Chapter 11

The Ghost of Tom Riddle

June 1945

He had settled over a mound of feather pillows, his arms extended, spread-out across the bed. His head lolled into the soft stuffing to find more comfort. The bountiful lengths of his legs were bent at the knee, broadened by agile fingers slipping Tom's pants down past his hips. He rolled his hips up, drawn forward under the delicate pad of Harry's hand.

"Yeah, just like that."

Fumbling hands, awkward jerking motions, and bashful glances faded over time.

"Do you like that?"

Harry stroked the underneath of Tom's penis up and down with the feather-light tips of his fingers. He clasped it, eager to feel the jumps of greediness throb against his bare skin.

Tom's breath grew shallow and hot. "Yeah, that's really good."

"Tell me…" Harry said puckishly, giving the rounded swell of the head a soft flick with the pad of his thumb. He twirled an index finger around in the lovely thatch of inky hair nesting Tom's cock. "Why do you deserve this again? You've been such a bastard all week." The slight twinge of resentment in his tone did not go unnoticed.

Tom's tongue played along his bottom lip, wetting the chapped skin. "Because you love me," he replied.

Harry's lips hovered over the engorged phallus gripped tightly in his hand. He gave it a nimble lick and a soft, breathy blow. The head grazed along his cheek, his lips, his tongue, and blunts of his teeth. Harry drew back, watching him dubiously. He planted a hand on his brother's inner thigh, feeling the flesh mould under his massaging palm. "Oh, do I?"

"Mhmm," Tom hummed fervently, screwing his eyes shut. Goose bumps rose rigid on his thighs. They slid apart further, each knee nearly touching the mattress. "You love me so much."

"Yeah, I do." A tongue trailed warm saliva around the exposed, swollen corona while a thumb gently pulled back the susceptible foreskin. Candy-green eyes swathed in charcoal lashes fluttered innocently. Harry pursed his lips in a smirk, stalling further action. "Any other reason?"

"Bastard." Curling his fingers around the top of the bedstead, Tom canted his hips. "Because it makes me really happy, and you're so good at it. And I already did you, so you owe me," he grunted, desperate for more contact.

"Yeah, you did. I can still feel it." A swirl of taut tongue circled the torrid glans. Saliva and pre-come glistened on Harry's lips. "I really love your cock, Tom," he whispered, looking upon it with thirst. He kissed the head, suctioning his mouth over the slit. "I like hearing you beg."

Break him down, build him back up. Possess him. Teach him who is boss…

You've got to be fucking kidding me…

Tom had sought an amount power, needed some sense of control, and he had honestly tried it on Harry once or twice, but every occurrence would make his stomach cramp, his heart clench, and his world grow dim. Not to mention it nearly broke Harry's guarded bond of trust with him. It was a near fatal mistake, something he refused to attempt ever again.

He was pathetic. He was a failure, a miserable letdown when it came down to following Draco's insistent speech. Harry had him by the balls in every sense of the word. Nothing was going to change that. Lord Voldemort would not be pleased.

"We really should get on with it, I need to study," he whimpered through several unsuccessful bucks, but Harry was stone. "My N.E.W.T's and your O.W.L's are coming up, you know."

Turning his nose to the air, the pretty boy clicked his tongue and released his grip. "So study for your stupid exams. I'm not stopping you."

"No, wait—" Shock. Panic. Tom was butter. Nothing in the world felt as right as it did to melt under Harry's spectacular will. "Please, please, I need this, c'mon."

"Sorry, didn't catch that," Harry said, holding a hand to his ear. "Maybe if you begged a little louder…" He nibbled on his bottom lip while surreptitiously peeping on Tom from under his lashes.

Tom huffed. "Oh, shut up, idiot." The dip of his spine bowed, toes dug into the mattress. Fingernails clawed into the wooden carvings on the headboard. "Whatever, what do you want me to say?"

"Nothing," Harry sulked. "Nothing at all."

"Oh," Tom pouted. His cock smacked against his stomach with each frustrated jut. He sucked in his lower lip, biting it painfully hard while giving Harry the sweetest doe-eyed look he could muster.

Harry rubbed his hands together briskly to warm them back up. "Okay, okay," he conceded, unable to withstand the tug on his heartstrings. "You look so pathetic."

Tom settled back into the mattress, feeling the firm, spine tingling pressure returned with a kiss on the head of his cock. "Fuck, I love you."

Harry inhaled deeply. That heady musk and soapy residue was like an addictive drug. "I love the way you smell." He nuzzled his cheek into the soft dark curls while his tongue darted out over his lip to lap along the base of the shaft. He ran it up along the length between the tips of his fingers. The raw silk skin and throbbing veins were distended to the limit. Hot, sticky liquid leaking from the slit was swept up and consumed. Harry mewed. "I love the way you taste."

It hadn't even begun; Harry had barely put his mouth on his cock when Tom felt the river of euphoria begin to crack the dam of control and trickle into his pelvis. His breath came out in raspy, short puffs. His muscles tensed. Irises rolled back into his head, lips parted in a heavy moan.

Harry perked upward while his hand worked furiously over the shaft. He wanted to watch Tom come. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and his mouth opened in naïve awe. Tom's expression grew pained, he moaned in surrender, and a hot splatter of ejaculate coated his chest and oozed over Harry's fingers. He was so beautiful like this, so utterly beautiful. "Gods," Harry gushed unintentionally, tantalized with the way he brought the other boy so close to heaven.

"Get over here." Yanking the smaller boy into his shaky arms, Tom had yet to open his eyes or release the bedding curled up in his toes. The blood rushing through his veins, thrumming in his ears began to slow somewhat, clearing his head. Harry had snuggled into the crook of his arm and rested his head on his chest.

Tom looked down at him, aching. The ache for Harry never went away.

"When are you gonna let me try it?" he whispered, wondering if Harry was readily falling asleep. His breath was light and airy, his body fully relaxed. "You know… sex. I promise it won't hurt. We'll go really slow and everything. I won't hurt you."

"Never," Harry shot back, tensing. "Why isn't doing this good enough?"

"It is. I didn't mean it like that. I just want us to try everything, you know? It's amazing how close you can be. You actually become one being. It's more than pleasure… I mean, it would be between you and me. I just want us to be as close as we can be."

Harry exhaled a sleepy breath. "You're the one who keeps the distance, not me."

"Sorry, I won't bug you again about it." Tom sighed, and nibbled on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything else that might ruin the moment. Harry was absolutely right. As long as he kept a separation of wills, they could never be as close as they should.

Harry shifted closer. "You always say that."

Tom kissed the top of Harry's sweat-dampened hair. I'm going to change. I'm going to make you see… "Just go to sleep. We'll study later."

"M'kay. I Love you, Tom."

The feeling of a claiming mouth and heated breath on his earlobe brought back the most pleasant memories of their childhood. Tom's teeth clattered through a shiver of fulfilment. He closed his eyes once more feeling a whole world of possibilities expand inside of him like a bursting bubble of delight. Harry truly loved him, more than as a brother, more than as a lover. He loved him, all of him, the good and the bad, the right and the wrong. He loved the strengths and the flaws, the eagerness, the stubbornness.

And with all of his heart and soul, Tom loved Harry exactly the same way.

Gnawing brutally on the end of his quill, Harry's mind was racing at the speed of light. He could hardly pay anymore attention to Hagrid's blubbering testimonials of love for Mina Bulstrode, and as much as he wanted to help the poor lug out of the situation he was in, more pressing issues had arisen to prevent that.

He was sure he had seen his father.

The man did not appear to be a ghost. He was solid, dressed in a handsome suit and wearing a brimmed hat that nearly covered the salt and peppery hair on his temples, he was unmistakable. Harry had nearly fallen off his broom when he spotted him, and in a blink of an eye – he had vanished. It made no sense at all. How could a dead man with no magical ability be alive and well and watching him practice his flying techniques at Hogwarts, no less?

Hagrid heaved a dejected sigh. "Oh, Harry, have yeh seen her eyes? They're like sapphires."

Desperate to get Tom out onto the pitch for a bit of fresh air, Harry had pleaded with him to try his luck at flying. Of course, Tom refused, asserting that flying was far too corporeal an activity and would in no way aid him in his studies. And, at first, he was sure it was Tom who was watching him. Standing alone on the grass, looking as tall as a Greek statue, it had sent fluttering butterflies bounding around in Harry's stomach. As quickly as it came, as he got closer to the earth, terror smote every happy little squirm.

"…like a bouquet of violets all bunched together. And ter think I nearly forgo' her birthday! Have yeh seen her eyes, Harry?"

Annoyed beyond reason, Harry dropped the gnarled quill on the desk and gaped at the half-giant. Trying to concentrating on anything had turned into a brilliant disaster. "I don't have time to think about Bulstrode's beady-little eyes, alright? What about my father?"

"An' her hair's like spun sunligh'…" Hagrid hadn't heard a word Harry had said. His mind was fixed on Mina. He was far too gone to be rescued. Harry needed to find Tom. He was worried that he might not believe him, or if he even believed himself. Insanity ran thick throughout his family. Who was to say that Harry wasn't starting to see things?

"Her hair's black, Hagrid," Harry attested, staring at him.

Hagrid shrugged. "Yeh know, figuratively speakin'."

Harry blinked. "Figuratively speaking? Her hair is black; it can't possibly resemble spun sunlight in any way at all."

"What about at nigh'?"

Holding up a finger, ready to scream bloody murder, Harry, instead, took a heaving breath and stood up from the library table. He shoved his books into his bag, no longer caring whether he failed every single O.W.L. He had to get out of there, get outside and breathe in some fresh air. "Go see Professor Slughorn like I told you. Go. Now."

Hagrid nodded absently. "All righ', Harry. An' if yeh see Mina, tell her I love her."

Shaking off the twisting dread lumped up in his stomach, Harry moved quickly through the rows of tables to escape. Turning back to look over the heads of the students furiously studying, hoping to spot a glimpse of Tom, he bumped hard into another person.

Landing on his bum, Harry looked up with an apology on his lips. "I… Oh, hullo, Professor," he said, taking Albus's outstretched hand. "Sorry about that, not really myself today." With glasses askew and books everywhere, he knelt back down to gather his belongings.

Albus smiled amusedly at him before waving his hand over the mess. Instantly, all of the parchment and texts nestled back into their sheath before Harry had even begun. "How are you doing in your subjects, Harry?" he asked him.

Mystified at the revelation of Dumbledore's power, Harry gaped in awe at the man. All of that talk Tom sputtered about how great he was had never fully sunk in until that moment. He slung his bag over his shoulder and snapped his gaping mouth shut. "I didn't know you could perform wandless magic, sir. That's brilliant!"

With a chuckle of mirth, Dumbledore's cheeks flushed bright pink. "A little… here and there when needed. Now, about those subjects," he continued, looking down his long, crooked nose. "I'm expecting to see top marks out of you, and it has nothing to do with you being Tom's younger and feistier brother."

"Course it doesn't," Harry said in a sardonic drawl. He made a little face, eliciting another jovial laugh from the older man.

Harry adjusted his glasses, and, suddenly, the baby blue eyes behind the half-moon spectacles widened and narrowed in avid curiosity. A hand reached out, flipping away the messy fringe splayed over Harry's forehead, and a cool fingertip, bold in its action, traced along the zigzag line of the scar above his eyebrow. "Interesting," Albus murmured quietly, unable to take his gaze off of the mark. "How did you get this?"

Harry shrugged, frowning. He hated it. It was ugly and troublesome, always giving him problems. "No idea, sir, but I wish I didn't."

"You've always had it?"

"Yes, sir," he said blindly. "Why?"

Albus blinked from a daze and smiled. He clasped his hands in front of him and rocked on the balls of his feet. "How's your mother? Merope, was it? Merope Riddle."

Harry's jaw set. "It's Gaunt." How do you know my father's surname?

He threw up a mock look of fond reflection. It became obvious exactly how brilliant Dumbledore truly was, in more than just magical ability. He was always asking questions that jumpstarted the panic in Harry's insides. "She's fantastic, really."

And she's completely mad, and tried to have sex with my brother so he had her locked back up. Bet you didn't know that, did you?

Albus had either accepted the answer or chose to hide his uncertainly, because he smiled so brightly at that moment, as if the planets were aligned in perfect harmony. "That's excellent, Harry. May I ask, though, why you're leaving the library when you should be studying?"

Harry cringed. "Oh, I… er… I just forgot something in my room. I promise I'll study extra hard tonight."

Albus tipped his head. "I'm counting on it. As you were, my boy."

Taking one step before halting, Harry turned back around. If anyone would know the answer to what was nagging at his conscience, it would have been Dumbledore. "Professor?"

Still standing and watching him, Albus regained his smile. "Yes?"

"Erm… can Muggles be ghosts?" he asked him circumspectly. "And if they could, would they look transparent like the Bloody Baron, or solid like you and me?"

Dumbledore ran his long fingers over his grey and auburn beard. "Excellent question. Hmm, yes, I do believe that Muggles can become ghosts, and they would more than likely appear as the Baron does, but I cannot be positive. Why do you ask, Harry?"

"I was just wondering." He felt torn for trusting this man so much when Tom had warned him not to. "Well, it's just that…" The man was looking into his eyes the way Tom did when he was searching for truth or lies, but Harry pushed that aside. It was no secret that their father had died. He only hoped that Dumbledore didn't dwell any further into the subject as to why or how. "It's just that I thought I saw my father while… while I was…"The words were cut straight off as his hand flew up to his forehead.

Pain. It was so brilliant and unbearable; it seemed to split Harry's head in two. He turned away with a wince, doubling over, unable to contain the blistering yelp caught in his throat. He pressed his fingers over his scar, feeling sticky, warm blood trickle down into his eye and pool into his palm.

"Harry," Albus said with intense concern, gripping the boy's shoulder. "Harry, are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I have to go," he whimpered, biting his lower lip. He ran toward the door, ignoring Dumbledore's concerned calling.

The corridors were all but deserted, and Harry was quite thankful for that. He mopped at the scar and his mouth with the sleeve of his robes, having retched twice on the spot. He pulled his wand free and dissipated the mess.

"Harry…"

Harry gasped and spun around. It was him – it was Mr Riddle calling him. Dressed in the same chocolate brown suit and brimmed hat, his father reached out with a hand. "Come to me, Harry. Take my hand."

A horror settled over Harry, a cloak of spine-chilling cold that submerged his whole being. He stumbled backward, shaking his head in denial. It was apparent that Muggle ghosts were not necessarily transparent in form, as this man looked very much solid and very much alive. "You stay away from me," he said breathlessly. "I didn't do anything!"

The ghost pulled a wand out of his jacket. And apparently they use magic… The tip was pointed directly at him and the words of a Stunner Spell were forming on his lips. The thick tar of fear dissipated under Harry's legs. He screamed the word "—Protego!—", and turned and ran as hard and fast as he could, feeling the brunt force of the spell explode against the force shield surrounding him.

Harry thundered through the corridors. Blasts of light slammed against the walls all around him, trouncing the shield. The dungeon walls dripped with stagnant water and moss, making the stone floor a slippery entrapment to have to manoeuvre. The Slytherin common room was nearly in his grasp.

"You get the fuck back here!" the ghost shrieked at him from a distance. His pounding footfalls drew closer. Harry's heart thumped wildly in his chest. His fingernails scraped along the corner wall as he threw himself forward and called out the password as quietly as he could. The wall opened up, Harry stumbled through and dove onto the big green couch, into Tom's book-covered lap. Parchment scattered everywhere and Tom yelped with a start.

"What the hell, Harry?" he cried, thoroughly tackled against the cushions. He gripped the robes covering his brother's shoulders and shoved him upward to look at him. "Are you all right?"

Harry jerked around, scrambling to get his wand untangled from Tom's jumper in order to point it at the opening. Blessedly, it closed silently without another soul stepping inside. He sat, shaking, wand firmly outstretched in wait.

"He's alive," he whispered through heavy panting, at last replying to Tom's frantic questioning. "Or not… I dunno, Tom."

Tom now had his wand drawn. He pulled himself and Harry up slowly from the couch and wrapped a protective arm around his waist. "Take a deep breath and speak clearly when you inform me of what in the hell has spooked you so badly."

"Our father is trying to kill me," Harry said quietly. "He was out there – he had a wand."

"What?" Tom's wand hand dropped to his side. He rested his chin on the top of Harry's head, waiting for the smaller boy to relax. Poor over-studying sod, he's completely lost it… "C'mon," he said softly, pocketing his wand and giving Harry a little tug. "Let's go to my room and talk about this."

The knots in Harry's muscles came untied. He nodded, letting his brother lead him away.

"You smell like vomit," Tom advised him, scrunching his nose. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the robes encasing Harry's form. "Take that off."

"We have to tell someone," Harry said in a whinging breath. He pulled his robes over his head and balled the material up before tossing it to Tom. "This is a sign. He's going to haunt us forever."

Tom circled the chair he had shoved Harry into like a hawk. "Harry, do you fucking realise how much trouble I'll get into if we tell someone that I murdered the Riddles? Have you gone completely mad?"

Harry's mouth went dry. He shook his head violently. "You know I don't want you to get into trouble, but I think we can trust Professor Dumbledore. He seems like a very reasonable—"

Tom's eyes grew wide. "No! He, of all people, should never know our business! Don't you get it? He's been watching us! No, no… we're not telling anyone." He bent forward to look Harry in the eyes. "They'll send me to Azkaban Fortress for the rest of my life, and they'll release Morfin… And you would have to go back to him. Is that what you want?"

Harry sat in stunned silence. He shook his head quickly before focusing on the floor. "If you told them what happened… he was going to kill you, Tom. I think if you explained it to Professor Dumbledore, he would help us."

Tom wasn't sure whether he had laughed aloud or screamed at the irony, but Harry nearly jumped from his skin at the sound he emitted from the rush of emotion bursting like an A-bomb through his heart. He dropped to his knees in front of his brother, grasping the smaller boy's hands, holding them as tightly as he could to gain his full attention.

The poor kid looked like he had not only seen a ghost, but that it had dragged him down a flight of stairs by an ankle. His bloodied, pallid skin held an alarming tinge of green, he still smelled of bile, and his dishevelled body wavered on his chair. "Listen carefully; because I'm not going to say it again," Tom whispered as plainly as he could, "Mr Riddle did not try to kill me."

Bewildered, Harry cocked his head to the side. "Huh?"

"I'm telling you the truth. I used the Imperious Curse on him to make it look as if he were trying to kill me… so you wouldn't hate me for what I had to do. I murdered him. I flat out fucking killed the man."

"No," Harry said blankly. "No you didn't, shut up." He tried to stand up, but Tom shoved him back against the chair.

"Sit down, Harry, I'm not finished." He held Harry more forcefully. "Everything that happened that day, every detail was set by me," he confessed hotly.

Harry swallowed another lurch of bile inching up in his oesophagus. He was dizzy with disorientation and the throbbing pain in his head, verging on losing consciousness. His tongue felt thick, his words slurred. "Did you kill Nicolas Flamel?"

Tom gave him a sharp nod, sensing that odd twinge of regret surface once more inside of him. Harry looked as if he might retch all over him. He had turned a disconcerting shade of pasty-white and repeatedly swallowed and grimaced. "I ordered his death."

Harry tensed up. "Let go of me."

"Nah, you're not going anywhere," Tom told him, coolly, distancing himself from the guilty stabs of lament dying to escape. "If I let you go, you'll run off and do something stupid. Just relax now. I'm not going to hurt you, okay?"

"I know, dim-wit," Harry hissed. He fell forward in Tom's embrace. "I can't handle all of this right now. I need to lie down."

Tom wrapped his arms around him, hugging him tight. Harry's cheek rested on his shoulder; he could feel the steadied flow of hot, moist breath against his neck. "There's this man…" Tom finally admitted, having never mentioned Draco Malfoy to Harry before. It wasn't that he didn't want to, it was that he couldn't. "I've seen so many things that I shouldn't. I know things I don't want to know."

"What are you talking about, Tom?"

He was entranced with sorrow, forced to do the unthinkable in order to ensure that this future for them would be one of greatness. "I killed our father on orders to do so. I didn't think I would regret doing it, and I liked it, but I do regret it." Taking a painfully deep breath, Tom slumped into Harry's embrace. "It's not a ghost you saw, Harry… it was me. You saw the older version of me."

"Not good, Tom. Thought I told you to keep your fucking yap shut on this." Both black-haired boys' heads rose and turned, eyes locked on the violent icy-grey irises staring them down. A sculpted stick of hawthorn was flicked menacingly in their direction. "—Expelliarmus!—" Tom's wand ripped through his trousers and landed in Draco's hand.

Tom's eyes narrowed. He stood up and pushed Harry behind him. "Give it back," he growled.

"Are you going soft on me? After all the work I've put into this, are you trying to tell me you've lost your goddamn nerve?"

"I…" Tom's voice stalled as he watched another walk into the dormitory and stand beside Draco. He stood as tall as him, with raven-black hair speckled with grey, dressed sharply and smirking with disdain. His presence was terrifying. It was him. Lord Voldemort had finally made his appearance. Harry's grip on Tom's waist cinched.

Arrogance radiated around him like a thick cloud. He lit a cigarette and glanced to his side at Malfoy. "Care to explain to me what just happened?"

"This one," Draco hissed, again flicking his wand in Tom's direction, "told that one all of our little secrets. What are we going to do?"

"I had to tell him," Tom spoke nervously, hardly able to break eye-contact with his elder self. "It was driving him mad. He's so afraid."

"That's ridiculous," Voldemort said, waving it off. He moved forward and shoved Tom aside, revealing the hidden boy behind him. Draco quickly gripped Tom's wrist to keep him from interfering. "Ah, there you are," he purred lecherously, looking Harry up and down.

Tom felt as if he'd fallen into some sort of horrible ruse. He had murdered for these men, treated Harry how they wanted him to, and let them dictate his life as they saw fit. He was supposed to become this man. He was to become a Dark Lord, the conqueror of the Wizarding World, but he was nothing like that. He felt helpless and weak, powerless to stop the man from touching his brother.

Lord Voldemort flicked his cigarette across the room to slip an arm around Harry's waist, drawing him into his body. A charming smile curled on his lips while soft fingers brushed the blood-caked hair away from his cheeks. "You're trembling," he whispered.

Draco snorted as Tom bored holes of pure hatred through the Dark Lord. He jammed his wand into Tom's neck. "We really shouldn't linger, my Lord. The other students will be returning soon."

"Quite right." Wrenching his arms behind his back and clamping a hand around his neck, Lord Voldemort dragged Harry to the door. "After you," he cooed in mock tenderness, watching Tom struggle to remain composed.

Moving deeper into the corridors of the dungeon, where light would never touch and no one would hear their screams, Tom found his last vestiges of bravery flitting away. He and Harry exchanged nervous glances every few seconds. He had to stay strong for him. Harry was already in shock, and the impression both boys were gathering from this kidnapping was that neither would be walking away unscathed. He stopped, refusing to budge another inch. "Where are we going?"

"I'm the only one asking questions," Draco snapped, twisting Tom's arm roughly upward behind his back. "Why haven't you killed Myrtle yet, hmm? Haven't we gone over this?"

"I don't want to," Tom spat back. "I'm not doing anything else for either of you."

"Oh yes you fucking will, believe me."

Harry flinched at the repulsion in Draco's words. The hand around his throat tightened, cutting off his supply of oxygen momentarily to keep him silent. "You don't want to interrupt them, baby, this is important," Voldemort whispered in his ear. "Sometimes Tom can be a little dissented and needs a bit of prodding. Now, be my good little lad and start walking."

"Are you really him?" Harry asked boldly, looking up at man standing behind him.

Lord Voldemort gave him a nod. "Of course I am."

Harry's stomach lurched. "I'm going to be sick," he managed.

"…I won't do it."

"I thought we had a good thing going on between us, Tom. Why are you resisting?" Draco shoved him into the wall. He grabbed a handful of hair, wrenching his head back. "You've already killed her; she just doesn't know it yet. It's a part of you, Tom. It's in your blood."

"No it's not!" Harry cried, infuriating the Dark Lord.

"Insolence," he breathed. Something was off, he could sense it. Both boys were growing increasingly wary of their intentions, needing to be dragged away from their room when they should have been able walk along side of them.

"Leave him alone and let him go!"

"Harry, please relax. Don't do anything rash."

"Shut up!" Voldemort pressed his fingers against Harry's throat, but this time it did not seem to frighten him as much. The boy thrashed about in his arms like a wildcat, drawing gaping stares from both Draco and Tom.

Losing concentration, Draco turned abruptly to assist his master. Tom balled his fist and swung hard, hitting the pointy-faced blond in the nose. The offending wand fell to the floor and rolled away into the shadows.

There were hands everywhere; tearing, ripping, scratching. This situation was growing quickly out of control.

It was obvious now, so bloody obvious that something here in the past had gone terribly wrong. Tom and Harry were not responding as they should.

The Dark Lord could not recall this happening, or this passion the two carried for the other. Never in a million years would he have foreseen this violent escalade erupt before them. He and Malfoy must have muddled something, somewhere.

"What in the hell is happening?" Draco shouted, cupping his bloodied face in horror.

The boys were no longer carrying this bond, this connection the way they should be to him; they had somehow become their own entities.

"Stun them!" he ordered, holding both boys by their necks. His back was against the wall for support. Draco immediately dropped to the dirty floor, hands outstretched and searching for any sign of his wand.

Harry screamed as white-hot pain pulsed through his scar. He looked up with the last vestiges of consciousness, seeing Tom shove his older self as hard as he could against the stone corridor. There was a flash of brilliant red light, then another, and all went black…

Draco wiped his nose off on his sleeve. He was shaking as hard as Harry had been when he first appeared. "What the fuck was that about?" he muttered, looking down at the two unconscious boys lying at their feet.

"Isn't it obvious?" Lord Voldemort brushed the dirt off of his suit before leaning back against the wall again to light a cigarette. He pulled on it and sighed, exhaling a stream of white smoke while he nudged Tom's body onto his back with his toe. The boy was beautiful. He could not take his eyes off of him. He stuffed his hand in his coat pocket, feeling the cold glass of a phial under his fingertips. It had taken a decade to perfect the potion. Its contents would now halt nearly all growth and aging, and it was ready for them. "We'll have to put a wait on the Elixir of Life," he said, turning away. "There's something wrong."

"I admit that they seemed a little riled, but I think it had more to do with Harry not knowing who we are, my Lord."

"That's the point, Draco," Voldemort said. His chest rose and fell with heavy breath. "Harry isn't the little lunatic he should be at this point. And Tom, he gets it, he finally understands. He loves this boy with an ardour I can not feel. Why don't I feel it?"

Draco gritted his teeth. To this point their journey to change time had been smooth. He knew there would be bumps and risk taking, and the possibility of failure was always right around the corner. They had agreed long ago that is they were unsuccessful; they would kill these two and start again, but that was a last resort. The boys were still young, still mouldable. The only thing Draco did not anticipate was the possible separation of their individualities. He hoped that this was not the reality. "Time travel has no rules, no laws, sir. I'm sure that if you give me another chance I can mend this blunder."

Lord Voldemort took one last look at his younger self, desperate to administer the potion and become a youth again, before pulling the Time-Turner free from his shirt. "We shall see," he said, twisting the dials. "Fix it."