They fell into a routine. Riddle, who always rose before Harry, was in the kitchen or common room, usually a book in hand and a freshly brewed pot of tea at the ready. Harry cooked bacon and fried eggs. When he felt adventurous, he made omelets. Riddle joined him on his morning and afternoon walks around the island. Sometimes he helped Harry collect eggs. Sometimes he chatted. More often than not, they walked in silence.

Riddle always had a book. He seemed, like Hermione, to be able to read a new one every day. It was lucky, Harry supposed, that the library was so packed with volumes, but it surprised him when on their usual trip down to the boathouse he glanced down at the one Riddle carried and noticed the title: Hamlet.

"There's Shakespeare in the library?" Harry said, startled.

Riddle lifted an eyebrow. "There's also The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle."

A surprised laugh escaped Harry.

"Really?" His mind flooded with a vision of Ron's bedroom at the Burrow, a stack of comics beside a tank full of frog spawn. He grinned in fondness at the memory. "They're rather good."

Riddle rolled his eyes.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a Shakespeare fan," said Harry.

Riddle was quiet as the boathouse loomed in the distance. Tiny crabs scuttled from their path. The wind died down, blocked by the protective outcropping of the cove.

"They took us to see a play in the park," Riddle spoke suddenly. "It captivated me."

The admission felt strangely intimate. Harry couldn't believe Lord Voldemort would admit to admiring the works of a Muggle. The silence stretched, growing uncomfortable.

"There's also," Riddle added in a dry tone, "a vast collection of works by one Gilderoy Lockhart."

Harry really did laugh then. It shot across the beach, loud and clear. Riddle stared at him.

"I don't recommend them," said Harry. "Total rot."

"I gathered as much," said Riddle. His eyes lingered longer than usual on Harry, and Harry, growing uncomfortable again, quickened his pace to the boathouse.

.

.

The Carcerem was not logical, but perhaps it had its reasons for the choices it made. Hunting for eggs got Harry out of the house. Tending the oven and boiler kept him focused throughout the day. It kept him busy. Distracted. He could not dwell on the life he had been ripped away from if his mind was occupied.

Caring for the vegetable plot in the greenhouse became another daily chore, and one he found he looked forward to every morning. Harry discovered that just because he and Riddle could not wield magic did not mean it wasn't present. A day after sowing his seeds, sprouts lifted their heads out of the dirt. Another day went by, and they doubled in size. Harry wouldn't be surprised if the pumpkins reached the gargantuan mass they did in Hagrid's back garden.

.

.

Harry shifted the ladder to another branch. Beside the greenhouse were a cluster of apple trees. The overgrown orchard reminded Harry vividly of the garden in front of Luna's house. It even included a lush bush of dirigible plums which he had yet to touch. Nothing against Luna, but his confidence in the Lovegoods' taste in food was severely lacking after that cup of gurdyroot tea. He clambered up the ladder, rustled through the foliage and plucked another apple, his basket nearly full. He wondered if pies were as hard to get right as bread. He had yet to bake an edible loaf, each as charred as the last.

"Potter."

Harry turned on his ladder. Riddle stood behind him on the grassy patch between the greenhouse and the water pump. He carried two swords.

"What are those for?" asked Harry, eying Riddle warily. For the past week and a half Riddle had been particularly pleasant. He hadn't even said anything about Harry's latest disastrous bread attempt, so burnt it required a hammer to break into. Riddle had been so pleasant, in fact, that Harry was growing nervous. The calm before the storm.

"Practice."

Harry climbed down from the ladder. "Practice for what?"

"Your dueling skills are sub-par, at best. Time to change that." Riddle tossed one of the swords at him. Startled, Harry barely managed to catch it.

"Excuse me?" said Harry, bristling. "I duel just fine."

"Luck will only get you so far."

Harry snorted. "I've survived you and your Death Eaters more times than I can count. I'd call that more than luck."

"You aren't skill-less," Riddle conceded. "And you have excellent reflexes, but can you tell me with absolute certainty how you would fare in a duel against me with wands that actually fought each other?"

Annoyed, Harry didn't reply.

Sensing his advantage Riddle closed the distance between them. "You wouldn't last five minutes."

"There you go again," said Harry, refusing to be intimidated. "Underestimating me."

Riddle's mouth twitched in amusement. His eyes darted to the sword in Harry's hand. "Prove it."

There was no way in hell Harry was letting Riddle near him with a sword.

"I thought we were talking about dueling with wands," said Harry. "A sword isn't a wand."

"True," Riddle agreed. "But much is the same. The footwork. The agility. The balance. Knowing when to strike and when to divert. Magic is not the backbone of dueling, Harry. But, you make an excellent point. We will discuss what spells you would have used if this were a proper wizard's duel. But I'm getting ahead of myself," said Riddle, ignoring Harry's stunned expression. "Today will be basic movements. Hold up your sword."

Harry didn't.

"Training me to be better at fighting you seems counterproductive to me."

"On the contrary, when I kill you I want it to be the most talked of duel of wizard kind. Simply striking you down won't satisfy me anymore. I can't have you letting me down," he added with a light playfulness. "Raise your sword."

"How do you even know how to sword fight?" Harry demanded, still refusing to follow Riddle's orders. "Why would Lord Voldemort know something so Muggle?"

Some of the humor slipped from Riddle's face. "Let me train you," he said softly, "and I'll tell you."

"It's a sword," said Harry, brandishing it to help drive home the glaring problem. "You could cut my head off!"

Riddle pinched the bridge of his nose, as if praying for patience. "How difficult is this to comprehend? It does me no good to kill you here. But even if I were going to these swords would be highly inefficient as they are blunt. We'll use live swords," he added, smiling rather nastily, "later. Now, for the last time, raise your weapon."

Arrogant prick, but Harry lifted the sword. Riddle marched to him, grabbed his hand and readjusted his grip.

"We'll start with fundamentals," he said. "Repeat after me."

.

.

Harry had never been so sore in his life. Not even Oliver's overzealous Quidditch practices came close to how he felt the next morning. Every inch of him ached. Riddle had put him through a rigorous sequence: footwork, parries, strikes. Over and over and over again. Harry's arm quivered like jelly by the end of it. The prospect of starting and tending the fires for the day only made him want to disappear beneath the covers and never get out of bed again, but with a groan, he managed to roll out of the bed and shuffle down the stairs. As expected, Riddle was already in the kitchen looking as refreshed as ever. The fires could wait. Harry slumped into a chair.

"So," said Harry, covering up a wince. "What got you into sword fighting?"

"A sorceress in the Khangai Mountains," said Riddle, lazily turning a page in his latest book. "She was a master of the dark arts that I wished to study, most especially possession." Riddle's eyes met his and the air seemed to chill. "But she would only take me as a student if I also studied sword fighting from the monks who lived in the mountains."

"Why?" said Harry, who couldn't help but feel such a demand was absurd.

"Because she knew I hated all things Muggle," Riddle replied. "And she enjoyed making me do things I detested. They say there have only been three Seers in the last century. She was one of them."

The chill increased, slipping down his spine. "Was?"

The tease of murder was back in Riddle's smile. "She had a rather unfortunate encounter with a viper, but not before she told me that one day I would appreciate my training with the monks as much as my studies with her. I didn't believe her at the time. We'll take your lessons down to the beach," he said, returning his attention to his book. "The sand will help strengthen your feet."

xXx

It would be a shame to kill Potter, but kill him, he would.

Above all else, Voldemort prized magic and the skill and dedication to wield it. Potter had it all. With a change in ideology, he would have made an excellent Death Eater. The boy possessed a fierce grace that only appeared during their lessons. Doing anything else, Potter turned into a fumbling klutz, dropping spoons and tripping over rocks. But when he sensed danger, a switch flipped in Potter's brain. His eyes focused with the intensity of a hawk, his whole body finely tuned to spring into action or dive for cover.

It fascinated Voldemort. Training with the monks had never been as enjoyable as sparring with Potter. Every time he knocked him down, Potter scrambled back up, more determined. If only their wands were not silent, Voldemort would show Potter what duels could really be.

But the boy couldn't get too good. Voldemort lunged forward, darting his sword under Potter's and with a swift upward strike, the sword was knocked from Potter's hand. He froze as Voldemort's blade swept up and rested against his neck. He let it linger a breath longer than was customary, before lowering the weapon and taking a step back.

"That will do for today."

Potter released a sigh of relief. He doubled up, hands on his knees, sweat dampening his fringe.

Voldemort stabbed the tip of his sword into the sand. "Take mine with you," he commanded.

"Aren't you coming?" asked Potter.

"In a minute." And then he added, teasing, "Can you not make it back to the house without an escort?"

Potter glared and snatched up both swords. "See you," he said shortly.

Voldemort chuckled as he watched Potter go. Riling the boy up was far too enjoyable.

He knew Potter was sore and his mood testy because of it. Voldemort's own muscles were pleasantly tender. There was a Biloba tree on the edge of a thick wooded area past the boathouse. Voldemort had spied it on their daily walks. He could steep the leaves. The flavor was nothing to write home about, but the infusion would help their muscles recuperate faster.

The sun hung low in the sky, the last rays bleeding across the horizon. Voldemort entered the wood, his eyes struggling for a moment to adjust to the gloom. He strode to the Biloba and began picking the fan-like leaves. There had been one in the forest in Albania. Over those unending thirteen years, it became a safe haven. A base. He slipped through the branches, a bodiless phantom, and watched for passing wizards…

But no one came, save for a gullible wizard and a banished rat. All his servants who'd spoken of loyalty — all traitorous cowards.

Voldemort shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memories. He was free of that place. But the more Voldemort pushed the past away, the more the forest closed in around him. Mist creeped around tree trunks, its tendrils covering the ground, inching toward him. With each beat of his heart, the forest grew darker. This had been his hell. Unable to die. Unable to live. He'd been a half-life, a half-creature. Every moment, every breath, an agony. Every moment, every breath, a furious promise to survive. To return. To punish those who'd disavowed him.

But he was unprotected now. His heart was just as mortal as the next. The leaves fell from his fingers, terror stilling the organ in his chest. It wasn't just the Biloba tree that was similar, he realized, but the entire forest. It was his. The gnarled branches twisted upward, blocking out the sky, the mist crawled up his legs, but he would not be trapped here. He had conquered this hell. He would never be lost to it again. He spun on the spot and all air was sucked from his lungs. Death stood before him. Towering, hooded, a long wicked scythe in one skeletal hand.

"No." Voldemort scrambled backward. He tripped and fell. "No."

Death paid his pleas no mind. It swung up its weapon —

A flash of metal. A clang of steel. Potter swiped at Death and the entity retreated. The boy grabbed Voldemort, trying to pull him to his feet, but Voldemort could not move, terror seizing him like a poison. Furious, Potter shouted something, but Voldemort could not hear him over the blood pounding in his ears. Instead, he jerked on the boy's arm for Death was coming back, only it was different now. It had grown even taller, its hooded robes more tattered, the hem dissolving into smoke. The bone-numbing cold washed over Voldemort before he realized Death had become a dementor, save for its hands. Each finger was the curve of a scythe. Potter whirled around. He held his sword at the ready, but his arms shook. He backed away. The dementor lunged and the boy blocked its blows. He was forced back against a tree, barely holding back the dementor's attack. A vicious slash and the dementor overpowered him; the sword clattered across the ground. In a flash, it was upon Potter. It reached back its hand, blades glinting in the dying rays of the sun —

Potter flung up his arms to protect himself and a blinding, white light erupted, flooding the forest. The air hummed with energy. Potter's magic — pure and untamed — crashed over Voldemort. The dementor shrieked, the blinding whiteness carrying it away like a surge of ocean water. The light receded; the forest turned as dark as night, and as it did, Voldemort could hear again. Potter was screaming.

Voldemort scrambled to his feet. "Potter?"

The boy was on the ground, his hands clamped tight over his ears. He rolled and shrieked as if he were under the Cruciatus Curse. Voldemort made to grab him — to shake him back to reality — when he saw the blood. One of the dementor's blows had made contact. Potter's front was saturated in red.

xXx

The steady fall of rain woke Harry. His glasses were gone and though the room was blurred, he knew at once that the bed he rested in was not his. Blinking, he tried to focus on the figure sitting in a chair, staring out the window. He made to sit up and a pained gasp escaped him.

Riddle's head snapped around. "Lie back down."

Harry quickly complied. His left side was on fire. He pinched his eyes shut, willing himself not to throw up. The bed dipped and Harry's eyes flew back open. Riddle sat beside him. He pulled Harry's glasses from his pocket and slid them into place, startling Harry, before moving his attention to the bandage wrapped around Harry's stomach. Without a word, Riddle began to undo it.

Harry's heart gave a sickening lurch as the wound was revealed. Three deep gashes glistened with fresh blood, running from his ribs to his belly button. They were stitched shut, the skin puckered and red. Wishing he hadn't looked, Harry focused on the ceiling. Riddle shifted on the bed. There was a clink of glass, a stopper popping free and fingers gently spread a cooling salve over the wound, numbing Harry's torn flesh.

"Arch your back," Riddle said softly.

Harry did so, not taking his eyes from the crack in the ceiling that mirrored the one in his own bedroom. Riddle's arms dipped behind him, encasing his middle in a fresh bandage.

"Do you remember what happened?" Riddle asked.

Harry blinked quickly, wondering if this was a trick question. He remembered a great deal and he wasn't entirely sure what was real and what had been a dream. His mother screaming in his ears so loudly he thought he'd go deaf, a blinding white light — and the pad of a thumb rubbing circles against the skin behind his ear … the warmth and stability of a body against his own … a voice murmuring assurances. I've got you. I've got you.

"We were attacked," said Harry, still refusing to look anywhere else but the ceiling. He wished Riddle would return to his chair. The man sat so close the side of his hip touched Harry's. He could feel Riddle's eyes upon him and against his will, Harry's cheeks grew hot.

"You did magic," said Riddle. The strangeness in his voice finally caused Harry to look at him. He had often felt x-rayed by Dumbledore, but the way Riddle stared at him made Harry feel dissected.

"I couldn't have."

"You did." Never lowering his gaze, Riddle pulled a wand from his pocket. Harry recognized it at once: the Elder Wand. Riddle's long fingers caressed the wood, as if making up his mind, and then he held it out.

Harry stared at the man, stunned. Heart in his throat, he took it, but the moment his fingertips touched the smooth surface, he knew there had been no change. Heart sinking, Harry passed it back.

"I don't feel anything."

Riddle took the wand, frowning. "The boggart turned into a dementor when it saw you and only magic can ward off a dementor."

"Except that it wasn't a dementor," Harry pointed out. "It was a boggart."

"Did that feel like a normal boggart to you?" Riddle asked. "I am hardly ever affected by dementors, and yet I felt that I'd been plunged into the Arctic. You," said Riddle, his gaze unrelenting, "were beside yourself. It was all I could do to get you back to the house."

I've got you. I've got you.

Harry swallowed, the uncomfortable heat rising up his neck.

Riddle was right. He had faced boggart-dementors and though they were horrible, the real creature was always worse. What Harry had faced in the woods had been astronomically more awful — not even when he'd been surrounded by a hundred dementors in his third year had the damage been so severe. Harry thought he was going mad with the pain of it.

"The Carcerem makes its own rules, remember," Riddle continued. "But it knew that to conjure a dementor meant that one of us had to be given back his magic. The gift, apparently, was short-lived."

"Your boggart … it looked like —"

"Death?" Riddle supplied. His expression was composed, but his spine became a fraction more rigid.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," said Harry.

"I'm not ashamed," said Riddle.

Harry's eyebrows rose and Riddle, with an irritable jerk of his shoulders, said, "It is an annoyance that will be rectified."

Did Riddle mean what Harry thought he meant?

"You can't make more Horcruxes."

It was Riddle's turn to look unimpressed.

"You can't!" Furious, Harry tried to rise onto his forearms, but Riddle pushed him back down. "Don't you get it? They don't work. They fool you into thinking you're invincible, but you aren't. Your soul's already shredded. It can't take much more!"

"What do you know of it?" Riddle glowered, his voice hard. "Just because you destroyed them does not make you an expert."

"Maybe not, but I'm expert at what's in your chest," Harry fired back. "I've seen what your soul looks like. I've seen what's in store for you and if you don't—"

"Seen?" Riddle interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, seen?"

Harry's mouth went dry. This was it. This would be the greatest test to Riddle's word yet.

"When I was a baby and you tried to kill me — when the killing curse backfired and ripped you from your body — a shard of your soul broke off without you realizing. It latched onto the only living person in the room."

Riddle's eyes widened, staring at Harry as if he'd never seen him before.

"Impossible."

"I spoke Parseltongue. I could jump in and out of your mind. I felt your emotions as if they were my own. My scar always hurt when you were around. That wasn't my doing. That was the bit of your soul trapped inside me."

Riddle shook his head. He was on his feet, backing away. Though he looked nothing like Voldemort, his expression was just the same as when Harry had risen from the dead in the Great Hall: shell-shocked, frightened, and utterly confused. For the first time, Harry wanted Riddle to understand. To really understand. Riddle couldn't make the same mistakes. It made Harry sick to his stomach just considering it.

"When you killed me in the Forbidden Forest—"

"You did not die!" Riddle roared.

"I did," said Harry softly. "I really did and I saw the bit of soul that had been in me. It was horrible. You think your exile was agony? What I witnessed was torture. You've tortured your own soul. You've mutilated it. Can you feel what's left of it? How much more do you think you can shave off before you realize you haven't strengthened yourself. You've cursed yourself."

Without warning, Riddle grabbed the bedside table and threw it across the room. Harry flinched and before he could shout out after him, Riddle had gone.

xXx

Voldemort didn't know where he was going; only that he had to get away from Potter.

Potter and his damn, honest eyes.

Those eyes had been huge in the Forbidden Forest. At the time it struck him as strange that the boy did not lift his wand to defend himself. He had expected Potter to fight him, as he always did, but quietly he'd stood, waiting for the Dark Lord to finish it. And all the while — all the while — Potter had known the truth.

Voldemort's hands sought out anything they could reach — chairs, tables, decanters. They were all upended and flung. He was a tornado. He was a hurricane. And it wasn't enough. No amount of destruction could compare to what had been lost.

The rawness in his chest made Voldemort double up. He clutched the table for support, but collapsed to the ground. He knew what this feeling was now. It had been so long ago since he'd made his first Horcrux that he had not recognized the burning that scorched his insides. He always thought it was the exertion of the ritual, but now he knew the truth.

Voldemort could feel it. He could feel his soul. He gritted his teeth, his nails biting into the skin over his heart as the burning reached a peak. He just wanted it to stop. He'd do anything to make it stop.

A hand, soft and trembling, touched his shoulder and a blessed coolness spread over the gashes in his soul. Voldemort looked up through stinging eyes. Potter, shaking and pale, crouched before him. The boy was not using magic, Voldemort knew this, but there was no mistake that the ache in his chest was easing, calming. There was something about Potter that … soothed it.

"You're not alone," Harry whispered. "I'm just as frightened as you are. We can do this. Together."

Do what, Voldemort wondered. Survive? Die?

He nodded anyway. Harry smiled and the coolness spreading through Voldemort's heart warmed like the rays of the morning sun. Whatever this was, Voldemort didn't want it to stop. He leaned into Harry's touch, but Harry stumbled backward, his face suddenly very white.

"Harry?" Voldemort grabbed him. His eyes darted down to the red stain blooming across the fresh bandage. Voldemort cursed. "Imbecile."

A low chuckle escaped Harry and Voldemort felt that warmth again, but this warmth did not scorch. It caressed.

"Two peas in a pod," Harry said weakly, "aren't we?"

What was this feeling and why was Harry causing it? Harry didn't seem to think he was doing anything strange. Voldemort hoisted him to his feet, pulling an arm over his shoulders. Together they slowly shuffled back down the hall to his room. Harry had turned distinctly green by the time Voldemort lowered him into the bed. After administering a fresh bandage and checking that the stitches had not ripped too badly, Voldemort collapsed into the chair he'd dragged from the common room, exhausted and strangely agitated. He couldn't stop looking at Harry. Now that they no longer touched, the burn in his chest returned, sharper and harsher than before. Voldemort clutched the arms of the chair in a stranglehold to keep from slipping into the bed and—

"I'd offer to go to my room," said Harry, his breathing strained, his eyes pinched shut, "but I don't think I'd make it up the stairs. You can have it."

"I'm fine here."

Harry looked at him, frowning in bewilderment. "Sleeping in chairs isn't comfortable and you're hurt too."

"The boggart did not wound me."

Harry released an annoyed breath. "You can stop lying to me, Tom. I know something's wrong."

Voldemort grimaced. Five minutes ago he'd wanted to get as far away as possible from Harry. Now he could only think of getting closer. "You're the one who's likely to bleed to death. I assure you whatever … issues I'm having are manageable."

Harry's frown deepened, as if he were struggling with something, and then to Voldemort's surprise, he said, "There's room for both of us."

Voldemort gawked. Harry grew more nettled. "If that thing comes back, it won't do us any good if you're not rested. One of us has to fight it and it sure as hell won't be me."

Voldemort decided not to point out that they had only come across the boggart in the woods and were unlikely to meet it elsewhere. He extinguished the lamps and climbed into the bed, Harry shifting slightly to give him more space. They both stared at the ceiling. Voldemort was grateful it still rained. The heavy pattering on the window masked the uneasy silence between them. He was grateful it was dark. He didn't want Harry to see how his hands were balled into fists to keep himself from grabbing Harry's arm.

Eventually, the tension radiating from the other side of the bed softened. When Voldemort was confident Harry was asleep, he unfurled his left hand, inching it closer to Harry's. Their wrists touched. Voldemort waited, holding his breath, but Harry did not wake. He interlaced their fingers. Like a balm the gentle comfort spread from his palm, up his arm and to his heart, filling his chest cavity and Voldemort finally breathed. He could just make out the fine outline of Harry's face, but he didn't dare move closer. Terror and excitement coursed through him, electric in their intensity. Just when he thought he knew all there was to know about the boy, he was thrown a wrench. Harry Potter was filled with peculiarities and Voldemort would learn them all.