Chapter 31: (Tom's POV)

The house was falling into a crumbling state of disrepair, blackened by age and fire. A small shiver ran up his spine, something uneasy.

He could feel a lingering magic of the place pushing at him, furiously, desperately. It was too weak to do anything, and Harry didn't seem to notice. Still, it unsettled him slightly. The wards, broken and battered, knew him. They recognised him for who he truly was, no matter what Harry told himself.

He kept half an eye on the other boy at all times. He was subdued, morose and the air was silent between them, unfilled by quick retorts or sarcastic remarks. It was uncomfortable exactly, but it wasn't there normally surprisingly easy sense of companionship either. He kept quiet, unsure of how to address the boy - which was ridiculous, it wasn't like he was the type to spare Harry's feelings, Harry knew that.

There were pictures and remnants of a long lost life still lingering. A cup of tea, stone cold for years. He felt something odd tug at his insides. It wasn't regret, or pity, but it was something…alien. It was guilt, but it wasn't. It was also awe and a vindictive sense of triumph.

Harry didn't look at him, studying his surroundings with more focus than was entirely necessary. It wasn't just him. This place wasn't sitting right with Harry either, this stillness between them. A lot of it was a wreck, nothing much left, and the building was falling to pieces. It was only by magic that the wood hadn't rotted already.

They started up the stairs.

Tom could feel a sense of anticipation, hungry and eager growing inside his gut. His magic was starting to flitter. Nearly there, nearly there. He was vaguely aware that his older, future self must have walked these very steps, on the same night…but under so different circumstances. He found he didn't really feel anything about that, he couldn't help but wonder if he should have been feeling something more emotive than apathy…indifference. Harry's hand was trembling slightly as he stopped outside the door. He was hesitating, helplessly.

"This was the room," he stated. Tom watched him carefully.

"You remember it?" he questioned. Harry's head tilted just slightly in confirmation and something squeezed at his stomach again, gnawing like some ravenous beast. He took a step forward, not missing how Harry flinched. He felt a small sense of…something when the green eyed enigma didn't move away from him though. Seeing as Harry seemed to be glued to the spot, hesitating unable to move, he took the initiative to push the derelict door aside himself. It would have been a nice house, once. "You can stay outside, if you wish," he said quietly. Harry glanced at him, for the first time, his eyes glowing emeralds in the darkness.

"I'm coming in…I…I have to see," he murmured. Just like him. He had to see too.

He stepped in.

(Harry's POV)

He stepped in after Tom, warily, nausea and sorrow and even a tinge of fear nestling around his heart like a band of ice. Constricting. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but this shattered room wasn't it.

Red and gold paint, peeling off the wall. A cot, absolutely destroyed with shards of wood scattered across the room. Half the room was missing, giving view to the streets and fields beyond. The roof was half torn off, as if ripped away by giant, vicious hands. It looked like it had been hit by a bomb. Or, his mind offered unwelcomingly, a rebounding killing curse.

Green flashed behind his eyelids. Screams echoed in his head. He was only aware of the choked sound that must have come from him, when Tom, a few paces ahead, looked back at him sharply.

"Could do some interior decorating work…" The teenage dark lord stated. Harry wasn't sure whether or not to curse Tom for that comment, or hugged him for breaking that god-awful silence.

"Your face could do with some interior decorating work," he mumbled. Tom arched a brow, but thankfully didn't comment at his abysmal comeback. Harry took a few steps so he was level with Tom. He was almost expecting something momentous happen, like collapsing from a flashback or…something. There was nothing, and it was eerie. He shivered slightly. He could hear their voices, hear his mum pleading for mercy. No, he could just remember them…remember the Dementors. Why couldn't he have some happy family members, god damn it, why!

"Are you okay?" Tom asked.

"Fine," he said automatically, before pausing. "I feel like there should be something more," he admitted.

"Slightly anticlimactic, isn't it?" Tom replied. He glanced at the other boy in surprise; it wasn't just him then? Tom's eyes scoured the room, ruthlessly, then stopped, frozen.

Harry followed his gaze, his fingers clenching slightly. A cloak, black - Voldemort's, undoubtedly. Crumpled by the cot. Tom was by it in seconds, his hand searching the pockets. Harry felt something strike him hard at that, and turned away, feeling sick. Involuntarily, he found his eyes drawn back to the Slytherin heir as he actually retrieved something from the pocket.

"What is it?" he asked, despite himself. Tom held his hand out to show him, before his eyes flicked up to Tom's eyes. "That's…" he began, before stopping. He felt distinctively uneasy.

"A remembrall," Tom said softly. Even as he spoke, the smoke in the orb swirled into a bloody red.

What the hell were they missing?

AN: Well, it's an update, but is it any good? Thanks for the reviews. As always, it's not slash. Hope you guys enjoyed it. Adios - The Fictionist.