A/N: Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling and her associates. Please support the official release.

In his dreams, Harry saw visions of his parents. Faint shadows of the people they used to be, haunting him with wailing cries and bitter gloom. Their shrieks contained the roiling undercurrent of hatred and anger – they condemned him for their violent ends, for the prophecy that had doomed them.

Harry knew, of course, in his heart of hearts, that his real parents never would have blamed him for what happened that night. That did not make their words hurt any less, though.

Before long, a second set of shadows joined the first. It did not take long for him to recognize them: Hermione's parents. They added their own accusations to the chorus of damnation, screeching at him in pointed whispers how he had betrayed them, how he had forced them to leave their only daughter alone to face a cruel fate.

Of how they would have all been better off if he had never entered their lives.

He awoke with tears in his eyes and a terrible pounding in the back of his head. Immediately, he searched for Hermione – only to find the space next to him empty. A brief spike of panic welled up in his core, before he lifted his eyes to scan the rest of the room, and found her sitting at the window - blanket wrapped around her, legs clutched tightly to her chest.

Her hair ran in disheveled curls about her slender frame, reaching all the way down to the small of her back. A vacant expression bedecked lifeless eyes as she stared past the glass panes, out onto the Black Lake and beyond. How the window could produce such a view, Harry did not know, but he was thankful for it all the same – the room would have felt much more claustrophobic without it.

"Morning, Hermione," he forced out, his voice sounding gruff and croaky to his ears.

"… Mm," she responded, not moving from her position in the slightest. A couple of blinks to clear away the blurriness of sleep brought her features into clearer view - her lips were dented from ceaseless chewing, her eyes bloodshot and weary.

"Did you sleep well?"

"I slept."

"That's not what I asked."

She gave no further response. Harry almost moved to say something in the silence that followed, but decided against it. This was clearly not the time for prolonged conversation.

"I think… I'll go take a shower," he said, ignoring the aching sensation in his chest as he rose from the bed.

"Mm," Hermione uttered.

"… Would you like to join me?"

He made sure to phrase the question as unobtrusively and neutral as possible. He did not want her to think it an invitation to some light frolicking – only an offer of service and companionship.

"No. I'm… No," she said. "I'm… good here."

"I think you should join me," Harry continued, still in the same reserved tone of voice. He knew he was taking a risk with his persistence, but in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

She turned to him then, for the first time since he woke up – but the barren, hollow look in her eyes almost made him wish she hadn't.

"Why."

The word did not fall as a question - more a demand for answers.

"Because… I think it would be good for you," Harry responded, choosing to stand his ground. "Because I want to help you, and I… I don't know how."

She considered this for a moment, her facial expression regaining some flicker of warmth.

"I… I don't think you can," she finally said.

Her words hit him like a sledgehammer, driving the nail of despair even deeper into his chest.

"Why…?" he whispered, his mouth drawn into a strict line. "Why can't I help you?"

"Because… this… this grief…" she started, a slight quiver to her voice. "It's something that… I think I have to face on my own."

"Please don't say that."

"It's the truth."

"I don't want it to be the truth."

"But it is."

A harsh breath left shivering lips.

"I hate this," Harry choked. "This… entire situation. I hate it so much. And… I hate myself for putting you in it."

That got a rise out of her.

"Don't you dare try to take the blame for this," she sneered, a terrible anger blazing to life in her eyes. "You did not kill my parents, and that is the last I want to hear of it."

"But… I did…" he grimaced, guilt tearing at his heart with furious intensity. "If… If you'd never befriended me…"

"Do you seriously believe I've never considered it, in all these years?" she continued, sending him a glare so crippling, it caused the hairs on his arm to rise. "That in all the time I've known you, I never once stopped to think about the possible danger I was inviting?"

"N-No, you're not-…"

"You're the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry! Being your friend was always going to be dangerous. I realized that in our First Year, when we went after Professor Quirrell!"

"Then why? Why… did you decide to stay with me?" Harry breathed. "Why risk it all for my sake?"

"Are you serious right now?" Hermione gaped. "You can't actually be asking me that."

"W-Well…"

"Because I love you, you absolute bonehead!" she damn near shouted. "Merlin save me, but I love you so much it makes my chest ache. And I'm not willing to give up on us."

"B-But… Your parents…" Harry whispered, eyes burning with tears yet to spill.

"Not your fault." Hermione shook her head. "You can't be blamed for the circumstances you were born into. That would just be… too cruel."

"So… you really don't blame me?" Harry swallowed. "You really don't hate me?"

"I blame you for a lot of things, Harry James Potter. But never my parents' murder. Never. And of course I don't hate you. Now, do I wish that my p-parents were… were s-still here…" she started, her resolve faltering towards the end of the sentence, as tears once more pressed at the corners of her vision.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione…" Harry said, moving over to where she was seated at the window. "I never wanted any of this…"

"I know, Harry… I know," she replied, trying for a smile. It didn't reach her eyes. "But… can we please talk about something else now? I'm… I'm not… I don't want to cry again…"

"… Okay. I'll stop," he nodded, before leaning down to place a tender kiss on the top of her head. "I love you."

"I love you too," she breathed, closing her eyes. Now that the momentary flash of anger was gone, the sadness was beginning to creep back in again. Her thoughts grew heavy once more, and she longed for sleep long neglected.

"I'll… go take that shower now," Harry said, noticing the change. "And then I'll go to the Great Hall to pick up some breakfast. Do you want me to bring any back for you?"

"Yes, please," Hermione sighed, resting her weight against him. "You know what I like, right?"

"Toasted bread with butter, scrambled eggs and bacon, topped with salt, pepper and diced spring onion," Harry smiled. "And a hazelnut latte with extra milk and sugar. Interchangeable with a good cup of chamomile tea."

"Good boy," she nodded.

"Anything for the smartest witch at Hogwarts."

Walking through the corridors of Hogwarts, Harry was granted a wide berth by his fellow students, as had become the norm this year. They all seemed to think he would hex them or something if they came within his reach, which suited him just fine, as it allowed him to walk in silence and ponder undisturbed. He'd never been much of a people person in the first place, so being provided with more space for himself in busy areas and stairwells was more of a blessing than a curse to him.

To his surprise, however, one person moved to approach him as he neared the Great Hall. And she looked like a person with a lot on her mind.

Oh, Merlin, Harry thought, letting out an internal sigh. He was really not in the mood to talk right now. He had been hoping to grab his breakfast in the Great Hall and slink back to the Room of Requirement undisturbed, but alas…

"'Arry," Fleur said as she caught up with him, a conflicted expression on her face.

"Fleur," he responded, not bothering to slow down or even look in her general direction as he walked.

"I… I 'eard about what 'appened to 'Ermione," she continued. "It's… C'est vraiment horrible."

Harry could not claim to speak much French, but even he understood the sentiment behind those words.

"Yeah. She's not doing so great at the moment."

"And… 'ow about yourself?" Fleur asked. "'Ow are you doing?"

"How do you think I'm doing, Fleur?" Harry scoffed, perhaps a tad bit too standoffish. "My closest friend and lover just had her parents brutally murdered by the Dark Lord, all because of her relationship with me."

"I-I apologize," Fleur grimaced. "That was a stupid question."

"Yes," Harry grunted. "Yes, it was."

A moment of silence followed then, before Fleur moved to speak once more.

"I came to offer my assistance," she said, choosing her words carefully. "I thought that… with things being what they are, you might not 'ave 'ad the time to figure out the Golden Egg clue yet."

"The… Golden Egg clue?" Harry deadpanned. "There's a clue in the Golden Egg?"

"You… 'aven't even opened the egg yet?" Fleur asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"No," Harry said. "I've had other things to worry about than some stupid tournament lately. You'll also recall that I was pretty much in a coma for three weeks following my battle with the Horntail, so."

"That is-…" Fleur started, before seemingly thinking the better of it. "… Non, I understand. That just means my assistance will be even more worthwhile for you."

Harry gave a noncommittal shrug in response. It was quite frankly astounding how little he cared about the tournament now. He felt like he'd been put through the wringer so many times at this point, he'd reached some weird state of acceptance. If Death came for him, he was pretty sure he'd welcome him with open arms.

"The Golden Egg contains a clue, but understanding said clue can be a bit… tricky," Fleur started, pursing her lips in contemplation. "When first you open the egg, it lets out a truly terrible sound that pains the ears. This is the first predicament you 'ave to solve."

"Hm," Harry grunted, which was about as much enthusiasm as he managed to conjure up. Godric, how he wished this whole Triwizard bullshit would just cease to exist already.

"The solution to this…" she continued, before taking a quick look around to make sure no one was paying too much attention to their conversation. When she resumed talking, it was at a much lower volume. "… is to submerge the egg in ice before you open it. Then, you will be able to 'ear the clue clearly."

"And… what is the clue?" Harry asked.

"Come seek us where our voices boom,

It echoes from within the confines of our tomb,

And while you're searching, ponder this:

We've taken what you'll sorely miss,

A week long you'll 'ave to look,

To recover what we took,

But past the week – the prospect is black,

Too late, it's gone, and won't come back," Fleur whispered into his ear.

"… Okay, it's actually kind of impressive that you've managed to memorize all of that," Harry admitted, somewhat begrudgingly.

"I've listened to it so many times now that it is practically ingrained in my skull," Fleur sighed. "But thankfully, it is not too difficult to decipher."

"Hmm…"

Despite his apparent apathy, Harry could feel the gears in his head beginning to turn. His mind had started working as soon as it had been presented with a mystery, and a riddle to solve. It was almost kind of refreshing, if for no other reason than to act as a distraction from the painful reality he had been forced to endure for the past two days.

"I would say more, but… this is not the place to discuss such things," Fleur said, eyeing the steadily growing crowd of students around them as they neared the Great Hall. "Rival Champions are not technically supposed to share information with each other, after all."

"Speaking of; why are you doing this, Fleur?" Harry asked, genuine intrigue coloring his voice. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because… I feel sorry for 'Ermione," she responded. "And I feel… guilty."

"Guilty?"

"Guilty for the way I treated you when I first arrived 'ere, at 'Ogwarts." Her face had taken on a decidedly more somber look at this point, her sky-blue eyes marred with regret. "It was entirely unfair and stupid."

"Oi, I thought we were past this," Harry frowned. "I've already accepted your apology. And it's not like I had the best reaction, either."

"Still… This is my way of making up for it," Fleur nodded. "So please… accept it."

"Hmm… Alright then," Harry sighed. "But only if you promise to stop bringing it up."

"I promise."

"Then we're square," Harry nodded. "Meet me at the R-… the Prefects' Bathroom on the fifth floor in three hours' time. We can talk more about the Golden Egg there, away from prying eyes. No one ever really uses it, after all."

"Ahh… I shall bring my swimsuit, then," Fleur smirked.

"Feel free," Harry shrugged, glad to have stopped himself shy of suggesting they use the Room of Requirement. He didn't really feel like sharing word of its existence with Fleur yet. "I've heard the bathtub there is enchanted, and large enough to fit an entire party of people."

"Magnifique. I will meet you there," Fleur said with a smile, before breaking off to head into the Great Hall on her own. No point in giving the Hogwarts' rumor mill any more material to work with than necessary, after all.

Ugh, great, Harry thought to himself. Another appointment. I really ought to stop making those.

?

A loud whoosh filled his being as he felt a powerful tug on the scattered pieces of his soul. The tug came from someplace far away, beyond the walls of Malfoy Manor, and the room in which he was currently being nurtured back to life. His vision distorted, making a blur of reality, before he was sent flying, set adrift in the cosmic void that existed beyond the boundary of reality.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the whoosh disappeared, leaving him alone once more. Within moments, he felt the touch of ground beneath his feet, and a pressing light upon his eyelids. A smile tugged on the corners of physical lips.

He had been given a body again, here in this place that existed outside of time and space.

Opening his eyes, Tom Riddle was immediately assaulted by the crimson glow of a neon signpost. It read "The Red Velvet Club" in big letters, and was fixed upon a brick wall some distance away. To the right of it sat an ornately-decorated mahogany door with a golden handle.

Ah…

Stepping towards the door, Tom placed a tender hand on its surface, and pushed it open. There was no point in doing anything else. The brick wall with its neon sign and mahogany door was the only permanent fixture here, after all. On all other sides, the cosmic void waited, and Tom had no desire to return there just yet.

The door swung open with ease, and immediately, he was assaulted by the muffled sound of music, mixed with the comforting buzz of conversation. A pleasant scent hung in the air – a type of smoky incense, infused with lavender.

Standing in the entryway, Tom spotted a familiar waiter to his left, on duty behind a grand desk that was littered with lists upon lists of names. On his first visit to this place, Tom had thought the man odd, for he lacked any defining characteristics. He had no discernible facial features, no mouth, no ears, no hair. Where one would usually find a face, there was simply… nothing. A blank canvas. An unfinished creation.

Tom shook his head, and moved past the waiter, further into the room. A long hallway stretched out in front of him, lit by beautiful chandeliers made of the purest gold. A grand Persian rug covered the floor, stretching to reach all the way to the end, where the hallway opened up to reveal a bigger room. Tom was certain he had never seen a Persian rug of such length before, but again, he reminded himself that this place did not obey the rules of reality. It existed far beyond the realm of man; in a place most people would never get to see.

Stepping out into the larger room, Tom took a moment to admire the scenery.

The spacious interior was littered with crimson couches and lavish tables, all arranged in a half-moon circle around a grand stage, which held several instruments. There were no musicians to be seen playing said instruments, though; they simply moved on their own, producing a pleasant harmony that contributed to the relaxing atmosphere. Countless men and women also filled the space, locked in jolly conversation around the many tables, or standing at the bar counter in the back right, ordering drinks or simple meals.

Upon closer inspection, however, one would quickly come to notice that there seemed to be something… off… about these patrons. Stare too long at any one of them, and their body would slowly start to disintegrate, turning back into cosmic dust and shadow.

Illusions, all of them, Tom thought to himself as he walked past a blonde-haired couple in their 40s, wearing clothes reminiscent of those found at 19th century balls. They are as real as my physical form, which is to say… not at all.

Where this club had come from, he did not know. Maybe it was a creation of his fragmented mind, a place for him to assume a physical form after years spent adrift in the cosmic miasma. Or maybe it was something else. The home of some otherworldly entity, who had opened its doors to him as a guest. There was no way to know for sure.

Heading over to the corner of the room, Tom came to a stop in front of a secluded table which held only a single person; a man in his early 20s, with medium-length black hair that parted in the middle to reveal a pair of striking blue eyes. His outfit was simple; a set of black dress robes that looked distinctly out-of-place amidst all the splendor and luxury of the other patrons.

The only truly noteworthy thing about him was the halo of floating objects that surrounded him, drifting in slow orbit around his being. The objects included a quill, an inkwell, a book, a ruler, and a stack of blank parchment pieces that had been shrunk down to a smaller size. Their intended function made itself apparent as soon as one looked down at the table, where an unfinished runeset had been written down in intricate handwriting. The runeset was so complex and tightly constructed, Tom couldn't even hope to decipher it.

"Back again, are we?" the man suddenly said, without looking up from his work.

"It would appear so," Tom replied as he took a seat on the opposite side of the table. "Though I can't say exactly what keeps bringing me here."

"Well, it can be hard to tell, sometimes," the man continued. "This place is… special like that. It attracts only those who are well and truly lost. So lost, they don't even remember their original place in the world."

"Are you implying that I have been led astray, then?" Tom asked with no small amount of disdain.

"Not entirely. Though you lack a physical body, I think your mind still retains a grasp on reality, however weak or tenuous."

"It is not my fault my body is gone," Tom said. "How was I supposed to know the Killing Curse would rebound?"

"You couldn't. Not with your understanding of love, anyway."

There was a lull in conversation, as Tom seemingly considered this. Once he resumed talking, however, it was to ask about something completely different.

"Have you ever killed someone… Merlin?" Tom asked, giving voice to a recurring thought he'd been having since their first meeting here.

"Interesting question," Merlin noted, dipping his quill in the floating inkwell before bringing it back onto the parchment. "What spurred it, I wonder?"

"It's… something I read, a long time ago," Tom elaborated. "In your official biography, 'The Prince of Enchanters'. It said that, throughout your entire life, and despite your lengthy service in King Arthur's court, you never killed a single person."

A dry chuckle slipped past amused lips.

"Did it now?" Merlin said, eyes still fixed on his runeset.

"Is it true?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you've killed hundreds."

"Hmm… Try thousands," Merlin responded.

"Ahh… I suppose the history books got it wrong, then," Tom shrugged, though there was a gleam in his eyes now that had not been there before. A fresh shade of cautiousness, mixed with slight admiration.

"They always do," Merlin nodded. "Wizarding historians are fond of embellishment, especially regarding those they consider to be… paragons of virtue."

"People like Dumbledore," Tom commented.

"Yes, people like Dumbledore. Did you know him and Gellert Grindelwald used to be lovers?" Merlin asked.

"D-Did they?" Tom blinked, taken aback by the news. He had never heard any such thing in his entire life.

"It is not a piece of history Albus likes to share. They met and fell in love at Hogwarts. It was strong love, the type of love that can't easily be broken. The type of love that… has consequences," Merlin continued. "A blood pact, between him and Gellert. Ancient magic."

"… So that's why it took him so long to move against Grindelwald," Tom breathed, feeling like a long-lost piece of the puzzle was finally being sorted into place. It was scary how much sense it made.

"Correct," Merlin nodded. "Took him ages to figure out a way around it. Once he did, though… well, you know the rest, I am sure."

"Mm. Just another example of the inconvenience of love," Tom scoffed. "So intoxicating, yet so destructive."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Merlin said. "Love can be both a boon and a curse, depending on the circumstances. Albus' love for Gellert was an obstacle during the War, but it has given him tremendous willpower and strength of mind in the time since. Nothing in this world is ever so binary."

"And how, exactly, do you suppose love is going to help me conquer Death?" Tom asked. They'd had this debate before, and it never resulted in anything meaningful. The difference in mindset was simply too great.

"Your fault lies in thinking of Death as something to be conquered," Merlin sighed. "Your fear has always been your biggest weakness."

"Being afraid of death is not a character flaw. It's a survival instinct," Tom said. "And besides, isn't it a little hypocritical of you to lecture me on Death, when you yourself went to such great lengths to avoid its grasp?"

"I did not avoid it," Merlin frowned. "Death claimed my physical body centuries ago. The only thing I preserved was my spirit and my mind, so that I might continue to study the mysteries of the arcane. I cannot interfere in matters of the world; only observe and learn."

"Is it not frustrating? To be forever bound to this place, unable to leave? Unable to make any real change?" Tom asked.

"Who says I'm unable to leave?" Merlin blinked, meeting Tom's eyes for the first time since he had arrived. "I can travel to a great many places. This club is simply a particular favorite of mine."

"Ahh… I see," Tom said, before a sudden pull on his soul made him grimace.

"You're being called back, I take it?" Merlin asked.

"I think so," Tom frowned. "My servants require my presence as the promised hour draws near. Soon, the ritual will be complete, and I'll be free to walk the Earth once more."

"You will," Merlin nodded. "Though, perhaps not in the way you think."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean precisely what I say. The book of Vlad Țepeș is a remarkable thing, but it contains secrets not even you are aware of. Secrets that are best left untouched," Merlin elaborated. "Remember, the book eventually consumed its own creator, and turned him into the creature known as Dracula."

"I am not foolish enough to be bested by a dusty old tome," Tom frowned. "It will not break me, just as Harry Potter did not kill me that night in Godric's Hollow."

"Beware, son of Riddle, for you are not as wise as you think," Merlin sighed. "Either way, it's time for you to leave now. You're welcome to come visit again, if you ever find yourself in these parts, but something tells me that is unlikely."

"I think you may be quite right," Tom smiled, before another pull nearly brought him to his knees.

"Go forth, Tom Riddle. Your opponent awaits you," Merlin said. "Give my regards to Harry Potter."

And then, the weight of the pull became too much for Tom to bear, and he found himself set adrift in the void once more, heading directly for the room in which his soul rested.

The time is nigh. A ritual soon complete. I shall be reborn.

And yet, Merlin's words continued to echo deep inside of him, evoking uncertainty, and fear.

I shall be reborn. But perhaps not in the way I intended.

A/N: Hello. It's been a while, huh. My last chapter was posted way back in May, when my life looked a whole lot different than it does now.

A lot has happened since last we spoke. I've received my Bachelor's degree. I've moved houses. I've visited a different country. I've spent time with friends, and relaxed after finally finishing 16 years of non-stop education and schooling. And I've also helped my parents move.

So as you can probably tell, things are different now. I'm no longer a student - I am a fully educated man, one who's currently on the lookout for a job lol. It's time to start living the adult life. Making money. Paying taxes. All that boring shit.

But if there is one thing that hasn't changed, it is my love of writing. And my love for this story.

Things are really beginning to happen now. Voldemort's resurrection is imminent, and Harry's life is gradually turning into a fragmented mess of people, appointments, and girlfriends riddled with grief. Not to mention Dark Rituals and sinister plots. Soon, Act 4 will be upon us. And shit goes down in Act 4, believe you me.

Either way, I want to thank all of you for sticking with me through the good and the bad, the highs and the lows. I feel like we've been through so much together now, despite the fact that I barely know any of you in real life. This story has turned into something of a cornerstone for me, as cliché as that sounds, and I am eternally thankful that there are at least a few people out there willing to read it.

I've got big plans for the rest of 2022, which include both this story and more, so keep a lookout for that. And as always, I will see you guys again in the next chapter. Thank you for reading.

-Twisted