A/N: Y'alls comments are so wonderful! Thank you! I wish I could gift you all a box of chocolates, but seeing as that's not gonna happen have the next chapter instead. 3
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"Harry, you need to wake up now."
Riddle shook his shoulder and Harry grimaced.
"You need to eat," Riddle insisted.
Harry opened his eyes and found Riddle leaning over him. He helped him sit up and put a breakfast tray on Harry's lap — a thin bowl of broth and a few crackers.
Harry felt groggy. Disoriented. He groped for his glasses. "What time is it?"
"You mean what day?" Riddle corrected. Instead of moving to the chair, as Harry expected, he sat at the foot of the bed, his back resting against the wrought iron frame. "You slept all of yesterday."
"I did?"
"We'll need to change your dressings again. Eat."
Harry eyed the thin broth. It was a pale lemon color. He scooped up a spoonful and gagged.
"Eat it," Riddle ordered. "You have an infection. The broth will help."
"Thanks," said Harry, not entirely grateful.
Riddle's lips twitched, almost as if he held back a laugh. "You'll be pleased to know that I haven't come across our boggart since the attack. And your peas are setting. Why you grew peas," he muttered.
Harry forced down another disgusting mouthful. "What? You don't like peas?"
"No," said Riddle. "I considered uprooting them."
"Oi!"
"Don't worry, Potter. They're perfectly all right." He sounded that he regretted the leniency.
There was something different about Riddle. Harry cut glances at him, trying to pinpoint what it was. He wore the same color scheme he always did: black. His posture was lazy and casual, arms crossed loosely, one long leg dangling over the side of the bed, the other bent at the knee. Harry kept his left foot very still, waiting for Riddle to notice that they were touching and move.
"And you?" Harry asked. "How are you?"
The discussion of Horcruxes, the demolished drawing room, Riddle crouched on the floor, clutching his chest with the look of someone who intended to rip it open hung in the air between them.
"Better," said Riddle.
He knew he treaded on thin ice, but Harry wanted to know if Riddle was going to collapse again. The episodes seemed to come about when he was deeply distressed. "Do you know what's wrong?"
"Yes," said Riddle and Harry knew the topic was over. "You'll be wanting this back." Riddle dug into his pocket and pulled out Harry's mokeskin pouch.
Harry quickly looked down at his bare chest. He hadn't noticed it was gone.
"Mokeskin," Riddle observed. He tossed it lightly in the air. "What have you got hiding in here?" he asked, that teasing glint returning to his eyes.
Harry expected Riddle to keep it or demand he open it, but Riddle did neither. He leaned forward and set it on the breakfast tray. Harry fingered the slick fur. It was the only thing within the Carcerem that had kept its magical properties and maybe, thought Harry, that was for a reason. There were no locks in the house. No protection. No privacy. Save for this. On a level, Harry knew it was silly to keep it hidden. The pouch did not contain anything life-shattering. He had already revealed to Riddle the greatest secret of all, but still. Sharing the contents of the pouch felt far more intimate than the truth that he had been a Horcrux. It felt … it felt like an olive branch. It felt more like a truce than any of their previous agreements. It felt like a line in the sand and once crossed, everything would change.
Did he want everything to change?
Harry worked his fingers inside the drawstring opening and passed it back. Riddle raised his eyebrows. He took it. Harry settled back onto the pillows, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Riddle held Harry's gaze. Did he feel the same shift, Harry wondered. As if the world had tilted a bit more on its axis.
Thin fingers slipped inside and pulled forth the Marauder's Map, but to Riddle it appeared as nothing more than a very old, spare bit of parchment. He turned it over quizzically and set it aside, before lifting from the bag's confines a shard of broken glass.
"Are you a collector of trash, Harry?" Riddle asked, placing it on the map.
"No," said Harry softly.
Next came his mother's letter. Riddle did not read it, much to Harry's relief. He did, however, pause over the photograph. The Carcerem did not allow the picture's contents to move. Frozen in place, Harry the baby was transfixed in exultant joy on a speeding broomstick, his father's rushing legs right behind him, ready to scoop him out of harm's way before he knocked into anything. Along the right hand side was the tip of a cat's tail, fleeing the scene. Riddle set it with the other items without comment. But when he pulled out Harry's broken wand, his gray eyes widened. Riddle stared at it, cradling it like a dead bird, the vibrant red of the phoenix feather all the more dazzling in the sunlight hitting it through the window.
"When did this happen?"
Harry quirked his head curiously at the anger in Riddle's voice.
"Christmas," he answered.
Riddle searched his face, clearly trying to recall what had transpired at Christmas and Harry had to admit that it was a while ago.
"Bathilda," he clarified, his voice small but steady.
Comprehension came over Riddle. "I was not aware—"
"That my wand got snapped? No. I kept that quiet."
"Is there any way to repair it?"
"No," said Harry. And then he frowned, feeling again that there was something very strange about Riddle and this entire conversation. "Why do you care?"
Riddle's face closed off. "I don't," he said, suddenly brusque. "I told you to eat all of that."
"I would if it tasted good."
Riddle's nostrils flared. Harry noticed it happened when he was particularly annoyed. Instead of jabbing back, however, he dug inside the pouch and pulled out a very withered stem of —
"Hemlock," Riddle breathed. "You picked some after all."
"You knew I had?" said Harry, surprised.
"I saw the plant," said Riddle with a careless shrug. "I assumed you'd be tempted. We weren't exactly getting along."
The unspoken admission rang like a gong to Harry — We weren't getting along then, but now…
Riddle didn't seem to notice that he'd implied anything staggering. He twirled the stem between forefinger and thumb. "What stopped you?" he asked, curiously.
Harry didn't answer right away. Absentmindedly, he rubbed the inside of his wrist, where the jagged half-moon was etched on his skin. "I don't know," he admitted.
The strangeness in Riddle's voice, in his countenance, was in his eyes now. It made them too dominating. Harry dropped his gaze to his half-eaten soup, crumbling the crackers on top in a hope of making it somewhat palatable.
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Harry's wounds kept him bedridden for a week. He expected Riddle — no, Tom, Harry reminded himself firmly — to take the bedroom upstairs, but he never did, and Harry, who'd been the one to insist that he stay that first night, felt that he could not suddenly boot the man out. He made no comment, therefore, every time the lamps were extinguished and the mattress dipped, each so scooted to their respected sides of the bed that they risked rolling off.
Tom was a surprisingly dedicated caregiver. The man who had been Voldemort and then Riddle had shifted yet again. The person who now kept him company, playing cards and discussing spell craft when he could be doing anything else … the person who cooked Harry peas one night … the person who even, after losing a dare, put on Celestina Warbeck — that person was someone new.
He's after something.
But what? What could Tom possibly want so badly that he would put up with A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love? The face he'd made when he realized Harry had won the hand and the bet made Harry laugh so hard he thought he'd ripped open his stitches. An odd flush spread over Tom's hollow cheeks and he clicked on the gramophone without a word.
He wants you to forgive him. He's playing nice to win you over.
From years ago the memory of a sixteen year old Riddle standing over an unconscious Ginny bloomed in Harry's mind. I was patient … I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me.
Did Tom think he was an idiot?
Harry could answer that immediately: of course he did. Harry considered calling Tom out for it, but what good would that really do? Make him combative again? It was far nicer having a friendly Tom around (even if his motives were suspect) rather than a prickly or murderous Tom. This friendliness might all be part of a great plan to escape the Carcerem, but Harry knew it was a lost cause. He could co-exist with Tom. He even, at times, found his company enjoyable. But forgiveness? Forgiveness for the lives he'd destroyed, for the families he had torn apart? Harry would never forget. He would never forgive. But he could live out the rest of his life with Tom for company. He could do that.
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"Your hand. What happened to it?"
Harry looked up from the cutting board. He was strong enough now to leave the bed for short bursts. He sat at the kitchen table, chopping and peeling potatoes as Tom seared garlic-seasoned strips of beef. It smelled like heaven and Harry was delighted to have finally gotten his appetite back.
"The scars," Tom clarified at Harry's blank expression.
The words carved years ago onto the back of Harry's hand seemed to tingle. He didn't feel much like sharing, but Tom was like a dog with a bone when he wanted information.
"My fifth year Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher didn't like me telling everyone that you'd returned, so she put me in detention. She thought that if I wrote enough lines, the message would sink in."
The meat popped and crackled.
"Lines," Tom repeated.
Harry nodded, focused on his potatoes.
"Dumbledore allowed this?"
Harry looked up. "I didn't tell him."
Tom was actually startled. "Why not?"
Harry put down his knife and ran his hand through his hair, feeling suddenly tired. "Because I was fifteen and an idiot. Because the entire Wizarding World thought I was a lying, attention-seeking brat. Because I couldn't do anything to stop you. I was angry and frustrated and scared and I just wanted to beat her on my own. Beat someone. That's why."
"Who is she?"
Harry met Tom's eyes, a prickling of unease trailing down his spine from the delicate venom in Tom's voice.
"No one you know."
"You dealt with her?"
"No," said Harry, feeling the tension in the room increase. Danger coiled around Tom and Harry didn't understand why. "Not really."
"Why not?"
"It just didn't work out that way. But if there's any justice in the world the Ministry's probably dealt with her by now. She was in charge of imprisoning Muggle-borns."
"Umbridge?"
Harry brightened. "Yeah. I didn't think you bothered acquainting yourself with your underlings."
"Word got back to me that she was quite skilled at the job."
"That's one way of putting it," Harry muttered. The lightness of his mood had come and gone with the snap of a finger. He wished they were talking about something else.
"One of your companions was Muggle-born, correct?"
Harry's shoulders stiffened. "Is. And yes. Why?"
Tom shrugged and removed the last of the beef from the skillet. He added the onions Harry had already sliced. "You hardly ever speak of her."
"Why would I talk about her to you? Why would you care?"
"So defensive," said Tom, taking a sip of wine. "I'm merely curious."
"Curious?" said Harry, not believing it for a second. "Really? You want to know about my friends?"
"You've always been surrounded by others," said Tom. "Breaking into the Hall of Prophecy, for instance, you brought along a posse of teenagers. And there was a rumor that you were not alone when you fought through the enchantments guarding the sorcerer's stone, though you were alone when you faced me. When you vanished last year, Severus insisted you would have company. A group of Hogwarts students were captured in Malfoy Manor before that house elf broke them out. Were they your companions?"
Why was Tom so fixated on this? Was it out of a need for retribution?
"I'm tired," said Harry, rising to his feet and abandoning two potatoes still in need of peeling. "I'm gonna go lie down."
He crossed the hall to the common room and stretched out on the couch that had been plucked straight from Slytherin. The Carcerem slowly continued its choreographed dance, ring after ring, petal after petal, runes spiraling out like sparks from a firecracker. The movements never ceased, nor did they speed or slow. It was calming to watch and he took long, steadying breaths to quiet the anger that had flared so suddenly. They hadn't had a fight in a long time, and though it hadn't even really been an argument, Harry felt just the same as if it had been. Slowly, the tension unknotted. His eyes slipped out of focus, the gold turning to stars, as sleep took him.
He rested on his back on the Hogwarts grounds, under the giant oak beside the lake. The air smelt of spring. Ginny leaned over him, threading her fingers through his hair. Harry reached up to pull her closer, to kiss her, but something stilled his hand. That same odd feverishness that plagued Tom was in her eyes. The movements of her hand turned insistent, harsher, the nails biting into his scalp —
Harry shifted on the couch. He opened his eyes. Tom stood over him.
"Dinner's ready," he said.
Grimacing, Harry rose onto his elbows and Tom held out his hand. I can manage, Harry wanted to snap, but the danger he had sensed in the kitchen remained, tightly wrapped around Tom's shoulders. Harry took the offered hand and followed him back to the kitchen, feeling a wariness he had not experienced since the early days in their prison.
xXx
The darkness was impenetrable and endless. Voldemort ran blindly, his bare feet freezing. He expected to bounce off something — a tree, a person, a monster, but there was no one, a sea of nothingness. He heard only his ragged breathing and the slap slap slap of feet against hard ground. He was alone. Completely alone. Never had he thought isolation would strike such terror within him. He was like a wild beast who must keep running or … or …
Whether he fled something or raced to something, Voldemort did not know. Only that he must keep running. If he stopped the darkness would swallow him. The freezing air would choke his lungs. He would be lost in this horrific void forever—
His legs seized up; he crashed to the ground, heaving and gasping.
Get up!
His heart pounded in his ears. Unprotected. Vulnerable. Mortal, mortal, mortal.
But he couldn't stand. The cold sensed his weakness and pounced, numbing his limbs, freezing his mind. The cold turned into hands. Arms. Putrid and rotting. They pulled him down, deeper into the darkness. They were the pudgy, ring-clad fingers of Hepzibah, the dirt-caked nails of a tramp, the wizened and spotted arms of an old woman — Bathilda Bagshot. More and more. The arms were like vines and he knew them all. Muggles he'd filled his underground lake with, his father, the Potters, Severus. There were hundreds of them and they pulled him down, down —
A pinprick of light caught Voldemort's eye. Warmth flooded through his frozen heart, lurching it back into life. Harry —
Voldemort jerked awake, covered in sweat. His hand shot out beside him, groping the bed for —
Harry was not there. The boy had returned to his own room at the top of the stairs yesterday. Voldemort released a long, shaky exhale, half relieved Harry was not present, half wishing he was. His hand curled into the sheets, his mind conjuring up possible reasons to get Harry back in his bed, but each was feebler than the last.
You want him.
Want him? Voldemort scoffed. He did not want him. Lord Voldemort did not need anyone. If he wanted anything it was Potter's peculiar warmth that eased the constant burning in his chest.
He was not attached to Potter.
xXx
Tom deemed him fit enough to walk down to the boathouse and Harry was ecstatic. The gashes in his side were knitting together nicely. Tom inspected them closely before agreeing to the short outing.
Harry relished the fresh air. He'd been cooped up inside too long. The sky was cloudless, the sun pleasantly warm on his face.
"When can we start training?" Harry asked as he dug his toes into the sand.
"When you're healed."
"I am healed. Mostly," Harry added at Tom's raised eyebrow.
"I'm going swimming," Tom announced. "You're not coming. Your bandages can't get wet."
"I wasn't going—" Harry was cut off by Tom whipping off his shirt and tossing it in his face. Next went his trousers, revealing swimming trunks underneath.
"Don't wander off," Tom ordered before strolling down the boardwalk and diving into the water.
Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
Harry flicked a bit of dried seaweed out of the way and sat on the sand, pulling a copy of Hogwarts, A History from his pocket, the salty ocean wind ruffling his hair. When he'd spotted the book in the library he'd felt such a rush of nostalgia that for a moment he seriously believed he would turn and find Hermione and Ron sitting at one of the tables. Ron would be leaning back in his chair, lazily sucking on a sugar quill. Hermione would be rolling her eyes at something he'd said, half exasperated, half amused. Harry turned to the spot he'd left off at, imagining the look on Ron's face if he saw him reading the book they always teased Hermione about.
"Potter!"
Harry looked up. Tom's head bobbed above the water's surface.
"Get a bucket," he shouted. "And a knife."
"Why?" Harry called back.
"Oysters." And he dove back into the water.
After a swift search of the boathouse, Harry found a bucket and a flat-bladed knife. Tom treaded water at the boardwalk, waiting for him.
"These do?" Harry asked, passing them over.
Tom flashed him a grin and with a deep inhale, disappeared again.
Four dives later and Harry was having more fun than he'd had in a long time. After an in-depth tutorial on shucking, Tom retreated into the house in search for a bottle of wine and Harry sat cross-legged on the front porch, prying open oysters as a fresh round of rain rolled in. Quite suddenly, he found himself thinking of Ginny. He wondered what she was doing at this very moment. How much time had passed? Did it move at the same pace here in the Carcerem as outside of it? Was Kreacher back at Grimmauld Place? Harry hoped the elf wasn't alone. As much as Kreacher would argue against it, he needed company. Maybe Ron and Hermione paid him visits. Hermione would.
"Something wrong?" Tom asked.
Harry jerked out of his musings and took the glass Tom held out for him.
"No," said Harry and it was true. For the first time, thinking of his friends did not make his chest so tight with loss that he couldn't breathe. He pictured them happy, perhaps gathered for a feast at the Burrow with no war to ruin their spirits. Dumbledore's portrait would have told them everything about where Harry and Voldemort had vanished, Harry was sure of that. He hoped Dumbledore had been able to give them some sort of comfort that he would be all right. Dumbledore knew Voldemort as well as Harry did: the Dark Lord valued his own life enough to not risk the chance of escape by harming Harry. "I was just wondering what everyone else was up to. None of them will guess what I'm doing."
"I imagine not," Tom agreed, sitting opposite and pulling his own bucket close.
"I just wish I could give them some sort of message that everything's okay."
"You can't."
"I know I can't," said Harry, "but I still wish I could. They'll be doing everything they can to get me out."
"Their efforts will be in vain."
"You don't know my friends," said Harry with a smile. "That won't stop them."
xXx
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
Voldemort suppressed the urge to snap. Barely.
"Yes," he repeated for what felt like the fifth time. "And if you ask me again I will take these scissors and —"
"Okay. Okay," said Harry quickly. The boy was on his back on the drawing room table.
"Don't move."
Harry took a steadying breath and laid still. His t-shirt rested on the seat of a chair where he'd plopped it before climbing onto the tabletop. It wasn't fear that he would injury Harry that made Voldemort's pulse quicken, but the unavoidable fact that there was no way of doing this without touching him. Voldemort took in the expanse of skin before him.
Do it quickly.
With surgical precision, he set to work, refusing to acknowledge the waves of warmth that surged through his chest and pooled in his gut as his fingers brushed against Harry's stomach. Though the boy remained still and silent, his skin quivered wherever Voldemort made contact. He kept his eyes fixed on the chandelier overhead, and therefore, did not see how Voldemort's eyes trailed up his chest, along his collarbone, his neck.
"Done," Voldemort announced with a final snip, the last of the stitches pulling free. His voice sounded hoarser than he liked.
At once, Harry's eyes shot down to his stomach. He sat up, running his hands over the same stretch of skin Voldemort's fingers had slipped over. The gashes had healed well. The three long scars were faint, and perhaps in time, might fade completely.
Voldemort set down his scissors and took a step back. When it came to Harry, distance was safer.
"Thanks," Harry said, delighted.
Voldemort nodded stiffly and tossed him his shirt.
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They surrounded him. In the impenetrable darkness they glowed, an army of ghosts, their eyes blazing. Voldemort could not escape. He crouched like a child as his victims grew taller and taller. They stretched upward and Voldemort sunk lower, the ground literally pulling away from him so that he found himself in a pit. With their unblinking stares, the murdered lifted their arms. They opened their fists. Dirt, cold and heavy, fell on his head.
"Stop!" Voldemort screamed. His hands scraped at the pit's walls, but he was too deep. He could not climb out. The dirt piled up around his feet, his ankles. "I command you—"
But they did not fear Voldemort. Threats were nothing to the dead. Dirt rained down, blinding him. It was past his knees — up to his chest. His nails broke off as he clawed the wall, trying to lift himself out, but the dirt was cement.
"STOP!"
The dirt was to his chin. Voldemort tilted his head as far back as he could, trying to breathe. They would be the last thing he ever saw, the blazing, pitiless stares of the dead.
"Hey! Hey!"
Voldemort's eyes flew open. Hands were on his shoulders, pressing him down. He swung up his arm and Harry grabbed it before he made contact.
"Watch it!" Harry yelled, angry. He released him and Voldemort scrambled upright. Light flooded the room. Harry had turned up one of the lamps. Voldemort focused on steadying his heart. He was shaking, trembling uncontrollably and Harry could see it all. Voldemort refused to meet his gaze, but he felt Harry hover by the bed. He bit back the urge to lash out. Try as he might, the tremors continued to rake through him. He curled his hands into fists, the nails cutting into his palms. He could still taste the dirt in his mouth. Feel it in his nostrils.
"Bad dream?" Harry asked.
Heat flared up Voldemort's neck. "It's none of your business."
"You woke me up, so I'd say it is," Harry countered. "You were screaming bloody murder."
"I'm fine, Potter!"
A beat. A pause.
"Okay." Harry turned for the door. He was leaving and Voldemort could still feel the suffocating mass of dirt —
"Wait!"
Harry stopped and turned, his arms crossed.
Voldemort closed his eyes. Something inside him shriveled with shame as he whispered, "Stay. Please."
He imagined Harry's eyebrows lifting. He imagined Harry snorting in derision and striding away.
The bed dipped.
"Okay," Harry said again, softer. He pulled the covers back. "Do you want the light off?"
Voldemort was speechless. He couldn't believe Harry was here. He was back. Next to him. He gave the barest shake of his head.
"Okay," Harry repeated. He slipped under the covers and gazed up at the ceiling. Not entirely confident that this wasn't another spiraling dream of madness, Voldemort laid down, a breath of space between them.
"I have nightmares, too," Harry admitted quietly. "About you, mostly. So I know when it's a bad one. And … if you want to talk abou—"
"I don't."
"But if you do," said Harry, turning his head and looking him straight in the eye. "Just know that I get it. If you ever want to, you can talk to me."
An emotion he did not understand blocked Voldemort's windpipe, stifling his voice.
Harry took off his glasses and put them on the repaired bedside table. He shimmied more under the blankets. "'Night, Tom," he whispered.
Voldemort watched, stunned, as Harry curled on his side and closed his eyes, appearing to all the world that this was perfectly normal.