A/N: Hello, I'm back. After a while. But hey. I hope you guys are still enjoying the story…any suggestions of events etc that you would like to see? Thank you for all the reviews, they make my heart fuzz. Here you go anyhow - The Fictionist

Chapter 33:

He should have known that it was too good to last. Something bad always happened on Halloween - Tom would be thrilled. This just went to prove that there was no such thing as miracles. Salazar, that was depressing.

He felt hands shaking his shoulders urgently, forcing him into consciousness. Screams ripped painfully from his throat, silencing with a choking sound as his eyes snapped open. His pillow and shirt was stained with blood, his forehead burning white hot. Zevi and Tom were closest to him. He blinked, trying to quell his rising nausea. Death eater raid. The war had officially started - gone public. The Slytherins were all staring at him.

"Thank god," Alphard breathed. "We've been trying to wake you for the last five minutes."

They had? He groaned slightly, feeling woozy. He could feel Tom's gaze piercing at his soul. He leapt up immediately, trying to ignore the way that the world seemed to slip and slide beneath him. Quick as lightning, Tom was in front of him, his grip firm.

"Harry?" he questioned. His eyes shot up. "What is it?" his tone was tight. "You don't normally start bleeding."

"It's not normally a death eater raid," he replied, as calmly as he could.

He sounded composed to his own ears, but on the inside his skin was jerking and twitching, his muscles edgy and his mind unable to settle. He heard an intake of breath around the room and hid a sigh. The nausea bubbled up again as the blood and screams flickered behind his eyes. He had to do something. He just had to - he couldn't just sit here.

"There's a raid going on, now?" Draco asked, a complete absence of arrogance in his voice. Harry could feel the stirrings of pity in his stomach.

"Don't you just love Halloween," he said. He'd meant it to be a drawl, sarcastic and relaxed, but his voice sounded too small and uncertain. God. He hated this. His eyes flicked feverishly around the room, settling on the door. "Don't wait up." This time, he managed the drawl. He pushed past, once more swallowing nausea as the world rocked and destruction swirled behind his eyelids at every waking moment.

"Oh no you don't," Tom snapped, his wand drawn in seconds. It was ridiculous that someone dressed in pyjamas could look so dangerous. He stiffened.

"People are dying," he spat. "I don't expect you to care about that, but I do!"

"It's not your job to run off into a death eater raid in the middle of the night," Tom's tone was one of forced calm. "Go back to bed."

"Same difference. I'm going to end up there anyway aren't I?" he retorted, pointing a finger at the scar. "I'm a walking talking mind link, remember!"

"Funnily enough, I do," Tom sneered. "Considering I'm on one of the receiving ends of it. Tell me, how exactly are you planning on helping 'innocents' when you can't even get close to the fight without falling into my future counterparts mind?" he questioned delicately. Harry glared.

"I'll find a way," he snarled. Tom's aura was beginning to thrum, the darkness growing more pronounced every second. "Excuse me," he said coldly. Tom smiled, mockingly.

"You know you wouldn't last a second away from my magic, don't you?" he replied. "The paradox is the only thing keeping you from dropping to the floor screaming."

"Tom -" Abraxas began, weakly. The Slytherin heir ignored the blonde, pushing the door open with that same mocking expression.

"But by all means, hero," Tom continued, his eyes glittering with some indecipherable emotion. He stormed past, enraged and irritable. His head hurt and his muscles hurt from Voldemort's use of torture curses (and what the hell, why did he have to feel them when they weren't even directed at him?) and he really could NOT be bothered to deal with the young Dark Lord's crap at that moment in time.

"Fine," he snapped. He stifled the gasp as he felt Tom violently draw his own magic back as he left the dormitory. Ow, god. That did hurt. He closed his eyes for a moment against the pain, but continued anyhow. He refused to give Riddle, the bastard, the satisfaction of seeing him suffer.

He was halfway across the common room when he could feel his mind starting to blur, hear battle cries and screams even louder in his mind. He kept flashing to Voldemort. Another body hit the ground in a flash of colour, arcing almost gracefully. He was going to be sick. He could feel himself shaking, as if in trapped in the sways of fever. HE HATED HALLOWEEN. He'd been naïve, too optimistic, in thinking that he could possibly have a Halloween without a near death experience or something horrible happening. His vision was tinting black and he felt his insides twist with desperation and self loathing.

He had to do something, why did he have to be so weak and incompetent that he couldn't even help. He was useless. The Slytherin common was spinning and lurching around him, sickeningly. His head was throbbing. Then there was nothing but death and blood and destruction.

(Tom's POV)

He watched as Harry dropped, somewhere near the door, crumpling like a rag doll. He could feel Zevi's pleading eyes burning into his back and scowled.

"What?" he demanded lowly. Zevi started, looking guilty at being caught in the act, turning his eyes away and looking down at his bare feet in silence. He let his eyes rest, reprimanding, on the other boy, before he crossed the room to where Harry was curled in agony on the floor.

God damn Potter. Such a stubborn, hot headed, noble idiot. He let his magic seep out again, watching impassively as the paradoxical effects of his presence did its work. After a moment, the green eyes opened once more, haunted and guarded, drowning in pain.

"So stubborn," he chided, his voice more gentle than he had initially planned. His anger just seemed to be draining out of him - anger that Harry would always rush off at a moments notice to play superman, perpetually his enemy. And friend, a small voice in his head offered tentatively. He ignored it, as normal. He was a psychopath, and he meant that in the clinical way - he didn't do caring and sharing and he had a far below normal amount of empathy or conscience. But, he did have one - however twisted or small it was. It just didn't normally get a say or mind time. Whatever.

Harry blinked up at him, his emotions tumbling behind his gaze - Tom could feel it as clearly as Harry could feel his future self's. Guilt. Self loathing, so much self loathing. Helplessness. Fury. All so strong that he could almost taste them on his tongue. Sorrow. He was mourning for every life that was lost in the war. Salazar, what a martyr. He was going to get himself killed.

"I have to do something," Harry insisted, his eyes dull and lost. Tom felt something stir in his chest, but it wasn't his heart. Nope. He didn't have one. He'd probably just slept badly or eaten badly or…something.

"I know," he said quietly, and he did. He knew how much Harry wanted to help.

"I hate Halloween," his voice was bitter. Tom felt a smirk curling his lips slightly, not sympathetic but something similar.

"I know," he repeated. Harry stared down at the floor, before looking up with that old determination and steely resolve. He could guess what Harry was going to say before he opened his mouth to speak.

"You want me to teach you occlumency," he stated softly. Oh, the possibilities. Harry looked up at him.

"I know," he mimicked. Tom almost smiled.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," he said, conjuring a bucket. Harry was looking a little green.

It was going to be a long night.