The small cuts on his cheek were now inflamed and leaking all colours of yellow. For the first time since he was a toddler, he had a proper infection. Most of the time, his magic just healed these scrapes easily on his own.

Petunia had banished him into his room until it healed. Harry didn't want to think about what would happen if it never did.

He flicked through the pages of his books, only to squint at the pages. Night already? How? Harry tried to mark down the day on his little self-made calendar.

Was it - no, he talked to Voldemort two days ago. It would be the 18th. Was it today or tomorrow that he would come back? Nights, did he count the night he left as one?

Damp cotton was stuffed in his brain. Was it his sickness getting to him? Or were the gripping claws of isolation maiming his brain?

Some days he swore that the shadows danced at the edge of his vision, always moving until he laid sights on them. Footsteps tapped lightly against the creaking wooden floors when he wasn't paying attention.

And then, of course, his calming visits in the morning.

People talked about, "Whatever helps you sleep at night." Was that it? The self-soothing words were muttered until unconsciousness manifested into a semi-corporal form.

He was having outbursts of strong accidental magic.

That must be it.

He needed it to be.

Mermaids swam above him, swishing at schools of fish that fled from them. The sun above was a pinprick that cast a blurry haze of light that didn't touch him. He lay down under the protection of a bubble of air.

From the depths of the darkness, a small dark-scaled mermaid approached him. They spoke in a language he didn't understand, but he felt like they were making some type of deal.

A pale hand - himself - reached out and handed the creature a bag of something. The mermaid opened it and then gave him a seaweed-binded bag in return.

Inside was something shiny and some blue crystals. He felt his mouth move, but the memory was already becoming distant. The last thing he saw was the rays of light being blocked out by something large.

His fingers tapped on the ring. Admittedly, he hadn't gathered much information about it. The dark magic radiating from it was more than the power of the diary, if only barely. Otherwise?

Nothing

He slipped it on his index finger. The magic within him sung with it. It felt powerful, dark and mysterious like the bottom of the ocean. Most of him enjoyed it, but a microscopic part of him knew he needed to take it off.

"Ouch!" He hissed.

There was a small sliver of gold in the band that made a small cut on his finger. It was purposeful, with a small indentation to put the needle-like prick away. When he pressed it into it, the gold melted together and left no indication of its presence.

Odd.

A half-crumpled paper plane flew through his window and landed in front of him. Voldemort was staring down at him with a downright vicious look. It ran across to his forehead, a burn resounding in the scar.

'Where did you get those?' If Harry wasn't mentally wincing in pain, it would be funny to see Voldemort angrily writing on paper. He noticed that the ink glowed slightly, enough for him to easily read it in the dark.

'Dumbledore gave it to me to study.' Harry maintained a poker face as he thumbbed the ring in a circle. That only made the man more alarmed.

'He gave it to you? The diary too?' For the first time, he felt genuine panic stir through his scar.

'Actually, Lucius Malfoy dropped the diary into Ginny Weasley's cauldron in my second year, past-you possessed her and petrified a few students, people blamed me because I'm a parseltongue, and he tried to murder me with the basilisk. I shoved the sword of Gryffindor through its skull and used a basilisk fang to stab the diary.' He held up the gaping hole in the book.

A snarl escaped Voldemort's mouth. 'I told Lucius to guard it with his life.'

Then, a pause, 'How are you a parseltongue?'

Harry shrugged, 'Dunno. I thought you'd focus more on the whole murdering the basilisk thing.'

'You just stabbed a basilisk through the skull? No twelve-year-old has the strength to stab through a skull that thick.'

Voldemort was doubting him? How dare he!

'Actually,' Harry wrote too quickly and droplets of ink streaked across the page, 'The basilisk went to bite me and I used its own force to stab it through the roof of its mouth. It did manage to leave a tooth in my arm, I used that to stab the book, then Fawks cried in my arm and healed me.'

There was a long wait after Harry held up his parchment. Voldemort's eyes scanned his note once, twice, thrice. A prickling was brewing in his scar. He could barely see him, but the man breathed deeply, and his shoulders sunk. Then he picked up his quill again.

'Phoenix tears do not heal basilisk venom. It only fights it off until there isn't any left. If you have not yet succumbed to the venom it is currently making you weaker. Have you been feeling unwell lately?'

Harry's hand trembled as he wrote, 'My cheek is infected and I've been tired lately. My accidental magic has been going haywire.' What else? What else had he been experiencing?

Voldemort clapped his hands in front of his face, his entire upper body sunk in a sigh.

'And this is why yearly medical scans should have never been discontinued from Hogwarts.' The writing paused, 'I will be back.'

Before Harry was able to 'say' anything, Voldemort popped out of existence.

Panic brewed deeply within him. Was he actually dying? No, it can't be. He was just tired. The 19 days of interrupted sleep was the answer. If he rose at 6 in the morning every day, then he was maybe getting 5 hours of sleep a night.

The isolation too. All he had to talk to was Voldemort. And for these past few days, no one. With all of that, it was only natural that he'd get sick. That he'd be weak. He just needed to rest and have company.

It was only 42 days until he was back at Hogwarts. He was 31% done with his summer. Not even halfway… Dammit! By the time he returned to his friends, he'd be as mad as Bellatrix.

Crack.

Blurry-eyed, Harry looked up. The man was holding a box wrapped in a dark green cloth. Parchment and a quill rose in the air, scribbling down some words.

'Send the owl.'

Hedwig hooted at him angrily when he practically chucked her out the window. Voldemort said something to the owl and threw the package with a tense expression. She caught it, sinking down a little, but carried it back to him.

He looked up at Voldemort, who nodded at him and then started to scribble down a note. Harry untied the cloth and opened the flat black lid. Inside, a tin and three potion vials lay, all an off-red. He unscrewed the tin, and a floral-smelling blue paste was within.

'The tin has a salve called Brigid's Tears. Apply it to your infection once in the morning and once at night. The vials are a combination of a Pepper-Up potion and an immune booster, take it with food. I don't keep any Phoenix tears on hand, but the extra immunity should slow the venom's progression.' Voldemort wrote.

Harry's eyes flickered from the box to Voldemort. Then again. Then again. He picked up his quill and began to write.

'Why are you helping me?'

Voldemort blinked, his face crossed with confusion. He bit his lip and looked away. It took him a while to write back.

'You will die on my permission alone. Not because of an infection or your Headmaster's incompetence.'

Ah, so that was the reason. Voldemort was a control freak, not a shocker. Though it should disturb him that it was said that directly after sending potions that he wasn't completely sure weren't poisoned.

However, hadn't Voldemort given him the chance to duel him before? The man knew Harry couldn't win, but he still offered. Perhaps attacking an infant had led him to have some honour. That he wished to murder Harry alone, without the intervention of others.

Harry had been stupid. Was stupid, still. But he was going to try to use this to his advantage as much as possible. Or, at the very least, make his time at the Dursleys more comfortable.

'Can you send me food? If I can't take the potion without it, then I can't have the boosted immunity.'

It wasn't a lie. Petunia would feed him once a day through the cat flap on his door at noon, but he never had any spare. He'd already eaten through his snacks; the fogginess in his head and the multiple bombshells thrown at him made him forget to food prep for longer than two weeks.

'Are you asking me to play delivery boy? Do they not feed you here?' Voldemort's face was fixed in a disgusted snarl.

'Please?'

Ten minutes later, Harry knocked back a potion and was happily munching on a sausage with a side of tomato soup and two croissants. Voldemort sent him glares, but Harry was in too good of a mood to be bothered.

Each day, Harry would awake to see a small package on his desk. Inside would be an occasional potion or salve along with three meals for the day. How Voldemort managed to call Hedwig in the night without him knowing was beyond him.

As much as it begrudged him, he had to admit Voldemort's help greatly improved his health. He was less tired, more focused, and in a generally better mood.

The calming visits had only gotten more frequent, too.

No longer was it bound to the early dawns, he could feel the presence lingering at all times. After Vernon had hit him again, when he was cooling off a burn, weeding the gardens, even showering at one point.

To his glee, it was always there when he was falling asleep. Including on this night.

That same calm coaxed into him, covering his brain in a blanket of comfort. Ghostly touches of arms draped over his shoulders, He snuggled up to it. It had also become more physical, emitting a comforting heat that warmed his soul.

Circles rubbed into his back, working out the tight knots in his muscles. He hummed contently into its chest.

"Patronus," He wasn't even aware it had slipped from his mind to his lips.

A sharp chuckle filled the air. Harry wiggled closer, his face burrowed in the crick of its neck. If he strained hard enough, he could hear a faint pulse just under the skin.

"Patronus," The voice repeated.

Delightfully, Voldemort appeared early on July 27th, at 10:00 at night. The Prophet had printed a run on the newest creature-restriction bill by Umbridge, to both of their ires. Her attack on non-wixen was bolstered by the scare with the centars.

Voldemort had also given him a second dinner of a lamb chop and fancy mashed potatoes with wine. Even if it was non-alcoholic, he still felt an odd stir in his stomach.

'And then she imprisoned her in a jar for the rest of the semester. Unfortunately, Hermione released her after the three-star Aurors got involved.' Harry smiled at the memory. Hermione was a force to be reckoned with - he wouldn't be surprised if she was on Rita's ass right now.

Voldemort concealed a laugh unsuccessfully, tossing his head back, the crests of his wavy hair shining like gold under the moonlight. 'Your muggleborn is tactical.'

'Brightest witch in our age, as Professor McGonagall says. She used to worship authority figures, but after the ministry and Umbridge, she's almost gone the other way. Like, "Authority should be respected but this authority is corrupt and I will not respect that," if that makes any sense.' Harry wiped his mouth.

'I too had many troubles with authority. The matron was awful to anyone different. Your current officials range from spineless to corrupt. The spares remaining are powerless.' Voldemort's scoff managed to be louder than the whining crickets.

Harry slid his empty plate into the expanded box. He threw it in his trunk with the rest of the goodies, along with packing away the used parchment. 'I'm aware. I would say there were good people in the ministry still, but someone just had to murder Amelia Bones.'

Voldemort's lips quipped, 'She's not dead. Bellatrix kidnapped her and Rodolphus removed one of her bones to turn it into ash then splattered her blood around the room. Then lit the house on fire, of course. Amelia hasn't broken nor revealed any information. If she had told us what we need, I'd consider letting her go.'

'Oh, yes, because kidnapping and torture are so much better!' Harry rolled his eyes. 'Is anyone else alive that is supposed to be dead?'

'I will leave you to discover them,' Voldemort wore a mischievous smirk.

And then, footsteps marched up the stairs. Harry whipped the spent parchment off of his desk, shuffling them into his trunk in one fell swoop. He scrambled to pull out a book with an essay slapped between the pages.

Just as he had sat down with his quill hovering above the paper and his book opened, his door slammed open. He tried, unsuccessfully, not to flinch.

"What. Is. This." Vernon spat venomously. Harry slowly turned to see a fistful of curtains with small holes in the edges.

"The curtains in the living room," Harry answered evasively.

"And what are these?" He waved the edges in his face, batting the glasses off of his face.

"Holes." Harry cringed. There was no way out of this.

"Don't play smart with me, freak. You did this! These holes are all in lines! You did this on purpose! And why is there a missing dish in the cabinets? And Dudley's disks were all broken in half!" His face was practically purple now, bubbling with rage.

What? He didn't do the last one!

"I - "

"Save it! We are done with you! We've given you a roof over your head and food for fifteen years! And you have done nothing in return! I don't care what that crackpot old fool says, when you leave for your freakish school, never come back! We will call the police if you dare set foot in Privet Drive again!"

The man was spitting in his face.

"Okay," Harry answered flatly. He didn't know where he'd go - he wouldn't even be an adult in the wizarding world by then - but he'd figure out something. Maybe Hermione or Ron would let him stay with them.

That one word sent Vernon over the edge. He lunged for Harry, faster than he had ever seen the man move. The boy scrambled to avoid him, but Vernon was too big to get around.

Vernon's fist collided with his face, crunching his cracked glasses against his face. Harry yelped, but a kick to the chest silenced him. He hit the floor, hard, and curled up as much as he could.

A strike of pain blossomed across his back. He bit his lip, but couldn't stop the pathetic whimpers from escaping his mouth. Sharp stinging whips hit his back, arcing from his side to his spine over and over again.

The stings turned into blunt stomps. He could feel the blood pooling under his skin and the pain reached down into his bones. There was a crack in his arm, and two in his ribs.

Blinding white pain filled his every thought. He choked out a cry, but he couldn't get even a breath without forcing air out of his lungs.

Vernon took a fistful of his hair and yanked him up. He could feel a chunk of hair being pulled out, along with some scalp. Harry struggled to get away, but his legs weren't working. Vernon screamed something, but he couldn't hear him.

His head was slammed down on the desk, and everything went black.

Humming. Soft and sweet, deep but light.

Harry would think he was dead if not for the aches that covered his entire body. Even the gentle touches that rubbed circles into his armsent a dull throb to the area.

He finally found his orientation. He was curled up in the Patronus's lap, head against the chest, at a slight angle. Not quite sitting up, but not laying down either. The figure was completely solid, an entire person with a heartbeat and all.

"Are you awake?"

Harry hummed, not finding the energy the vocalize anything.

"I have some potions to give you. Can you drink them on your own?" There was a shift to sit more straight.

"Hmmm,"

"The first one is an extreme energy booster. It is salty and runny." He felt glass being pressed against his lips.

With an affirmative hum, the contents were poured into his mouth. The taste wasn't terrible, but the hot trails from his mouth to his stomach made him twitch.

Bit by bit, he felt more in control of himself. But he didn't move, too content to want to get away. But as the full force of the pains was finally able to worm their way into his perception, he couldn't help but squirm in discomfort.

"Does it hurt?"

"Ye-es." He muttered into the cotton collar.

"I will get you a pain reliever."

Harry clung to the button-up as it tried to pull away. Every time Patronus was gone, things turned sour. It grew darker.

Long fingers wrapped around his wrists, removing them from the shirt. He whined as he was deposited onto his mattress, the comforting aura fleeting from him. Rustling from the corner of the room could be heard.

He heard Patronus stop before him, with the light wisps of breath blowing in his face.

With all the Gryffindor courage he could muster, he opened his eyes.

And found the face of a young Tom Riddle, creased peculiarly with worry.

The every-longing ache in his chest fluttered away like a swarm of butterflies. Knowing the identity of who calmed him was infinitely gratifying and was enough to overwhelm the startling revelation of who it was.

But a gnawing question weighed on his psyche.

"Why?" It was all he needed to know. Afterwards, nothing else mattered.

"Take your potion." Tom got up from his knees and handed him the corked vial of green potion.

Harry drank it without question. A wave of chill pulsed through him, and with each wave, the pain within him dulled until it was non-existent. He wasn't even aware of how much his ribs hurt until the shooting needles disappeared.

"Do you feel better?" His hand lingered on his when he grabbed the vial from them.

"Yeah," Harry breathed without wincing.

"There is only so much potions could do without the aid of spells. We'll have to think about a different solution than what we have - it will work for now but not for the rest of the summer." Tom muttered, and with each passing word, he delved further into his mind.

"Okay," Harry stretched his arms above his head and cracked his spine with a series of pops.

"Is there anything else you need right now?" Tom glanced back to Harry's trunk.

Embolden by his newfound energy, he reached up and grasped the edges of his Slytherin robes. With one move, he pulled Tom onto the bed and vaulted him to the other side of the bed, effectively pinning him between the wall and him.

While Tom was still stunned, Harry wrapped his arms around him and embraced him tightly, burying his face in the button-up.

"Oh," Tom sputtered out after a second, "You don't… mind?"

"Mmmhhh, it could have been anyone. I feel good, and that is all I care about. What's your excuse?" He spoke into the fabric.

Harry could feel him swallow, hard.

"When you stabbed me with the basilisk fang and released the venom, which wasn't more than a drop after it had bitten you, it merely destroyed my corporeal form. Think of removing the shell from an egg. The yolk, the soul, is still there. I didn't die, but I wasn't alive either."

"You cut your finger on the page and I absorbed some of your magic from it, and used it to further my new 'shell'."

"Of course, I cannot be physical form from just that alone. The easiest way to syphon magic for me is to elicit an emotional response. Fear, joy, anger, the openness of a person's magical core is the greatest at that point."

"But you didn't write in the book, so I had to strike at night when you'd have dreams. One time, a spider landed on your face at night and I brushed it off… you just relaxed. Completely at ease. So I touched you again, and the same thing happened."

Harry snorted, "And so you decided to start cuddling me."

"I require magical sustenance to stay corporeal." Tom defended himself.

"Whatever helps you 'syphon' at night." Harry laughed.

"Brat." Tom hissed, "I still need to feed you. Two potions without any food will not sit well with you."

"Mhh, fine."

Harry sat upon his desk, excitement bubbling under his skin. It hadn't processed to him just how long he had been in recovery until the date on his calendar reached July 30th.

And even better, the Dursleys had left him alone for the entire time. Once a day, Petunia would shove some bread and two water bottles through the cat-flap in his door, but that was all! No chores, no yelling, and no hits.

He was all prepared to talk to Voldemort again. Unfortunately, he had slept through the time he normally visited last night (though he left a note that said, 'Alive', in the window), so it would be the first time he'd seen him since the Vernon incident.

"Tom?" Harry called, tapping on the diary in his lap.

The cover pulsed, and when Harry lifted his hands, there was writing on the front page.

'Yes?'

Harry frowned, wanting the boy to come out of the diary, but picked up his quill instead.

'Does Voldemort know about you?' It had been three days, and Voldemort must be able to see the things in his room shifting around.

'No, I stayed hidden and made sure your lamp was off from ten PM to three AM just in case.' Tom explained.

'Why?' There wasn't really a reason not to. His existence was something that Voldemort already knew; he just thought that Tom was murdered.

'I wanted to.'

The cover tapped against his hand, and Harry sighed as it closed shut.

Harry inhaled the air. Thick, slightly foggy, with hints of yesterday's rain. High in the sky, the moon's light fluttered down in hazy streaks. Like a lamplight on a dark street.

It didn't take long before a crack broke through the light thumps of rain. Harry almost toppled over the window sill at the sound. He never would have thought he'd miss it.

Voldemort's eyes grew wide at the sight of Harry. Frantically, he scribbled some parchment, using his thigh to do so.

'Have you recovered?' Splatters of ink streaked across the page. Droplets smeared the ink down, but it was still readable.

An odd flutter pitted itself in Harry's stomach. 'I'm better. Thanks for the potions and everything else.'

'Are you having any rashes or frequent vomiting? Those are some of the only signs of an adverse reaction.' After he floated the letter, he wrote down another long list of other possible symptoms ranging from 'needing imminent action' to 'slight concern'.

Harry grinned as the list grew longer. Tom had already cleared him of any ailments related to the potions. But he still double-checked the list in case either of them missed anything.

'No, none of those. I've been healthier than I have been in ages.' It wasn't a lie, either.

Everything that had happened over the years had built on him, but he felt like a weight had been lifted from him. Not all of it, but enough.

'Make sure to check for these at least twice a day. The recommended dosage is once a day or less, and you are taking at least double the amount.' He emphasised.

'Okay, I will.' A soft smile appeared on his face.

Voldemort fished out a medium-sized, emerald-green box that was tied together with a golden bow. He pursed his lips and whistled—so high-pitched it barely registered to Harry—into the air.

Hedwig ruffled her wings and flew over his shoulder. So that's how he summoned her. Was it a Hedwig thing, or did all owls respond to that? Not that he could whistle, but Ron could help him with that.

The box landed on his desk with a soft thud. He looked up to see Voldemort at the end of the roof, looking intently at him.

Harry pulled at the ends of the ribbon and opened the lid.

A small, circular cake with a chocolate top that drizzled down the maroon side. Atop the chocolate were flakes of gold foil that glimmered in the moonlight. Beside it were a white porcelain plate, a fork, and a knife.

On the back of the lid, a simple note was pinned in swirling green ink.

Happy Birthday

Harry looked up to see Voldemort teetering on the edge of the roof, intently staring at him. His face lit up at the sight of him.

And then Voldemort lost the battle with gravity.

Voldemort: Come with me child

Harry: Nothing about this can go wrong

Harry: See, nothing went wrong. Have some cake

Voldemort: ... oh no something went wrong