There wasn't a chamber in the Zabini house that anyone would describe as small. The sitting room they stood in was gargantuan, but it felt as tiny as the cubicle he shared with Harry at the Ministry and not because there were many people in it. Only Granger, Shacklebolt and Robards were present, listening to Harry explain what had transpired down below. As the cellar swarmed with Ministry officials, the Zabinis were in some other part of the house, close enough that Tom could still hear Camila raging at whichever Auror had been tasked with keeping her out of the way.

Tom stood as opposite Harry as he could without leaving the room. A chasm had appeared between them and it grew with each passing second. The faint shadow of a bruise colored Harry's neck. Tom wanted to curse off his own fingers at the sight of it.

Egyptian Ash. There had been Egyptian Ash in that urn.

A highly potent compound that removed inhibitions and enhanced emotions to astronomical levels, it used to be a common ingredient in Amortentia before the ash was discovered to be exceedingly toxic to those who consumed too much of it.

He had been covered in an ingredient to the most powerful love potion known to wizard kind and what had he done? He had forgotten everything. He had seen Harry and forgotten everything. With the snap of a finger, Lord Voldemort returned with death and vengeance bleeding his vision red.

Remember when we made love.

Tom wanted to curl in on himself. He wanted to vanish. He wanted to stride across the plush carpet and kiss Harry in front of everyone.

Shag. Fuck. Sex. All crude words to describe something that had never been crude. Even now the heat of lust was coiled in his gut — it never left, not since it flared into life when Harry woke him from a nightmare in the Carcerem, sliding into bed beside him rather than leave him alone. But it wasn't just lust he felt, Tom finally realized. Far deeper, the root of it all was love.

He loved Harry.

Finally he understood what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him.

As he watched Harry tell the others of the monster in the cellar, that old ache in his chest that he hadn't felt since leaving the Carcerem returned. All along, it had been love. Tom knew he would never stop feeling it, even if he could rip out his heart and lock it in a box like that foolish warlock in the fairytale. It had taken root inside him. Without his knowing, it had ensnared him. It had infected him. There was no purging it now.

But Harry did not want him that way. Not anymore. Perhaps that was Tom's fault. Perhaps if he had said that one monstrous word from the beginning he never would have stopped saying it, but would they still have ended up here? An argument — a fight — and a bruise purpling Harry's cream-colored skin?

You are volatile, Tom Riddle. You are an insecure, hot tempered bastard who would do anything, anything for just a glance, just a touch — say the word, Harry, say the word and I will give you the stars; I will kiss constellations onto your skin. Just stay with me.

The days in the Carcerem were gone. If he had known how fleeting they would be, that they would turn to smoke and vanish on the wind, he would have caught hold of the truth sooner. He would have recognized it from the first thundering of his heart when Harry had turned to him that night, saying so softly — so softly — okay.

Lovers. Harry did not wish to be his lover anymore. But if Harry could forgive him for yet another horrible wrong … if he once again offered the hand of friendship …

Can you do that, Tom? Can you stand beside him — wanting him, needing him, loving him — and never have him?

xXx

"You think it came out of one of the Elladora Works?" said Kingsley. "This creature that attacked you?"

"Did you actually see it come out of one of them?" asked Hermione.

"No," Harry admitted. "But I think it's been outside of it for a while."

"But you said you didn't see what was inside Nothingness when you fell into it," Robards reminded him.

"True," Harry conceded. "But I have seen this thing before." He glanced at Tom. The man stood in the corner beside a bookcase, half shrouded in shadow, as far removed from the rest of them as possible. He had not spoken a word since Harry'd called for backup. Harry wanted all of this chatter over with so he and Tom could talk. He'd never seen him so pale. Not even when he'd learned the truth about accidentally turning Harry into a Horcrux.

"In the Carcerem," he said, speaking more to Tom than to others. "In a painting."

Tom, who had been avoiding his gaze, looked up at Harry's words, his eyes latching onto his.

"You described it as small," said Tom.

"Paintings can be misleading," Harry shrugged. "Their subjects aren't exactly true to scale."

"You saw this creature in the Carcerem?" said Kingsley sharply, looking at the both of them.

"I did," said Harry. "Tom didn't."

"But subjects can't just emerge out of paintings like that," said Hermione. "They only exist in art form."

"The Elladora Works are windows into other dimensions," said Harry. "And the Carcerem literally creates its own world in a separate plane from ours. What if this thing is not a bit of rabid artwork at all, but a creature from a different universe and somehow it can travel from one dimension to another?"

"But if that was the case," said Hermione, "it would have already entered our world before now. If something could actually travel from dimension to dimension, we would have already met it, surely."

"Maybe not if it wasn't strong enough. When I saw it in the Carcerem it was stunted. Starved. Barely alive. And it wasn't abiding by the Carcerem's rules. It could move inside the painting when nothing else could. Neither Tom nor I had ever seen it before and the Carcerem is built entirely on memories. It didn't belong there. And when I fell into Nothingness, it felt like something was eating my magic."

"Josephine Laurent," Tom whispered.

"She was drained completely of magic," Harry went on. "So have a number of magical creatures in this area. When we fought it just now, none of our spells affected it. It absorbed the spells. I think … I think it could only travel partway. It's like it's able to stand at entrances to other dimensions, but is unable to step through on its own, not until it got enough energy from me when I encountered it inside Nothingness."

"Are you telling me that we have an unknown creature from an alternate universe that consumes magic?" Robards asked.

"I think so."

Robards looked ashen. Kingsley took a moment to ground himself before turning to the head Auror.

"I want everyone here to know what they are dealing with. No one attacks it until we understand more. I'm bringing in Braff."

Harry paled. Braff was the head Unspeakable. Four months ago he'd taken charge of the Carcerem and Harry knew for a fact that the man was highly curious as to the identity of the pair who'd last activated it. When Harry joined the Aurors, Braff had taken pains to introduce himself. Though Harry hadn't liked him at all, it was the feeling that Braff suspected he had been inside the Carcerem that made him choose to always walk down a different hall if he saw Braff coming.

"Do we have to?" Harry asked.

"Parallel dimensions, pocket universes — this is just one of the many mysteries Unspeakables study. Yes, we need him."

Kingsley left.

Hermione appeared at Harry's side.

"I was in a floo-call with Ron when Blaise interrupted. He's probably worried."

"It's okay," said Harry. "We've got this." Then the oddity struck him. "Why did Zabini call you?"

Hermione looked suddenly uncomfortable. She shot a quick glance to make sure the others weren't listening and said in a rush, "He's one of my biggest donors."

"What?"Harry gasped. "For spew?"

Hermione nodded. "Please don't tell anyone. It will only embarrass him."

Harry was stunned. Blaise Zabini, standing up for house elf rights?

"I think he feels guilty that he didn't help the rest of us during the battle," Hermione explained, correctly guessing his bafflement. "You know, how the Slytherinsall wanted to hand you over? I think this is his way at trying to make up for that."

He'd had no idea.

"Secret's safe with me," Harry promised.

Hermione looked relieved, but she suddenly frowned with fresh concern.

"You're neck," she said, noticing the marks there.

"It's nothing," said Harry hastily. "A lot of stuff was flying around down there. I got banged up."

The need to hurry back to Ron had her accepting Harry's story quicker than she normally would have. She gave him a swift hug, told him to be careful, and hurried from the room.

.

.

"We have no idea if this thing can make itself invisible or whether it can Apparate," said Robards, ten minutes later on the Zabini front steps to the host of witches and wizards gathered. "We have reason to believe that it is highly dangerous and should be treated with extreme caution. We also suspect that spells do not work properly against it. If you come across it, signal. Do not attempt to engage. Stay in pairs."

The wizards around Harry set off, fanning out across the sweeping highlands that surrounded the Zabini property. Harry spotted Tom amongst them. He hurried after him at a run.

"Tom!"

Tom did not slow, nor did he turn around.

"Hey. Hey—" Harry grabbed his arm, holding him back. "Can we talk?"

The closest wizards were half a yard away. It was just as windy as the day when they'd searched for clues regarding Josephine Laurent. No one would overhear their conversation.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked.

Tom stared at him as if Harry had uttered the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. "Am I okay?" He looked pointedly at Harry's throat. "You are the one who I just nearly killed." He tried to yank his arm free, but Harry held on.

"Hey — Look at me. Look at me. You stopped. There was a time not so long ago when you wouldn't have. What happened down there was not your fault. I know you didn't mean to do any of it. We're good," Harry said, earnestly. "You got that?"

Tom did not reply, but with a small jerk of his head, he nodded. Harry released his arm, but Tom didn't move off to follow the rest of the search party. Instead, he took a step closer.

"Your neck," he said softly, lifting his wand.

Harry stood still, letting Tom heal the damage his hands had caused. If an Auror looked their way just then, they'd find the pair of them strange, each standing so still, nearly nose to nose. Tom's fingers ghosted over the skin, inspecting it and then he stepped back, clearing his throat, looking suddenly awkward, a sight that was so wrong on him.

Without a word they joined the search party. Harry kept his wand at the ready, one eye peeled for the creature, the other on Tom. He had no idea what to do if it attacked again. It puzzled him that the thing had fled when it clearly held the upper hand. The idea that it could make itself invisible had him turning, looking over his shoulder, a prickling of unease making the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

His throat no longer hurt, but it was scratchy and uncomfortable. As much as he knew Tom regretted his actions, Harry couldn't help but notice how determined history was to repeat itself. He had nearly crushed Harry's windpipe once before on a terrible night in the Carcerem. Not even twenty minutes ago, the murderous rage of Lord Voldemort had distorted Tom's handsome face. Were they doomed to live in Voldemort's shadow forever?

No, Harry thought firmly. Not if he could help it.

.

.

The search was fruitless. The creature was nowhere to be found though they stayed out long into the night. Harry was exhausted. At the crack of dawn, he stumbled into his cottage only to be met by Ron and Hermione, both worn with worry.

"Where have you been?" Hermione demanded.

"The highlands and then the moors and then a forest or two," said Harry. He collapsed onto his couch, rubbing his eyes.

"Did you find it?"

"No. It's completely vanished."

"Maybe it went back into that mosaic — Nothingness," Ron suggested. Hermione had clearly told him everything. "After it attacked you and Riddle."

Harry shook his head. A headache throbbed behind his temples. "The Elladora Works — all of them — were destroyed in the attack. There's no putting them back together."

"What does Braff think?" Hermione asked, delicately.

"That we're a bungling mess of morons, like always," Harry grumbled. "He wanted to view my memory of the attack."

"Well that makes sense," Ron pointed out. "You and Riddle are the only ones who've seen it."

Harry glared. "I refused."

"What? Why?" said Hermione, startled.

"Because Braff and everyone else with top clearance would have seen Tom attack me shortly after the monster left."

"What?"

Hermione's eyes zeroed in on his neck. "You said—" she began, hotly.

"We crashed into something. He was covered in this weird dust. It did something to him. It was like he lost his short-term memory. He thought he was Voldemort again. He acted like we were back at war. But he stopped," Harry said, firmly. "He came out of it. No one got hurt. But Braff wouldn't understand and if it got out that Tom's Voldemort—"

"No," Ron agreed, tense. "That wouldn't go over well."

"What did Braff do when you refused?" Hermione asked.

Harry snorted. "Said he didn't care how many dark lords I saved the world from, that I should damn well do what he said or else I might not be working at the Ministry much longer."

Hermione looked scandalized.

Ron's lips twisted in disgust. "Someone needs to remind Braff that he isn't Minister."

"What about Tom?" Hermione asked. "Has Braff gone after him too?"

"Yep. He's with him right now. When I turned Braff down, Tom offered. They were heading down to his office when I left."

Hermione and Ron were floored.

"I doubt the memory Tom gives him will be the real one," Harry told them. "I think he could pull off a fake memory to fool anyone, save Dumbledore."

"And how is Tom?" Hermione asked carefully, again glancing at his throat though the bruises were gone.

If he was honest with himself, Harry didn't like that Tom had agreed to see Braff fresh off the attack and after a day and night long search. Tom was still avoiding Harry's eyes. Unwanted yet undeniable, Harry felt that something had shifted between them. It made Harry worried. He wanted to go to the Cornithia and speak to Tom, but he suspected that might not be the wisest choice. Something was telling him to give Tom space.

"He's been better."

xXx

"Thank you for agreeing to assist me in our investigation," said Braff, not sounding remotely thankful. "As your partner seems to have more pressing matters."

Tom let Braff's disgruntlement hang in the air of his stuffy office. From a very early age, Tom had found it interesting to study people's emotions. It was useful data to file away. What made someone reckless? What made someone short-sighted? By the time he was seven, Tom had mastered the subtle art of manipulation by the simple, quiet study of reading faces and Braff was ripe for the plucking.

Harry was not loved by everyone. Tom knew that quite intimately as he'd spent a great portion of his life positively loathing Harry Potter, but it did surprise him that an Unspeakable would hold such a bitter grudge. Since working with Harry, there had been zero mention of the Department of Mysteries, though the way Harry reacted when Shacklebolt brought up Braff's name …

Tom's eyes casually swept the office again, now with greater interest.

Ah.

The smooth, flat golden disk of the Carcerem sat upon the top shelf in a large glass cabinet. So that was where it had gone off to. Tom doubted that Braff knew Harry had been inside it, but perhaps he suspected … or perhaps simply being an unpleasant man in the basement while the young, shining savior of the wizarding world bypassed all standard requirements for enlisting in the Aurors grated a bit too much. How amusing. To hold a grudge against Harry for no better reason than his skill at being a wizard.

"Name?" Braff grunted.

"Thomas Thorne."

"If you will sign here and place the memory of your encounter with the creature in the Pensieve," said Braff, shoving a sheet of parchment toward him.

Tom complied. Smiling pleasantly, he placed his wand tip to his temple and dropped a silvery strand into the waiting basin.

xXx

The days eased by. Summer released its last, great huff and October brought a brisk chill to the air that had Harry walking at a quicker pace to the village grocery and Burrow.

The monster had not been found. Harry didn't understand why it had vanished so completely. If they were right and it consumed magic, then why would it stop? The morgue was on high alert to identify bodies with similar signs of Josephine Laurent, but Stew and his coworkers had been silent for over four weeks. Even Rolf had not found an increase in dead magical creatures in the sweeping highlands and surrounding moors. Perhaps the monster was like a bear and, after filling its belly, was settling in some cave somewhere for a nice long hibernation.

Harry wanted to believe this. He really did, regardless of how Hermione lifted an eyebrow every time he brought up the monster's absence. The problem was he didn't.

It might have been from being on the run for a year or being blessed with a life that attracted trouble, but Harry kept feeling that something was watching him.

After work one day, he brought it up with Tom. Like Hermione, he was unimpressed.

"Harry, there's always someone watching you."

"That's a bit extreme—"

Tom looked pointedly over Harry's shoulder. He turned and spotted two witches staring at him. They giggled at each other the moment he saw them. Tom lifted the books he'd purchased from the counter and strolled out of Flourish and Blotts with an expression of 'you were saying?'

"I know what I'm talking about," Harry argued, catching up with him on the street. "Something isn't right."

"So what are you planning on doing with our invisible creature that no one — not the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures or the Department of Mysteries or the Auror Department — has been able to find?"

"I don't know," Harry grumbled, disgruntled. "That's why I'm asking you."

"You flatter me."

"Doesn't it strike you as odd that it just disappeared?" Harry persisted as they entered Knockturn Alley and headed toward a potion shop that Tom insisted was the only one worth visiting. The bell over the door jingled as they entered.

"Odd, yes, but it's not keeping me up at night. Get the flobberworm mucus for me."

"What are you making?" Harry asked, searching the shelf for the vial as Tom loaded a sack with lavender.

"An experiment." With a smirk, he added, "You can be my test subject."

Harry laughed dryly. "No thanks."

He passed Tom a small bottle and watched him weave through the store to the counter. They had not spoken again about his near strangulation since that windswept day on the grounds outside the Zabini house and Harry was relieved for it. He'd meant what he'd said to Tom at the hospital: he was tired of living in the past. Though he suspected that Tom was still shaken by what he'd done, Harry was delighted that the frigidness Tom had been carrying around was gone. If he was still angry at Harry for turning him down, he kept it to himself. He was back to his charming, wry-humored self. A part of Harry felt nervous … that at any moment the easy-going friendship they'd found would upend again, but for now, he would take what he could.

"Why are you so cheerful?" Tom asked, spotting the smile on Harry's face when he returned, his goods shrunk and stored in his robe pocket.

"Nothing," said Harry, feeling suddenly light as a feather.

As they left Knockturn Alley, all worries of monsters momentarily escaped him.

xXx

Tom funneled the fresh potion into a slender bottle. If Harry chose to visit, he would not notice it, assuming it to be liquor tucked away with all the others in Tom's cabinet.

First the Muggles. Now this. The slope he'd stepped on was far slicker than he'd initially thought. All the plans. All the plotting. What he wanted he got. But not this time.

Not this time.

Tom filled a small glass with the potion. Dreamless Sleep.

The nights were torment. Endless hours alone in his apartment with nothing to do but drink and remember: Harry's back arching, his breath hot on Tom's neck … Come morning, Tom was hungover from misery and Firewhisky, blinking and blinded by the radiance of Harry, the loss a hundred times worse, like a wound he kept ripping open again and again. He could leave; pack his bags and be gone. A new identity, a freshly transfigured face – no one would find him.

But Harry…

To never see Harry again? To never hear his voice, smell his scent, witness his lopsided grin? That was punishment Tom would never survive.

But he couldn't keep bleeding. If he didn't do something to staunch the flow, ease the pain, dampen the longing, he would do something he'd regret. Something that even Harry would never forgive him for.

Cup in hand, he entered his bedroom. The lights vanished from their bulbs with a flick of his wand. He undressed and slipped under the sheets, swallowing the potion in one go and settling back onto the pillows, waiting to be whisked away to a place where no visions of Harry would threaten to arise.

But as he waited — in the short few heartbeats before the potion ensnared him — he remembered. The smell of salt ocean and sweet grass … Harry's tongue in his mouth … Harry's weight shifting downward, placing kisses on his stomach, his thighs … those green eyes gazing at him with such blistering heat Tom felt himself being undone.

On his next exhale, the potion claimed him and he knew no more.