"You're squandering your talent."

Harry had hidden himself away in the Room of Requirement as soon as classes had finished, awkwardly skirting away from Professor Slughorn, Riddle's disparaging comments ringing in his head. It was clear he was impatient, pushing angrily at Harry's mind, tinged with concern. Not for Harry, he imagined, but for Riddle's own life. By lunch, he'd already promised to teach Harry everything, if he'd only hurry up, before his mind was crushed like a grape.

Not in those exact words, but Harry got flashes, sentiments of being squished. It was decidedly uncomfortable.

"I don't have any talent," Harry snapped. He was no less abysmal than usual at Legilimency, and it was particularly unhelpful to attempt on some hybrid ghost of a man still living.

"You share my skill," Riddle said. "Our magic is complementary. If I can perform Legilimency, then so can you. Don't be so pathetic as to let this power pass you by."

"I can't even get ahold of it in the first place." Harry shrugged. "Look, your shields are basically unparalleled, you know that, right? Lower them and maybe I'll have more luck. I'm just a beginner, after all, oh great Lord of the mind."

Riddle scowled. "That would not be preferable."

"I've already seen your memories," Harry said. "It's a bit late now."

"You needn't see any more."

Harry crossed his arms, exhausted. All he'd managed to grasp in the last few hours was a single exasperated,"Honestly, it's hardly difficult."

"How about I do anyway?" His nerves were fraying, and he'd never been a paragon of patience himself. "You too scared? I'm joined to your soul, and you're fine with that. What's a little memory-sharing between friends?"

"Childish taunts won't work on me," said Riddle. "You don't need Legilimency to feel my emotions, unfortunately for you. You can tell I'm not scared in the least."

"You're annoyed, impatient, and worried you'll commit some sort of 'post-corporeal suicide' when I throw myself in danger and inevitably try the other Tom's patience, then get myself - and by extension you - killed. Yeah, I can read your emotions just fine."

The green light in Riddle's eyes glinted. He did that, that odd expression, so much like Harry's own, whenever he said something he found funny. "I don't need my other self to commit post-corporeal suicide," he said, wryly. "A few more hours of this and I'll do it myself, right here."

Sometimes Harry wondered if Voldemort ever laughed at his own jokes, so caught up in his own arrogance he'd miss how strangely humanising such a gesture would be, or if that was solely Harry's own influence, sixteen years of it, on this portion, so much less tainted, of Voldemort's soul. "Just lower your shields a little," he begged. "I'm hungry, and at this point, I'd seriously rather be studying. Hermione-style."

"Only a fraction," Riddle warned. "I will not go easy on you just because you feel a little tired, Harry. My counterpart wouldn't even consider something so... trivial."

"Whatever you think is best," Harry demurred.

Riddle sighed, then steeled himself. "Alright, go ahead. Try it now."

Tentatively, Harry reached out, testing the boundaries of Riddle's mind, feeling the current of his thoughts humming behind purposefully-weakened walls. Then, gently, he reached in. He got words, deeper feelings, sometimes full thoughts. "Is that alright?"

"It's background noise, so to speak. That's listening passively to someone's mental landscape, but to delve deeper, you need to search less... meekly. Too overt, and the subject will notice your presence, but too cautious, and you'll see superficial surface thoughts."

Harry cradled and turned the door to Riddle's mind, peaking in, like a crack through the cupboard. "I don't know how much is too much and how little is too little."

"I will teach you that. First, go a little farther."

Harry pushed forward, and got an image, Riddle staring at him through his own mismatching eyes. Then feelings, pleasure, pride, vindication. Then the thoughts, smooth, He's doing so well. Impressive for a beginner, but understandable as the current holder of my soul. He's using it to his advantage, for once. Oh, there, I can even sense him, what a fascinating mental footprint. Hello. And jumbled, Maybe my counterpart won't kill him. He has reasonable defence. Perhaps not in Occlumency. Needs more work. But when? Classes, too many classes. Honestly. Like Slughorn.

And there, Harry fell too far.

Slughorn. What a pliable man, like clay. Undeserving of his tenure. He has the skills, but not the strength of character. So weak. I could already meld him, mold him, at only fourteen. It was the highlight of the entire period. They all were, interesting puzzles of people. Those that could play the game, and those who let the game be played for them. I had plans, I've fulfilled a great deal of them, but not all (more, I need more). I got out. Took with me the people I needed. Graduated a half-home. Away from the orphanage. He never let me stay, the old man. Always sent back there.

He was plummeting, now, into Riddle's memories, his recollection of every single second spent in a waking hell. He tried to grasp at the present, but it slipped from his hands like sand.

The world fell away and reformed to a small, cold room. Harry was shaking on the bed. Chips of the wallpaper were floating around him, lit by a strange kind of light. A city trying to turn invisible. Useless posturing, it could never work. Not unless there were more people like him. And yet, against the rise of the buildings, he was still so small. Disgusting. Weak. He would grow himself.

His ears ached against the wail of a raid siren. He'd heard them before, but never like this, not when he was so tired. The cuts on his small hands stung. He'd fought them, but they'd pushed him down. He had to be stronger, above cowering with bleeding palms, unsettled by useless sound.

It hurt. It had always hurt. They'd always hurt him. But now, he would rise from it, not snivel like some frightened rabbit. He would ignore pain. So trivial.

He would be the one to push them down next time, to see if they got up. They were nothing if they didn't get up.

Once more, the world flashed before him, to a playroom. Here, he would shove back. He would test them until they failed, until he won. And if they never failed... if they never failed, he would use them.

How he wished the bombs fell on this miserable building, how he dreamed of escaping this place.

"What's the matter, Tommy? You scared? You were crying at the sirens last night, weren't you? Bet you've been crying since you got born. Bet you been crying ten years straight."

Harry, no- no- Tom. Tom sneered. They belonged in the boxes in these rooms, such playthings. Stupid, foolish. He held out a hand, gripped it tightly, whatever it was inside him ("freak", always the freak), and in painful jerks, they knelt, crumpling like dolls to the floor, tears streaming down their lilywhite cheeks.

He stared, and they struggled. Yet, when he let go, still no-one rose.

Weak. Pliable. Hollow nothing people, wasting air. Such empty husks with such an ability to be cruel. What misplaced potential, what walking mistakes. He would show them cruelty, let them taste it, if such paperblank animals could taste.

Harry gasped, and with a jolt threw himself backwards against the wall. The sharp smack of flesh on stone, the warm smell of wool and quill ink, the rugs on the floor beneath him. He was back. He'd made it back.

He panted, let sweat drip down his temples. "What was that?"

Riddle only looked ahead, over his shoulder. "Memories. Don't break walls you don't want opened, Harry. I warned you."

He swallowed down bile.

"I think that's enough for now. We'll return to your studies tomorrow. I believe you were hungry? Dinner should be ready. If you'd rather sleep, the bed's still unmade, as you left it. Though that doesn't seem the type of thing to bother you."

He soothed down the raised hairs on the back of his neck. "I'll grab a small bite," he said. "Then I'd better sleep. I'm knackered." He hesitated. "I'm alright, I mean, I'm not the one who minds broken walls... but about the orphanage, I'm sorry you had to-"

Riddle glared. "Weasley mentioned the pity, didn't he?" Then, he faded back into the shadows of Harry's mind, a familiar, almost comforting presence.

The Room's doors seemed to open faster than usual. Or maybe he was just imagining things. He'd been known to do that.

Ron and Hermione had left him a small plate of sweets, and assured him there was enough food left at the table to feed a troll.

The dining hall, with its magnificent night sky, lit tables upon tables of leftovers. And Harry could only barely remember being hungry, or what the warmth of the candlelight against his hands felt like, flickering aside his fingertips. He was tired, so tired, like he had been the one in the orphanage that night. But Riddle had been. Riddle had been.

He'd slept in the cold, too numb to remember how hunger was supposed to feel, some dull hollow ache.

Harry gathered up a few assorted plates, eager to return to his dorm and curl up against the blankets, the warming charms, the sound of soft breathing, and silently left. The small passageways were lit faintly by the dining hall's shining starlight, so he focused his right hand, free from Lumos, on balancing some crumbling Bakewell tarts.

Absurdly, staring at the flaking pastry, he felt the sudden urge to call for Riddle and ask him if he might like to share a meal. It was stupid, the whole thing, and he tried to dismiss it as a lingering streak of madness from shared minds, but still, the thought niggled at the back of his mind all through the hallways. It was ridiculous. Hell, he didn't know if Riddle could, in fact, eat, or if he'd take offense to the offer and assume he was getting a taste of Harry's pity, not of jam and almonds.

But something half Gryffindor and half his own idiocy, an absolutely horrifying burst of warmth and sympathy for his parents' murderer, sent him to the Bridge and stood by as he whispered Riddle's name into the shadows.

And slowly, trickling from the back of his mind, Riddle's hauntingly familiar magic returned, soon lighting the careful arrival of his physical body. One eyebrow was raised, bemused, but all else was still. "Well?" Riddle asked, after a quiet, and crossed his arms. "Did you call me by accident?"

"No," Harry burst out, quickly. "Uh, I, well- I called to ask if you wanted to share this with me." He held out a plate, steam still rising from perpetually-hot mashed potatoes.

For the first time, Riddle seemed genuinely surprised, his mask of indifference failing, revealing wide eyes and a slightly parted mouth. "You're offering me food, Harry?"

Miraculously, it wasn't mocking but simply shocked, a blank sort of attempt at understanding, and yet Harry felt stupid nonetheless. "Yeah. There's too much here, and I don't want it to go to waste."

"Don't you have friends to give it to?"

Harry knew that insisting Riddle was his friend would get him as close to killed as Riddle could manage, so instead, he said, "No-one's even up at this time of night. Do you want some or not?"

Riddle blinked. "I imagine I could eat if you leant me more strength and thereby allowed my body a more physical presence. Do keep in mind we're allies here, and I don't intend to drain you or the Weasley girl of all your lifeforce."

"How do I do it?" Harry asked. "And only a little. You can bat your eyelashes at me all you want, but I'm not having a repeat of Second Year. I'm not."

"Bat my eyelashes," Riddle repeated, dry. "Consider, you've no skill in Legilimency, so a mental attempt would likely fail. Just reach out and touch me, and it should work." He smiled, small, at Harry's horrified look. "You'll only need to think about it for a moment, as opposed to a very long time. Can you really not stand to touch me for a simple second, Harry?"

"Whenever you touch me, I usually end up screaming on the floor with a bleeding forehead, so really, pardon me if I want to exercise some caution."

"But then I want to hurt you," said Riddle. "Now I'd just like to taste again. I hardly think that will translate over into pain. Perhaps you'll feel hungry." He dared Harry to protest at this with just a look, and Harry held up his hands.

"Alright, okay. Where? Your arm, or?"

Riddle extended a hand, so disturbingly unchanged from his counterpart's. Long, white, bony, skeletal fingers, only ever moving gracefully and precisely. Harry looked down at it, prim and smooth, and said, "The other you doesn't trim them." Riddle only tilted his head. "Your nails."

This got him an amused look. "Hmm? I'm sure that's very useful if I ever find myself in need of... keeping someone in their place. This body is young, from a time when my identity was kept secret, and having hands like claws wouldn't have aided my cover." Riddle paused. "Is that really the first thing you choose to ask?"

"Just... sort of had to." Harry shrugged, and clarified, "You've got unique hands."

"I'm surprised you'd remember such a small detail."

"Hands aren't small. Especially not when they're holding a wand, or gripping your throat, or digging into your scar. Thank you, by the way. A swift punch would've been better."

"Where's the fun in that, Harry?" Riddle said. "Now, come, even brushing fingers would do. It's not so hard."

He bristled. Of all the things he hated most about Voldemort, the downtalking - the blatant patronisation - that was the worst. Angrily, he thrust out a hand and gripped Riddle's own, tightly, feeling him tense, startled. "Merlin," he snapped, "it's so difficult."

Riddle stared at their joined hands. "I ought to use reverse psychology more often, if it gets you to respond like this."

"How about you ask nicely?"

"But I did 'ask nicely'. The Imperius curse wasn't involved."

Harry glared. "Treating me like a toddler isn't asking nicely." Slowly, a smirk rose on Riddle's face, leaving him unsettled, just slightly off-balance enough to feel like he was about to fall. "What's so funny?"

"You still haven't let go of my hand. Tell me, do you feel any ill effects?"

Harry snorted. "Are you getting smug about not hurting me?"

"I've proved you wrong. You act like I should be predictable."

"Same goes for you," Harry mumbled, as an idea rose in his mind. He'd spent too much time around Fred and George. "Come on, Tom, the tower's this way. You can keep up, right?" And with that, Harry tugged on his hand, and dragged him along, stumbling forward down the hallways.

"You know, if you'd like me to stop treating you like a child, you might want to stop acting like one." Riddle regained his footing and matched his pace, but still he kept ahold of Harry's hand. "Just a thought, Harry."

"I bet this mash would actually hit you if I threw it," he threatened, and Riddle only laughed.

He sat on his bed, swathed in silencing charms, hungrily swallowing down as much food as he could. Riddle sat across from him, looking unimpressed with his gusto, eating in measured, slow bites, taking care to precisely cut off no more than he could chew. "You'll make yourself sick," he said, faintly disgusted.

"I'm starved," Harry replied, not unkindly. "Give me a break."

Riddle continued slicing his bloody Brussels sprouts. Harry didn't comment. "One never gets a break when fighting the Dark Lord."

"Ha, ha, my sides."

"Speaking of-" Here, Riddle set down his knife and fork, and folded his hands in his lap, "-we'll have to be quick in teaching you how to fortify your mind. I suspect we will try to attack soon. Or at least do more than sit around idly."

Harry stopped chewing for a moment. "What makes you think that?"

"I know myself."

He returned to his food. This wasn't really all that insightful information, but Riddle still wasn't wrong. Voldemort would be getting impatient. "I never would've guessed." He sighed, against rapidly-rising indigestion, and a faint, underlying terror at the entire situation. "What should I do?"

"If he attacks tonight, there's not much I can teach you so quickly. He wouldn't kill you, but he can hurt you. And I'm sure you're aware that has the potential to be worse."

Harry's throat burned. "Can I keep him distracted somehow?"

"Aside from a very base sort of distraction, no. You'll catch him relatively off guard if you do something unexpected, but the trouble there comes in finding something he, in fact, won't actually expect. Even through madness, I can't envision a world in which I neglect to plan ahead."

"How will I hold up in an actual duel?" Everything in him hated asking this question, giving Riddle such an opportunity to brag, but he had to know. He could fight, or give flight, let the predator chase the prey. Not that he'd possibly expect the prey standing any chance at all.

"You know your own weaknesses, and so do I, but I won't underplay your strengths. The Prophecy didn't name you as my equal on some fleeting whim. You and I, we can fight countless times, but on level-footing, it will always end in a draw. One of us has to have the advantage."

"Neither of us can kill the other. I meant what I said, I'll help Voldemort if I can. Everyone acts like I was born into the world just to kill him, but that just completes the cycle, doesn't it? Makes it always end the same way, kill or be killed." Harry shook his head. "I don't want to fall into that trap if I can't. And Voldemort doesn't want to kill his Horcrux. So we're both guaranteed safety. How can either of us get an advantage in something like that?"

"That depends on your definition of an advantage." Riddle hummed. "If you present a convincing reason not to fight, one that's in his own self-interest, he will listen. Before, he had nothing to lose. But now, now you're, to his every regret, precious."

"To his every regret," Harry said, again. "Not to both of your regrets? Really?"

"I want to wield my power with clarity of mind, not... this chaotic, disordered stream of consciousness my other self has caught himself in. I don't regret making you my Horcrux. You're more valuable than you know. In fact, you're the reason I can succeed."

"I'm not helping you rule Wizarding Britain."

"You needn't go that far. We can both get what we want. Your friends will live free, and I will have sense enough to control the Wizarding World without also losing control over myself."

"I'm making you sane for the sake of everyone else, but you'll still be my enemy. As long as you want to ruin every wizard who's not pureblood, and as long as you want to make the Ministry your collection of puppets, I can't work at your side."

Riddle looked at him awhile. "Are you saying, provided I met your two conditions, you would consider working with me?"

"When you're sane and less murderous, yeah. I can't stand any of your techniques, your belief that you're above everyone else, or your cruelty, but in a really, really, really technical sense, I can understand some of what you want to do. The Ministry right now is a mess, benefiting pretty much no-one, and the state of the Wizarding World is... I dunno. It's regressive sometimes. A lot of the time. And as much as you're an awful person who's done awful things, the way you've been treated is just as awful, and honestly half the blame should go to them. You'd be more of an actual stable person if they hadn't let their fears about your future interfere in the way they chose to shape it." Harry stopped a moment to breathe. "That's how I feel. But it doesn't make you any less of a twat, though. The choice to kill all those people, to kill my mum and dad? That was still your choice, and you chose it. You deserve what happened to you, you know. You made your bed, you had no choice except lying in it."

Riddle blinked. "This is why the Prophecy chose you," he said, eventually. "You surprise me, Harry. I couldn't make you my puppet, and I don't think I want to. You can, with enough motivation, be incredibly clever, and treating you like a mindless lackey would be a disservice to that skill, however hidden. In fact, you working by my side voluntarily would be a greater victory than simply defeating you in combat." Some strange, unchecked fire lit in his eyes, curled at the corners of his mouth. "We could do great things together, Harry. A very many great things."

"Yeah, we could," Harry allowed. "But I won't, not unless your sanity gives you the ability to keep your cruel streak in check. I don't work with cold-blooded killers. Especially not remorseless, cold-blood killers, whose beliefs are so utterly wrong and hypocritical, so contradicting that I can't even figure out how cognitive dissonance hasn't just bloody killed you yet."

Riddle seemed even more pleased. "You have such a mouth on you, clever boy. You're lucky I'm beginning to enjoy it. Anyone else would be dead already."

"Why-" Harry began, choked off. "Why would you enjoy it?"

"You're not weak; you'll seek power when it suits you. And you have a mind, a will. You don't kneel at my feet begging to kiss them, like a whimpering, mindless sycophant. Disgusting and pathetic, wasting space and the air we all breathe."

"You chose your Death Eaters yourself."

"They're necessary, but I don't enjoy them. Not like you. I do so enjoy you."

Harry flushed, uncomfortable. Any compliment from Voldemort was usually meant to draw more attention to their parallels, but being called a person by someone who saw no-one as people. That was different. "Thanks," he said. "I think."

He fell asleep, just like that, lying beside Riddle, stomach pleasantly full, feeling warm-cheeked and a little more hopeful for the future. It was so easy for things to seem peaceful, lying across from your mortal enemy, managing some form of respect and camaraderie. Such a welcome relief from the darkness, the black dog, that always seemed to follow him around so relentlessly.

But he opened his eyes again to a ceiling that was not his own.

Again, it was the strange room he'd first dreamt Voldemort in, or really, that Voldemort had dreamt him in. The amalgamation of some aristocrat's mansion and what looked like something out of the Slytherin common room, still with the faint glow of the fireplace, and the empty black of night outside. The closer he looked, the more it seemed the moon and stars were shrouded by trees. The estate below was shadowed and indistinguishable.

It, objectively, looked fairly macabre and haunting, but the warm light illuminating the bed's deep green velvet blankets and silk sheets made it feel almost comforting. Falling gently against the small armchair in the corner, and brightening the dark, dark wooden desk, covered in neatly stacked papers, ink bottles, and quils. Not peaceful, but settled, for the moment.

Voldemort's mindscape. Specifically, the bedroom in Voldemort's mindscape. He knew anyone who'd trained as long as Riddle would have a complete mental scape of the grounds, every nook and cranny, every hidden room of the house, top to bottom. He wanted to explore, to gather information without Voldemort's knowing, just by reaching out and lifting it from his mind. But he wasn't well-enough prepared. For now, he'd just have to leave in much the same way as he came, unseen.

Carefully, he snuck forward, past the door, into the hallway, and hoped, for Merlin's sake, it wasn't soon to be Voldemort's bedtime. He needed to find an exit, or a place to hide while he worked on mentally creating one, however the hell that worked. If Voldemort saw him, he'd have questions - questions Harry couldn't answer, that he needed more time to learn how to mentally protect - and Voldemort would stop at nothing to forcibly pry them out of his mind. He had to remain unnoticed.

He wouldn't ever have called himself a fantastic spy, not with his tendency to go running blindly into things, he'd admit, but he wasn't atrocious. He did a decent job of not waking up every student in the dorms on the days he woke up early, sweating and ill, remembering the Ministry, the shattered orbs on the floor.

Except Voldemort was beyond talented at sniffing out every doubter in his order. And he was literally bound to Harry by soul.

His throat tightened, swallowing around dawning realisation that Voldemort would find him; it was only a matter of time. Of course, Harry would push forward anyway, because he needed to leave, to be alive to exploit the link that tethered him here at a later point in time, and because the thought of hiding away, snivelling and cowardly in the mind of his parents' killer was downright repulsive. But he would be found. And what would he say then? "Sorry I accidentally stumbled into your mental mansion in the middle of nowhere! It was completely by accident. Can you conveniently let me go now? And maybe not ask questions about how and why I was even mentally hanging around here in the first place?"

His footsteps seemed to echo louder than stones dropped into the Great Lake, ringing through the hallways and setting his hairs on end. Soon, he was panicking, rushing down every unchanging corner, feeling as if he were running himself in circles like a hamster on a wheel. No end opened up to an exit, and all of it - the doors, the walls, the decrepit lights - began to blend into itself after a while.

Panting, desperate, barreling through an endless maze, part of him wondered if being alone here was perhaps an even worse fate. Everything was so cold, so angry; nothing felt like home, and the faster he ran, the more twisted the house seemed to become.

And after an eternity, he tumbled into something slightly warmer, slightly softer, but still just as angry. He fell back, horrified, and planted himself against the floor, slipping down slowly until his eyes were on the cracked ceiling. After a second or two, he scrambled forward, until his line of sight was once again on the floor, where, in front of him, stood two bare feet, framed by the trailing tail-end of dark robes. "What are you doing in my house, Potter? Seeking me out again?"

"It's your mental house, not your real-" he stopped. "This is Riddle Manor, isn't it?"

"Very good. It is, at least, a facsimilie of it. My 'mental house', yes."

If only he'd managed more training. If only he had actual control over the way his mind wandered when it slept. "I didn't mean to," he said, truthfully. He truly couldn't imagine a world where Voldemort would be impressed by his daring honesty, but he was too thrown-off to lie convincingly, either. And telling a bald-faced lie would only fix him a Crucio and a swift, "Try again."

"You 'didn't mean to'?" Voldemort repeated. He felt something claw at his mind, familiar but so much more vicious. When Riddle read him, it was at least with some semblance of caution, but this incarnation simply tore through without regard to the damage he caused. "No, I don't suppose you did. But I'm afraid you're here now, and Lord Voldemort does have questions for you."

"That I'm not going to answer," Harry announced. "You've got to have guessed that."

"I can make you answer."

Now that was more like the Riddle he knew. "No, you can't. I've learnt Occlumency." Barely.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Taught to you by whom?"

"Yourself," he said. "Can't have your precious Horcrux too off his trolley to protect himself, now can we?"

He had a fair point, and Voldemort knew it. "There are other ways I can get you to talk."

Harry shrugged. "You could ask me nicely."

"I am asking you nicely, Potter." Voldemort offered him an unpleasant sort of smile. "I've not yet involved anything untoward in this little conversation, not like-"

"-The Imperius curse," Harry finished, and Voldemort stopped completely. 'You act like I should be predictable.' Harry smiled back. "I've heard that before, very recently."

"I will drag you back here," Voldemort said, abruptly. "Every time you choose to obscure information about my other self, I will return you to this house. Ceaselessly. Until you talk."

"Do you have complementary tea? Or do you treat all your guests this well?"

This Tom Riddle was less impressed by Harry's untimely sense of humour. "Does laughing help you pretend you're not in as much danger as you are, Harry?"

"Yeah. You should try it some time. Funny is a good look on you; I've got personal experience."

Voldemort stepped forward. "What do you mean by that? Do you intend to bait me with these vague statements? Do you enjoy returning to his place, boy, or have you simply lost ahold of your sanity?"

"I enjoy you," Harry parroted. Without context, he'd probably convince Voldemort he had, in fact, gone mad. Which was a lot better than having him think Harry knew everything. He didn't - know, that is. But he'd seen more than he should've. He'd seen the orphanage. If Voldemort found out Harry'd been snooping around in his memories, his reaction would be a lot worse than Riddle's, and that in itself was distinctly awful to deal with.

But Voldemort only blinked. "You are trying to bait me. Interesting. Do you want me to find out?"

"Yes, because I'd like two of you in my life." But honestly, it wasn't really all that untrue. The more he could compare the younger Voldemort with the older, the more he could learn that neither would tell him. And in the event that Riddle's knowledge about the locations was outdated, Harry would need to know all he could about Voldemort's behaviour, his life, his past, present, and future.

"This situation isn't unfavourable to you," Voldemort continued. He would never allow himself to be openly astonished, but Harry sensed a certain surprise in him.

"Well, aside from the fact that you could probably kill me."

"But I won't."

"But you won't, yeah. You studying me is making me pretty uncomfortable, though." He frowned. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

"I'm only returning the favour," Voldemort said. "You seem to know a great deal more than you should about me, Harry. It's only fair I know you in turn."

"Let's make a deal, then." It was out of nowhere, but everything he did seemed to be these past few days. "I'll meet you here, and you can 'know me' - Merlin, if I wasn't uncomfortable before - and in return, you let me leave before I rot away here."

"If I take this deal, you cannot go back. I won't allow you to 'forget' to follow through."

Harry shrugged. "You do actually have tea, right?" And then he held out his hand to shake, and tried to ignore the sharp ringing in his ears, the fear clawing up his throat, prickling like spiders.

Author's Note: ACCIDENTALLY BEING ROMANTIC IN AN ATTEMPT TO ANNOY YOUR MORTAL ENEMY IS WHAT FUELS ME IN THIS LIFE.

It was terribly cheesy, but I have no self-restraint. I apologise.

(Yes, I'm late. Video games. I keep marathoning video games into the night and early morning. And then having to do school. Probably I need to try to balance my time better. Like, okay, make that definitely. orz. Sorry.)