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Chapter Two—Draughts of Bitterness

Tom had drunk deep from draughts of bitterness in his time. When he had found out he wasn't a pureblood, when he had thought the magical world would be different in the ways that it honored him, when he had discovered the depths of the corruption in the Ministry. He had set about reshaping his world many times, and had mostly succeeded; but he had never lost the bitterness that he needed to.

He had clung to the thought of his soulmate. Someone made for him, someone who would not have to be reshaped, because they would be what Tom had always desired. He had not sought them out because he had wanted them to seek him out. To prove that, for once, he was not the one who had to reach and grasp. He would be the prize, chosen and valued, instead.

And now…

Tom drew his hand carefully back from his desk. He had burned the edge, and that would cause distress to some Aurors who had begun to follow him more closely and make others think they could take advantage of him. He drew his wand, waved it, and repaired the desk.

Then he called, "Lisa!"

His most devoted follower among the Aurors who hovered around him opened the door and bowed, her eyes on the floor. She was a distant Malfoy relation, and had the blonde hair and pale skin and cringing instincts to prove it.

"My lord," she whispered.

Tom smiled. He permitted his followers the use of the title when they were alone. "You are to find out everything you can about Harry Potter and bring the knowledge to me."

Lisa peered at him and said slowly, "Sir?"

"I am not in the mood to explain myself, Lisa."

She nodded, quickly, nervously, like a pigeon pecking at seed. "Of course, sir. Of course. I only wondered because Potter's an Auror, but he's not of much account next to his sister."

Tom sighed. "His sister is of little interest to me no matter how famous she is—no. Wait. Bring me information on Patricia Potter as well. Her exam scores, tales of how she treats her soulmate, her personal wealth. Everything."

He would know the sister Potter had chosen to sacrifice Tom for, and in the end, she would drink deep of the bitterness as well.

"Of course, my lord. Of course."


It turned out that Draco Malfoy was complaining about Potter in Tom's hearing, which caused Tom to summon the man into the office to hear what he knew.

And it turned out that Potter and Malfoy had dated once upon a time.

From the way Malfoy told the story, it was only a ruse, one that was meant to make Malfoy's soulmate reveal herself. But Tom, seated in silence behind his desk with an iron ring of pain encircling his head, thought it was only more proof that Potter had always treated his soul-mark lightly.

Burn it to save his sister's soulmate? Why not? It was of a piece with dating someone he knew wasn't his soulmate so that he could provide some kind of flimsy help.

Tom banished Malfoy with a single word, and turned to the files that Lisa had brought him.

They included everything he had asked for, down to Hogwarts marks, NEWT scores, and results from the Auror training classes Potter had passed. Tom's rage was not soothed by reading that Potter had been able to perform a Patronus from the time he was thirteen years old, and had decided to do so only because someone had challenged him and been sure that he couldn't.

Why had he given up so easily on the apparently impossible challenge of finding his soulmate?

He was not worthy of me. I should be able to forget about him.

But Tom could not, and not only because of the mere chance that had led to someone else reporting Potter's burned wrist and Tom requesting a photograph of the burn, which had proven identical to his own. He went home and lay on his luxurious silken sheets beneath a canopy wider and more marvelous than anything in the Slytherin dormitories at Hogwarts, and gentle charms blew cool air over him and sang the music of nightingales into his ears.

It was not enough. He could not sleep.

Potter had tossed away the chance for an intense bond where they would each know what the other thought and felt with insolent ease. It was true that not all soulmate pairs achieved such things, and Potter might not have thought he would.

But he should have known that his soulmate was Tom. He should have sought him longer. Tom's soul-mark wasn't a secret among his followers, or the Unspeakables, or those Aurors who served him. Potter could have found him if he had looked.

By the morning, Tom's growing rage had cooled. But it had only hardened in the doing so, as if his soul were encrusted with lava. He rose and observed himself in the mirror of his bathroom, noting that his eyes had turned the color of spilled blood, something that had not happened in years.

I will make him pay. I will show him what he has lost.


"What are you doing here?"

Potter's voice was low and charged as if with a fire roaring beneath the surface. Tom smiled at him, certain that his eyes had turned red again. Potter's eyes widened, and he snarled under his breath.

"Harry, darling? Who is it?"

"Just someone who has the wrong house—"

"I assure you, I do not," Tom said, and raised his voice a little. He had sensed the wards wrapped around the house when he approached, ones that were made to seek out the intention of awe and worship. It was a neat contrivance to prevent Patricia Potter from being drowned by fans. "I have come to speak with your son, not your daughter."

Potter's mother appeared behind his shoulder. She had green eyes that were full of shadows Potter's didn't have, and red hair that was streaked with what looked like paint but must be Potions residue. She started at the sight of him. "Unspeakable Riddle?"

"Yes. Mrs. Potter?"

"That's me. Please, come in."

"Mum—"

"There's no need to be rude to a guest, darling."

Tom rejoiced in the narrow-eyed glare that Potter threw him as he stepped into the house. The decorations were unremarkable, the furniture dark and heavy in a way that spoke of it being antique pieces. Tom did remember reading that James Potter's parents had died of dragonpox not long before Harry Potter was born. Probably it was guilt that kept the antiques here rather than any fondness.

"Please sit down, sir. Can I fetch you tea?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I'm not thirsty." Tom turned his head towards Mrs. Potter and smiled. He was sure that his eyes had returned to their normal color, as she smiled back, dipping her head a little. "Unless someone can be thirsty for conversation with someone? I do want to speak to Harry."

"Mum—"

"Of course you can," Mrs. Potter said. Her eyes were wide, and Tom sank into them as easily as a lightning bolt into dry grass. She hoped that this was the start of something big for. Harry. She regretted that Harry had followed his father into the Aurors and not tried to establish a more impressive career for himself. She worried that Harry felt himself lost in the shadow of his sister's fame. "I'll set up wards to make sure that no one else intrudes or can overhear what you discuss."

"Mum," Potter repeated.

Mrs. Potter touched his cheek and then left the room. A second later, Tom felt the wards come up, covering the open doorways that led into further rooms. A Floo chamber, one of them looked like, and he could glimpse a large table in another, made of the same heavy wood as the furniture here.

"Riddle."

Tom sighed a little as he faced his soulmate. At least Potter was paying attention to him and treating Tom like the most precious thing in the room.

It was not enough. It was but a small payment down on the debt. But it was a beginning.

"Yes, Potter?"

"Why did you really come here?"

"I did find myself thirsty for a conversation with you. Positively parched. And I wouldn't try to get out of it," Tom continued, raising his voice a little as Potter stood up in something that looked like outrage. "Otherwise, I'll show your family this."

He shook his sleeve back from the scar that had once been his soul-mark, part of him igniting in hatred as passionate as had taken him over the first day he saw it burned. Potter flinched and sat down slowly in the chair opposite him.

"And you think they'd care?"

"I think I could turn them against you," Tom said softly, feeling a thrill sink talons into his belly at the way Potter's eyes grew dark. That's it, darling, stare at me the way you should have. "Your mother's dripping concern for you all over the place. If I let them know that you have a soulmate, one who desires you, and you turned your back on me and committed yourself to the sacrifice…what do you think they would feel for you, Harry? What kind of worry?"

"Don't call me that."

Tom smiled. He could hardly have been more delighted if Harry had managed to speak Parseltongue. He leaned forwards a little. "Make me stop."

For a moment, Potter stared at him as if Tom were the center of all his dreams. If they were nightmares, Tom would take that. It was better than being forsaken, shoved aside because Potter had to concentrate on his family and his sister and his sister's soulmate.

"Harry? Are you all right?"

Patricia Potter, because it must be her, hurried into the drawing room, radiating concern. Tom settled back and raised his eyebrows. He knew that she couldn't have heard anything past the wards. He wondered if Mrs. Potter had said something and Potter's sister had heard reason for concern in it instead of a neutral visit.

"I'm fine, Patricia."

Potter had settled back in his seat, too, the moment she appeared. Interesting. He was calm and smiling, and he had apparently tucked the emotions he felt in Tom's presence far down beneath the surface.

Time to disturb it. "I'm afraid he's not," Tom said, and made his voice flawlessly gentle with the ease of long practice. "You see, I'm his soulmate, and I only learned a few days ago that he sacrificed a relationship with me for the sake of your relationship."

He had striven for the kind of tone that would make him sound like he was trying to understand but secretly resentful, and it worked. Patricia placed a hand over her mouth, eyes widening. "Oh, no," she whispered. "Oh, no."

It was only a sliver of the suffering she deserved, but it was a good beginning.

"That's not the way it happened, Patricia!"

"He's not your soulmate?"

"No, he is—I just—he's making it sound like I knew and cut off our bond on purpose! You know I only did it because no one had ever come forwards for me and I wanted to make sure that Michael would wake up!"

Patricia swallowed. "I never asked you to do it, Harry."

"Nor did I," Tom interjected, and he knew he had sounded injured enough when Patricia whirled to face him, looking stricken.

"No, I—I'm so sorry. I never would have asked Harry to do this. I never would have let him do it if I knew that he had a living soulmate who was interested in being with him. Can I ask how you knew, Mr….?"

"Riddle," Potter said. "His name is Riddle."

Patricia blinked. She'd heard of him, then. And for some reason, the fact of his name seemed to make a difference that Tom didn't understand. She fell back a step and looked at Tom as if he had tried to cast an Unforgivable on her.

"You're satisfied that he's your soulmate, Harry?"

"He showed me a picture of the mark he had before it burned. And he had the same burn scar." Potter's lips twisted. "I'm satisfied that he had the same mark as me. Not satisfied that he has to invade our home like this."

Patricia licked her lips. "I can see why he would want to, if he really misses you," she said, softly. "But…Unspeakable Riddle, forgive me. You have to know that our family has opposed you politically at every turn. Would you really want to be with Harry, knowing that? People have told me you live and breathe politics."

Tom wanted to laugh at her, but he saw the way Potter had tensed. He just shook his head. "I have always seen the soulmate bond as something that transcends politics. Something sweet and strong that can make us more than we are by ourselves."

Tom had, in fact, always believed that his soulmate would stand with him above all others, but that was because he had planned to do whatever was needed to make his soulmate believe in him.

Patricia practically dissolved, blinking her eyes and giving a breathy little, "Oh."

"He's manipulating you, Patty," Potter said. His eyes were bright and vicious, and Tom imagined what Potter might look like if Tom hurt his twin. What he might do. "Just saying what you want to hear so that he can get on with punishing me."

"Why would he want to punish you?"

"Because he sees me as having chosen you and Michael over him."

Tom narrowed his eyes. The insight was unwelcome. But Potter just stared at him, and Tom knew he would win little with an outburst now. He inclined his head and asked, "Perhaps you could tell me, Miss Potter, how you heard us arguing? I was under the impression that your mother had put up wards that should have prevented it."

"Harry and I are twins," Patricia said, with some dignity. Tom didn't want to acknowledge it. "We have an emotional bond, even though we've never been able to exchange words from a distance like some twins can. I knew that something was wrong, even though I didn't know what."

Inconvenient.

But Tom just smiled and nodded as if he were benign, as if this were not merely one more bump on the road to making Potter sorry, and murmured, "Of course. I ought to have guessed that."

"He's lying, Patty."

"Don't call me Patty!"

As Patricia turned to glare at Potter, Tom leaned a little to the side. He could recognize the expression on Potter's face: fond, protective, loving. He was doing his best to move his sister out of danger by distracting her.

It was the kind of emotion that ought to have belonged to Tom.

He sat where he was, not bothering to listen as the twins exchanged banter. Patricia finally left, and Potter sighed a little and faced Tom again.

The fond expression had disappeared, replaced by something so cold that Tom might have been gazing at the face of a hawk. He felt his heart leap into motion. Yes, the fondness ought to have belonged to him simply because everything Potter felt ought to have, but this was better.

Tom wanted to fight with his soulmate. He wanted to spar with him. He wanted to tear him apart.

"You know that I gave up my mark for her. You've met her now. You should know how far I'll go to protect her."

"You have three days."

"What?"

A Potter knocked off-balance was a more delicious one. Tom watched him, and didn't care if one of his private expressions was appearing on his face, one he had hidden from his followers and his lovers. Potter was the other half of his soul. He must have felt something similar in himself before. "You have three days to begin the process of making it up to me. Or I will strike at your sister and her husband."

"They'll know it was you."

"Rather, you will know it was me. They will not be in a position to know anything."

"You fucker."

"Indeed, my darling." Tom felt the wings of his magic were spreading out around him, another gesture he had never allowed another person to see. Potter's magic was responding snarling low like a great cat. The wards Mrs. Potter had set up trembled in their wake. "Rather like the fucker you were in attempting to take yourself from me."

"I'm going to kill you."

Potter whispered the words as low as a lover, his eyes bright. Someone standing at a distance might have thought he was speaking endearments. Tom preferred the reality, and leaned in to mirror his soulmate's position.

"You can try," he said. "I hope you will."

Potter did, immediately. It was a blast of focused magic, sharp as a lance and slim and strong, slipping across the air between them and aimed straight at Tom's heart. Someone less prepared than Tom might have succumbed to a heart attack at once.

Tom blocked it, although it was more of an effort than he'd had to spare to block someone else's curse in a long time. He laughed, not bothering to move. "Is that all you have, darling?"

Potter's lips parted, and something—

Something slithered between them, indescribable and scratching at the corners of Tom's brain like a distant chant. It wasn't Parseltongue. It was what might be the other side of Parseltongue, growling instead of hissing, circling hot-footed and burning instead of cold and dark. It reached for Tom, clawed at him, trying to—

Trying to break his mind.

Tom shuddered and drew himself away from listening it, breathing fast. Potter stopped speaking, his gaze locked on Tom.

"How long have you been able to speak it?" Tom whispered. He was shaking. He hoped Potter wasn't naive enough to think it was with fear.

"I don't speak proper Parseltongue." Now that Potter was trying to communicate instead of tear apart, he sounded more like someone with an accent. Tom couldn't help the way he leaned closer, couldn't help the way he breathed in Potter's scent, and couldn't help even the thrill at the disgusted look the man sent him. "I just speak this."

"Because you are the other half of my soul. You should have known who I was at once."

"Why? Patricia and Michael are soulmates and he's not a Quidditch player."

Tom felt his mood snap and cool. "You are not that stupid."

Potter sat motionless for a long, long moment, as if he hoped Tom would believe he was. Then he clenched his hands in his lap and hissed, "I didn't know this was a variety of Parseltongue. I've never spoken to a snake with it. I've just—used it to defeat some people."

"People who would never return to ask questions?"

"Those."

Tom felt the cold disdain for himself this time. He'd seen Potter's records of arresting suspects after Lisa procured them for him, as well as the records labeled with a successful closing of the case for all that there was no suspect in custody. He should have wondered how many of those were deaths, as opposed to the Aurors handing on a case to the Hit Wizards or the like.

Potter was horribly flawed, the way he had put other people above Tom.

But also perfect.

"The other half of my soul," Tom breathed, "indeed."

Potter sat up. His shoulders were square and his eyes cold as he looked at Tom. Tom had the feeling that he was seeing Potter's own private expression, one that he would never have shown to his family or the other weaklings he cared about.

"If you hurt them, whatever you do will be returned to you threefold."

"But you would still have suffered, because they would have."

"I will return it on you."

"You would try. I have more practice at this than you do."

Potter edged so near that he was close to falling off the chair. "Do you believe that?"

For all that Tom's breath came short at the thought that Potter had got away with murder, again and again, he also knew his own power and worth and age. "Yes," he said, and turned so that he could feel Potter's breath on his face. "I do."

Potter stared at him for another heartbeat. Two.

Then he sat back and shook his head and said, "There's no way for the mark to return. I asked Healers before I sacrificed mine to wake Michael. They all said it had to be a final sacrifice, or the coma wouldn't have ended."

"We will find a way together," Tom said, and eased back himself, a little disappointed with the ending of the intensity. But he would find a way to have it again.

"I am willing to work with you to try and find something that can replace it," Potter said carefully. "Some price you would accept. I'm not willing to do…absolutely anything, but we can try to find a compromise."

Tom smiled, wide and unholy. Potter didn't flinch, but looked at him assessingly.

In the end, you will learn that I don't compromise.

"That sounds acceptable," Tom said.

"Then let me walk you to the door."

Potter brought down the wards around the room with a wave of his wand, and they walked towards the door. Tom turned when they were there and reached out to put a hand on Potter's shoulder.

Potter did flinch this time, maybe from the weight or the heat of Tom's hand. Tom just smiled again and murmured, "I look forward to our collaboration."

Potter nodded shortly. He kept standing in the doorway and watching as Tom walked to the Apparition point at the edge of the grounds.

Tom turned around and waved to him when he reached it. Potter narrowed his eyes in annoyance, but didn't move.

He will find out what price I will take, Tom thought, as he Apparated. And it is everything.