The Abyss

by Aisling-Siobhan

Nietzsche was right! When fighting monsters, Harry should have been more careful not to become one. That didnt matter anymore. It was too late to save himself. He could still save the world from Voldemort but who would save Voldemort from him? Darkfic AU

2. Chapter 2 of 4

In response to a review from Chapter 01: Harry wanted to save the world, last chapter, because he isn't a monster YET! But he's getting there: see the second warning area.

ALSO: I can't quite decide which is worse, The Abyss or Jakosta, though both are my sickest works to date. And fyi, I don't actually go around raping random little boys (well, maybe little girls, and only if their mother's were watching, and…) moving on. I hope you all enjoy part 2 of 4!

Though bare in mind: flames will be ignored, or used to warm my toes and to cook the bodies in my basement; some of the 'conditioning' stuff is just plain made up, I really didn't want to search on Google for that kind of thing, and the majority is from Wikipedia; and, seriously, read the warnings!

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"The Abyss"

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. I make no money from this story, so please don't sue me. Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Bros, etc.

Summary: [HP/LV] Nietzsche was right! When fighting monsters, Harry should have been more careful not to become one himself. That didn't matter anymore. It was too late to save himself. He could still save the world from Voldemort but who would save Voldemort from him?

Warnings: Slash. LV/HP. HP/LV(TMR). AU. Violence. Language. Underage. Chan. Child Abuse. Rape/Implied Rape. Post DH, EWE? Child grooming.

Rating: R/NC-17 SLASH!!

A/N: Once again, we have LJ user EVILDIME to thank for this wonderfully depraved story. Thank you for requesting it!

XXX

"When you stare long enough into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you." – Nietzsche.

Words: 14,016

The Abyss 2/4

December 31st 1930. 4 years old.

The building was square and grim looking. Its surroundings were bare, no trees or statues or even people in sight. The courtyard outside of the building was tucked away behind high railings, and affixed to the entrance gate was a sign reading, "Stockwell Orphanage".1 Harry kept watch over the building, holding a pair of Omnioculars up to his eyes. They weren't as high tech as the pair he had used in his Fourth Year, but to be fair he was approximately 50 years in the past! They did the job well enough, enabling him to see through the window of the Orphanage's canteen area.

There were four boys, one of them very young and the other three all much older and bigger. They were bullying the younger boy. Harry turned the settings on the Omnioculars, trying to get a closer look at what they were saying. There was shoving involved. There always was, Harry knew from his own experiences with Dudley, and no doubt, there was name-calling. But Harry needed to be sure, needed to know this was the right boy. There were plenty of bullies in the orphanage, and Harry had already made the mistake of introducing himself to one of them, thinking him to be Tom. An 'Obliviate' had cleared up the issue, but still, he would be certain this time.

"Freak!" Harry saw one of the boy's say, green eyes narrowing as he tried to lip-read another boy's response.

"Freak!" That one said. Followed by the third bully repeating the word.

Then he saw what he had been waiting for. The child's hands clenched at his side, his eyes teared up, and a long crack appeared in the wall behind the eldest bully's head. Accidental magic! Harry smirked to himself as he lowered the Omnioculars. There had only ever been one magical child taken from Tom's London orphanage, and so finally he had found the boy he was looking for.

He tucked the Omnioculars into the pocket of his suit trousers, and picked the jacket up off of the floor where he had thrown it. It was cold out, and it was easy enough to cast a warming charm over himself. He had felt a bit silly dressed so formally. Unfortunately, the Institution where he had forcefully acquired a job insisted that its therapists dress like penguins. Whatever had happened to good old-fashioned white coats?

Today was Tom Riddle's fourth birthday, if Harry's memory served him right. Truthfully, this child didn't look much older than that. The first one Harry had picked had looked a little too old, but, well, mistakes were made.

Harry pulled a package from his other pocket and waved his wand, returning it to its rightful size. It was a box, about the size of a book, and it was wrapped in colourful paper. Slytherin green paper, because Harry appreciated the irony.

He had studied about this, about people like him, and he had specialized in behavioural modification and for the past two weeks he had worked with victims who had lived through what he was planning to do. Perhaps seeing the effects of his plan on other people should have made him rethink things through, but it didn't. It only instilled the need he had to do things right. He had to set the behavioural trap correctly, to offer Tom natural reinforcers2 that would easily be accepted, but could not be rejected without Tom first modifying his behaviour. Those others, the ones who had created Harry's patients, had done something wrong, something Harry would have to avoid doing. Harry would have to make sure to bait Tom completely, correctly; to lure him in, and once trapped, he wasn't ever letting go.

Originally he had planned to kill Tom. Killing Tom would rid the world of him, rid the world of Voldemort, but it would never repay Harry for the pain and humiliation he had suffered through for a decade. The suffocating terror he had felt for those first few years, falling asleep praying for death only to wake up alive and still a prisoner; that would never be forgotten by him, could never be erased. Tom's death wouldn't go far in making that up to Harry. There would have to be more. There needed to be a better punishment, a worse fate in store for Lord Voldemort, if there were any hope of Harry ever feeling clean again.

He needed absolution: for his capture, for his failure to defeat Voldemort sooner, for his compliance with his own treatment. Should he have tried harder to escape? Maybe killed Voldemort in his sleep, despite knowing the man still had two Horcruxes left? Harry wasn't a Horcrux anymore. Voldemort had removed the soul fragment himself after Harry's attempted escape in the Ministry, but there was still Nagini. Harry had always comforted himself with the thought that one day Nagini would have to die, and then – and then finally – he could smother Voldemort while he slept. She didn't die. Apparently the Horcrux would keep her alive for as long as Voldemort lived. After learning that, Harry had thrown all thoughts of killing Voldemort out of the mental window. Death, while Voldemort's biggest fear, was too good for him.

"An eye for an eye, after all," Harry whispered to himself as he slowly walked down the hill towards the Orphanage.

He didn't think he was a bad person. He just wanted to do what was right. But hadn't he once read somewhere that the worst killers, the worst men, were the ones who killed in the name of good? Harry scoffed lightly at his own thoughts. What did it matter? He was going to Hell anyway, he knew. His rape and imprisonment hadn't been his fault, but the fact that he had failed himself, his friends, and his world at the Battle for Hogwarts was. He should have killed himself those first few days at Malfoy Manor, when he had the chance, destroyed the Horcrux himself, or even killed Nagini! But he hadn't. He had been weak and afraid, shaking terribly he remembered, but he had tried to look strong and at first he had refused to scream. But he was still a disappointment.

Harry told himself it was about saving the world as he made his way towards the curled up form at the base of the hill. Watery blue eyes looked up at him, the gaunt face pale and blotchy from crying, and Harry didn't feel so much as a pang of sympathy for the poor creature. It wasn't about saving the world, he finally admitted to himself. Though it would be a nice bonus. And it had never been about saving himself, because what was worth saving?

No. This was about revenge.

XXX

Tom didn't look up as he made his way from the food queue to the table at the very back of the canteen where he always sat. The table was mouldy and dirty, but it was his, because no one else wanted it. Tom always sat there alone, which suited him just fine, and it was right beside the door to the courtyard and the rack where they were meant to leave their empty trays and dishes. The problem wasn't leaving the canteen; what troubled Tom was how hard it was to get his food and get to his table without someone tripping him or shoving him or taunting him.

For all of his life Tom had lived at Stockwell Orphanage. He was born here, Mrs. Cole had told him, moments before his mother had died. She had just enough time to name him apparently, before she had abandoned him to this hell.

It wasn't that Stockwell was a bad place to live. Mrs. Cole and Martha and the others were all very nice, and lots of children got adopted on a regular basis, and they even had their own rooms when they reached the age of ten, which was great because each room had a real iron bed, a wardrobe and a chair. The Orphanage was always clean as well, and there were maids to pick up after the children, even though Tom strived to keep his section of his shared room neat without being asked. Everyone loved living in Stockwell Orphanage, at least the ones who didn't remember any other way to live. Those whose parents had died and left them, those who had lives before coming to Hell, they didn't like it all that much. But they were better off than Tom. At least the others liked those children.

No one was ever going to adopt Tom. He was never given new things, like blankets and clothes, as he was always told there wasn't enough to go around. But the others his age all got new shoes and Tom was given a pair two sizes too big for him that one of the older boys had grown out of! Mrs. Cole didn't like him much; Tom knew that. He was young, not stupid. It was because Mrs. Cole didn't like him that the other children got away with destroying the things Tom did have and being so cruel to him all of the ti-

"Ouch!" Tom cried. He had tripped over someone's leg, and landed hard on the stone floor. He didn't look up to see who had purposely tripped him, choosing instead to look at the mess he had made of his breakfast.

"Happy birthday, freak." Eric Whalley said, smirking. He was only two years older than Tom, but he was friendly with some of the bigger boys so he got away with bullying an awful lot.

Mathew Rogers and Rickson Jenson both grinned down at him, mouths wide with cruel smiles.

"Oh, is it the freak's birthday today?" Mathew sneered, knowing full well that it was. Tom was the only child in the orphanage whose birthday wasn't celebrated. Last year, Martha had tried to throw him a party, but no one had come, so now they just didn't bother with him anymore.

Rick was almost 14. Soon he would have to leave Stockwell, to go find a real job and leave Tom behind. Mathew wasn't as old, but Tom would only have to wait two more years until they were both gone. But he knew there would be others, other bullies, and he needed to toughen up if he was to survive them.

For the first time in two years, since they had started to notice the strange things that happened around Tom and since the bullying began, Tom tried to stand up for himself. "I'm not a freak." His words were barely more than a whisper.

"Yes you are," Rick said, giving Tom a shove as the boy tried to get to his feet. Tom fell onto his porridge, slipping onto his bum. "Freak!"

"Freak! Freak!" The other two copied.

"Of course you're a freak. No one loves you, no one wants you, you didn't even get a birthday card from Martha, and we all know she's the only one who can stomach you! You're an ugly, stupid freak and-" And that was all Tom could bare to listen to. Without cleaning up his spilt breakfast, he ran towards his table and out through the door beside it.

When he was in the courtyard, he kept running, right up to the railing that surrounded the building and its grounds. There was a hole at the back, beneath the shadow of a tall hill that hid the other houses in the area from view. Tom was still small enough to wriggle under the fence, fitting his body into the burrow dug by a fox or a badger or some other cornered animal. Obviously, the animal must have been escaping from one of the children, because why would it have wanted to dig its way in?

Tom threw himself down at the base of the hill, leaning against the trunk of the willow tree that grew there. If anyone were to look for him, they'd be able to see him just fine, which meant that he wouldn't get in trouble for disappearing and so he wouldn't be punished, though he probably would have to clean the canteen tonight because of the mess he made. It hadn't been his fault, but he always got the blame and there was no point trying to argue with that. He had tried once, and the lights had flickered on and off until Mrs. Cole had started crying and just slapped him round the face. Tom hadn't tried to argue with her since.

He turned his head to the side when he heard footsteps. It was strange for someone to actually come after him, unless they were telling him to go to bed. He looked up, watery blue eyes meeting emerald green orbs that were firmly fixed on his blotchy face. Tom reached up to rub at his eyes, brushing away the tears, as the stranger looked him over.

"Can I help you?" Tom whispered.

"I heard it was your birthday," Harry said softly. He lowered himself down to the ground, moving slowly so as to give Tom time to get up and move away if he wanted to. Tom stayed where he was, and he didn't even flinch. His eyes widened though, shock covering his face, and Harry smirked at the child's reaction. It seemed Tom wasn't quite as cynical and cruel as he had been when Dumbledore had first found the boy: he wasn't even on his way to becoming the terrifying child Harry remembered Tom to be. Good, Harry thought. He knew it had been a good idea to catch Tom young.

"How did you know that?" Tom gasped.

"Oh," Harry said with a shrug, handing over the carefully wrapped present, "I've been to the orphanage a few times." That was the truth at least, it was how he had run into Eric something-or-other, the boy he had mistaken for Tom. "That's for you." He nudged the present with his hand, shoving it across Tom's lap where it had fallen.

Tom finally picked it up, turning it over in his hands carefully. "For me? Really?" He sounded so pitiful, yet so hopeful, that Harry couldn't help but allow his lips to twitch slightly. He nodded, and Tom's whole face lit up. He ripped off the wrapping paper, making no comment on the colour, but that had been for Harry's benefit after all. "The Catcher in the Rye", Tom read the title of the book, very slowly pronouncing his words and Harry's grin widened.

He had known Tom Riddle was clever. He had been the best and brightest student Hogwarts had ever seen, but to be able to read so clearly at the age of 4! It was stunning. Harry had contemplated buying a children's book, but they were all so dull and simple and he didn't think it would entice Tom in anyway at all. Even if Tom hadn't been able to read The Catcher by himself, after a few more visits the boy would probably have accepted Harry's offer to read it to him. In exchange for more gifts, of course.

"I want you to read it, Tom. It'll be good for you." Harry stood up then, running his hand quickly through Tom's dark hair. "You'll see that bad things happen to young boys who lie." And with that Harry walked away.

Tom watched the man leave, his eyes narrowing slightly as they settled back on the book. He wasn't a liar, so why would that man said that to him? He had been to the orphanage though, Tom remembered with a sniffle. They had probably told the stranger all sorts of horrible things about him. If the stranger was looking to adopt someone, he definitely wasn't going to choose Tom! So it didn't matter that the man thought he was a liar.

But then why had he given Tom the book? It was Tom's first birthday present, his first anything actually that had been solely his and not second hand. The man, whose name Tom didn't even know, had given the gift to him instead of all the other boys and girls he could have chosen at Stockwell. Maybe, Tom allowed himself to hope. Maybe Rick was wrong, and someone did want him?

XXX

January 28th 1931.

Tom was crying at the base of the hill again. Harry watched him in silence, biting his bottom lip as he thought things through one last time. It had been almost a month since he had last seen Tom face-to-face, though he had been watching the boy in secret. He had another copy of The Catcher in the Rye in his pocket, because he knew Tom hadn't finished reading it yet and some of the older boys had burnt the book three days ago. Tom hadn't stopped crying since.

Harry hadn't wanted to come on too strong. It was what scared most people off. Everything had to be timed right, everything needed to be perfect. Tom had no parents to befriend, there was no legitimate reason to seek Tom out at the orphanage except to adopt him, and Harry wasn't going to do that!

He had stayed away for a month, but now he felt it was time to intervene in Tom's life again.

"Why is it, every time I see you, you are crying?" Harry asked teasingly, sitting himself on the ground beside the child, his back pressed to the willow tree's trunk. "Is my face ugly or something?"

Tom's head snapped up, his mouth open in shock before a smile lit up his face. "You came back!" Tom shouted. "You really came back! I knew you would. None of the others believed me, and they took my book, but I knew you'd come back."

"Here," Harry said, handing him the replacement copy of The Catcher. "I thought something like this might happen. Children are cruel, Tom, but they grow up eventually. You just have to remember that. Anyway, I'll tell you how it ends. The boy is a pathological liar, he can't help himself, and he ends up in an Institution like where I work talking to doctors about why he lies."

"You're a doctor?" Tom asked quietly, shifting away. "I'm not a liar. Even if they said I am, I'm not!" Tom pleaded, begging Harry to understand. He didn't want to go to an Institution. Only bad boys went there, and he wasn't bad, he wasn't. He wasn't!

"Good. I don't like liars, Tom." It was hypocritical of him, considering, but it was part of the role he had to play. Lying was a necessary evil if Harry was going to get Tom to trust him. "How much of the book did you read?"

"I was half way through. I share a room, and I didn't want any of the others to know I had the book. Sometimes," Tom's voice had dropped to below a whisper, and Harry had to strain his ears to hear. "Sometimes, when my clothes don't fit right, I can make them shrink." He looked up quickly, trying to gauge Harry's reaction, but the man stared down at him with a blank face. "Mrs. Cole thinks I'm stealing, but I'm not! They'd think I stole the book too. But I told them about you, Eric Whalley and Rickson Jenson anyway, because they kept saying that no one would want me, or want to be near me. You were. You do, right?"

"Well that depends on you, Tom. If you're a good boy, then yes, I'll want you very much." Harry spoke slowly, keeping his face blank, "but I don't like boys who do bad things."

"I won't be bad, I promise!" Tom swore, jumping to his feet and lacing his fingers in front of his chest like he was praying. "But sometimes things just happen. I can't help it, I swear I don't mean to do it."

"I see." Harry drawled, getting to his feet as well. "Hmm, those shoes look a little big for you. I suppose we should get you a new pair?" Tom turned his head, gaping at Harry as if the man were crazy. "What? If I'm your friend, it wasn't very friendly of me to disappear for a month, now was it? You have to let me make it up to you!"

"What am I gonna tell Mrs. Cole?" Tom whispered, his eyes darting around warily.

"Well I suppose I'll have to introduce myself. Maybe we could stretch the truth a little, tell her I'm a cousin?"

"Lying is wrong," Tom told him with narrowed eyes.

"Yes, it is." Harry smiled. "But so is stealing. Do you want her to think you stole, Tom? I'm going to buy you some shoes either way. You deserve them." Tom's face lit up again at the word 'deserve': he had never been told he deserved anything other than a beating in his life.

"Ok, we'll think of something to tell her." He bit his bottom lip. "There's a charity store that sells shoes over that way," Tom said, pointing over the hill.

"I was thinking of taking a train to London proper." Harry waited to see how far he could stretch this second meeting with Tom. Any well-adjusted child would refuse to go so far away with a stranger, but an abused child? Harry supposed at Tom's age even he would have been willing to run away from Privet Drive with the first person who was kind to him. But would Tom? "I needed to get a few things for myself anyway. Are you even allowed to go into London?"

Tom thought about it for a moment. "Of course. They don't care what we do as long as we're back for supper and bedtime. But…" He bit his lip again, and Harry worried for a moment that Tom would refuse to go further than Vauxhall Road, but then Tom spoke again. "All of the shops in London are expensive, sir. You don't need to waste good money on me."

"And why is that?" Harry asked, already knowing what Tom would say.

Harry had read Simon's works, while he had been studying.4 He knew that the first steps to ensuring that psychological manipulation was effective was knowing what your chosen victim's vulnerabilities were, and having the ruthlessness necessary to exploit them or harm your victim if needed. Controlling aggressive behaviour was also important, and Harry had promised himself that no matter what Tom did, and no matter how angry Tom made him, or how much Tom reminded him of Voldemort, Harry would not hurt the child.

Not yet.

And anyway positive reinforcement is superior to punishment in altering behaviour,5 or so he had learnt.

Tom scuffed the ground with the toe of one shoe. He mumbled, "I'm a freak, and I'm ugly and stupid and don't deserve nice things."

Harry reached out, slowly, giving Tom plenty of time to move out of reach, and cupped the boy's chin. "You are not ugly. In fact, I'd say you'll be a rather beautiful boy when you're older. And stupid? Certainly not! After all, you read half of Sallinger's masterpiece without help, and I bet you understood every word? You are not a freak, Tom. You are… different. But, just like all little boys, you do deserve nice things. I promise you that."

Harry was wary about telling Tom he was 'special'. Tom enjoyed knowing he was different to everyone else, better than them. But Harry would wait until they knew each other better before dropping the bombshell that was magic onto the boy. If Tom knew sooner that he wasn't the only one who could do 'things' then maybe when the time for Hogwarts came he wouldn't believe he was so much better than everyone else.

"Now, shall we go to London, or will Vauxhall do?"

Tom offered him a shy grin, his young face full of trust as he looked up at Harry. "London please, sir?" He said.

"London it is, Tom," Harry replied with a chuckled. He threw an arm out, dropping it around Tom's shoulders and pulling the boy in for a quick but firm hug. "The name's Harry, by the way."

Tom tensed a little at first, but when Harry didn't move his arm after a minute, Tom relaxed. They walked to the underground, Harry's arm around Tom's shoulders, bent over slightly so that he could actually reach the child, and Tom practically melted into the adult's side the longer the touch continued for.

Every now and then, Tom would smile up at Harry shyly, almost as if he were checking that Harry was really there. In one of Tom's hands, he held onto The Catcher, and the other hand would come up to squeeze Harry's fingers cautiously before tucking itself into Tom's trouser pocket. Harry smirked when the boy wasn't looking, making a show of pulling his arm back, only for Tom to reach up and grab his fingers again, holding tight long enough for Harry to settle his arm around Tom's neck once more. The child's first hug, and already Tom was far too attached for his own good.

Harry almost chuckled out loud, but he refrained. He did allow himself another smirk though.

This was going to be too easy.

XXX

December 31st 1931. 5 years old.

"Harry?" Tom asked softly.

The elder Wizard looked down at the boy, slowly lowering the book he was reading. This was the first time Tom had come to his flat, a year after they had first met, and while Harry had immediately sat down and started to read Tom just stood in the doorway nervously.

"What if I dirty something?" He asked, wringing his hands in front of his stomach.

"You won't. And anyway," Harry said teasingly, "You have to come inside if you're to get your birthday present. I left it in the bedroom, through there." He pointed at the only other door in the room.

Harry's flat was small and pokey but it was all he could afford before he 'acquired' his job. He was planning to save what money he didn't spend on Tom and buy a bigger place for after the boy started Hogwarts. His plan should be almost complete by then, and when that happened Harry had betted Tom would demand to sleep over. It was a one bedroom, situated just off of the living room, which was right as you came in the front door. The bathroom was on the other side of the bedroom, and awkwardly so was the kitchen. It was a pain in the arse to cook food and have to carry it through the bedroom so you could eat at a table. So instead, Harry had used a part of his second pay cheque (the first spent paying off his flat) to buy a nice dressing table. He ate his dinner on that most nights now, when he wasn't eating out with Tom.

Harry leant back on the sofa, raising "The Picture of Dorian Grey" over his head so he could read it without having to strain his neck. He got two pages read before he heard a bang and a gasp from the bedroom.

"Oops," Harry mock sighed, "should have put those away first." He lowered the book and marked the page before dropping it onto the sofa.

Harry watched Tom from the doorway silently. It was rather amusing, though Harry had expected it. Tom had been a thief in his original timeline, and while he didn't think Tom would take anything from him, there was no doubt that the boy would have had a snoop through his things. Which, actually, was what Harry had been counting on. He had left the photos out purposely, turned upside down and carefully slotted halfway underneath Harry's copy of The Catcher. Harry had brought a camera out with them about a month ago, taking photos of Tom while he scowled in the park, and Tom had obviously wanted to see if Harry had kept the photos of him.

"I didn't mean to! I didn't know they weren't-" He trailed off, dropping his eyes to the carpet before running the back of his hand over his nose. "Why do you have those?" The child asked, not yet old enough to be disgusted by the images.

"This one," Harry lifted the first photograph and held it out for Tom to see. A part of Tom knew he shouldn't look, but he looked anyway, because Harry wanted him to. If Tom was any older this probably would have been a lot harder: he would have heard adults talking, would have probably known children at the orphanage who had been sexually abused by parents or foster parents, (had Tom actually spoke to the other children at Stockwell), or he might have even read about it. But as it was, the five-year-old listened trustingly as Harry lied to him. "Is my friends daughter. Her name is Anna."

( warning: child porn )6

The picture was of a little girl, who couldn't have been more then six or seven. She was lying back on a bed with her legs spread and both of her hands pressed to her chest, hiding where her breasts would be once she had some.

"Here's another one," Harry told him, pulling out a second image. It was 'Anna' again, but this time there was a man lying on top of her, and Anna had her face turned towards the camera, her eyes squeezed closed in pain. "She looks like she's enjoying herself," Harry mused. "Oh, this is Jason! He's my last neighbour's son. He's adorable don't you think?"

Harry held the photo out and Tom took it. The boy must have been about three, and he was posed on his knees with his mouth open. Right at the edge of the photo, Tom could see someone else, someone older, with his trousers down.

( warning ends )

"NO!" He shouted suddenly, shoving the photo back at Harry. "That's wrong."

Harry gathered the remaining four photographs off of the bed, knowing that Tom had already looked through them, and put them and the one's of 'Anna' back under the book on the vanity table. "What's wrong? The photographs? That's perfectly normal, Tom. It's how children tell adults they love them. See, that's Jason's father." Harry waved the photo Tom had thrown at him, the only one he hadn't put away.

"But he's a man." Tom said with gritted teeth.

"What? Only mothers can love their sons?" Harry clenched his fists for a second, before saying, "I'll have you know my father loved me very much."

Tom looked up at him, his eyes narrowed and his forehead creased as he thought about what Harry had said. "The nuns that come to the orphanage sometimes told us that it's a sin to love another man."

"But Jason's a boy." Harry said slowly, as if expecting Tom to not understand him.

Tom scowled at him. "I know that! But he'll be a man when he grows up. So it's wrong." He crossed his arms over his chest, turning his face away from the photograph Harry still held. "I don't want to see it anymore."

Harry nodded slowly, but put the photo away like he was asked. "You're over intellectualising everything, Tom."7 Tom's forehead creased, and Harry chuckled as he realised that Tom hadn't understood the word. "It means you're too clever for your own good. There are bad people out there who will prey on that. But anyway, did you like your present?"

Tom allowed a soft smile to settle on his face. He moved over to Harry and sat on the edge of the bed beside his older friend. He picked up the photo album from the bed, his fingers caressing the soft leather cover. "It must have been expensive." Tom mused.

No matter how many new things he received from Harry, he always seemed to expect to be given something cheap or second hand the next time they met. When Tom had stopped protesting and had just started to take the gifts when given, Harry had realised that Tom was warming up to him.

"It was expensive." Harry smiled, "but you deserve it. I thought you could put some photos of your friends in there." Harry opened the cover of the album, and Tom gasped as the man ran his fingers first down the palm of Tom's hand. "I put some photos of us in there." There were the photos from that day in the park, and Harry chuckled at the scowl in every one of Tom's photos. He had taken one of himself when he had gotten home and added that to the album as well.

Tom turned the page, and gasped again. "This is you?" He asked quietly, drawing his finger slowly down the length of the image of a fully naked Harry.

"I was seventeen. There was a man who… loved me, so I made him happy." Harry cringed; talking about Voldemort like he wanted what the man had done to him made his stomach twist into knots, but he could hardly tell Tom the truth. Harry was completely naked in the photo, and he was sitting back on his ankles with his legs spread into a V, much like 'Jason' had been. Except Harry's mouth was closed into a thin line, and his arms were stretched up over his head with his hands bound together. Harry could remember that day. It had been a month before his 18th birthday and Voldemort had left him tied up, naked, for the entire time, only releasing him as a birthday gift from a merciful Master.

"You're tied up!" Tom gasped, his eyes moving away from the photo's crotch area and to the hands that were bound.

"He liked that." Harry admitted. "Seeing me submit to him. He liked that." Harry shook his head, clearing away the thoughts of things that he would never let happen again, and he smiled at Tom. "Anyway, I should probably take that one out. After all, you think loving another man is wrong."

"I don't." Tom drew the album away from Harry's outstretched hand. One of his palms was pressed onto the photo, protecting it from view or from being taken away. "They said it was, the nuns said it was. But if you do it, it must be ok then, right?"

"Well… I love you, Tom." Harry smiled shyly over at the child, a blush staining his cheeks. When Tom blushed in return, Harry thanked Merlin for all the practise he'd had at acting. It was coming in handy. "But I can stop if you want?"

"NO! No, it's fine. I bet the nuns are wrong anyway. They always lie, you know. They tell me I'm bad when I haven't done anything wrong, and they say I'll go to hell, and that I've the devil in me. But I've never done anything wrong! So maybe they're making this up too? I mean," Tom scratched at the back of his neck, suddenly looking like the child he really was, "if you love me, then it can't be wrong can it?"

Harry didn't answer that. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap, keeping them away from the album Tom was protecting, and said, "Do you have any other photos you'd like to put in here?"

"I don't have any friends." Tom admitted in a whisper. He closed the album softly, his fingers still caressing the cover.

"You have me!" Harry lifted Tom's chin. He leant in quickly, pressing his lips to Tom's cheek softly before pulling back with a smile. "I'll always be your special friend, Tom. You won't ever need anyone else."

Tom smiled at him. For the first time in a year Tom was the first one to lean over, and he hugged Harry.

XXX

March 15th 1934. 7 years old.

The past four years had been pleasant enough. Tom hadn't actually been a hard child to get along with, Harry had found. The 32-year-old smiled softly to himself as he waited at the base of their hill for Tom to appear. He had actually started to like spending time with Tom. He no longer thought of the boy as Voldemort, but that wasn't enough for him to change his plans. His plans were already in motion, and –what was that saying? – you couldn't unring a bell.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he heard running footsteps. Tom was always excited to see him, but he never ran. Harry had taught him it was undignified, something only a Mudblood would do, and while Tom hadn't understood that word he had easily accepted what Harry was saying as the truth.

"Tom?" Harry called softly, pushing himself up off of the ground.

As the boy had grown, he had had to find a new way to escape from the orphanage when he didn't want anyone to know where he was. Tom had contemplated lying and telling Mrs. Cole he was going to London, but Harry didn't like liars. It was just as easy to climb up the ash tree in the courtyard and jump over the fence, and it had been to climb under the fence. Tom had found it strange that the ash tree seemed to bend for him, helping him reach its branches, but if Eric Whalley tried to follow him the tree would always just be that much too high for Eric to reach, even though Eric was taller than Tom.

He had told Harry about it once, and Harry had just laughed and told Tom, "The ash tree is very similar to the yew tree. You have an affiliation with the yew, Tom, and the ash is just taking care of one of its brother's own."

"Tom?" Harry called again, frowning.

Tom came into view then, and he was running, and crying. He had turned seven a few months back, and he had hit a growth spurt. Harry had always been short, and when Tom threw himself into Harry's arms his head slammed into Harry's chest, knocking the breath from him. Tom nuzzled against his chest, wiping his tears onto Harry's shirt, as Harry's arms came up to wrap around the child's shoulders.

"What is it, Tom?" Harry asked after a few minute of letting Tom cry. The boy pulled back with a sniffle, and tilted his head up. Harry smiled softly, knowing what Tom wanted, and he nodded once before leaning down to press his lips against the child's. It had become their way of comforting Tom when the boy was upset enough to seek Harry out. Usually when Tom cried, the boy preferred to be on his own. That was usually because a couple had shown an interest in adopting him, and then had changed their mind because of the things Mrs. Cole and the other children said about him. But not much else made Tom cry, except for that time when—

"Oh Tom, no!" Harry whispered, "tell me you didn't push another child out of a window?" It had taken several 'Obliviate's' and countless visits to the Ministry of Magic, and an 'Imperio' to take care of Helen Doyle's death.

"No!" Tom hissed, tilting his head up again.

Harry kissed him again, brushing their lips together lightly and then pressing down harder as Tom leaned into his touch. "What is it?" Harry asked again, giving the boy another kiss, his tongue flicking out to swipe over Tom's closed lips.

Tom had grown used to Harry hugging him and kissing him. Now, whenever Tom was upset, he would tilt his head forward slightly and raise his chin, and Harry would give Tom the kiss he was silently asking for.

"Tell me what's wrong?"

"They killed her!" Tom shrieked, pulling away from Harry and throwing himself onto the ground. He pressed his face into his arms, and Harry watched the boy's shoulders shake for a minute before he sat down on the ground and gathered Tom onto his lap.

"Killed who, Tom?"

"My friend." The boy whispered fearfully. He had never told Harry, terrified that Harry would think he was lying, or would hate him for being a freak, or leave him because Tom was trying to replace him. "She was a snake." He admitted softly. "They find me, and tell me things, the snakes do. But she was nice. She used to sleep in the same room as us, and wake me up if one of the other boy's tried to do anything or take my stuff." Tom was curled in Harry's lap now, but he looked up, reaching up with his hands to cup Harry's face. "You're still my special friend though, right? I swear I could talk to her, Harry, I swear! I'm not lying and I wasn't trying to replace you!" Harry shifted, Tom's weight on him doing unmentionable things to his anatomy, but Tom gave a cry and pressed himself tighter against his friend. "Don't leave me!"

"I'm not going anywhere, Tom. My legs are going numb," Harry said. He shifted Tom, straightening his legs and pushing Tom down them, away from his groin. "Who killed your snake?"

"You believe me?" Tom whispered. "I told Mrs. Cole because I didn't want to lie to her, and she said that Eric and the others had probably saved my life. She said the snake was probably trying to kill me, that's what it means when they get into the bed with you. I tried to tell her, Harry, but she told me I was lying! She called the nuns over. And they said I was going to hell, because I'm evil and a liar and it's no wonder no one wanted me."

Harry squeezed the child's waist lightly, but didn't interrupt. "There was this woman, and she was so beautiful. I like to imagine she looked like my mum, and Harry! She asked if I wanted to go home with her! And she was there, she heard what the Sister said to me, and she just left. She left me."

"Hush now, child. Remember, I don't like boys who do bad things. Eric Whalley will get his, I promise. You just have to be patient." Harry let Tom cry against him, until the boy had calmed and pulled away. Blue eyes brightened as they landed on Harry's face, and Tom leant forward to kiss his friend again. "There's something I want to tell you, Tom. I should have told you sooner, but there are people who don't want you to know yet. I was afraid they'd find out you knew and take you away from me, but you're old enough to keep a secret now. You can keep a secret, can't you Tom?"

"I can!" The child promised.

"If you tell anyone, Tom, I can never see you again. And then I'd miss you, because I love you." Harry bit his bottom lip as he tried not to chuckle. Tom's eyes were watering again, and his face had paled in fear.

"No, no! I won't ever tell, I promise. Don't go!" Tom's small hands were clenched into the wet fabric of Harry's shirt, holding on for dear life, and Harry closed his own hands over Tom's and squeezed.

"I can speak to snakes too," he whispered, his mouth pressed right against Tom's ear. The boy shuddered, warm breath ghosting over his skin, and he felt something that he had never felt before, but he pushed it aside because he also felt surprise.

"You can?" His voice was light and hopeful, desperate to know he wasn't the only freak in the world.

"Yes. Not many of our kind can, though. It's sort of inherited. You got it from your mother, I'd say, and I know I got it from my father.8 You remember the man who loved me?" Tom nodded, eyes wide as he hung off of every word, "He was able to speak it too. All of his mother's family could. It's called Parseltongue, the serpent language."

"But… does that mean we're related?"

"Probably, but very distantly if that. It wouldn't make any difference, Tom," Harry promised him before leaning in and waiting. Nervously, Tom's lips met his own. "It doesn't make this wrong, and it doesn't stop me from loving you."

"I love you too, Harry." Tom breathed, licking his lips. "Since we're related, can I come live with you?"

"Well," Harry said, pretending to think about it, "we'd have to share the same bed, and… no. No, we couldn't. They'd know, and they'd take you from me, Tom. They could make me forget you even existed, and I wouldn't know any better when you've left me and I'd never go searching for you. I couldn't bare to lose you like that, against both of our wills."

"How could they make you forget me?" Tom questioned, his eyes lowered in disappointment.

"This is the secret part, Tom. You're a Wizard. Just like me." Tom's head snapped up. His eyes were narrowed, and Harry scowled as he recognized the cynical Tom Riddle from Dumbledore's Pensieve memories. "We can do magic. Magic is how they could make me forget you."

"Prove it," the boy spat. He crawled from Harry's lap, his legs drawn to his chest protectively as he glared at the man who had promised never to lie to him.

"Ok, this is a wand. Witches and Wizards use it to channel magic." He held out his Holly wand, allowing Tom to take a good look at it, before he pointed it at the willow tree that stood watch over them, the only witness to Harry's actions. "Incendio," he said loudly enough for Tom to hear clearly. The tree burst into flames.

Tom gave a cry, scrambling away from the burning tree and he looked over at Harry with horrified blue eyes.

"Aguamenti," Harry whispered, and a jet of water shot from the end of his wand, towards the willow tree. The flames disappeared, and Tom stood and made his way towards the tree. The base of the trunk was blackened, but the top of the tree looked fine. Some of its swaying branches were bare now, it's leaves burnt away, and Tom reached out to grab one, only to gasp as it crumbled to ash in his hand. "I don't know how to heal the tree," Harry told him with a shrug, "I was never very good at Herbology in school."

"School?" Tom asked, turning away from the tree.

"Hmm, yes. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Harry tucked his wand away. "You'll be invited there when you're eleven. That's when they were going to tell you that you could do magic. The cracks that appear in the wall, Helen Doyle flying out of the window even though you never pushed her, speaking to snakes, the way the temperature drops in the room when you're very angry: all of that is you doing magic, Tom. And when you go to School, you'll learn how to control it so that you don't hurt anyone, even when you are angry."

"Did you ever hurt people with your magic?" Tom asked, glancing up at Harry's face.

The man looked down on him blankly, and then smiled, "only when they were bad."

XXX

August 12th 1935. 8 years old.

Tom was sleeping beside him in the bed. They had been sharing the same bed for three months now, even since Harry's application to foster Tom had been approved. Since it wasn't an adoption, the Ministry of Magic didn't need to be notified, which meant that no one would find out about Tom until his Hogwarts letter came. That suited Harry perfectly.

His fingers brushed back Tom's fringe lightly, caressing the smooth skin of the child's forehead. He was going away for the weekend. The orphanage was taking them all to some little coastal town for a few days to soak up the air, sea and sand, and Harry was partially funding it. It was going to cost a lot, but Harry didn't mind. After all, he was from the future, he knew which businesses were going to make it big and he had happily invested what money he did have into them, and now he was turning over a rather large annual profit without having to do any actual work. That wasn't including the money he was being paid at his job, especially now that he had been promoted. Apparently, fostering a 'damaged' kid was seen as a good thing where he worked.

"Tom, wake up." Harry shook his shoulder lightly. "You don't want to be late."

Tom woke slowly, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back. He pressed himself against Harry, and nuzzled the man's neck lightly. Tom had always been a very sexual person, charming and charismatic. While it was still too early for his hormones to have kicked in, being around Harry was awakening the instinct. They had watched a porn film together a week or so ago, and while it had been hard for Harry to find one that used the words 'I love you' several times, he had done so. Ever since, Tom kept asking why Harry wouldn't touch him.

Harry rolled Tom away from him, urging him towards the bathroom. "Go on, you're going to be late. Get washed up."

Tom gave him a pout, but obediently rolled from the bed. When the bathroom door closed behind Tom, Harry brought a hand to his face and sighed into it. He had sex with Voldemort several times, but he had never been in charge. Experience was the key to manipulation. Harry didn't know what he was doing; he didn't know how to have sex with someone else instead of someone having sex with him. Despite the fact that Harry had successfully modified Tom's behavioural patterns, if Tom knew that Harry was inexperienced, Harry would no longer be in control. That was the way people like Tom worked. They liked to be in charge, they loved to take the lead and subjugate others to their will. And that would be fine. But Tom wouldn't be doing that to Harry, anyone else, but not Harry. Not again.

That was why Harry was sending Tom away for the weekend. Mrs. Cole had mentioned wanting to plan a trip for the children, and she had politely asked if Tom could remain behind with Harry. Harry had told her to take Tom along, and when she had tried to refuse, Harry had offered to pay half of the cost of the trip, in advance. However, Eric Whalley was too sick to go. Harry had made sure of that.

With the right potions ingredients, it actually hadn't been that hard to mimic the effect of the Weasley Twins' puking pastiels. He had the antidote sweet in his jacket pocket, draped over the back of his sofa, the one he had been planning on wearing when he dropped Tom off for the bus. Then he would kindly offer to take Eric off of poor Martha's hands, to look after him for a few days, because Lord knows Harry would be lonely without Tom in his bed.

"I'm ready," Tom said, hands on his hips, "and you're still in the bed. Get up, now."

"Spoken like a true fishwife, Tom," Harry teased. He slid from the bed, unconcerned that he was completely naked and half hard from his deliciously naughty thoughts. Harry knew Tom was watching him, so he made a show of stretching and rolling his shoulders, arching his back and pushing his hips forward before he bent over to pick up his trousers. "Well," Harry said over his shoulder, "are you gonna eat something here, or catch a crab for breakfast at the seaside?"

With a blush on his face, Tom left for the kitchen. Harry didn't need to turn around to know that Tom was still peeking at him from around the edge of the kitchen door, just like Harry knew Tom examined him when he thought Harry was sleeping. And Merlin, Harry thought, remembering, Tom's hand had felt good on his cock.

XXX

August 13th 1935.

It had taken a day to convince Martha to allow Eric to go home with Harry. She was the only staff member left at the orphanage, because of the number of children going on the trip, Mrs. Cole and every other staff member were required by law to accompany them. Martha had been left alone with the under 2's and the children who were ill. Harry had to give the woman credit. She had lasted a day before she had sent him a telegraph, almost pleading with him to take the child he wanted for a few days. She was contacting all of the old fosterers, handing over sick children to families who would mind them until Mrs. Cole came back, because she couldn't cope with them and the babies. It was a testament to her strength of character that she had lasted a whole day. Eric had been in Harry's company less than half an hour and he was already fit to kill the boy.

"I don't feel well!" Eric whined again. They were in a carriage, being pulled along by two black horses, and the coachman kept looking back over his shoulder and sending exasperated looks at Harry. "This taxi is making me feel worse! Why can't be walk?"

"You told me you were too sick to walk," Harry said through gritted teeth. He couldn't wait to get back to his flat. The moment they were alone he was shoving the antidote down the boy's throat, whether Eric choked on it or not. "We're almost there."

"Why do I have to come with you?" Eric whinged. "I bet you're a freak like Riddle! I want to go back to Martha! I WANT TO GO BACK!" The boy flailed in his seat, his fist knocking into Harry's jaw, and what was left of mild-mannered Harry Potter from his old world suddenly fled.

His hands were around Eric's throat, squeezing his thumbs down just under the boy's chin. Whalley gasped and bucked, making horrible choking sounds as he clawed at Harry's hands with his own. With tears in his eyes, the ten year old looked up at Harry, terrified and silently pleading.

"If you ever speak about Tom like that again, I'll kill you," Harry promised, breathing into the boy's ear so that the coachman wouldn't hear him. The man had probably noticed anyway, but corporeal punishment was a big thing in the 1930s apparently, and this boy was a poor, unimportant orphan. No one would complain if Harry gave the whiny brat a few slaps, but with what Harry had in mind for the weekend, it was best that no one hear him outright threaten the boy's life.

Harry withdrew his hands, sitting back against his seat calmly as if he hadn't just attacked the child. Eric gripped his own throat, swallowing convulsively, and he scooted across the seat as far from Harry as he could get without falling out of the carriage. Wide brown eyes stared at him, watery and red-rimmed, but Harry ignored the pitiful looks he was being sent. He felt no sympathy or compassion for the little bully. In fact, he felt nothing for anyone in this time except Tom, which was strange enough. He had come here to hurt Tom, not to grow fond of him, but Harry supposed he could do both. Real psychopaths knew that it was necessary to hurt their victims sometimes, a counter balance to all of the positive reinforcement they had to give to make the victim trust them in the first place. No one could be all good all the time. Not even while pretending.

"Stop your snivelling. We'll be home soon and I have some medicine lying around that should help with your cold." Whalley gave a gasp, probably afraid of being poisoned as well as choked, but he kept his thoughts to himself.

As they climbed out of the taxi, the coachman came around to hold his hand out. It was the same man who usually carted Harry and Tom around, and he was used to helping lift Tom down, but as Eric went to place his hand in the coachman's Harry knocked it aside. "That won't be necessary." He handed over some money, more than was necessary. "Keep the change," he said, staring into the Muggle's eyes, "and your tongue silent."

Harry took Eric by the shoulders and steered him towards the front door of the flat. He lived on the second floor, and it was a bit of a chore to force the boy up the flight of stairs separating Flat 13a from 13b, but Harry managed it with a wandless 'Levicorpus' that had Eric sprawling up the last few steps and landing in a pile in front of Harry's door. "Home sweet home," Harry muttered as he shoved the boy through the open front door. "First things first, eat this." He held out the sweet that he had been keeping in his jacket pocket. "It'll make you feel better. I'd rather you not throw up on me or my things, especially while I'm… educating you."

"Educating?" Whalley mumbled, hesitantly reaching for the sweet.

Harry waited until it was in the boys mouth before closing his hand over the lower part of Eric's face. "Chew and swallow, boy." He ordered. "Yes, you'll have to study while you're here, despite the fact that it's a weekend. But well, it's not typical schoolwork, so we'll call it our little secret. In fact, it'll be a learning experience for us both. I dare say it might even be fun, for me." He added the last part with a chuckle, removing his hand from Whalley's face. "Come on, I need to examine you."

Eric turned wide eyes on him, but Harry ignored the look in favour of man handling the boy into the bathroom. He stopped to grab a clipboard and a pen, and then followed, locking the bathroom door behind him.

"Ok, strip."

"Wha-? No! NO WAY!" Eric shouted, backing away from Harry.

"Oh it's all profession, I promise. See, I have a clipboard, and if you want I'll get my white coat. I'm a doctor, didn't Tom tell you? I work at the Institution. St Brutus' Centre For Incurably Criminal Boys. It's a nice place to work," Harry confided in him.

"Tha- that's not what it's called!" Eric stammered worriedly. "It's a hospital!"

"Oh, it is? Of course, my mistake, I'm getting confused with my last job at the Asylum." Harry lied easily.

Harry was trying very hard not to laugh, but Eric's reactions were just too funny. The boy's face kept alternating between red and white, and if he changed colours any more Harry thought he might faint. But it was amusing, and Eric had it coming. It had been one of Eric's favourite taunts to use on Tom: that he was a freak, that they'd send him to the Institution or the Asylum, that when Harry started fostering him it was so he could do experiments on Tom.

Harry was going to enjoy this weekend. The fact that he was using Tom's worst nemesis just made things all the sweeter. Tom was his to hurt, and only his. No one else had the right to cause Tom pain. Not Mrs. Cole, or Eric Whalley, or even Albus Dumbledore. It was Harry's turn to take charge now, not Voldemort's; the tables were turned.

Tom was his.

XXX

August 14th 1935.

Harry had resorted to cursing the Muggle in the end. It was the only way he could get the boy to get into the same bed as him. It wasn't like Harry had actually done anything to Eric anyway, so he wasn't sure what the boy was in a snit about! The boy had spent all morning sulking, and threatening to run away back to the orphanage because he wasn't spending another night with a paedophile.

Harry merely chuckled, ticked off something on his clipboard and carried on trying to work. It was easy to ignore the noise Eric made. It had been equally as loud back at Privet Drive when he was trying to do his homework, but he had always managed fine.

"Are you listening to me?" Eric shouted, leaning over Harry's sitting form and trying to seem intimidating. He looked like a spoilt child who wasn't getting his way, and Harry rolled his eyes in response. "I'm not sleeping here again! I feel fine now so you can send me back! I don't want you near me any longer!"

It was almost endearing how quickly Eric had gotten over his near strangulation. Almost. At first. But right now, Harry was finding the boy's lack of fear of him very, very annoying. "Look!" Harry hissed, glancing up from his work, "you're starting to really annoy me you brat."

"And you're a sick freak!" Harry's fists clenched on his lap. "I bet that's why you want Tom, isn't it? Cause he's a good little whore, and a freak like you! I bet he loves it, what you do, what he lets you do! Well I'm not like him, and I won't le-" The boy gave a scream, cutting into his own words as Harry's fist flew towards him and nearly broke his nose. The boy fell backwards, landing painfully on the ground, sobbing as he brought his hands up to his face.

"I was going to wait until tonight, but I find I can't wait any longer. I've always preferred to do things in the harsh light of day anyway. It helps you see what you really are. That's much healthier than hiding away in the dark anyway. Trust me," Harry said, waving his clipboard, "I'd know."

"What are you? NO!" Eric tried to kick him, but Harry grabbed him under the arms and dragged the boy to his feet.

It wasn't as easy as it was made look on TV, but Harry managed to throw the boy over his shoulder like a fireman and carry him into the bedroom. He punched Eric again, stunning him, and then laid him on the bed. The child blinked a few times, but was too shocked to actually try and escape. Harry locked all of the doors leading away from the bedroom, and added a Ward just in case. With a smirk, he let Eric see his wand as he placed a Curse around the room that would prevent them both from speaking about what would happen anywhere other than back inside of the bedroom.

"Let's get started, shall we?" With a wave of Harry's wand they were both naked. Eric gave a cry, curling up to cover himself, but as Harry moved towards him he jumped from the bed and tried to run. The door didn't budge, and Harry smirked as Eric started beating on the wood with his fists.

"Oh please! Please let me go."

"I will." Eric's face transformed instantly, going from desperate to relieved, and then just as suddenly back to terrified as Harry spoke again, "when I'm finished."

( warning: rape & violence )

Another wave of his wand had Eric flying backwards onto the bed. The child gave a groan as he landed, rolling to the side as he tried to make another run for it.

"This is getting tedious," Harry muttered, tapping his wand off of his leg. "Crucio!" Harry listened to Eric scream, writhing on the bed, naked and flushed and clawing at the skin of his face, whimpering pathetically between pain filled shouts.

He wondered, briefly, if Tom would sound as beautiful screaming.

A flick of his wand, and Eric fell silent, except for the occasional gasp and whimper.

"Now let's try this again. Do not run; there is no point. I need to practise, because practise makes perfect and experience is the best teacher. I am sorry, well no, I'm not, but I thought it would make you feel a bit better. Does it? If I say I'm sorry?" Eric didn't answer. He curled his legs towards his chest and buried his face in his knees as he cried. "Hmm, anyway. I need to be in control, and to remain in control I need to know what I'm doing. So this is how it's going to work. I will do something to you and you will truthfully tell me how it feels. Feel free to just scream if it hurts to much for you to talk, ok?"

Without waiting for a response, Harry climbed onto the bed. He grabbed both of Eric's ankles and pulled, dragging the child down the bed and straightening out his legs. Harry pushed them apart, crawling up the bed to kneel between them, and he smiled softly down at the child.

"Now, now, don't cry." Harry whispered, one hand coming out to brush the tears from Eric's cheek. Voldemort had always hated it when Harry cried during sex. He had claimed it was distracting and insulting, and Harry had to say he disagreed. Watching Eric cry made Harry's cock throb, and he used his hand, wet with Eric's tears, to palm himself through his trousers.

He muttered something under his breath, and Eric gave a scream as all of Harry's clothes vanished. The struggles started again, and Harry reached down to squeeze on the boy's throat, effectively silencing him.

Voldemort had originally taken Harry dry and unprepared, and Harry had remembered feeling as if he were being torn into two pieces, ripped apart at the seams so roughly that he would never again be able to fit back together. He had screamed and cried and begged for it to end. Voldemort had enjoyed himself, but not Harry's tears. For the first year, he had ignored it, taking Harry roughly, painfully, almost punishing the boy with every thrust of his hips and razor sharp jab of his cock. But that hadn't lasted. Eventually Voldemort had started pleasuring Harry, as well as himself, using his fingers and his tongue inside and on Harry, making the boy pant and beg for more. Harry knew every step by heart: how to prepare himself, what to use, at what point he was stretched enough, which positions were the least uncomfortable or least painful.

He had never been on the giving end before though. For his first time, he wanted to do things right.

He brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking and licking on them obscenely, knowing that Eric was watching him with wide, horrified eyes. The fingers probed at Eric's opening, and the boy gave another cry and tried to shove Harry off of him, writhing from side to side, trying to dislodge the finger that was pressed fully into his arse.

"GET OFF!" He screamed, trailing off into a gasping sob as Harry unmercifully added two more fingers. "AH!" He cried, turning his face away as his tears fell faster.

"So," Harry said to himself, "impatience is a no-go." He would have to remember to take his time with Tom. Tom's body was so much smaller than Harry's own the first time Harry was subject to this. By the time Voldemort felt it was right to prepare Harry for sex, the boy's arse was so used to it, that a quick finger-fuck wasn't any different to a slow one in terms of pain. Forcing his fingers into a child, without scissoring them first, apparently hurt the child.

Three fingers had always been enough for Harry, and Harry pulled his hand back and eyes the red-rimmed hole with curiosity. Would he even fit? He had always thought Voldemort wouldn't fit inside of him, no matter how many times he was taken Harry's heart always skipped a beat at having something so large pushing into him. Eric was smaller than Harry had been. Maybe he should use an extra finger?

He decided not to. If only to see if it would hurt that much more than the fingers had. He had to know for sure, after all, so that way he wouldn't make the same mistake with Tom. If he took Eric from behind it would be more comfortable for the child, and that was the position he intended to use for Tom, but hadn't he once promised Tom that Eric Whalley would get his? Harry smirked, the corners of his lips pulling up so high that he unintentionally bared his teeth at the trembling boy beneath him.

He laid himself down, covering Eric like a blanket. Harry released a moan; the feeling of his cock nudging lightly against the boy's arse was a most welcome feeling. He had paid for whores since arriving in the year 1930, but none of them had been male, and the prospect of them all put together had never been as arousing as the thought of taking this one boy. Harry rocked forward, slowly bouncing his cock against the child's bum, and Eric let out a terrible whimper. It was as if he were in terrible pain, broken and bleeding and he had no way of calling out for help: there was just that whimper, low and tortured as it was, and as Eric let it out again, Harry lined up his erection and pushed.

A scream wrent the air. Eric bucked beneath him, pushing with his arms, and his legs were flailing about, desperate to get Harry off of him, out of him. But his efforts were barely noticed. Harry drew back and rocked forward immediately, losing himself in the tightness and the heat that surrounded him. Something sticky ran down his balls and inner thighs, and Harry knew that he had made the boy bleed, badly most likely.

He would have to be slower with Tom, gentler. But until that time, he was free to enjoy himself over and over again with Eric.

When Harry felt it building inside of him, the pooling heat in his lower stomach and the tightening in his groin, he groped beside him on the bed. His wand in hand, he pointed it at the screaming child, thrusting in and out and in and out as Eric cried and begged and whimpered, and he cast, "Crucio!"

The boy gave another heart-wrenching scream, his back arching like a bow as he wailed. Harry grunted, loudly, but in satisfaction as Eric's seizing muscles milked every last drop of his release from his cock. He collapsed on the boy, ending the spell, and panted heavily against the child's neck. Harry smiled, listening with fondness, to the boy as he cried softly, attempting to curl into a protective ball but unable to due to Harry's weight on top of him, and that made him cry harder.

Their lips met, and Eric tried to resist, tried to keep his mouth closed, but Harry was hard again and he thrust back into Eric's body without warning. A cry left the child, his mouth opening for a moment, before Harry stole it and the sound he had made in a kiss.

"I had thought you were a useless brat," Harry admitted, pausing to release a low moan and give a particularly hard thrust of his hips, "but perhaps you are good for something after all."

( warning ends )

Eric would have to be returned to Stockwell Orphanage the following morning. He wouldn't be able to speak about what had happened, the Curse would prevent that, but Harry would need to heal some of the child's internal injuries unless he wanted to risk some sort of investigation. He had planned to tell Martha that he and Eric had fought, that Eric had run off and been knocked down by a taxi carriage. Horses could do a lot of damage to someone who run under their hooves: but none of that damage would be to Eric's anal cavity, so Harry would heal that, if only that.

This had been done with the thought of practising for Tom, to gain experience and knowledge so that he could seduce Tom, to fuck Tom, with himself firmly in charge of the proceedings. Harry would take the lead, and now he knew what to do, and how to do it. But he was enjoying himself too much to stop. They had the rest of the afternoon and the night. Eric wasn't going anywhere just yet.

Harry had planned on making it, when it happened, a better experience for Tom, better than the first time Harry had suffered through at Voldemort's hands. Voldemort might never know what was happening, but Harry was enjoying the revenge he was handing out nonetheless. One day, in the future, someone would tell Tom that what Harry had done to him was wrong, and when that day came, and Harry was proven to be a monster, he would laugh and rejoice because he knew that Tom wouldn't care. He would still love Harry, still crave Harry, and still miss Harry's presence.

Tom would be just like Harry then.

They would both be suffering the same fate, and that was the only suitable punishment for Lord Voldemort. It was just what he deserved.

"Please let me go?" Eric whispered as Harry flipped him onto his stomach.

"When I'm finished," Harry repeated before losing himself in the rhythm of his thrusts and the feeling that surrounded his length. Tom would be better, sweeter in some way. But the waiting was just as sweet.

XXX

December 31st 1936. 10 years old. 9

This was the first time that Tom would be seeing the magical side of London. The boy watched avidly as Harry tapped out the correct sequence on the brick wall behind The Leaky Cauldron.

Harry wouldn't put it off any longer, feeling that it was best to let Tom see how different and special Wizards really were before Dumbledore attempted to show the boy in a year and a half's time. Dumbledore's attempt at introducing Tom Riddle to the Wizarding World hadn't gone so well in Harry's original timeline, and now that he owned Tom, Harry felt reluctant to let Dumbledore have that much sway on the boy. Anyway, seeing things with Harry would put things into a different perspective than if Tom had seen them alone. This way, Harry could talk Tom out of any foolish ideas he may be persuaded to believe in. Harry had met someone like Draco Malfoy on his first day in Diagon Alley; who was to say the same hadn't happened to Tom?

Harry had decided to take Tom sometime that week, but it was only that morning that he had decided for definite that they would visit the Alley today. That morning had been a good one. They had woken up in bed together, Harry completely naked and Tom half dressed like always. The only difference this time being that Harry had woken up with his cock in Tom's mouth. Harry had watched Tom in silence, except for the occasional moan that he couldn't hold back, and he had kept his hands off of the boy completely, choosing instead to fist them in the pillow by his head. He had made no move to stop Tom's ministrations. In fact, Harry had rather enjoyed them. When he was finished, and Tom was coughing and wiping a trace of semen from his mouth, Harry had grabbed his chin roughly and hissed, "where did you learn to do that?"

"I- I," Tom stuttered, averting his eyes in embarrassment. "Was I not good? I tried my hardest, Harry! And I swallowed like the book told me too!"

"Book?" Harry said, his eyes narrowing in thought. He had thought, for one fleeting moment, that Tom might have done as he had and found someone to practise on, but he had immediately pushed the thought from his mind. Tom's personality wasn't like that. If it had been anyone other than Harry, Tom's idea of 'practising' a blowjob would be forcing his cock down their throats. Unfortunately, brushing aside the thought hadn't dispelled any of the irrational jealous that the thought had stirred up. The green monster was alive in Harry's chest again, and this time it wasn't focused on Ginny Weasley. "What book?"

"I snuck out to the library while you were in work last Monday. I was in the adult's section, and I was careful not to be seen, I promise. But, here, I took the book." Seeing Harry's blank expression, Tom paled and shook his head furiously. "I'm bringing it back, I swear, I am! I just didn't feel comfortable reading it in the library!" He hurried from the bedroom, and returned with a book that he had hidden only Merlin knows where in another room of Harry's flat. "Here."

And he handed Harry a copy of An Introduction to Sex Education10 and Harry took the book with a chuckle. He opened the front cover and smiled to himself. Trust Tom to find probably the only Karma Sutra of their time in the local library.

Harry had handed it back with a smirk, and then he lay back down, spreading out on the bed. "You were very good, Tom," he praised, feeling satisfied at the flush that stole over Tom's skin. "Except for the choking part at the end, but feel free to practise whenever you wish."

Tom had accepted the offer immediately.

They arrived at the Alley later than Harry had originally intended to, but that morning's activities wouldn't be regretted. That Tom had instigated, practically twice, without being asked or cajoled was brilliant for Harry. He was playing his part well, and Tom had fallen, hook, line and sinker into the behavioural trap.

When Tom had finished looking around with awe, Harry turned to the child. "So, Jason," Harry said, using the fake name they had agreed upon. Jason, of course, being the toddler in the pornographic photos that Harry had once shown Tom, and still had at home in a drawer. "Since it is your birthday, where would you like to go first?"

"A bookshop," Tom immediately stated. Harry wondered why he had bothered to even ask. From Harry's flat to The Leaky Cauldron their time was spent by Tom asking if Wizards had any sex-books about homosexuals. Muggles didn't, of course, and Tom had guiltily admitted to searching for some in the library before resigning himself to reading about sex from a women's point of view. "I would really like to find something decent to read," and as he said the word 'decent', Tom turned to Harry and smiled widely.

Harry felt his cock jump in response, his eyes focused intently on the pale lips that were spread and parted, and he imagined himself sliding his prick in between them, stretching that mouth further and wider until Tom was all around him.

"Sorry," Harry said suddenly, "I miss that."

Tom rolled his eyes, probably knowing what had Harry so distracted, and he brought one finger to his mouth to suck on lightly as he said, "I would like to find something to read that would educate me on how to fuck you."

Harry's hand came out suddenly, and for the first time he hit Tom. His fist met Tom's cheek, and the child's head snapped to one side as a soft exhalation of surprise and pain left his mouth.

"Understand one thing, Tom, if you understand nothing else in life." Harry leant down, until he was eye level with Tom. Harry's hand wrenched Tom's head to the side, making them face to face, and Tom lowered his eyes submissively. With his lips pressed right against Tom's ear, Harry hissed quietly, "I will be fucking you."

"Yes Harry," Tom said softly.

When Harry pulled away, he steadfastly ignored the crowd of Witches and Wizards and children that his behaviour had gathered, and instead reached down to thread his fingers with Tom's willing ones.

"Come on, Flourish & Blotts is over here."

Tom followed him willingly, not wanting to think about what would happen if Harry got angry enough to leave him here in this strange, magical, unfamiliar place.

"Don't leave me?" Tom breathed as Harry steered him into the bookshop.

He had already forgiven Harry for hitting him. It had been the only time, after all, and the Muggles at the Orphanage had always done worse to him when he had been younger and less able to defend himself. Harry loved him. Harry must have had a reason to punish him, why else would he have done it? There was a logical explanation for everything, Tom thought, and Harry's burst of anger was no different. The Wizard had a temper; everyone knew that. It was why Mrs. Cole was so quick to cave into his demands, why she had allowed a second term of fostering without so much as asking Harry to fill in any paperwork, and Tom could still remember what Eric Whalley had looked like over a year ago, after Tom's trip to the seaside, after Eric had spent the weekend at Harry's house. Tom knew better than to do anything bad or to lie or steal. He only borrowed things, like that library book and he always returned them; he never lied, unless he had Harry's permission, about things like using accidental magic; and he would never, ever, do anything evil or wrong or cruel that he knew Harry wouldn't approve of, because he couldn't bare the thought of Harry not loving him anymore.

"Please don't leave me?" Tom repeated as Harry maintained his silence.

Harry handed him a book, entitled "The Joys of Homosexual Intercourse", and offered him a soft smile, though he didn't apologize. "I won't leave you if you're good." Harry promised.

"I knew you were going to be in charge. When, you know, we have, you know," Tom stuttered with a blush on his cheeks. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. The book said it was making love 'to each other', regardless of who was on top, right?" Tom looked so confused, his eyebrows lowered and his forehead furrowed, and he looked at Harry with wide and innocent eyes, despite the things he had seen and done, and Harry felt a warm smile replacing the forced one he had been wearing.

"Of course, when it is making love." He agreed diplomatically. He should probably use this conversation to differentiate between 'making love' and 'dominating' someone. They were two different experiences, two different ways to have sex, and Harry would soon be subjecting Tom to both types, and more. "But when we fuck," he bit his bottom lip as he said it, making the word sound more like 'fuh-uck', than 'fuck', and Tom let out a soft moan at the sound, "I will be in charge."

"Of course, Harry," Tom acquiesced. He reached out his hand, the one not holding the book, and Harry laced their fingers together before bringing them up for a kiss. Tom tilted his chin up immediately after Harry had lowered their joined hands, and without evening checking if someone was watching, Harry leant down and stole Tom's mouth in a kiss.

"You are mine." The words were low and possessive, and Tom shivered at the tone.

"Yes, sir," he agreed, his hands and shoulders shaking. "All yours."

Harry kissed him again, pulling Tom tight against his chest, and forcing his tongue into the ten-year-old's mouth. Tom's tongue lay dormant, occasionally flicking upwards to taste the underside of Harry's tongue as it explored Tom's mouth, but never once did Tom offer resistance. He submitted himself wholly to Harry's touch and kiss and possession.

He was Harry's now.

And he knew it.

XXX

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1 – Voldemort purchased his diary on Vauxhall Road in London, and the closest orphanage to that location in the 1920s was the Stockwell Orphanage. However Stockwell was a 'boys only' orphanage and school, and we all know Tom's orphanage accepted girls, so this obviously isn't the same one! But I'm using it anyway, since it's on the HP Lexicon. Also. Stockwell only allowed boys to stay until they were 14, but Tom lived there until he was 17! But, as Headmaster Dippet would say, "special arrangements might have been made". Let's roll with that theory!

2 – Reinforcers are something that would increase or decrease (depending on whether it's positive or negative) the future frequency of certain behaviour depending on how one responds. Natural reinforcers are things like food or water, clothing, sex, etc. Normal things that one would be entitled to, but one may persuade someone to do what you wanted in exchange for a reinforcer.

3 – "The Catcher in the Rye", by J.D. Sallinger. Was this even written in 1930? I don't think so… But then again, it was meaningful.

4 – George K. Simon, author and researcher of behavioural manipulation.

5 – B.F. Skinner, researcher of behaviourism and reinforcement.

6 – Showing children pornographic images of other children is a part of 'grooming'. It normalizes the behaviour, encourages the child to believe that what is wanted of them isn't wrong, and as such they are less likely to tell their parents the same way you wouldn't tell your parents you 'played a game' in school. It's normal behaviour in their mind, there's no need to tell unless asked. The younger the child is, the less they question the adult. Children who are greedy, or narcissistic, or even masochistic in that they lack self-respect due to their upbringing, are class victims of psychopathic manipulation. Children like Tom.

7 – According to Martin Kantor, author on the subject of psychopathology, people are vulnerable to psychopathic manipulation if they are too greedy; too narcissistic; too masochistic; suffer from "emotophobia", which is the fear of negative emotion; suffer from "the disease to please"; or, over intellectualise things, meaning they think too hard on why their abuser does something to them, and convince themselves that there must be a legitimate reason they are being harmed, usually leads to Stockholm syndrome or believing that their abuser 'loves' them.

8 – Both Voldemort and James Potter were descended from the Peverrell brothers. I'm assuming that all three of them must have descended from Salazar Slytherin at one point, before they branched off into the separate families of Gaunt, Potter and whoever the last one was (whoever gave the Elder wand to Gregorovich). I believe Harry's always had the ability to speak Parseltongue, like a recessive gene, but when the Horcrux became a part of him it woke up that gene, and made it dominant – like Voldemort's.

9 – Tom Riddle has one of those horrible winter birthdays. Like Hermione, who didn't start Hogwarts till she was 12, because her birthday was AFTER the owl-the-letters-out-date. Tom will be 11 on Dec 31st 1927. He'll get his letter, but he won't attend classes until September 1st 1938, in December of which year he will turn 12.

10 – This is a real book. "An Introduction to Sex", by Winifred V. Richmond, published in New York in 1934. I don't know if they would have had them in British libraries, but imagine that Tom 'summoned' it there with accidental magic if that helps you sleep at night.

* * *

Thank you to everyone who read, and who WILL review! :P

While this was fun to write, I must admit that even I am deeply disturbed. If anyone has been affected by the contents of this story, Psychologist!Harry is available 9-5 Monday to Thursdays for counselling sessions. He charges 1 review for women and men, and sex from anyone who looks like Voldemort!