Harry set the pace, slow and tantalizing.

The island was theirs and yet they'd never done more than kiss outside in the sunlight. Even when they stripped down after sparring matches, diving into the ocean to cool off, did they ever go this far. Now, Tom was flat on his back in a grassy field, the smell of summer and Harry all around him. With a surge of surprise, he suddenly realized the meadow was from his past, not Harry's. It was the grassy hilltop the orphans crossed on the way down to the beach when they went to the country. He had made friends with snakes on those occasions, purposefully lagging behind the group to have whispered conversations. They were the ones who'd told him of the cave tucked from sight down below, where the cliffs shirred off sharply. What a wonderful day that had been.

Freak, Amy Benson had called him. Nutter. Lunatic.

But after a trip into the cave, Amy and Dennis never called him such names again. Devil, Amy had whispered once when they'd passed in the orphanage and he had smiled at her over his shoulder.

Tom knew there was no such thing as a saint, just as there was no such thing as a devil, but he was still startled by how utterly devilish Harry could be. The grin he gave Tom as he rocked back and forth achingly slowly would have made Lucifer blush. Tom couldn't stand it. He sat up, making grasshoppers spring in surprise, and took that grin for himself. If he could bottle Harry's kisses, he would. They'd be more sought after than Liquid Luck, more potent than Amortentia.

Harry's hips ground against him and Tom relished that Harry was his. Mine, he mouthed along Harry's throat. He had finally captured Harry and it was unlike anything he'd ever dreamed. It still unnerved him to think of all the times he'd come close to killing him. Harry threw his head back, eyes closed in ecstasy, his pace quickening. Tom met each grind with a thrust. He wanted to see those eyes — there was nothing more stunning. Easily, he dominated, pinning Harry to the ground and Harry wrapped his legs wrapped around him, drawing Tom closer.

Their kiss seared. Tom never wanted it to end. It was dizzying. It was all consuming.

It was Fiendfyre and magic and his.

xXx

Tom rolled off him, sprawling on his back in the grass and Harry focused on getting his breath back. How was it that every time he thought he had Tom breathless, the man turned the tables, leaving Harry a trembling mess, each jerk of Tom's hips making stars burst behind his eyelids? It wasn't fair, he thought, rather petulant. Tom's perfection was getting out of hand. For Tom Riddle, a man who knew nothing of love to be a master of pleasure was ridiculous.

It was so easy to feel like a fumbling idiot next to Tom. Inexperienced. Clumsy. Awkward. Every inch a seventeen year-old with only two short lived relationships to his name. With a start, as Harry watched a cloud twist into a seahorse, he realized Tom was number three and dear merlin, what a three he was.

An arm snaked around Harry, drawing him close until his head rested on Tom's chest. Tom might have been far calmer on the outside, but his heart betrayed him. It was rapid under Harry's ear.

He listened to that heartbeat as fingers carded through his hair. Harry didn't even mind that he was out in the open, completely naked, their clothes strewn around them, a wayward chicken clucking somewhere in the tall grass. That would change later. Maybe while he tied up the tomatoes their afternoon romp in the meadow would come back to him in full color and he'd blush more violently than a nun, shaken and astounded that he'd been the one to instigate it. He interlaced their fingers, making Tom pause on their walk. He unbuttoned Tom's shirt. He bit Tom's earlobe, whispering all the things he wanted the two of them to do, right then and there.

Harry swallowed, a fresh breeze cooling his flushed skin. Seagulls dived overhead. The crashing of waves was subtle from up here on the hilltop, tucked away in a bed of sweet-smelling wildflowers. It was peaceful. It was beautiful. This was what people thought when they spoke of paradise. A paradise inside a prison.

"If the Carcerem released us, what would you do?"

Tom's fingers stilled in his hair. His silence was all the answer Harry needed. He rose onto his palms, glaring down at Tom, suddenly frustrated.

"There's nothing wrong with Muggles."

Tom rested an arm behind his head and rolled his eyes.

"There isn't," Harry insisted. "What threat are they to you? They can't even do magic."

"And yet it is our kind who is shunned."

"We're not shunned," said Harry, confused by the wording. "The Statute of Secrecy was our choice. Muggles didn't force that on us."

"Muggles had everything to do with it," Tom disagreed. "Our entire existence revolves around keeping Muggles happy."

"That's a bit dramatic."

Tom sat up. "There is only one all-wizarding village in Great Britain. One. Wizards must either live in isolation or pretend to be Muggles. Why?"

"It's better that way," said Harry, remembering asking Hagrid a very similar question. "Yes, it's annoying to keep everything hidden, but things would get out of hand otherwise."

"Exactly," said Tom. "Muggles want conformity. Any outliers are threats that they medicate into submission or lock away. Before I knew of Hogwarts I was waiting day and night for the doctors to put me in an asylum, all because I was different. You, of all people, should know that. Or did you enjoy having a cupboard for a bedroom?"

Harry flinched as if Tom had slapped him. A door slamming shut — a key turning— only spiders for company. It had never been brought up — not once — but of course Tom had found the cupboard. Of course he'd put two and two together. But the Dursleys did not speak for all Muggles, just as Tom Riddle did not speak for all wizards.

"We need better ways to help children in anti-magic homes," said Harry, refusing to take the bait. "We can work on that."

Tom leaned back on his hands and laughed coldly. "You're so naive."

"Subjugating Muggles is not the solution!"

"And what would they do to us if they found out we exist?" Tom asked. "Do you honestly believe that if given the chance they wouldn't try to kill us? Dissect us? Use us? We are different. We are born different. We are greater than they will ever be and yet we hide away, cloister ourselves to our secret corners of the globe and fret when a broomstick flies off course. Muggles destroy what they do not understand and covet what they cannot have. I am striking before they do."

"And the Muggle-borns?" asked Harry, his anger rising regardless of his efforts to remain calm.

"I have nothing against Muggle-borns," Tom replied.

It was Harry's turn to let out a harsh laugh. "Are you kidding me? Have you already forgotten the Muggle-born Registration Act?"

Tom's lips thinned.

"Some practices can be reviewed," he conceded. "If they pledge their loyalty—"

"To murder and vilify their friends and families?" Harry finished hotly. "If they agree to that, they can live? They can keep their wands? They can still be witches and wizards? That's what you mean?"

Tom's back was rigid. "I stand for magic, Harry. I always have."

"Yeah, well" — Harry pushed to his feet and snatched up his clothes — "maybe magic doesn't need your help. Maybe" — Harry yanked up his jeans and pulled on his shirt — "your sort of help isn't help at all!"

Tom remained sitting. He did not try to stop Harry when he turned on his heel and marched away. He did not shout after him. Harry stormed down the slope to the beach, the ocean suddenly as furious as he was.

What were you expecting? You're in a relationship with a tyrant, he berated himself, or had you forgotten that?

Harry was too angry to return to the house. He cut a trench in the sand, pacing up and down it until the tide surged forward, forcing his retreat. The sun was a blood red eye on the horizon, elongating his shadow to needle-thinness.

Harry let the door swing shut behind him. The lamps and candles in the entrance hall fluttered from the disturbance. He didn't hear sounds from the kitchen.

Good, he thought when he found the room empty. He hoped it stayed that way.

.

.

An hour later, Harry was still stewing. Twilight fell and Tom had not appeared. The entire house was silent as the grave and when a rain storm started up, Harry began to wonder if Tom was in fact still outside instead of sulking in a room upstairs as he'd originally thought. Dinner was ready, an uninspired amalgamation of over-cooked pasta and watery tomatoes, lumps of rubbery fish speckled throughout. Harry served up a plateful, took his place at the table and moodily stabbed a noodle.

He was not going to go looking for Tom. If he wanted to catch his death in a monsoon, that was his choice.

Bitterly, Harry dropped his fork with a clatter and ran a hand through his hair. Why had he brought it up? Discussing Muggles with Tom was pointless. For months the entire subject had been carefully skated around. Harry ate two more mouthfuls, forcing himself to swallow, feeling both angry and miserable. Yes, it would be wonderful to not hide yourself for who you are. Yes, they spent an exorbitant amount of time and energy keeping Muggles in the dark, but Muggles could not fight magic. By choosing to separate, witches and wizards were actually choosing to protect Muggles from the dangers that went along with the wizarding world, dangers Muggles had no hope of handling. How easily Tom could have taken over — wiped out or enslaved every Muggle on the planet — if witches and wizards had not stood in the line of fire and said no.

Maybe, one day, they'd be able to openly walk side by side with Muggles. Harry imagined an earth where no barriers kept the two worlds apart — Muggles turning onto Diagon Alley as easily as he was able to turn onto a London street. It was a beautiful picture, and maybe such a feat could happen. But it would not come from people like Tom who were too easily controlled by their fear and hatred. Not even from people like Harry who still found the wizarding world a spectacle, a marvelous escape from the suffocation of people like the Durselys and who felt, even at this very moment, a selfish urge to keep the wonders to himself. Such a feat required far more level headed, brave individuals than Harry or Tom would ever be.

The rain turned into hammers against the windowpanes, and snapping, Harry stood, kicking his chair out of the way as he stomped out of the kitchen. If he got a cold, hunting Tom down —

Harry jerked to a stop. Against a backdrop of rain, Tom stood in the doorway, drenched, his button-down shirt and trousers plastered to his skin. Harry could see every contour of his body. He was paler than usual, something his tousled, wet hair and hollow cheeks only made all the more heart stopping.

Harry crossed his arms, fortifying himself. "Got lost?"

A ghost of a smile appeared on Tom's lips. "In a way."

"Dinner's ready. Head's up, it's disgusting."

It might have been his imagination, but he thought the smile grew by a fraction.

"I'll change."

Tom left pools of water in his wake as he traveled down the hallway to his bedroom.

.

.

The silence between them was thicker than bubotuber pus and just as unpleasant. Harry kept his eyes downcast, focused on pushing his pasta around his plate. When Tom finally set his fork down, Harry leapt to his feet, busying himself with filling the sink. He wanted this horrible mess of a day over with. They had fucked three times since morning and those glorious hours couldn't have felt more removed.

The rustle of feathers — the flash of a beak. Rational Thought clattered up onto the drying rack.

Don't you mean, made love?

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could go back to before.

But before when?

Before they'd argued?

Before they'd kissed?

Before they could go an hour without trading barbs?

Before the Carcerem?

"I thought you were exaggerating," said Tom behind him. "But that was foul. How did you manage it?"

"It's a talent," said Harry shortly, scraping his half-eaten plate into a bucket for the compost.

"I will not harm your friends."

Harry turned off the tap. He turned. "Excuse me?"

"Hermione and Ron. If the Carcerem released us today, right now, I give you my word that I will never harm them or their families."

"Hermione's Muggle-born."

"And a commendable witch, from what you've told me."

"Ron's entire family are blood traitors."

"Let me clarify." Tom stood. He walked around the table, closing the distance between them. "I spoke out of turn earlier. I do not approve of Muggles. There are too many glaring examples to pretend that they are harmless to wizarding kind — to all of us, but" — Tom stopped before him; the back of his fingers ran whisper-soft up Harry's arm — "you care for them. Fool-hardy and downright imbecilic …" He took a steadying breath. "You care for them," he continued, trying again in a calmer tone, "and I give you my word that those you care for need never fear me."

"And the others?" Harry asked. "Everyone else?"

"You don't need to worry about everyone else. You've done enough of that."

Harry was incredulous. "What?"

"Harry—"

"Let me get this straight. You want me to … to … be happy in a little bubble with my friends while you continue your mission to root out every Muggle and claim world domination?"

Harry could tell that Tom was using every ounce of patience.

"With time," he said, "you'll see that I'm right."

"But you're not!" Harry roared. "Jesus." He pushed past Tom, worried that if he didn't get some distance, he'd throw a punch. "God, this is so fucked up. You're talking about enslavement! I saw that statue you fixed up in the Ministry. I know exactly what you want your world to be and it's wrong, Tom."

"Harry—"

"Don't! Just don't. You don't care about anyone or anything except yourself and it was my fault that I thought that maybe — just maybe — you'd started to."

"I care about you."

"No you don't!" Harry shouted so loud his voice bounced off the linoleum floor. "If you cared about me — if you knew me at all you'd know I'd never stand aside while you torture –"

"They are Muggles," Tom exploded, patience snapping. "You're so blinded by—"

"By what?" Harry snarled, shaking all over. "Do tell me Tom, just what could have possibly made me blinded toward Muggles? Could it have been the fact that — I don't know — you murdered my Muggle-born mother?"

"I've apologized for that," said Tom quietly.

"Oh, and you think that fixes it?" said Harry, feigning surprise. "You think saying sorry changes any of that?"

"Of course not," said Tom, quieter still.

"We never should have done this. What I was thinking?" Harry asked himself wildly, stepping further away. "God, what was I thinking?"

Lips and teeth.

Legs and hips.

Fingers and toes.

He knew every inch of Tom. How each morning he woke leisurely, rolling onto his back and stretching as luxuriously as a cat. How he smiled, slow and teasing.

Tom grabbed his arm. Harry jerked away, but Tom redoubled his hold. Harry fought, a strange semblance of the wrestling match they'd done earlier that morning in bed, but so different.

So, so different.

"Let me go!" Harry shouted.

"Not until you hear me out."

Tom's arms were a straitjacket. He was taller. He was stronger. He pinned Harry against the wall. Harry tried to stomp his feet.

"Harry—"

"Get off!"

"Har—"

Tom cut off sharply, his eyes suddenly wide. He released Harry, looking down at his left wrist, staring at it, frozen.

"No," he whispered, horrified.

All the anger — all the fight — left Harry in an instant.

"What is it?" he said at once.

"We're out of time," Tom whispered.

He rushed past Harry and Harry, utterly confused, followed him into the entrance hall. Tom opened the front door and a sound that Harry could only describe as the roar of a dragon reached his ears. He was beside Tom in seconds.

"What is that?"

It was too dark to see. The rain pounded the grass flat, but that roaring noise rose above it, surging louder.

"The ocean." And not even a second after Tom had spoken, a horrible splintering sound — like trees being snapped in half — reverberated up the hill. "It's rising." Tom slammed the door shut.

"Rising?" said Harry, startled. "Like a tsunami?"

Tom grabbed him by the shoulders, spinning him around so they were face to face.

"You have to forgive me. Now."

"W-what?"

Harry had never seen Tom so tense.

"Remember the crypt I told you about and the runes I found there? What I didn't bother to mention was that the Carcerem is not eternal," he said, speaking fast. "We are only given a certain amount of time to work out our differences, I just didn't know for how long."

The roaring grew louder. Tom yanked him into the common room, pulling him under the emblem on the ceiling, but it wasn't the same. It continued to move like clockwork, but the gold was tarnishing, the petals curling in on themselves. Hairline cracks spider-webbed from its center to each corner of the room. As Harry watched, chips of paint drifted to the floor like snowflakes.

"You know how this works, Harry!" said Tom, urgent. "Forgive me and we leave! That's all you have to do."

Harry pulled himself free. "Just slow down a minute!"

"There isn't time!"

"We don't know that!" Harry shouted. "This might just be another test."

Tom stilled. "You're wrist … you don't feel —"

The ground shook with the violence of an earthquake. Harry just managed to grab the sofa and Tom clutched the door frame for support. Next thing Harry knew, he was knocked head over heels as a surge of ocean water smashed through the front door, flooding the ground floor in a single wave. Sputtering and hacking, Harry scrambled upright. The water was up to his hips. The room was upended. Cushions bumped against his back. Seaweed wrapped around his legs.

Tom shook hair from his eyes. "We will be dead in an hour," he told him through gritted teeth, "unless you swallow your pride—"

"My pride? What about you?"

Tom stared at him, fury and fear vanishing.

"I have forgiven you."

Stunned, Harry was too slow to react. With an ear-splitting crack, the ceiling broke; great chunks of wood and plaster fell around them. Harry covered his head. He was knocked off his feet again. When he broke the surface, he could no longer touch the floor, the ceiling far closer than usual.

"Tom!"

A beam had fallen between them. Harry swam to it, trying to see past it, pushing floating cushions out of the way. He clambered over it.

"Tom!"

Slipping from the beam, he kicked out, swimming to the doorway where Tom had been standing. Tom broke the surface, coughing, but almost at once he began to sink. Blood — thick and vibrant — covered half his face. He'd been hit by the beam.

Harry reached him just before he disappeared back underwater. "Tom! Tom, can you hear me?" Harry kicked to stay afloat, the water up to his chin. Tom's eyes were half-closed. He slipped from Harry's grip—

"No." Harry redoubled his hold. He had to get to higher ground. "Tom, you've got to stay awake. We've got to swim up the stairs. Okay? Do you hear me? Swim, Tom."

A house elf's head from the hall slowly sailed past them, its large snout like a shark's fin. Tom's head lolled to the side, his eyes drifting in and out of focus. Harry's legs burned with the effort of keeping them both above water. If he could get them to the Owlery … but then what? Would the water keep rising until it swallowed everything?

"Harry," Tom mumbled. Blood was like an overturned inkwell, spreading around them, clouding the water. His weight was too much. Harry lost his hold.

He dove. Scooping his arms under Tom's armpits, he kicked with everything he had, back up to the surface, but almost immediately Tom's dead weight threatened to drag him back down. The salt water burned Harry's eyes.

I have forgiven you.

How could Tom have said that? Tom would never forgive him. It was impossible. Lord Voldemort did not forgive. It was just more trickery. More manipulation. Saying things he thought Harry wanted to hear.

But if he had…

If he really had…

Fleetingly, Harry realized he'd succeeded in making it up the stairs. Or perhaps the water had pushed them there. They were in the library; books upon books crowded them and still the water rose. With the last of his strength, Harry kicked toward a bookshelf, pinning Tom to the ladder they used to reach the upper shelves, their heads nearly brushing the ceiling.

You've been so brave…

You wonderful boy. You brave, brave man…

I care about you.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead against Tom's. How fitting that after months of peace the world ended on the coat-tails of a fight. With his fingers barely keeping their hold on the ladder, Harry pressed a kiss to Tom's hair, salt and blood ruining how sweet-smelling it always was. Tom would be horrified if Harry ever told him, but the feather-soft curls reminded him of jasmine. He buried his face in the black strands and whispered, "I forgive you."

His legs gave out, his fingers lost their purchase. Harry slipped beneath the surface, his lungs filling with water—

And his eyes snapped open. He wasn't drowning. He was dirty and sweaty and smelling of brimstone. He clutched a wand and it vibrated with magic beneath his fingers. Voices shouted behind him and he didn't need to turn to know they belonged to Ron and Hermione. The remnants of an exploded cabinet littered the headmaster's floor and there, standing not four feet from him—

Dressed in the long, black robes of Lord Voldemort, his wand still raised in the air from sending the cabinet flying, stood Tom, young and uninjured, human and utterly stunned.

"What the hell?" Ron yelled, startled.

Harry reacted in an instant.

"Protego!"

A shield erupted around him and Tom. Ron's spell ricocheted off it. Armando Dippet dived for cover with a yelp as it blasted a whole in his portrait.

"Harry!" Hermione cried. "What are you—"

Harry ignored her, pointing his wand at the door behind them.

"Colloportus!"

The only entrance sealed just as a muffled oof sounded as someone ran into it. The handle rattled, but the door remained shut.

He'd wanted to see them so badly, but now Ron and Hermione stared at him as if they did not recognize him.

"I know this doesn't make any sense," said Harry, speaking quickly, "but I need you to trust me."

"Harry—"

"What—"

"Please!"

Speechless and confused, they nodded uncertain, lowering their wands slightly. Harry rounded on Tom. He had no idea why the gleaming red eyes or slits for nostrils had not returned, but that was a question for another day.

"You have to go."

It was obvious that Tom was just as startled as everyone else in the room, but he snapped back to focus with the speed of a lightning strike. "Come with me."

Someone pounded on the door. His spell would not hold much longer.

"I can't," Harry whispered.

The handle jostled violently in its holder.

"Why won't it open?" someone shouted.

McGonagall's voice was muffled through the wood. "Out of the way, Finnigan!"

"They will kill you," said Harry, urgent. "You have to go. Please, go."

Tom's eyes, usually so cold — so hard — were wide open.

"Harry—"

"Please."

With a grimace that made Harry think he was in pain, Tom pointed his wand at a window. It shattered. With one fleeting look back, he hoisted himself onto the windowsill and leapt into the air. Harry ran to it just in time to see him fly like smoke on the wind, soaring over the Forbidden Forest.

The door finally banged open and half a dozen people, McGonagall and Neville at the lead, barreled into the office.

"Where is he, Potter?" cried McGonagall.

Ron and Hermione still stood to one side. They looked at him. The portraits were silent. Even Phineas Nigellus.

Harry swallowed. "He escaped."

McGonagall swore, spotting the shattered window.

"Search the grounds! We may still catch him before he reaches the gates."

As one, they surged back down the spiral staircase. In their wake, the office was deathly silent. Not a single portrait moved. Every eye was on him. Licking his dry lips, Harry kicked pieces of wood from the floor, searching.

"Harry," Hermione said nervously. "Harry, what's going on?"

He found it. The Carcerem was open. It resembled a lotus flower as it slowly curled its petals closed, finally forming a smooth, golden disk, no larger than a tea saucer. Bunching his singed sleeve over his hand, he picked it up from the floor, setting it on the headmaster's desk. He looked up and met Dumbledore's eyes. Those eyes did not shine with warmth. They were filled with tears.

"I have a lot to explain," said Harry, speaking to the portrait. "I'd like your help."

Dumbledore nodded.

"Seriously," said Ron, alarmed. "What's going on?"

Harry turned to them. He hesitated and then with a wave of his wand, a chair and ottoman righted themselves.

"You're going to need to sit for this," said Harry, feeling that he'd lived a lifetime. "It's a long story."

.

.

A/N: I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, but we've been headed to this point since chapter one.

We're not done yet! They are out of the Carcerem, but that is by no means the end. Our two favorite boys have a lot in store for them.