Again he awoke to Riddle Manor, swirling mist curling around the edges of the masterbedroom window, fireplace crackling softly. There was a greater feeling of peace, settling on him like a blanket, that allowed him to maintain calm. The last time he'd visited the Manor, it had felt that the walls wanted to eat him, that every corridor would run forever, that no doorknob would ever turn. But now it was warmed over, clearer, less twisted and hungry. He imagined Voldemort had gone to sleep quite happy, then.

Really, it was quite lovely like this, with Voldemort happy, and skilled enough to breathe life through dreams into a manor that had once been so decrepit and dark. Does the real Manor look like this? Harry suddenly needed it to, nevermind that Voldemort would never waste time on something sentimental, but there was an ache in a part of him that begged for its restoration, the part that was nestled close to Riddle's soul, that had felt the chest-gripping loneliness, watching the past slip away.

But in all its loveliness, it could still not make up for the obvious truth - that the house did in fact want to eat him, in its own way. He'd expected to return to Voldemort's mindscape. But why was he here? Why did he keep sending himself here?

Harry lay back against the pillows and kept his gaze fixed on the door. He wasn't stupid enough to make the same mistake twice, and the room was warm, besides. He had no reason to leave. And the keyhole, from this distance, looked as if it led to nothing, or to too much of everything, something straight out of Alice's terrifying Wonderland. So he curled into himself, goosebumps rising on his skin, prickling against the unnatural softness of the sheets. The only thing that differentiated this place from reality was, strangely enough, how sharp and real everything felt. Too accurate, too precise a replica to be anything but someone's own mind.

If he looked hard enough, he could feel Voldemort's presence in the house. Before, he'd only ever sensed him seconds too late, but now he knew what to look for. It was, unsurprisingly, almost exactly like Riddle's, save for its one unique ability to suck the life out of everything that touched it. He felt so hollow, so like his feelings were being drained into a void, the dark vacuum of space, that he could barely look at it for long. A Dementor's kiss was more animated, more filled with life than Voldemort's soul. Absurdly, it gave Harry the image of Tom Riddle, hung like a puppet from a meat hook, watching on in slow, pleased amusement as his own blood dripped into the drains on the floor.

Voldemort had mutilated himself, and he had liked it. The concept was awful enough to contemplate; he had no idea how Voldemort lived it every day as cold, hard fact.

It was just so consuming, so malformed and inhuman, that Harry wanted desperately to have all the Horcruxes with him right there and then, so he could give Voldemort's soul substance again. Even Riddle, only one pitifully small seventh of the completed piece, was brighter and more tangible.

And again, Harry was back in the shattered dust of a thousand prophecies, feeling nothing but pity for the one man who was so set on destroying him.

He stayed for hours like that, watching the flicker of the fireplace, tasting iron as he thought about what was left of Voldemort's soul. He grew dreadfully curious about what on this planet, in the entire universe, could provoke anything other than unfiltered wrath out of such a lifeless person's mind.

Eventually, he felt the black hole, the gaping monster's mouth of a soul approaching, and watched in horror as the doorknob slowly clicked and unlocked, pushing forward to reveal its other half, enclosed in the grip of a pale hand and spindly, branching fingers. "I don't suppose I should be surprised, Harry Potter."

"I mean, no," was the first thing he managed. "Would you believe me if I told you I'm really not doing it on purpose?"

Voldemort was immediately rifling through his mind like a deck of cards. "Yes, in fact, I would. Odd boy, how is it that you always end up here?"

"Yeah, I was wondering the same thing." He shrugged, swallowing, Adam's apple bobbing against the collar of his uniform. "Beats me. But I guess it's what you wanted, right?"

"I prefer some form of scheduling to our meetings, but I'll admit I find your spontaneity... quite intriguing."

Harry chewed his tongue, fingers bunching in the sheets. He was always at one end of two extremes with Voldemort, dancing around him or spitting in his face, but now they were supposed to maintain a conversation, he had no idea how to act. Swaying from insult to half-baked compliment would get him tortured, and Harry was already running dry on both, regardless. Barely any insult would sting, excepting shallow comments on blood purity - which Harry wouldn't lower himself to - and all compliments were hit-or-miss. Lying was too transparent, so that ruled out, "Why, Tom, don't you know how much I admire your startling tenacity and endless capability to murder?" But the truth was uncomfortable. So, "Why, Tom, you know, you're a genius, I'm subconsciously drawn to your complex mind, and I really wish you weren't responsible for so much suffering, because I'd actually love to get to know you in another life, and maybe learn from you, because I want to discover new magic and push its limits, as it's the only escape in my life and what saved me from an abusive childhood, starving and living in a cupboard under the stairs," was also not an option.

Voldemort himself always seemed to know precisely what to say. He could twist a conversation in his favour within seconds, cut unpleasantly deep with just a few words, take advantage of the cold feeling his voice invoked to make listening both inescapable and jarring, the list was endless. And Harry felt like a bumbling idiot in comparison. It wasn't that he thought he was incapable; instead, that he was far from it. The Sorting Hat had been right, and should he put in enough effort, he'd easily be able to master the effect, put to use his Slytherin cunning and resourcefulness, and have an entire collection of followers bending over backwards for him.

He hated everything that made him and Tom Riddle so alike. He hated not knowing what parts of himself were genuine and what parts were donated - stolen. And most of all, he hated not being able to do anything about it.

Dumbledore had told him that their differences were what mattered most, and here, beneath a towering monster with a snake for half a face, it was easy to believe. But next to Riddle, with their shared hair colour, mannerisms, phrasing, backgrounds, magical talents, stupid levels of determination, it was even easier to get lost.

Both of them would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. Harry, the unwavering protection of his loved ones, and Tom, the unwavering control over everyone and everything. And both were confident they would get it.

"You're a great deal more insightful than people give you credit for, Potter," said Voldemort, startling him straight out of his own thoughts.

"Thanks. I'm really shite with Occlumency, though," Harry replied, mouth pulled down into a tight grimace. "Is it really that easy? To read me. As unpleasant as it'll be to hear you brag."

"You present a passable shield when you focus. It's only that you rarely do." He paused, then added, "But Lord Voldemort's skill in Legilimency is unparalleled, and no amount of practice can help you. I'd advise against wasting your time on such a fruitless attempt at defence."

"It's sort of the principal, though, isn't it? I'm not just going to lie down and take it." Very poor wording. Absolutely the worst. Harry sighed. "You know you're the one trying to teach me, don't you?"

"Where would I find reason to do that?"

"You don't care how much you ruin the minds you read, but with me, you need me to be able to protect myself. Or else you'll have to slip me to Lucius, only then to find Ginny trying to confide her secrets in me, because that's definitely what I was made for."

Voldemort remained blank. "I had hoped he would be less incompetent."

"You didn't actually tell him what it was. He thought it was just some dumb book. Nice job with that, by the way."

This got an even more dispassionate stare. "And why would I be in possession of 'some dumb book'?"

"I dunno. You pried it out of the cold, dead hands of one of your victims? That's probably what Malfoy thought, anyway."

"I only take things of value."

Harry snorted. "Because you make your motives so clear to your Death Eaters."

"You imagine I should? They're far too witless to be trusted with such vital information." Voldemort's mouth, of its own accord, morphed into a self-satisfied sneer. "Certainly it's surprising you've gotten anywhere with planning that flawed. One would expect more from the bearer of our soul."

"Uh, so I'm a shitty strategist because I trust people? Not everyone who works for you is an idiot. Unless your taste is really that awful."

"I suppose you would know about my apparent lack of taste, then, would you not? Being one of my Horcruxes."

"You didn't do that on purpose," Harry protested, weakly.

"No," Voldemort spat. "I didn't."

"I'm feeling the love," Harry muttered. "Don't you want to use me or something? I've got a bit of your soul in me. Surely that makes me an asset, doesn't it?"

"Why do you think I let you stay here?" Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "To entertain me?"

Harry huffed, defensive. "I'll have you know I can be very entertaining. The other you likes me."

"I highly doubt that."

"No, he does! He's way more tolerable, simply because he's willing to listen to me. Y'know, because he doesn't think I've the IQ of an ant."

"I don't think you unintelligent; I know you to be a child," said Voldemort. "There's a difference. Tell me, does my other self appear to be your age? Or is he as I am now, in this form?"

This was a question he could actually answer. "A bit older than me, I think. Or maybe the same age, it's hard to tell. He has all your memories up to when you split your soul and tried to kill me, but he's chosen to be able to blend in, I think."

"He can manifest in the physical world?"

"When I want him to," Harry insisted.

"You want me to appear to you?" Voldemort seemed chillingly pleased by this.

He flushed, and picked at the sleeves of his shirt. "I said the other you was more tolerable, didn't I?"

"And if I were more willing to listen to you?" The slits of Voldemort's nostrils flared. "Would I be tolerable then?"

He crossed his arms. "I'm not stroking your ego."

"I'm simply determining whether I'll have to use force to get you to listen to me, or if you'll do it willingly."

"I already willingly listen to you!" he snapped. "I just think you're an ars-" He stopped, at Voldemort's look. "Right. Okay. But if I'm polite, you have to be, too. Fair's fair. And this was a deal, so, yes, I get a measure of fairness."

Voldemort seemed taken aback. "You want me to be-"

"Okay, no- well, yes- but I'd- could we just-" Finally, he settled on, "Do you actually have any tea, though? Y'know, mental tea?"

"Mental tea?" Voldemort repeated, and inexplicably, he seemed amused. "Harry, when motivated, I think you'll find I can be a most gracious host. Come, now, child, follow me."

The manor's kitchen cabinets were gorgeous ornate wood, carved as intricately as everything else Harry had seen so far, perhaps even moreso. Voldemort trailed hands along their sides, as if touch were a more potent memory, nails scraping lightly against wood until finally, they came to rest on the cupboard above the kettle. He peeled open the doors, and there lay a veritable treasuretrove of every tea Harry could imagine, lined by jars of sugarcubes and tins of condensed milk.

Voldemort let a few packs float down from the shelves and into Harry's hands. "What would you like?"

"I'm fine with anything, but I'm guessing now is probably not the time to ask for English Breakfast. Not with a selection like this."

"Or you could simply have as many cups of as many blends as you please."

Harry struggled to see above the overflowing stack in his hands, and set them on the counter. "But I don't want to exhaust you of your tea supply-"

Voldemort eyed him, a small smile crawling its way forward at the corners of his mouth. "This is simply a replica of my vast collection. Feel free to deplete it as you like."

"Oh, right." Harry blinked. "In hindsight, probably should've realised that. Just not used to this much... anything. Except for the meals at Hogwarts. When I first saw those..." He trailed off, and saw recognition light in Voldemort's expression. "You probably thought so, too, right? It's overkill, but kind of a guilty pleasure."

"I thought it beautiful, the first time I saw the banquet hall. I had never seen such a multitude of choices in my short life."

"Do you collect a lot of things then?" Harry shook his head. "No, that's a stupid question, naturally you do. I mean, do you collect all sorts of exotic food then? I can spot at least ten different languages on the boxes up there. I can only imagine your real kitchen."

"Would it surprise you to know I liked cooking, Harry?"

"Well, not particularly. The other you, he always appears to share my meals. Even when he's not been invited." He chuckled. "And he eats everything. Even stuff he doesn't like, so he can make a big fuss about critiquing it. D'you still-?"

"Criticise whatever edible thing comes my way? Yes. I only accept the best, and you know that."

"Riddle cares, obviously, but he'll still eat it. I dunno, he didn't get to eat for a whole sixteen years, I can't blame him. And then at Woo-" Harry stopped, and paled.

"At what?"

"Shouldn't I probably just call it The-Place-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named? Right? We don't-"

"How do you know about Wool's?"

"About what?" Harry asked, innocently. "I was gonna say the woods. Obviously. Since you got stuck there after I-"

"How?"

"Practicing Legilimency," Harry said, dropping the front. "Riddle already blew a gasket. I get it. Don't bring that up, speak when spoken to."

"I let you?"

"You're kind of a part of my soul. We just... blend. A lot." Ridiculously, Harry felt annoyance flare at Voldemort's put-upon look. "That's what this whole bloody deal was about, so you can untwist your knickers, and we can sit here and have some tea and not pull out the Cruciatus curse."

Miraculously, Voldemort returned his attention to the kettle being filled on its own in his kitchen sink. "You call me Riddle," he said, eventually.

"He- uh, you- get this look when I call you Tom. Like you got fed a whole lemon. And Voldemort gets confusing. Hard to differentiate between which of you I mean when I say that. So, Riddle. Easier. You don't like it, but it makes you less sour than Tom." Harry paused. "Unless you think I should actually call You Number Two Tom. Since Riddle was your dad's name. But Gaunt isn't really any better."

"And, had I not raised any complaint, you'd have gladly called me... Tom, then?" It took Voldemort a good few seconds to manage the name, and he got the very same look. Harry tried with everything he could not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"Well, yeah."

Voldemort seemed perplexed. "You'd call me by my given name? My first name?"

"I would literally rather throw myself into your next Killing Curse than call you 'My Lord', if that's what you're getting at."

"A first name indicates more than simple familiarity."

"Like what?"

"Fondness comes to mind," Voldemort said, slowly. It was still blood-boiling and insufferably patronising, but tinged with a hint of incredulity that stopped Harry from throwing the packet of tea right into his face.

"To be fair, you do break my sides every time I see you. Hard not to like you after that." He got a stare of complete incomprehension. Voldemort was probably imagining it very literally, all sorts of horrific torture, and some part of him wanted to defend Riddle from that sort of accusation, as absurd as that was. "You've got a wicked sense of humour," he clarified.

"A compliment, Harry? Thank you."

"Well, I don't know about you," he began, hesitant, eyes following the steam rising from the kettle instead of locking with Voldemort's. "This is our first proper conversation. And plus, you're trying to 'know' me. Riddle already knows me. He's spent sixteen years stuck with me."

"And here's the first step towards that goal." Voldemort steepled his fingers. "So, you like to be made to laugh. That endears people to you. Even your parents' killer?"

Harry sank defensively farther into his chair. "It's better to be civil." Then, he shot up again. "You being mildly entertaining doesn't mean I don't despise you for what you did to my family."

"Ah, no, but it's enough for us to have this little chat?"

To be fair, he'd been backed into a corner - far too literally - at the time, rifling through anything and everything that might spare him from whatever horrific form of mental torture Voldemort doubtlessly had locked away somewhere just for him. And he'd thought talking couldn't be so terrible, not if Harry had control over what he could and couldn't answer. Of course, he'd forgotten that control didn't seem to exist whenever he confronted Tom Riddle. Somehow, he always said what was on his mind. "You're the one enjoying it," he said, mulishly.

Case in point.

"I'm about to serve you tea," Voldemort told him, blankly. Sure enough, the floating kettle's boiling water was streaming into the teapot, which was settled pleasantly on the counter, surrounded by orbiting planets of various tea leaves. "Tea that you will likely enjoy, if I've chosen correctly."

"What happened to choosing my own blend?" Harry huffed.

"I've given you a blend I think you may perhaps come to love."

"Look- You're just sitting around, making choices for people. It's not about whether I'd have loved it! It's about giving others the choice, their free will. Which is, to my 'genuine surprise', not something you know much about, is it?"

"There are some that would abuse their free will, harness it to bring corruption to the sanctity of magic. They will die."

"Merlin, for someone deprived of it for so long, you'd think you'd understand why it was so bloody important-" He stopped, with a face-twisting grimace.

But Voldemort's expected anger didn't appear, only curiosity. "I know why it's important. That is never something I'll be able to unknow. But those that violate our principals deserve punishment."

"Your principals that are no better than theirs. Your principals like, 'Be pureblooded. Anything else is an abomination.' Do you even know how you sound?" Harry spat, suddenly, slamming his fists, open-palmed, into the smooth tile.

Voldemort looked down at him pityingly. "Mixing magical blood with muggle blood has always been an abomination, Harry. Look at what happened to us, look and see the two worlds were never meant to join, that they sully the lives of the magical in their partnership."

"Because fear really breeds understanding and true unity. And then people fear what they cannot understand. You're literally walking down your own endless cycle."

"You believe understanding would've spared us our suffering at the hands of muggles? They understood perfectly. They saw things as they are true - the magical are stronger than the muggles - and fear that instead."

"Maybe if we didn't abuse our power to give them the same taste of suffering, they wouldn't fear us, would they?"

"They deserve retribution." Voldemort flicked a cup into Harry's now loosely-curled palm. "Drink."

Harry sneered at the obvious deflection. They had come to talk, hadn't they? "Blend? I at least deserve to know that about your 'mystery tea.'"

"Assam."

"And how'd you know how much milk and sugar I like?"

This, bafflingly, seemed to amuse Voldemort, mouth curling in his own inside joke. "I made a very educated guess."

"Unhelpful," he muttered, and stared hotly into the swirling tea he'd been presented. He could still see the spirals the milk had painted into the brew, smell the sugar and something half-close to honey. His mouth watered. "How do I know you haven't poisoned it?"

"I suppose you'll have to trust me."

Harry had half the mind to strangle him. "That's likely."

"You trust my other self, but you won't trust me? I would be insulted..."

"But untrustworthiness is something admirable to you, isn't it, Tom?" And at that, Harry downed a large gulp, and made a point of barely tasting it. It was an inch away from hitting the mark, but Harry had drunk too hastily and left a few drops on freshly-wet lips and at the corners of his mouth. It was simple reflex to reach out with his tongue and lick it away, and the flavour hit him before it was too late.

It was perhaps the greatest thing he had ever tasted, and Voldemort was watching with rapt attention, as if Harry's reaction to a cup of tea were some sort of monumental achievement that he'd had the simple pleasure of witnessing. He sucked his lip into his mouth and chewed, then asked, "Where'd-? How'd you-? That was... absolutely brilliant. And you knew?"

"I didn't know," Voldemort said, plainly, but he didn't seem too upset to admit he wasn't omniscient. "But that-" his eyes trailed down from their fixed lock on Harry's mouth to the cup cradled in his hands "-that has been, and always will be, my favourite." He smiled pleasantly. "And so, yours."

"Coincide-"

"Don't." It was sharp, but Voldemort was still stomach-turningly pleased. "I know what you wonder, Harry. How much of your soul truly manifests? How much of what makes you unique is what once made me unique, as well?"

"Oh, so we share the same favourite tea," Harry spat. "The world might as well be flat. I'll be sure to turn to the Dark now. We have the same taste, you see, we absolutely must team up!"

That got him, to his horror, somewhat of a chuckle. "To see us 'team up.' The world would fall to its knees and tremble before us, two who make each other truly whole, in every sense of the word."

"Y'know what, you're right. Guess what else? We could fix everything," Harry begged. "We could do so much. But all you want to do is kill."

"And all you want to do is save." Voldemort mocked his pleading expression. "Don't you see? When the flesh is rotting, it is eaten away, to heal over anew. There is... far too much rot in this world."

"So you're a maggot, is what you're saying." Harry growled. "Every crazy tyrant before you has said the same. 'The world is sick, and only I have the power to heal it.' Funny thing is, y'know, that they're usually what's making it sick in the first place."

This struck a chord, and Voldemort's magic pinned him like a moth in a museum to the walls of his imaginary kitchen. All the breath left him, and he struggled, weakly, against an invisible grip, wiggling and grasping, futile, at his soft, exposed neck. "I am not sick."

"You are, Tom," Harry said, choking, spit coming in flecks from his gasping mouth. The grip tightened, but suddenly it was a dream. It was a dream and nothing mattered. And he could say anything, anything he wanted. "I mean, they did it to you, but it exists anyway. Your mother didn't let you know love. Wool's told you life was better numb, and Hogwarts gave you the means to numb yourself. They don't deserve to die, any of them, but they are wrong and cruel, cruel people for that, for breaking you. Really, it makes them the maggots, if you think about it. Only your rot? It's still there. But don't worry. I've got it all planned out." He smiled. "I'm going to make you better."

And then he woke up.

Author's Note: where the fuck did that last part come from i don't even know