a/n double posted today. make sure you didn't skip the last chapter. i was just really excited to write this one.

If anything, Harry devolved into a hermit. If the Tournament was the thing that ruined his friendship with Ron and his place in his House, he was going to stomp it into the ground with his sheer fury.

The Wand Weighing ceremony and everything – Rita bloody Skeeter – only served to make him more furious and determined. He stopped going to meals, opting instead to sneak into the kitchens (which Malfoy helped him find, thanks), where the house elves were pleased enough to see him, and where Hermione would often turn up to talk. She was probably the only one who'd stuck to his side, aside from the occasional extra person he'd met like that Luna Lovegood. He also kept sending letters back and forth to Lupin, and consequently, Sirius.

He was in one of the classrooms, summoning chairs and tables to him and dodging as they whizzed past, when the door opened. In a whirl of movement, he spun around and sent a Stinging hex at the intruder, hand outstretched to unravel the hex if it was somebody he shouldn't be firing at– but it was Hermione, and she and Malfoy were practising their Shields–

His bright spell shattered against a golden wall that suddenly stretched around Hermione. Harry stared. Her wand wasn't even drawn, and she hadn't uttered a word. "What–"

"We were trying to see if we could cast things over the bond," Hermione explained, a smile growing. "And I think it worked fairly well. Don't you?" She spent a lot of her time practising with Malfoy, now, because their two houses were both hovering in ambivalence, where students didn't know if they felt like they wanted to support her or laugh at her. Or be suspicious of her, because she must've had some trait that the 'Slytherin snake' connected with.

"That– That's actually really impressive," he replied.

"Most pairs can't manage it," she said, "actually– it's banned from the Tournament, so you're not put back. And it's more difficult over distance, too – so even if they tried, they probably couldn't."

Harry was pacing the room and still muttering spells under his breath, watching his bag rotate and spin before zipping around the room.

"You're stressed," Hermione said.

"Because I might mess up my spells when I actually need them, and I don't know what's going to be in the First Task," Harry replied, letting the bag fall. "It could be anything. Enchanted furniture, duels, whatever. So far I think the Summoning and Shielding charms are the most useful, because I can like, summon my opponent's shoes or something. Or Summon something from inside the castle. You said that was allowed in the Tournament, right?"

Hermione nodded. "Contestants used to purposefully cast enchantments on some of the windows so they wouldn't break, but I don't think anyone's thought of doing that this time. But honestly, Harry, you'll be fine – and – well, do think of making things up with Ron, won't you?"

Harry's lips thinned at the mention of his former friend. "He'll need to realise that my life isn't fun on his own."

"Harry–"

"I nearly died in my second and first year." Harry said. His hand drifted down to a huge circular scar right beneath his ribs. "I broke so many bones last year and kept fainting whenever Dementors came near. If Ron can't tell that my life is more dangerous than glorious through all of that, then I don't think my words are going to work any better. Besides–" he winced, because his way with words was pretty shit. "I– my temper. Isn't the best," he said lamely.

Hermione frowned, but she seemed resigned. "If you think it'll work," she said, "you boys can't stay angry at each other forever, anyway. There's a reason why you became friends in the first place." And then she closed the door and left Harry to his Shielding and Summoning.

–––

Uncannily enough, Hermione's words were true. Occasionally, even though they had both moved seats to opposite ends of the room in all their shared classes, they'd snort in tandem and then look away in embarrassment as if they hadn't agreed with each other.

But more importantly, the date of the First Task was drawing closer and closer and Harry still felt woefully unprepared, stumbling in most of his classes and cancelling Legilimency lessons with Draco and sneaking around the castle under the Cloak until Moody caught him and led him to dragons.

He'd told Cedric and panicked until here he was now, standing in a open with the crowd in his ears.

A Summoning charm later, Harry was weaving through the jaws of a Hungarian Horntail and trying to cast a Shield to keep the flames at bay– and it was too many things at once, trying to get his wand to obey, to clutch onto the Firebolt to weave and duck and dodge, to keep his eyes on that great horned head that spewed flames–

And the tail came out of nowhere to sunk into him and open his side red.

The egg, the egg, the bloody egg!

Later, Harry would have no idea how he got out alive, but ragged and bleeding dry, he'd done it.

Maybe the Triwizard Tournament wouldn't kill him after all.

–––

Harry had lied. The Triwizard Tournament would kill him – him, stepping all over the toes of Parvati as he tried to dance. Politely, she found another partner after their compulsory turn was over and so he spent the entire night moping over Tom.

For the Second Task, they took Hermione, and Malfoy helpfully nicked Gillyweed from Snape's stores. Harry highly suspected that the Slytherin had been caught in the act, because Malfoy was untalented in the art of stealing, but if he had been, he didn't say. At least Snape wouldn't be angry.

Ron kept trying to approach Harry, too, with apologies. And Harry told him, "Prove to me that you've got something you're proud of before we start breaking rules together again," so you won't get jealous, went unsaid.

Harry may or may not have also had an incident one night by the Forbidden forest, involving a stunned Bulgarian Seeker, a disappearing Crouch, and far too many yet unknown secrets.

–––

"Come on." Malfoy jutted his chin upwards. "You have to want to do it."

The two of them stood in the classroom, facing off. "I don't want to see you and Hermione snogging," Harry protested, and Malfoy's composure slipped for a moment when he snorted a laugh.

"Your enemies will have done worse than snog," Malfoy said. "You have to want to see that, in detail," he added with a leer.

"Merlin," Harry muttered under his breath, but he raised his wand again and steeled himself. "Legilimens!"

The outside world was swallowed away as Harry's consciousness rushed forwards towards the other boy, pausing right before his Occlumency shield, smoothing over to prod at the barrier. It stood unwavering and solid. He doubted Malfoy would have any weak points, but it was still best to give it a try before brute forcing his way–

A hand yanked him out of his concentration, throwing him back with a gasp. He caught sight of Malfoy's shocked face and then–

"Potter," Snape said, his face curled in an ugly sneer, "do you think yourself so above the rules that you can break into other's minds? I don't think you know what it feels like yet." Then he shoved Harry back, and said, coldly, succinctly, even though he probably didn't require it, "Legilimens."

If he thought he had any substantial Occlumency shields before, they were stripped away like flayed skin. Snape tore apart his mind as easily as snapping flimsy sticks. Harry's memories flashed before his eyes – Mr Crouch raving and ranting; Winky hiccuping about her master; Hermione's face surrounded by ghost-like swirls of hair; Hagrid showing him the dragons in the dead of the night; Neville standing there, shaking; Mad-Eye Moody casting the Avada Kedavra in a blinding flash of green; Ron yelling at him with his face contorted in anger; Pettigrew leaping out the tower's window; Tom sitting there quietly, saying "I didn't know you were my soulmate"–

He was on his hands and knees, shaking, staring at the floor and unsure when he had gotten there. His mind felt tender, like an open wound, and he wasn't sure he could stand at all.

"Stop!" he dimly heard Malfoy saying, "Professor– no, it was my idea– I was supposed to be teaching him–"

"Fool boy!" Snape snarled, and Harry felt a distant ringing shock because he'd never heard Snape so angry at Malfoy. "Were you so confident with your shields that you thought he'd never break through them and break you? Legilimens!"

There was a thud from the other side of the room, and when Harry finally found the strength to look up, Snape had already released Malfoy and was standing there, face looking whiter than usual. "Did you think your flimsy locked door would keep Karkaroff or, heaven forbid, Rita out?"

Harry was still too befuddled to make words, and thought vaguely that if Rita Skeeter had barged in on them performing illegal magic, Malfoy would've gone on serious damage control and Obliviated her or something. Merlin, next time they should get Hermione to sit in on watch.

Snape didn't seemed impressed at his lack of coherence, and strode over to Harry to cast something across his head that felt like cold ice. It seemed to trickle into his bones and coalesce there like steel rods. "Stay out of sight next time."

He slammed the door shut as he left and locked it with such complex enchantments that both Harry and Draco missed dinner and sat there in distress until Hermione came to break them out.

"That makes no sense," Hermione said, later, "was Snape just looking for something to say? Rita's long been banned from the school grounds."

–––

There had to be some sort of reason why he was where he was now. Panting, blood dried on his face, robes singed, but most of all – standing there before the Cup with no one else in sight. It, he thought, had been a little too easy. Maybe a Blast-Ended Skrewt of two, but nothing a few well-placed, well-practised jinxes and hexes couldn't handle.

Wasn't the Tournament aimed towards students older than him? Hadn't some of them died? Surely, if it were this easy– perhaps not easy – but, if it hadn't challenged him that much, then none of those best students from the three schools could've failed.

It was with this nagging suspicion that he grabbed the handle of the Cup–

–and was jerked off his feet, his insides wrung in painful knots and his head a dizzying blur.

The ground came as a shock and his feet flew out from under him, eyes suddenly filled with darkness and his mouth filled with dust. He was on the ground, the air turned from fresh breeze to musty mold, disuse. Why–? Was this a part of the tournament? Sharp stones dug into his hands as he drew himself up, and he squinted in the dark.

A rectangular stone came into view, then another, rounded at the top, and another rectangle, and they stretched in rows and row–

It came to him suddenly. This sad abandoned place, a graveyard. There was no way this could be a part of the Tournament, then. They wouldn't disrespect the dead like this.

The hit came from nowhere, and suddenly Harry was sprawling across the biting floor again, his glasses cracking with a snap, a thick hand wrenching his wand away and grabbing him by his short hair. It bent his head back until he looked up into the face of Peter Pettigrew.

"Look who we have here," Pettigrew smiled. Immediately Harry thrashed in response, kicking and struggling with his mind only on escape. He couldn't be here. Something had gone wrong. How had they managed to change the Cup to a portkey? Now Pettigrew had him in an iron grip and could do anything because Harry was so helpless, so useless without his wand. Hadn't he managed accidental magic so many times? Hadn't he shattered cups and even teleported? Why wouldn't he do any of it now? Why? Why was Pettigrew free to drag him across the dirt and stones?

"Peter," Harry gritted, "you're making a mistake."

Pettigrew said nothing, just pinned him down and tied his hands, his feet, and hauled him to a gravestone where a cauldron was bubbling underneath. Harry's scar flared to life, and with his hands crushed behind him, between his back and the stone, he could feel his the back of his hands start to burn. The feeling he'd only felt once before: when he'd gone to stop Quirrell. If he focused on it, he could almost forget the pulsing in his head, the trembling chant that Pettigrew had started up.

Oh, Merlin, was Harry going to be sacrificed? Was he going to die?

"Darling," he felt the word etch out, slowly, as if there were a quill drawn across his skin that left sparks in its wake.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son." The cauldron hissed in an echoed whisper of its servant's words.

"Tonight we end this,"

"Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master."

Pettigrew screamed. And Harry kept his eyes open at the burst of blood, bleached bone.

"my Occlumency and I." His head hurt so much, and he clung onto consciousness by that tracing flame.

Pettigrew approached him, hands shaking, and put the knife to Harry's throat. "Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken," he said, sounding an instant away from breaking, and drew the thinnest line for Harry's blood to bead, "you will resurrect your foe." It collected in a small, glass jar that seemed to catch the light like a candle in Harry's fogged mind.

"Say goodbye." Tom wrote.

Tom didn't want him, and Harry was suddenly sure that he was going to die. All alone, his friends far away and his family dead, his one love filled with loathing. Harry was going to die here, when Tom was celebrating his freedom, when Harry would never know if his feelings had ever filtered through, his pain, his sadness– when Harry would never know if his feelings had filtered through and Tom had felt them and hadn't cared at all.

Could he feel it now? This thunderstorm raging a colossal white, this blinding pain, this misery swirling like a hurricane.

There was smoke rising from the caudron, Pettigrew was whimpering, and the pain in his head was a blinding whiteness that grew and grew and shrunk his world smaller and smaller until all he could hear was the roar of pain and the crashing of his thoughts.

He'd never realised what Tom's connection, although broken, had felt like. It'd just always been there, and you couldn't miss something until–

–it was gone.

A monitor cut off. Those thin golden lines snapped. His body torn apart with only a whirlpool left behind, drawing the scraps of him closer and closer, closer to the precipice before it struck and hauled him down into insanity.

Tom was gone.

He'd never felt so empty.

Tom, Tom–

please, I need you, where are you? Tom– please don't hate me.

Was he crying? He wasn't, he wasn't. He couldn't feel anything but the emptiness. Tom was gone and his absence drowned out everything else. (Was it what it felt like in all those years Tom had been waiting?)

Didn't know you hated me this much–

Need you, need you, please come back–

He wasn't crying, wasn't, wasn't.

Please please pleasepleasepleaseplease–

But Tom couldn't hear him, because the bond was gone.

His head shattered like glass, and was he screaming? He wasn't, he wasn't; it was the thunder in his head making all that noise; it was the lightning that blinded the world for an eternity and it was the lightning that made him wonder if it'd all ended, if he'd lost his body because it had thrown its head back and was making these noises that couldn't possibly be coming from him.

The thunder had left him shaking, and the tremor ran through him all over. It'd left him deaf and seeing ghosts, lost in the kicked up dust storm, but it would pass, it would, and he just needed to wait for the sun to emerge–

"Robe me," a voice said, but Harry wasn't listening, because the thunderstorm was still overhead and his mind was still clouded. He could hardly open his eyes – hardly knew the difference between eyes open and eyes closed.

"Ah, our guest," the voice said through the haze, his other words lost, "Harry Potter. But your little trick doesn't work anymore, does it?"

A hand reached out to him and he instinctively shied away, still lost in his nightmare world. It paused, as if amused – and then stretched a single finger to brush his cheek.

Spark.

Not a bright, brilliant, dynamite shower of sparks, but a pitiful thing that hardly made any light at all. But it was a spark. A moment where the clouds cleared and then Harry realised–

–the sunlight had never been so bright, had it?–

–and how could he be feeling so full yet empty, feeling like he was riding the wings of a dragon when he was also slogging through the mud, his blood leaving tracks behind him…

Was that Tom? The emptiness in him bloomed. Filled.

Hadn't Tom been gone? Didn't Tom say goodbye? Wasn't Tom cutting them off–? Wouldn't Tom be so angry when he realised that whatever he'd tried hadn't worked?

Harry felt the instant Tom realised Harry was still there. It burst over the bond in a spray of angerdisgusthelplessnesshurt and Harry shrunk away. Tom felt like an echo – was it still broken? Was it–? but then the anger flared again and Harry hid away from his thoughts.

In front of him, in the real world, Voldemort had paused, his red eyes seeming to look but not see.

Oh. Was Harry going to die now? It was so much easier to think he was going to live knowing that Tom was still there and that Harry still had a chance.

Then–

Then the world stopped.

Then he caught sight of Lord Voldemort's hand and suddenly the thunderstorm was nothing. The graveyard was nothing. The tournament, the spells, the school and the train and the owl and the godfathers and everything was nothing. It wasn't like the pain, which had drawn him in and trapped him close and swallowed his world. This was rushing outwards, until it couldn't be his body, it couldn't be his fate, it couldn't be his life.

That couldn't be his writing, the scrawl that scratched, "No."

In his head he could feel Tom's– Voldemort's distant echo of curiosity because Harry's shock must've come as a heart-stopping wave.

That couldn't be. That couldn't be.

In an eerie mirror of his own hand, an eerie parody, he watched the familiar "No" appear and reappear and stain that bony white skin with black. He couldn't tear his eyes away. All this time, it had been this man. This killer. This madman. A sudden movement, and Voldemort had withdrawn, eyes narrowed, and Harry could feel a distant distaste flowing through the bond.

The Dark Lord spun away, and when he gestured for Wormtail to come to him, Harry saw that he had Conjured a pair of black gloves, woven from the sky with trimmings of stars that seemed to shift and stir.

Harry still couldn't seem to breathe. This man had murdered his parents and stolen his life. This man had killed and ordered killed all good women and men, children and infants. This man was a cold killer who cared for nothing, who hated soulmates and didn't that just all make sense?

This man was also his Tom and Harry thought his heart was going to break in his chest.

Voldemort's irritation throbbed in his head because Harry's distress must've been too loud. It seemed to say be quiet.

"My Death Eaters," Voldemort called when cloaked men began to appear around the edges of the graveyard, "how wonderful to see you again after your years of cowardice."

"My Lord!" one of the cried, throwing themselves at his feet. Harry could feel Voldemort's indifference, his disgust. What a cruel man. How could he possibly be tied to Harry? How could Harry have ever pitied and wanted to find and longed for this man?

(But what about the boy in the Chamber that Harry had fallen in- seen?)

He didn't want to believe this was happening. Maybe Voldemort should kill him after all. Wouldn't that all just be perfectly fitting?

Crack! Another cloaked figure Apparated in, and Voldemort paused, his red eyes seeming to spark. Crack! Harry could hear them appearing behind him. Crack! Crack! Crack!

The ropes fell around him and he still didn't want to believe this was happening. He fell to the ground, landing on his knees, the world shifting.

Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

There were people Apparating in. He could see members of the Ministry, were those Aurors? And was that Ron holding Rita Skeeter by her hair while Lupin Apparated them in?

Voldemort slowly turned to survey the force that had surrounded him and his Death Eaters. Harry could see the black-robed men in their white masks shifting from foot to foot. There were too many of the Ministry for Voldemort's force to fight, but the man's bloodless lips curled into a smile.

"Karkaroff, was it?" he asked, his words ringing in the silence. No one answered. The Aurors just held their chins up higher and readjusted their holds on their wands. "In that case, I might have to postpone my meeting for a little while." His smile grew wider.

There was a terrible tearing noise as his wand slashed upwards and suddenly the people around Harry were firing off spells but the burst of colours slowed midair and shrunk until they were snuffed into nothing. Then Harry saw that this pink-haired woman's foot was caught mid-air and the man beside her, halfway through a step, was also frozen in his pose.

"Ah," Voldemort said, satisfaction thrumming in Harry's head, "I'm sure you all think this should be the extent of my power, but as it so happens, I have another source to draw from."

His wand cut the air again at the same instant Harry felt like the life was syphoned out from his chest. If he hadn't been frozen in place, he would've crumpled. A glimmering silver trail was left after the wand, and it hovered there, stretching outwards until it split and it was a cut in the world. Harry could see the other side, a crackling fire and dark wood– was that the conference room in Malfoy Manor?

For a moment his world went dark – like a line going dead – when his energy surged out from him in another wave and he flickered in and out of consciousness. The cut, though, the cut in the world– it burst white wings on each side and an elegant, white wispy head uncurled like a Patronus in the familiar arch of a phoenix.

Voldemort's laugh was high and cold. "In being reborn, it seems that the world decided I required another soulmate." He spat the word. "And what are soulmates to be for, but used? Although– this one– impeccable taste, hm?"

He was lying. He must have been lying. He needed to save face to maintain that anti-soulmate campaign he'd started and that lie he'd told about his soulmate being dead. He knew it'd always been Harry, had only ever been Harry, and please let him still be lying about–

Had it always been so dark? Harry couldn't think anymore. He was clinging to a cliff.

With a wave of his hand, the Death Eaters started towards the cut in the world too slowly, stepping through the doorway while Harry and Aurors could only stand there and watch. Or in Harry's case, kneel there while the dark, unconscious periods grew longer and wonder if anyone had noticed the constant glaze in his eyes. Voldemort seemed to sense his soulmate's drain, because he sent sharp glares to any Death Eaters who straggled, and as the last one stepped through, he released it instantly and watched the doorway dissipate like mist.

He didn't even spare a glance for Harry.

Then he turned on the spot and disappeared in a crack! and suddenly everyone in the graveyard was talking in a scattergun burst of noise and moving to catch Harry when the darkness came, and he hit the ground, hard.

–––

Someone was carrying him.

Mumble, mumble, voices, the feeling of Tom at the back of his mind, sway of hurried steps, and was that Mad-Eye Moody?

"Voldemort's back," Harry slurred through the haze, "he's back, and the whole Ministry saw him."

"That wasn't the Ministry, boy." It was definitely Moody, with that low gravelly growl. "That was the Order of the Phoenix."

The… Order of the Phoenix? "Wuzzat," Harry managed.

Moody muttered something but Harry couldn't quite catch his words. He felt boneless and limp, like he was waking from a terrible fever. There was a click of a door and they emerged into Moody's office.

Somewhere in his head, alarm bells were going off. "Pomfrey?"

"Sorry, kid." Moody said, and suddenly everything spun because Harry was thrown across the room and there was a wand pointed at him. "I can't believe the my Lord failed to kill you, you brat. Do you know how hard it was to get you through the tournament?"

Harry didn't understand. His life had been torn up by the roots all to much today, and he was winded from thudding into the wall. "M-Moody? You're an Auror." Where was his damn wand? He needed clarity back, but his arms felt like lead and he realised that even if he found his wand, he would be too exhausted to cast anything.

"Alastor is, but I'm not Moody now, am I?" the not-Moody grinned, taking a step closer, and then he yelled "Avada Kedavra!"

Harry rolled to the side, abandoning his scrabble for his wand as the green spell crashed into the wall. His head filled with a panic that wasn't his, a huge, cresting, swell, demanding to be let in.

Moody's grin grew frenzied as he let loose another Killing Curse. Harry saw the green flash, heard the rush, too late, and there was nothing he could do. Just retreated into his head and let Voldemort's panic in, let it be the last thing he ever felt.

A bubble materialised around him and the Avada Kedavra hit the side and shattered. Harry felt a resonation of pain through the bond.

Not-Moody froze.

"So that's how it is, eh?" Not-Moody said, voice dropping to a growl, "Love. Let's see how much your soulmate 'loves' you."

Then came another Killing Curse, which also broke against the shield, and the bubble had levitated Harry up and he couldn't bloody move.

"Your soulmate's strong, Potter, I'll give you that. But she can't be strong enough."

And another Killing Curse, and another, and another, and each time it broke on the surface of the bubble, and each time Harry felt a ringing pain through the bond. He– He hated Voldemort, hated him with such ingrained loathing, but he didn't hate his Tom. He couldn't hurt that boy that he'd once known.

Harry felt for that panic, that pain in his head, and pushed Voldemort away. He could die on his own without hurting– hurting anyone else. Even if it was Voldemort. With his mental shove, the bubble around him shimmered and disappeared, and Not-Moody's smile widened.

"Did she die, now?" he asked, and Harry tensed to dodge if another Killing Curse came. "My Lord praises that emptiness, you know… If you're strong, you can stand it.

My sweetheart lies at the bottom of the ocean," he said, and then he smiled, and Harry had never realised just how twisted this man really was. "And so will you."

Then the door flew open and Dumbledore was there, announced that Severus had placed a Tracking Charm on Harry long ago, and the rest was history.

–––

"You," Harry said, his voice catching in his throat. Crouch was lying unconscious in the corner of the room, and Dumbledore had opened the chest containing the real Moody. Harry tried again, but it came out more as a screech. This long– "Yeeeuuu–"

Dumbledore looked up as if finally aware Harry was trying to say something.

Harry really didn't want to shout, but it exploded from him anyway. "You knew!" he yelled. "You– You knew it all this time, and you– you–" his breaths were coming too fast, and he could feel Voldemort in the back of his head and he just could not linger on that now. "Is this why you told me to care for him? To love him?" The world was sinking around him.

"Harry," Dumbledore said reprovingly, with a frown.

"Do you think blind love is enough to blind what he's DONE?! WHAT HE'S DONE TO ME?!" He shouted as if he could rid himself of this– this cruel play on fate, his throat raw from his scream.

"Harry," Dumbledore said again, "if you had known, would you have ever even considered loving him?"

"You know the answer to that," Harry spat, still coming down from his white-hot rage. "You don't need to put words in my mouth."

"But it makes it no less untrue. I've given you the chance to love him, unbiased, before–"

"What the fuck do you really want?!" Harry snapped, "God, what bloody game are you playing now? What do you want from this?"

"To bring two souls scattered throughout time together," his headmaster answered simply. "As they should be."

"Not to defeat Voldemort? Not to just defeat the Dark?" Harry sneered. "Not for more of your cursed plans?"

"No." Dumbledore replied, ever mild. "Harry, you and I were the ones who created Voldemort." Harry's eyes widened. Dumbledore might as well have hit him. "If my goal was to defeat him, I would've done so long ago."

"You made him," Harry echoed bitterly. "You– What did you do to him? Put him through as many obscure trials as you could, didn't you? You probably used and played him like a toy. No wonder he hates you."

Dumbledore seemed unfazed. "Rather, I saved his life and gave him a second chance to continue waiting for you. The one who drove him mad was you, not I. I merely kept him alive."

Harry paused, and he was– so filled with loathing and betrayal. He didn't want Dumbledore's idiotic logic, and he especially didn't want Dumbledore telling him that Harry shouldn't be angry because this was his fault. That he was supposed to control, somehow, when he was born.

"Yeah, it's all my fault, isn't it?" he said, acid on his tongue.

"It is not your fault." Dumbledore replied. "But you are the cause–"

"You're a cruel man." Harry snarled. "How many other people have you used to misery? You set me up to kill Quirrell. You kept Tom living fifty years in loathing. You let people think you're doing them a kindness, when actually– just look at Hagrid. Or Filch! Hagrid's life is filled with students tormenting and laughing–"

"I have all faith that he will pull through." Dumbledore said, slightly sadly. "As will you and Tom, otherwise I would've had to have killed two of this world's greatest wizards."

Harry glared and then ploughed on. "Okay, then, how about Filch? He's here, a Squib, stuck with all these kids having what he'll never have–"

"Argus Filch… his wife's maiden name was Norris," and all words from Harry fell flat as the implications dawned. "You know that soulmates can continue living when the other dies if they have a child. Argus did not, but they did raise a cat together. He's named each of them, since, after her. In any other place, Harry, Argus would be in St Mungo's. Here he forgets, in his glee."

And then Harry just had no words, until finally it all came crashing down, his rage and anger and everything fell like a crumbling tower. His soulmate was Lord Voldemort, and that was that. The murderer of his parents, and wasn't that just ironic? It was Voldemort's fault that he had killed Lily and James Potter, but it was Harry's fault that Voldemort was as he was.

Harry just let go of the anger in one, long, sigh, and slumped by one the walls to cast his eyes upwards in defeat. Maybe he'd find a way. Maybe he'd find a way to reach into that loathing and hatred and and pull that drowned boy Tom out from underneath.

Distantly, he became aware of Voldemort's bubbling anger. He knew why Voldemort was angry. Because he'd instinctively, against all of his loathing, been pulled to save Harry, to take the Avada Kedavra several times for him. Through all of these years when Voldemort had grown himself 'strong' and independent, without a soulmate, suddenly he was pulled in just like every other.

And of course his Occlumency hadn't worked, because he'd taken Harry's blood and tied them even closer together.

It was all clear to him, now.

He looked down at his hands, as if suddenly remembering them, and they were – to his relief – still sparse. Voldemort's soul was still split, so it wouldn't have been completely mended. That was good. Harry didn't want Voldemort knowing who he was, not yet.

But with Voldemort's excellent Legilimency, apparently he could still write on Harry's hands. Harry sat there, Dumbledore pulling Alastor Moody out of the trunk, staring at the newest writing.

"Do not do that again."

Harry could almost laugh.

"I am a king," Voldemort wrote slowly, carefully, "and will not have you pull me down."

Voldemort really had never realised how insane and stunted he'd become – how he'd lost Tom the more he became Voldemort. Of course Harry didn't intentionally get hit by the Avada Kedavra. Voldemort was insane.

Harry scrunched up his eyes and tried to write back. "But," he wrote, and it took so tediously long, but he knew the Dark Lord was waiting, because he could feel the expectancy on the other side,

"even a king is bound to the board."

a/n i spelt squib as squid and it just became my highlight of the day

wow im lame

also i hope you know why this story is named what it is, now. if you need an even bigger clue, the doc i've got for this story is saved as: "you got given a second chance and so you became a megalomaniac?" (what tom did with his 'first chance' was implied somewhere in one of the chapters. you probably all know though, lol)