietly, Parseltongue sounding natural in his mouth, and for one instinctual second Harry preens at the praise – but then he realizes what he's doing and clomps down on the proud feeling welling in his chest, instead opting to scowl at nothing in particular. "Now, over to a far less known fact about me."

The scowl vanishes, and Harry sits straighter in his seat. If he ever gets back to Dumbledore this might be interesting information.

Riddle raises an eyebrow at his interest, but shakes his head and continues. "During the first Wizarding War I was utterly insane," he says matter-of-factly.

Harry blinks. Scoffs. "Everyone knows that," he says.

"Wrong," Riddle barks, slamming his fist into his desk. Harry jumps at the sudden move. "Everyone thinks they know that, and there's a difference between knowing and thinking that you know!"

Harry, eyes wide and not wishing to anger him further than necessary, nods hurriedly.

Riddle sits back in his chair and folds his hands. "Right," he says. "Well. As to how I was insane – do you know what a Horcrux is?"

Harry shakes his head.

"Give me an audible reply, boy!"

Wincing at the outburst and familiar name, Harry grits his teeth. "No, I don't know what a Horcrux is!"

Riddle nods before giving his reply. "By performing an ancient ritual involving cold-blooded murder you can tear your soul in two and have part of it placed in any item," he explains slowly, his voice monotone in the way bored teachers' are sometimes.

What? That's – that's –

…actually not that bad, now that he thinks about it. Of course, the murder-part is bad, and the magic is probably really dark, but the soul-splitting isn't as earth-shattering as Harry expected it to be. He'd sort of expected it to be more.

He nods slowly. At Riddle's pointed look he hurries to add an "I understand."

"During the first Wizarding War I was intent on reaching immortality," Riddle continues, as if Harry hasn't just already broken a rule, "and in my desperation, I resorted to creating a Horcrux. Several of them, in fact. Towards the end I had less than one percent soul left in my body." He smiles crookedly. "That's enough to drive any man insane."

It suddenly hits Harry that Riddle has yet to explain what he's doing here. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks. It's suspicious. Voldemort – Riddle, whatever – has never done anything just for the sake of it. There's always a reason to it, some hidden agenda, some way to world domination.

"During the ritual that gave me this body back – " –Riddle gestures at his very human face- " – some factors reacted poorly to each other. The result was that in recreating this body and tying my soul to it all my Horcruxes were broken." When Harry only blinks, Riddle sighs. "It means I'm 100 percent soul again." Another blink. "For Circe's sake, boy, I'm not insane anymore!"

Right.

"How am I supposed to believe that?" he asks, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows in a silent challenge.

Riddle rises to the challenge and leans forward, gesturing with a quill as he speaks. "I have yet to curse you or your owl," he reminds Harry.

"The bond doesn't allow you to," Harry shoots back. Something – something strange happens to him, a sort of golden glow blooming in his chest, an odd kind of joy he's never felt before. He's not sure if he likes it or not.

"Ah, but I haven't tried, now, have I?" Riddle grins, leaning even further over the desk and resting his weight on his elbows.

Only now does Harry realize he's leaning forward as well, and he hurriedly sits back in his seat, pushing back the smile threatening to spill over his lips. Blast that damned bond!

He clears his throat. "I s'pose not," he mutters, shoulders slumping dejectedly. "Fine. Say I believe you're not insane. How does that change anything?"

"Muggles are dangerous," Riddle says promptly. "Their technology and scientific advantages are growing bigger by the day. They are already powerful enough to crush us, magic or no. They've even been to the moon, did you know that?"

Harry's about to nod, but catches himself just in time. "Yes," he says slowly and quietly, not really getting where Riddle is going with this. "Yes," he repeats, a little louder this time.

Nodding approvingly, Riddle continues. "The Ministry and wizarding world in general doesn't understand this. It's my goal to have them face the truth."

Harry shakes his head and frowns. How was murders going to help with that? "But you – in the first War – ?"

"I was insane," Riddle reminds him sternly, "I thought it seemed like a good idea, but it's not possible. It's not my goal to have them erased from Earth, but rather have the Wizarding World understand what threat they pose and have them take measures to fix it. Force fields, securing islands, come to a solution concerning muggleborn and half-bloods… etcetera."

But – but that doesn't make sense! Harry's talking to the man who killed his parents, damn it, he's not supposed to be logical or calm or – or anything! He really doesn't like this.

"But – " Harry repeats. "Why are you telling me this?"

"We're bonded," Riddle says. He grimaces at the word. Hah, Harry understands that sentient perfectly fine – he'd rather be unbonded, as well. "Whether we like it or not, that's how it is. For the unforeseeable future that is unlikely to change. And that's why I want your assistance. In other words, I want you on my side."

"What!?" Harry cries in sudden outrage, jumping to his feet and barely noticing when the chair he's been sitting in falls to the floor. "No way! Not happening!" He pulls a deep breath and points an accusing finger in Riddle's direction. "You're trying to brainwash me, that's what's happening here! And I won't allow it!"

Before he can give Riddle a chance to reply, he storms out of the room and slams the door shut behind him. Not waiting for Malfoy to catch up with him he stomps towards his rooms. The nerve of that man – !

Back in the office, Tom rests his head in his hands and groan. "That could've gone better."

Dear Harry,

We're all very worried for you, but at your continued insistence that you're fine (and Professor Dumbledore's got it checked, so we know that you're being genuine, don't worry) and since no one has been able to find you, everyone's sort of decided to just leave you be.

I don't understand, Harry. Why can't you tell us where you are or who you're with? I just want to help. You better have some answers when you get back to Hogwarts!

How's your summer coming along otherwise? Are you getting any studying done? Ron hasn't even begun on the first batch of homework yet. I hope you're still doing fine by the time you read this, and that whoever you're with is treating you right.

-Hermione

Harry sits back in his chair, absentmindedly petting Hedwig before handing her a treat. He's not sure what or how to reply to such a letter. Physically he's fine, and… well, he isn't being tortured, either. Really, ever since Riddle'd tried to rope him into the war, things have been eerily quiet.

He looks over at the open window and sighs. The last few days he's had a lot of time to think about recent… predicaments. He's had troubles sleeping at night, lying in his bed and staring at the ceiling with a knot in his chest until the morning sun peeked in through his windows.

If Voldemort – Tom Riddle – isn't insane… if his goals are to make the Wizarding World a safer place… well, Harry's seen what Muggles can do to something they don't understand, and –

screwing his eyes shut Harry lets out a deep groan.

It must be the bond. It must be. Riddle – Voldemort – he murdered his parents, attempted to murder him, sicked a basilisk on the student population of Hogwarts, killed and slaughtered and tore apart –

but had that been Tom Riddle, the man Harry's seen sitting in the study with a grin on his lips, or the Dark Lord Voldemort, the parasite at the back of his professors head? Are they even remotely the same person?

A fucking traitor, that's what Harry is – how can he be doing this to his friends, to his family –

he pushes away from the table with a growl. The move causes his inkwell to fall over, spilling ink all over Hermione's letter, and it fuels Harry's anger, ambers flaring to a roaring bonfire. He stomps determinedly into the bathroom to punch his reflection in the face – cuts be damned.

He can't be siding with the bastard, damn it!

Afterward he sinks to his knees in the middle of shattered glass reflecting a broken reality, and he sobs into his bloodied hands –

because he does.

Riddle is right.

Voldemort is wrong. Terribly wrong. But he was insane. Voldemort was insane.

But if what Riddle told him a week ago is right, and he really is sane now… if Tom Riddle and Voldemort are nearly two separate people…

Harry still needs more proof, but he comes to a realization within himself as he sits there. If everything Riddle told him is true… then Harry will stand by his side, bond or no bond.

The sobbing doesn't cease. He hates himself for it; for betraying his friends and his family, for tearing the world as he knows it apart, for siding with a (if not in mind, then at least in body) murderer.

But he can't for it.

Riddle is right.

The Muggles are dangerous.