With the suddenness of a snapping finger Harry woke and his entire body went rigid. He and Tom were a tangle of limbs. Harry stopped breathing, terrified to move. Wide-eyed, he took stock of the situation. He was on his side, an arm pinned between their bodies while Tom's was draped around his waist. One of Tom's legs rested between his own, bent slightly at the knee. Harry was completely nestled up against the man, his face tucked against Tom's chest, Tom's chin pressed against the top of his head.

How — had — this — happened?

Face screwed up, Harry carefully eased his legs free. Moving slowly, he slipped away, wincing when the bed creaked. Tom shifted and Harry froze. An eternity hung in the air, but Tom simply sank more into the pillow and slept on. Harry snatched up his glasses and tiptoed from the room, finally releasing a shaky exhale when he made it to the safety of the hall. He collapsed against the wall, feeling that his escape was as monumental as slipping past a dragon.

But Tom could wake at any moment. He fled to the kitchen, down the cellar steps, and into the boiler room, trying to make sense of how he'd found himself wrapped around Tom Riddle.

At what point in the night had that happened? Had Tom known?

He couldn't have, Harry reasoned, his face burning. He would have strangled me.

The boiler gave a loud clunk and Harry jumped.

Calm down, mate. The voice sounded like Ron.

Hands shaking, Harry loaded the boiler with kindling and struck a match.

"That's what you get for helping," he grumbled, watching smoke curl around the strips of wood. "Things get even more fucked up."

But what else should he have done? For a moment, Harry had seriously believed Tom was being murdered, the way he was screaming. Of course Harry had gone to him.

Stay. Please.

Harry hadn't expected that. He'd only wanted Tom to calm down. Bad things happened when the man got too upset. The decision to stay had taken himself by surprise as much as it had Tom, but what else was he supposed to have done? Harry knew fear. Intimately. And Tom had been terrified.

Harry groaned, pushing his glasses up and rubbing his eyes. The man was going to be a nightmare. There was no way in hell he would let a moment of weakness slide by. So much for friendly Tom. He wondered how many steps a single night had flung them. Back to furious Tom? Silent Tom? Picturing-your-neck-snapped-Tom? Harry stuffed more logs of wood into the furnace, preparing himself for the frigidness that was sure to greet him.

But when Harry left the boiler and cautiously entered the kitchen, Tom was nowhere to be seen. Relieved, Harry made himself breakfast and ate his crumpets on the porch front steps, watching a pair of hens search for crickets in the front yard. He heard movement down the hall as he cleared away his mess and swiftly slipped up the stairs, wanting to maintain a safe distance between them. If Tom wished to interact, Harry would let him be the one to instigate it.

He spent the morning curled up in a corner in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom reading and Tom did not appear. A soft drizzle began to fall and soon turned into a dreary downpour, removing any plans of venturing outside. Growing restless, Harry considered visiting the Owlery. The bats that lived in the rafters weren't quite the same company as the Hogwarts owls, but Harry found their soft squeaks oddly comforting. He put away Hogwarts, A History and left his old classroom, taking the only route to the tower. All the while, he kept his eyes peeled for Tom, but the man was steering as clear of Harry as Harry was doing to him.

He turned a corner and entered his favorite hall in the house. He called it the Gallery for it contained nothing but pictures. The giant painting of the bowl of fruit that opened to the Hogwarts kitchens was there. The Fat Lady, the trolls learning ballet, even the grassy field with Sir Cadogan and his gray pony — the Carcerem had packed as many portraits as it possibly could into this single stretch of hall, even the ones he didn't particularly care for, like Phineas Nigellusand Sirius' mother and quite a few he'd never seen before in his life, ones he was sure belonged entirely to Tom. Not a single picture moved. Harry paused before the Fat Lady. He found it amazing that he had strode in and out of it for six years and never took the time to look at it. Really look. It was a lovely piece of work and intricately detailed. Set in a garden, she took center stage in her voluminous pink gown, but Harry was more interested in what was happening in the background. Behind the Fat Lady, along a hedgerow was a small hound-like dog in hot pursuit of a vibrant blue rabbit. Someone on the other side of the hedge had lost their grip on a cluster of color-changing balloons, trapped forever in a half-way transition of blue to yellow. They floated upward as an outstretched hand fruitlessly snatched for the strings. The skirt and feet of a young girl were just in the frame. Harry wondered if she belonged to the portrait or if she had been dashing through it at the time the Carcerem plucked it from Harry's memory. There was a half-eaten box of chocolate cauldrons left behind the fleeing girl. Perhaps she had dropped —

Harry started.

There was something new, something he'd never seen before. Amazed, he stepped closer. In the right hand corner, almost tucked out of sight behind the Fat Lady's billowing pink skirt was a small, crouched figure. It looked completely out of place. At first, Harry thought it was another dog, except it didn't look like a dog. Bleached-white and oddly misshapen with long, thin arms and a bony back, it stood on two scrawny legs. Its arms were so long that they dragged on the ground. The thing looked half-starved. He could see each of its ribs, its stomach a sunken cavity. Harry stepped closer, wondering what it could be.

It jerked around.

With a startled cry, Harry jumped backward. It moved. How could it move? Nothing moved in the pictures or paintings within the Carcerem. The thing's face was a white smear with two empty sockets for eyes and a gaping, toothless mouth. It cocked its head, its far too long arms twitching. The empty eye sockets grew larger — two bottomless black holes expanding out of proportion with the rest of its face. Harry didn't understand how it could see him, but he knew it did. As he watched, it staggered toward him, lifting a long, spindly arm. Though tiny in the portrait, it felt monstrous. Giant. Unending. Harry was frozen to the spot, pinned in place, like a petrified butterfly on a cork board.

A hand closed around his arm and he was yanked backward so violently he nearly tumbled to the ground. Tom pushed him behind him. In his other hand he gripped a sword. One look and Harry knew it was not the one they used for training, but what Tom called a live blade.

"What is it?" Tom demanded, after his eyes swept the empty hall.

"N-nothing," said Harry.

Livid, Tom spun around to face him and Harry took a hasty step back.

"Lie again."

"It's nothing!" Harry insisted, though his heart was frantic. "Just a trick of the light. I thought I saw something, that's all."

Tom was not swayed. "You thought you saw what?"

"In the portrait," said Harry, brandishing toward the Fat Lady. "I thought I saw a … thing."

"A thing?"

Harry reddened. "It doesn't matter. It's not there." And it wasn't. The creature was gone.

Tom turned to the portrait; his eyes scanned it.

"What did it look like?"

"Like …" Harry bit his tongue. At Tom's furious scowl, he blurted, "A bit like you did. Before. But different."

"What do you mean different?"

"Its eyes weren't red; it didn't even have eyes. I don't think you should touch it!" Harry said quickly as Tom moved closer to the painting.

"I'm not," said Tom, acidly. His fingers hovered over the canvas. Lips pursed, he let his arm fall. "There's no magic here."

"Like I said, it was just a trick of the light."

"Then why are you frightened?"

Harry bristled. "I'm not frightened."

"Yes, you are." Tom propped his sword against the wall and put his hands on either side of painting's frame. With a grunt, he lifted it up off its hanger.

"What're you doing?" asked Harry, startled.

"Putting this where I can keep an eye on it," Tom answered. He strode past Harry with it. "Bring the sword."

Harry had already snatched it up and was two steps behind him. "I'm telling you, you're making a fuss out of nothing."

"Says the one who's still lying," Tom retorted.

Harry followed Tom all the way back to the common room. He leaned the life-sized painting beside the Mirror of Erised, opposite the couch.

"I'm not ly—"

Tom silenced him with a glare.

"Setting aside whether I saw something or not," Harry said instead, "it's in a painting. It can't hurt us."

"You're growing lazy, Harry," said Tom softly. He took the sword back and sat on the couch, his eyes fixed upon the Fat Lady. "The Carcerem makes its own rules, remember? Who's to say that paintings can't step down from their canvases if they want to?"

Harry's blood went cold. If what he'd seen was real … It had frightened him. There had been something empty about it, but at the same time a desperate hunger. A ravenous, gasping black hole —

Harry shivered and Tom's eyes cut to him.

"Describe it," he ordered. "In detail."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, making it even more unkempt. "It was small. It was even smaller next to the Fat Lady."

"So it looked as I had before my resurrection?"

"No," said Harry, shaking his head. "It looked more as you did as Voldemort. Skeletal and bone-white, but it was weak, like it could barely stand and the way it moved … it was like it didn't know how to. Like it was off balance." Harry fumbled, searching for the right words. "Like a puppet on strings. It had a jerky, disjointed way of moving. And it didn't have a face."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Like a dementor?"

"Sort of. Do you know what it is?"

"No," said Tom. He rose and pushed the sword into Harry's startled hand. "Keep an eye on it."

"Where are you —"

But Tom had already left. Harry didn't have to wait long before he'd returned, carrying a large armload of books. Harry recognized the top two as volumes that were in Tom's workshop. He passed Harry half a dozen.

"Help me look."

Harry would have preferred to clean the Owlery of bat droppings, but he sat cross-legged on the floor and opened one. It was a history of magical achievements and discoveries of the 15th century. Harry thumbed to the section on magical creatures and found himself facing, not so much a discussion of beasts, but rather what a wizard could do with them. The author seemed to have a particular fondness for turning things inside out.

"I don't think it's in here," said Harry with a queasy stomach.

"Look anyway," said Tom, riffling through his own book. "A great deal was discovered in the 15th century."

"Really?" said Harry, turning a page on a diagram detailing how to merge a goat with a rooster. "And here I was thinking it was just about torture."

Tom gave a soft snort that sounded more like a laugh. For a moment, their eyes met and the night before hung between them. His neck grew hot and Harry quickly dropped his gaze, scanning another page.

Twelve books later, Harry's brain felt much the same as it used to on exam nights: that he'd beaten it against a wall.

"There's nothing here," he grumbled, rubbing his temples.

Tom snapped his own book shut and tossed it aside. "It must be. Everything inside the Carcerem comes from our memories. One of us has come across this creature."

"The cellar didn't come from our memories," Harry pointed out. "Or the water pump."

"The cellar's from Hogwarts," said Tom. "You didn't think the elves conjured all of that food, did you? And the water pump's the same from the orphanage."

"Oh," said Harry. "Well, that was definitely the first time I've come across that thing, so it must have come from you. I would have remembered it."

Aggravated, Tom paced the room.

"What if it only exists in the Carcerem?" Harry suggested. "Maybe it has its own monster."

"Why appear now? We've been here for months. And why were you threatened by it?"

"Excuse me?"

"What you described to me did not sound particularly dangerous. Disturbing, perhaps, but not dangerous. You mentioned no teeth, no fangs, no claws. You described it as small and malnourished."

How was it possible that Tom could make him feel like a first year being called out in class?

"I just knew," said Harry.

"How?"

"I don't know how!" said Harry, defensive. "When it looked at me—"

"You said it didn't have eyes."

"I know that!" Harry snapped. "Sorry," he said when Tom raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "I don't know how, but I knew it could see me. Sense me. It was like it latched on to me and when it did I felt like I was … prey."

Silence stretched between them. Finally, Tom spoke.

"It can't only exist in the Carcerem. It would have been mentioned in the autobiographical accounts."

"What do we do in the meantime?" asked Harry, shooting a glance over his shoulder at the Fat Lady. "Always be on watch?" He hoped not.

A line appeared between Tom's eyebrows. "No. And it isn't reasonable to carry it around with us wherever we go."

"So what do we do?"

"Burn it."

"What?" Harry scrambled to his feet. "Why? It's gone."

"That does not mean that it will not return."

"So your solution is to destroy the painting?" said Harry, furious.

"As there is no other option, yes."

"We could lock it away somewhere. Barricade a room — there are plenty to pick from. We don't even know what it is."

"Exactly." Tom's heated glare was unrelenting. "We don't know what it is. Therefore we do not know how to fight it. I am not risking an unknown entity gaining access just because you are sentimental."

"And you're being irrational!" Harry shouted back. "The moment you're threatened you stop thinking!"

Tom looked like Harry had slapped him. "What did you say?"

The danger in the room was like static electricity, but Harry held his ground. "There's a library upstairs that we haven't gone through yet and, in case you haven't noticed, it's raining."

Harry had almost forgotten the look of murderous intent, but it was there on Tom's face, as vivid as ever. He advanced, steps light, voice deadly.

"When have I ever acted without planning?" he demanded. "When have I ever let emotions cloud my judgment?"

"Plans don't make you rational," Harry disagreed. "You weren't rational when you chose to attack me as a baby instead of waiting until Neville and I were older and choosing then. You let your fear get the better of you, just like you are now."

Tom's hands balled into fists and for a moment Harry thought he was going to attack him, but instead he said in a voice of forced calm, "We look until the weather breaks and if the creature's identity is still a mystery we burn them all. Agreed?"

Harry didn't want to, but he knew he wouldn't get a better extension. Grim-faced, he nodded.

xXx

The Fat Lady was moved yet again. She now rested against a window in the library. The rain turned the room chilly and gloomy. As Harry went straight to the closest shelf, Voldemort lit a candelabra set on a center table to help illuminate the dim area. He cut his eyes down to his left wrist and rubbed it ruefully. The skin around the jagged half-moon looked perfectly normal, but it was still tender. Two hours ago, it had burned as if someone held a fire iron against it. And with the pain came the unshakable certainty that Harry was in danger. That had never happened before. What would cause the mark to behave differently now? Voldemort had not felt so much as a twinge when the Strangleweed ensnared the boy months ago. It had been dumb luck that he found him when he had, choosing for once to seek Harry out instead of ignoring him. So what was different about this latest threat that caused the tattoo to burn with warning? Did it act as a guide to their progress? From the very first night on the island, Harry's musing of whether it was a way for the Carcerem to keep track of their relationship returned to him. He'd thought it ridiculous at the time, but he himself had used marks to communicate with his Death Eaters. Was it a stretch for such a brand to keep track of emotional states?

Voldemort's eyes shifted to Harry. He still couldn't believe the boy had stayed with him last night. The memory caused a mixture of sensations to writhe in his gut: revulsion and fury that Harry had seen him so shaken; delight and relief that Harry had climbed up beside him … had not pulled away when Voldemort pressed closer when the boy fell asleep, desperate for more of that magnificent warmth that soothed his soul … that sense of wholeness.

Did these strange feelings stem from the soul he had inadvertently placed within Harry? But the Horcrux was destroyed, the soul piece gone. He should not have any such connection with Harry now.

As he watched Harry pull books off shelves, the urge to stride to him and take his hand in his hit him with such intensity that Voldemort moved forward without realizing. He crossed the room — he reached out his hand —

Harry turned to him and pushed five books into his arms. "I think we should start with magical beasts and move on from there. It didn't look like something that lived in water, but I couldn't really tell for sure. We shouldn't rule it out."

Voldemort gripped the books, grateful that his hands were occupied. Nightmares Harry seemed to understand, but Voldemort doubted he would be quite so complacent about being manhandled without reason.

Harry dropped his own collection of heavy books onto the table, making the candles flicker, pulled up a chair and began scanning indexes. Voldemort purposely chose the chair farthest away.

.

.

There were no clocks in the Carcerem. Voldemort had no idea how long they spent pouring over texts, only that he was nearing the end of his tether. They had made quite the mess. Tomes deemed unhelpful were splayed on the floor, their pages ruffled and the spines cracked open. Harry sat with both hands in his hair. From all the times he had had run his fingers through it, it practically stood on end.

"I don't get it," he said. "How can it not be here? It has to be here."

Voldemort too found it suspicious. He was positive he'd never come across anything close to the creature Harry described in all his years. The fact that it had moved in an unmoving painting was enough cause for alarm. Throughout the perusal of books, he'd kept one eye on the Fat Lady, expecting to see the thing appear, but the Gryffindor House portrait remained unchanged.

The rain stopped and Voldemort allowed the search to continue for another three books before shutting his closed. Harry's head jerked up at the sound.

"We haven't looked through all of them!" he said at once. "We can still—"

"No. I've held up my end, now it's time for you to do the same."

"But—"

"No." Voldemort rose. He crossed the room to the painting and lifted it for what he hoped was the last time. "I'm building the fire. Start taking down the others." His voice was sharp and unwavering. "Hide any of them and you will regret it."

He could tell from the tensing of Harry's jaw that he minded a great deal, but Voldemort was done playing nice. The mark on his wrist hadn't burned for nothing. It was a warning. He hadn't gotten this far to be doomed to life imprisonment by a portrait.

Voldemort didn't expect Harry to participate, even though he'd ordered him to. The boy had no stomach. He held onto such idiotic sentimentalities. The bonfire crackled, sparks shooting into the purple sky, the rain clouds parting enough to let the setting sun's orange rays hit the house's tower. Voldemort had built it on the grassy knoll beside the greenhouse. It was nearly hot enough. The bang of a door swinging shut had him turning. Harry approached, walking lopsided from the weight of another life-sized portrait. In the light of the fire and dwindling daylight, Voldemort recognized it as the one that hid the entry to the Hogwarts kitchens. Harry set it on the grass beside the Fat Lady and without a word, headed back to the house. Voldemort watched him go in mild surprise before turning back to the fire and throwing another log into the blaze.

.

.

Voldemort wiped sweat form his brow and added three more paintings. It would take ages to burn them all; there were at least a hundred crammed into that hall, not to mention every other room in the bloody house. The stack behind him grew into a mountain as Harry brought him what felt like an endless supply. The fire was a towering, spitting inferno, sparks shooting into the night sky. The door swung shut yet again, announcing Harry's return. Voldemort watched him cross the grass, carrying a cluster of paintings no bigger than stamps.

"The dancing troll one is all that's left," he said, sounding exhausted. "It's too big for me to carry."

Voldemort dried his sweating palms on his trousers. He was sure he was a soot-smeared mess.

"Good."

As he bent down to pick up another from the mound, he caught the look on Harry's face, illuminated in the firelight.

"They're only paintings, Harry."

"No," said Harry, not taking his eyes off the crackling blaze. "They're memories."