He knew he couldn't escape Dumbledore forever. He didn't want to. The man deserved an explanation, or twenty. At least some sort of half-baked reason for why Harry would willingly let Voldemort trail him around in the castle.

But Harry had no explanation. He wanted to sink into the ground and sleep, but he knew he'd be facing an infuriated Dark Lord the moment his eyes closed. And to wander around awake, he risked the wrath of the headmaster instead. Harry wasn't honestly sure he knew which was worse.

He couldn't withhold information to save his life, and he couldn't seem to manage a dream any better. But both were inevitable, and he was going to have to wing it, no matter how much he kicked and screamed. Part of him wanted to follow Hermione's advice and confess everything, but Dumbledore could very well set him on fire for it and be within his rights. "You speak to three separate Voldemorts, Harry, is that right?" It was right. "I've arrived at the most surprising conclusion that I should've let Voldemort murder you as you were searching for the Philosopher's Stone. Time to die, Harry! You're long overdue, it seems."

Or something like that.

"I'm going to die," he told the diadem, seriously. It hissed. "I mean it, Riddle. I'm done for."

But if it turned out his destiny was death, then he wanted to meet it in his own sweet time. He should choose when to speak to Dumbledore himself.

It was completely his own choice if that meant he had to visit the headmaster's office as soon as possible. He'd decided. He thought it was prudent. All by himself.

Standing in front of the statue that guarded Dumbledore's office was more threatening than being face-to-face with Voldemort. The empty look in the phoenix's stone-carved eyes still felt more piercing than something so lifeless should, more like he was clingfilm than an actual human being. Transparent.

"Sherbet lemon," he told the phoenix, with mock-confidence. Almost hesitantly, it opened the passageway to the winding staircase that led up to Dumbledore's office.

As he climbed, his tie seemed to grow more and more intent on strangling him. He loosened it, but that didn't help, so he figured he was just losing his grip on reality again. His own unpleasant paranoia was kind of a settled fact now, something he just inherently accepted came with Tom as a package deal. He would always be aware of his surroundings in a way few could be. He wasn't sure that trait was sewn into Tom's DNA, or if living and breathing arguably one of the most vicious wars known to mankind had grown and cemented it. Either way, it planned to stay, and Harry couldn't seem to throw it off.

He was sure Dumbledore already knew he was here, but he knocked against the wall politely anyway, and cleared his throat. A few portraits stirred from sleep and glared out at him from beneath half-closed eyes. He smiled apologetically. "Um, hello."

"Ah, Harry, I've been expecting you." Dumbledore's voice echoed around the room, and from what Harry could hear, he was likely sitting at his desk, writing down the solution to magic's most complicated problems, or contemplating the nature of existence, or whatever it was that the headmaster chose to do in his free time. Harry was surprised suddenly to realise he really had no clue. "Come in."

"You've been expecting me, sir?"

"Yes, I imagine you've come about the memories I showed you, and the Horcruxes. I must say I'm impressed you've found one already."

The licquorice Harry was setting in on jumped and bit viciously into his finger. He didn't even blink, even when it tried to start gnawing. Eventually, his complete lack of reaction seemed to disappoint the poor thing, and it slunk off. "I'm- what? Sorry, what?"

"I know my possible reaction to the news has been worrying you, Harry, but I understand completely. Students frequently say I have eyes on the back of my head, and while I assure you this is not the case, I do take a good deal of time to observe. And I've been seeing a strangely familiar boy following you, Harry. One who is most decidedly out of place. Or shall I say, out of time."

Harry opened his mouth to make some sort of excuse, and then noticed he had none to give. "I swear, sir, I swear on my life, this version's turned around completely, he told me where it was, even!"

"It's alright. I, too, found myself drawn to a charismatic young dark lord when I was a youth. But I found it exceedingly easy to lose track of my real priorities around him. He convinced me everything he believed in was for the betterment of magical kind. Does that sound familiar?"

"He's not doing that. Voldemort is still being himself, actually. And the Horcrux isn't even pretending he's not still a complete ar-" Harry bit his lip. "Villain. He told me, though, sir. He told me what I really am."

Dumbledore sighed, holding his chin in his hands. "I had suspected. I know these past years have been difficult for you. This, I'm sure, is not the news you would have hoped for. Of course, when we come down to the essence of things, your differences are what truly matter, but it will be hard to come to terms with nonetheless." He looked down at Harry from under sparkling lenses, glinting off the light. Fawkes squawked mournfully in the ensuing brief silence. "That's only part of the reason I found myself unwilling to reveal the truth to you. If you knew, so would he, you understand. And if you thought he was dangerous when he was threatened by your refusal to die, Harry, being threatened with something he himself must choose not to kill is far worse."

"Yeah, I'm starting to see that."

"I can't say I'm pleased with this turn of events. But I can say it appears the Tom Riddle that resides within you does not appear to want to return to his old habits, and that itself is change drastic enough that I must step back and reconsider. I'm reluctant to accept your actions. This is a great risk. Only you keep his power in check, Harry, you are all that bars him from reattempting what happened in your Second Year. It is up to you to see that things remain this way, and I'm trusting you not to lose sight of yourself as I did."

Harry nodded, a wordless promise. Eventually, "You were really friends with a dark lord?"

Dumbledore's smile was fond, nostalgic, and endlessly sad. Seemed that response was common among friends of those with dark magic. "He was my dearest friend, in fact. I felt he understood me like no other, and I, him, in turn. I was very much mistaken."

"Didn't he like you?"

"Yes, of course, I could tell that much. But it was also convenient that I liked him. It was easier to pretend the things he said were reasonable when he was so personable."

"What'd he want to do?"

"Enslave Muggles."

"Oh, wow. Uh. Step up from Voldemort, though, right? At least they'd be alive."

Dumbledore laughed at this off-colour joke. "Yes, who says there isn't a silver lining to every cloud after all?"

"Did you ever repair your friendship?"

"Not particularly. Speaking to him only seems to bring pain, never healing. But I often wonder if, in another world, we could have remained friends. If he could have set aside his more violent aspirations for those of a peaceful glory. Perhaps even a political glory. He could charm anyone if he tried."

"He didn't put you above that?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "In some ways, he did. We had a deep respect for each other, and he wanted desperately for me to join his cause for the rest of time, but his dreams were too far-reaching and seductive to let go of. I loved him for his very soul, but looking back on it, I assume he loved me mainly for my power."

"Love love?" Harry asked, like an idiot. Why was that the first thing he seemed to ask every time he was confronted with a dark lord? What the hell had him fixated on their perceived heartlessness?

"On my part," Dumbledore said, amused at Harry's stupid gawking. "I suppose I will never be sure whether those feelings were returned."

"You should go talk to him," Harry offered. "I'm not saying you can just walk in there, like, 'Oh, everything's forgiven, it's okay you wanted to rip people's freedom away, you're pretty and we should get married instead.'" This got him an extremely sceptical raised eyebrow. "But, I mean. Maybe a, 'Hey, remember how we could change the world together? Fancy helping save us all from these new Death Eaters? If you want, you can teach at Hogwarts. Hopefully Defence Against the Dark Arts, because nobody else will bloody do it.' Or something like that."

Dumbledore smiled gently. "Is that what you want to say to Voldemort, Harry?"

"Yeah. He won't listen to it, he thinks I'm about as smart as Neville's toad and no more useful. But if you were best friends with this bloke - and you sound full-on star-crossed - he couldn't just forget you. He'd value your opinion because, if nothing else, you can basically do anything you'd like with magic, and you oversee an entire school of careless children and make sure we don't all get ourselves killed? That's a tough job."

"I doubt I could find an audience with him."

Harry shot him pleading doe eyes. "But you could try, sir?"

"Yes. I could try." Dumbledore set a hand on his shoulder. "Be safe. In many ways, Voldemort is an even more dangerous enemy. He cannot even find an advantage in love to exploit. He sways others with fear and suffering. You must be cautious when dealing with a person of that calibre. There seems to be something fundamentally human missing from them, Harry. Something none of us can do without."

Dumbledore had dismissed him with the promise of the Horcrux's location at a later date. Part of Harry hoped he was going to see his old friend, and maybe build a bridge between the two again. Another part suspected Dumbledore wanted to keep a very close eye on him before bestowing that kind of sensitive information.

In classes, all he could do was stare at the wall, get whacked over the head with various books by Snape, and try his best not to get called on and reveal just how little that went in his ear wasn't making it out again. Hermione and Ron gave him concerned looks, but if not even a few tonnes worth of Calming Drought could blank Harry's mind right now, he was beyond help. Maybe not even a few tonnes of alcohol.

Everything Dumbledore had told him was reverberating around his mind like a ping pong ball, rattling his skull. His own thoughts were giving him a headache, one he couldn't casually sleep off, because the next time he closed his eyes, he knew he'd wake up back in that room in Riddle Manor, feeling Voldemort's dripping, cloying, inky soul. How was it that his dreams were worse than his nightmares?

Just his luck, of course.

Even his teachers were giving him strange glances, to the point where Harry was considering if Snape was hoping he'd get his mind in order if it got smacked around enough. They weren't even harsh. Like getting hit on the head with a newspaper, and not even a rolled one. Snape actually looked worried, which in itself was worrying. And he kept asking Harry questions in class, as if that might get him to pay attention all of a sudden.

But Harry could barely keep still. He knew that, come night, his exhaustion would overwhelm him, and he'd eventually sink into sleep. If anything, he thought Voldemort might even try using the Link to sedate him. Harry could feel his eager eyes on the back of his neck constantly, despite Voldemort being miles and miles away. Sometimes he thought he heard whispers. It made his hairs stand on end, sweat-slick hair plastered to his forehead, jumping at so much as a wand waved near his general vicinity.

"You're going to drive yourself mad at this rate," Ron told him, as Harry almost tripped down the stairs for a tenth time.

"Oh, yeah, definitely." They were due back at the dorms any minute, and it felt somewhat like walking to his own doom.

"He's not going to kill you," Ron promised, gripping his shoulder. "And, being You-Know-Who and everything, I think he's probably figured he's basically a walking Veritaserum to you. Maybe he'll even let it slide."

"That's not going to happen," Harry said. "I really hit a nerve."

"Doesn't anything make him relax?"

"Tea. Accidentally being complimented. Being better than me at things."

Ron snorted. "Make him a cuppa, tell him he looks pretty, and fall down the stairs proper this time."

"Thanks, Ron, I'll keep that in mind."

Even if he couldn't navigate the castle blindfolded, he'd know they were on a steady approach for Gryffindor's common room from the horrible sound of the Fat Lady's godawful singing. No matter how many times anyone begged her to stop, she just kept on going. She either wouldn't or couldn't see sense. Her singing was, to everyone's constant reminder, amazing, and any single person who couldn't see the truth in that had no appreciation for the arts. Harry was kind of grateful for it now, though, for the very first time in his entire life. It might keep him awake.

Ron winced. "What kind of song is that? It's just noise at this point."

"I have my fingers crossed she'll keep going. I don't want to fall asleep right now, to be honest."

"Merlin, I'd prefer You-Know-Who to her wailing. But if it's music in your ears, good on you. I'd still take a dark lord."

"Voldemort can probably sing for real," Harry offered. The image was stuck in his head now, Tom as a choirboy, or something similar to show off his talent. "He made sure there was nothing he couldn't do. Maybe I should ask him."

"You have to do it, now, Harry. I've got to know if he can sing or not." Ron met his eyes seriously. "I'll die if I don't find out."

"Wow, alright. I'll ask Voldemort to sing me a lullaby. Maybe if I fall asleep twice I'll get out of his bloody deathtrap house."

The worst part, Harry was now sorely tempted.

Staring at the drapes hanging over his bed and trying to count the golden stripes could only keep him from nodding off so long.

He was achingly tired. Everything in him was crying, begging to sleep. It made no real sense, since Harry hadn't done anything physically exhausting in the day, not exerted any real effort other than climbing flights of stairs, but still, it was there. He figured mental taxation apparently had the same effect on his body as a day of blind running, and cursed his luck. Voldemort's luck, actually, because the curtains were already blurring, and Harry's stinging eyes were already pulling themselves closed.

You're such an arsehole, Tom, was his last coherent thought before slipping away.

Strangely, when his consciousness rose back up, he was slumped in the corner of a small, rickety wooden room. A few feet in front of him, there was a large, ugly metal trap door, currently firmly clamped shut by a padlock. But little scratches around the lock showed the door was opened frequently. That in itself was odd, because the whole shack was covered in spiderwebs and dust.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the gloom, and predictably, there stood Lord Voldemort, counting tins of canned food lined neatly against breaking shelves. He didn't seem to be aware of Harry's presence, too focused on comparing different brands of pea soup. "Hi," Harry said, carefully.

Voldemort whipped around, startled. Harry was almost proud to have elicited the reaction, but from the looks of this place, Voldemort's inner paranoia and fear ran deeper than he previously thought. "Harry."

"So, what's this place, then?"

"A shed built atop a bomb shelter," Voldemort said, confirming his suspicions. "The majority of my supplies are below. I've already counted those."

"So, is your mental picture an absolutely perfect clone of reality? Even so, you'd really rather come mentally anyway?"

"Coming here physically risks the security of its location. I only visit on my scheduled checks."

"And you have this because?"

"Muggles have built themselves weapons of such power, on such a grand scale, with such an ability to reek absolute devastation, that I find myself simply astounded at their level of self-destructive, empty-headed posturing. Peacocks strutting their feathers. Digusting. I would rather slit my own throat than succumb to death at their hands."

"Atomic bombs?" Harry asked.

Voldemort scowled. "Yes. At least the wizarding world can pride itself on how fleeting the Killing Curse is. Radiation does not simply 'go away.'"

"Do you have pretty much a contingency plan for everything that could possibly go wrong? Ever?"

"It becomes a requirement, when placed in my position."

Harry rested his head on his knees, thinking. "Poison? Mental torture? Dismemberment? Starvation? Dehydration? Hypothermia? Hyperthermia? Blood loss? Disease? Brain damage?"

"Those would all fall under 'everything that could possibly go wrong, ever', yes."

"Just curious." And testing a hypothesis. Harry shrugged. "So, can I come to you if I ever find myself on the brink of death?"

"I expect you to come immediately should anything even approaching such an event occur." Voldemort's eyes narrowed to slits. "I will drag you back from the afterlife personally. Suicide does not circumvent my newfound inability to kill you. Attempt to self-harm, and you'll suffer at my hand instead. Is that clear, Harry?"

"Crystal." Harry held up his hands, surrendering. "So," he began, hoping the results of his experiment wouldn't get him a one-way ticket to Voldemort's personal torture dungeon. Or whatever it was he kept in his myriad of secret things. "How're you feeling this fine evening?"

"Annoyed that you continue to pester me," Voldemort snapped.

"What'd you eat for dinner last night?"

"Roast duck." Suddenly, the Dark Lord was frozen still, no more lifelike than a statue. Slowly, he turned from the shelves to face Harry, looking incandescent with rage. His hands trembled around his wand with the effort of restraining himself. His breathing quickened, barely-there lips pulling up into an animalistic snarl. "Why am I telling you this?"

"'Cause I asked," Harry told him. "That's a thing now, thanks to our connection. Unlike some people, I'm not a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad liar, so I figured you should know. And I only asked questions with pretty obvious answers. Well, except the duck. That sounds great, though."

Harry had never seen such pure hatred in his life. "And I assume this works both ways?" Voldemort's voice was level, but his eyes had lit with something sick.

"Yeah. I'm telling you that because I'm not evil, so you're welcome."

"Is that so?" His mouth was twitching, chest rising and falling, rough, stilted in an attempt to breathe evenly. "For springing this on me with no warning, and for the promise you made to me in a past meeting, I think I've the right to ask a question without an obvious answer."

"Oh," Harry said. "The knowing me thing. Okay, shoot."

"Then I ask, what is it that you would least like to tell me?"

It was depressing how quickly he knew the answer. "I never know what to do with myself when you flirt with me, and it's really embarrassing, since I have a reputation of witty comebacks to uphold. At least threats on my life are familiar territory, you know?"

Voldemort fumbled with the can he was holding, hateful expression faltering, bordering on complete shock. "What?"

Harry chewed his lip. "You asked me what I'd least like to tell you. I answered. And now I'm hoping I can just sink into the floor and disappear forever."

"Do you not have any context for that answer?"

"Y'know. Your Horcruxes. They really like making me squirm."

"I like making you squirm, and yet I haven't resorted to-" Words seemed to have failed him. "To outdated methods I put aside long ago."

"You mean when you didn't look like a walking Renaissance painting anymore?" Voldemort glared. "I dunno, I mean, I think you could still do it. Some people are into the whole scary look. Bad boys, and all. Or, well, murderous men, in this case."

Voldemort looked unwell. "Could I really not think of more original ways to mar your comfort?"

"The tried and tested methods seem to work well enough already, though," Harry said. "You probably saw how stupid I was with Cho in fourth year, and thought, 'Oh, Harry can't handle pretty people talking to him. Perfect.' And I really, really can't. Handle pretty people talking to me, I mean. It's objective fact. So, imagine how I freeze up when someone genuinely striking talks to me. Someone gorgeous. It's the worst. I act like an idiot, and you bask in it, you bastard."

The sickness in Voldemort's eyes immediately turned dark and hungry. "That's what you think of me? That I'm gorgeous?"

"Look, even blind people would want you; they can hear your voice. It's classical - arguably beautiful, when you're not listing off all the ways you'd like to see me die - and I was actually thinking of asking you to sing to me. It started off as a joke, but I can't stop being legitimately tempted, now." Harry was flushed deep red again, as was only fitting. "Right. So, as you can see, I've sacrificed all my dignity by telling you about this whole Veritaserum effect thing. Can I please shut up now?"

"You'd like me to sing to you?"

"It sounds stupid, but yeah. Tom and I share our dinner most of the time, so it's always his voice that helps me sleep at night. I always feel really peaceful when we eat together, and I don't have trouble feeling the warm, relaxed kind of full-stomach sleepiness at all anymore. Well, except when I think I've made you mad. Even your yelling is sort of nice, though - for yelling, I mean. You don't have to raise your voice to threaten people, so I never leave with my ears ringing, y'know? I mean, it's still terrifying, and I still think about punching you for it, but at least I'm not going deaf."

"'Tom'," Voldemort repeated. "You share dinner. You fall asleep to his - my - voice every night."

"That's right. You could, too, if you wanted. We can talk through our connection, so if you feel like having a conversation, we're pretty much set." Harry's babbling was no less mortifying than it had been last time. In fact, considering the difference in trust between Voldemort and Tom, it was probably worse. "Unless it's that you want me to call you Tom? I could do that, too. It's a nice name. Suits you."

"Voldemort doesn't suit me?"

"No, it does. But everyone calls you that. I wanted something special, since we share souls." Harry buried his face in his hands. "Can you please, please let me shut up now?"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "I'm enjoying this far too much for that."

Harry had definitely nailed the accidental compliments part of his plan. Maybe it was better this way, if Voldemort was pleased with him, rather than happy to see him strung up and suffocating against a wall. Maybe it was better if he just gave in. "The truth is, I really do like talking with you. That's why it works so well on me. Getting me flustered. Loads of people are good-looking. But they don't have so much interesting stuff to say."

Voldemort stared. "You seem happy with me."

"Tom's my friend. He's one of my best friends, actually."

"Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken," Voldemort said after a while, out of nowhere. "And we are, in some part, no longer enemies. What, then, would happen if your blood was no longer forcibly taken? If I had used different tactics, if you had given your blood willingly, I would still have my true face." He gripped Harry's arm. "If your sentiment changes, it can still be restored. Those which are opposites tend to share equal power."

"I'm- I- so- you want your face back? I thought you were moving past 'outdated methods.'"

"I'm not foolish enough to throw away something that works so well," he dismissed. "Especially not if it helps... predispose you to me. 'Waste not, want not.'"

"So. You. Like the idea. Of flustering me?" Just the thought, to his total shame, was succeeding in flustering him.

"I see I'm doing it already."

It was his worst nightmare, but what Voldemort had asked was already true. A deep, hidden part of him had taken a liking to having someone with the face of a Greek statue coming onto him, even if it was for entertainment. Harry wanted to pretend that wasn't the case, but the feeling remained. He craved Tom's attention already. He worked on his magic in order to impress him. He made excuses to get him talking. He begged for lessons in everything. The diadem had complimented him. Tom Riddle, dishing out compliments. Miracles did happen. "Alright," Harry said, every ounce of self-control vanished. "How does that work, then? Do I just say, 'I change my mind about the blood ordeal and we're friends now, so, get to work'?"

Voldemort held out his hand. "Your skills with magic of the mind are still half-formed. The appearance of physical touch will help you process and express your true intent."

Before, it had taken Tom's incessant coaxing to get Harry to grasp his hand. Now Harry was hesitating for a different reason. The same reason that had made him choke on water when Cho walked past. Carefully, he laid his fingers in Voldemort's palm. "Alright."

"Now visualise what it is you want to see as you make your... most generous donation."

"I. How much do I need?"

"No more than a drop. See, a great deal of the work has already been done..."

Harry bit at the quick of his nail with a wince. A cut on his hand was more manageable for his terrible lack of talent as a Healer. He stared at the bead slowly making its way into his palm. "Now what?"

"Feed it to me."

"Like a vampire?" Harry shuddered.

Voldemort was unimpressed. "What an apt description."

After a long, long time of contemplation, he poked Voldemort's mouth with his fingertip, staining his lips red. When he pulled away, Voldemort licked at the traces left behind, and frowned.

"That's not nearly enough."

Harry bristled. "Well, how else am I bloody supposed to 'feed' you my-"

A scowl on bloodied lips made him look even more terrifying. "You could spend more than all of half a second attempting to give any."

Harry edged his finger closer to Voldemort's mouth, fearing they might get bitten off in another fit of rage. For a small moment, it looked rather like Harry was shushing him. Then, Voldemort's mouth was pressed to the open wound, taking far more than just a drop. Harry was about to snap at him for lying, but was left to watch in horror as Voldemort doubled over almost immediately, sinking to the floor with all the grace of a falling brick.

"Voldemort?"

He received only a groan. In one of the most surreal moments of his life, he stood back and stared as Voldemort transformed before his eyes. Voldemort's arms, raised to protect his face, were suddenly dusted in black hair, raised stark against goosebumps. His hands were suddenly gripping messy, thick hair, falling over his eyes. From what Harry could tell, they were still unnatural red. His nails stayed sharp points, his skin remained a glowing, ghostly white, but his mouth, open in a wordless scream, was filled with human teeth again, and his reformed nose scrunched in pain. It seemed almost luck of the draw, what human features returned. Unlike Tom, this Voldemort looked to be somewhere in his forties, but nothing beyond. He would, of course, be destined to age well.

"Are you alright?"

This got a scoff, in between gasps of agony. "Do I appear to be alright?"

"You appear more than alright, actually, considering I thought you were gonna die a few seconds ago. And, hey, you don't have scales." Harry grinned. "Sorry - or not so sorry - about the pain, but it worked."

Voldemort stood up, hurried, and held out his hand again, demanding. "Has it? Let me see through your eyes. The mindscape does not blend easily with mirrors."

Harry took it. Voldemort held it tightly for a few choice moments, and then inhaled sharply, eyes wide, unable to hold back a chuckle, twisted and amused. Not high and mocking, but thoroughly satisfied. Something real, and no less disturbing.

"Uh, so. Hello, then."

"You are the single most enthralling creature Lord Voldemort has ever seen." Harry's face was cupped by long, skeletal hands as Voldemort leaned in and examined him like a cell under a microscope. Like he wanted to parse every detail from Harry's soul. "You strange thing, how is it, why is it, that fate chose you?"

The back of his neck grew hot, and he ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Thanks, I think."

"I could have found no more worthy bearer of my soul alone," Voldemort decided. "Perhaps that is why." He stretched with a contented sigh. "I will know more about you. You are compelling. But now I must return to the physical world, to test this new form." He carded a hand through Harry's wild hair, mimicking what Harry himself had done only a beat before. "Next time you sleep, I will be there."

Face burning, Harry managed to stutter out something approximating, "Um, okay. Be seeing you, then. Have fun."

His vision faded on Voldemort's face, eyes closed in wonder as his hands ran over fresh stubble and what was once more a face, no longer the half-formed remnants of something that used to resemble one, like a crumbling marble statue. "I assure you, this will be so much more than 'fun'."

Every minute since he'd first awoken, he'd felt filled to the brim with Voldemort's emotions, overflowing and bursting with joy and excitement. Tom had questioned him, and frowned intensely for a long time after. Harry had promised him that he was planning on spending equal time with all three Voldemorts.

But now, just after lunch, Tom was still sulking. Picking at his food, sliding his fork through cooling mashed potatoes and gravy. He couldn't seem to focus on anything but the floor. Harry sat next to him, crowded tightly against his side. "Are you jealous?" he asked, mischievous.

"No," Tom said.

"You are, aren't you?"

"No. We are the same person. How can I be jealous of myself?"

"You could be jealous that I chose to give him his face. I mean, you have a face. But I could've given you something else, I guess." Harry threw back his shoulders, leaning on his hands and staring at the wall. "I don't know. I'm grasping at straws here."

"You gave me the ability to taste. You never complain when I manifest. You're my student and my friend and my soul. I simply worry for you."

"Don't worry. It's easier to smooth things along, now I can see a lot of similarities between all of you," Harry promised. "Honestly, I'm hoping that the more I meet Voldemort, the more all of your memories will overlap. Soul magic, or something. I forget Voldemort doesn't know me like you know me, sometimes. I just expect him to know stuff. And when he doesn't, I basically end up having to tell you all over."

"Similarities?"

Harry side-eyed him. "For one, all of you seem to love throwing my words back at me. You love it to death."

"It wouldn't be truthful of me to deny that."

Harry shrugged. "I guess I only really act a little different around each of you, anyway," he said. "With the diadem, I'm always aware of how I word things, because he'll inevitably get some sort of innuendo out of it no matter what; with you, I can make more sarcastic jokes; and with Voldemort, I can shock him, and that's a show."

"Shock him?"

"He doesn't expect me to volunteer any information. To be fair, I'd have a very hard time if I tried not to. But I don't try now, because him in a good mood seems to be worth the embarrassment most of the time. Less threatening me and more 'whoever blinks first loses'. Which I will gladly take, thanks."

"He doesn't mock you?"

"No, he does. But people have mocked me all my life. I'm not used to your type of anger in its place. The Dursleys would yell until they went red, maybe slam on the door, send me to bed hungry. But they didn't use bloody psychological warfare."

Tom blinked. "That's an interesting description."

"It's what you do."

"I suppose it is." Tom returned his gaze to the floor. "When I was younger, it was the only weapon I had. I couldn't reliably control my magic. My physical strength, no matter how hard I tried, could not hold off large numbers. But I had a mouth, a tongue, vocal chords. I could break people without touching them. Just a few words and I could finally sleep without looking over my shoulder."

Harry thought back to blowing up Aunt Marge and couldn't say he was very regretful. "I didn't use words so much. I mean, I definitely said some things that made the Dursleys curse being stuck with me, but mainly I just used solitude. And my imagination. I stayed in the cupboard."

"I talked with snakes," Tom said. "I didn't have any human friends. Everyone was afraid of me. The new arrivals were told to stay as far away as they could."

"Just because you had magic?" Or because you're somehow terrifying without meaning to be?

"Because anyone who attempted to target me for my magical abilities would find themselves or their loved ones hurt. If they were particularly awful, I made them do whatever I wanted."

"Like what?"

"Back my alibis. Accompany me to dangerous places. Close their unfathomably large mouths for once."

"And nobody asked questions?"

"Of course they did." Tom scoffed. "They brought in psychiatrists. They thought something was terribly wrong with me." He sighed, looking abruptly haunted. "There was. But it wasn't anything they could've identified."

"The Amortentia?"

"And partly self-imposed isolation. I'm not going to blind myself to the fact that lack of human contact warps childhood development. But I'm not quite sure their company would've seen me to any better places, either."

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't."

"Precisely so," said Tom.

"Don't be mad," Harry started, nervous. "There is something a bit wrong with you." He watched, pained, as Tom clamped down on a grimace. "Murderous impulses, and all. Your willingness to throw other people under the bus. But I think that was nurture, not nature. Wool's seemed like hell on Earth, and that's putting it lightly."

"Why single me out in the first place if they couldn't tell I was... a little off?"

"I think part of muggles can still sense magic, though only through vague instinct. And with your level of power, they probably felt, I dunno, threatened. Scared."

"I was a child. I lived in fear of war. And when it happened, I grew even more cautious, more visibly upset."

It was vivid in his mind, a shaking, scared little boy, alienated by his peers for something entirely out of his control. To the backdrop of mass genocide, burning cities, weapons deadlier than ever before, fear tactics, invasions, and propaganda. "Same could be said for them," Harry said. "For the record, though, it's our choices that matter the most. You can want to brutally murder people, but, y'know, not do that."

"Asking me not to murder?" Tom held a hand over his heart. "You're asking for the sun to orbit the Earth."

"My sides." He shook his head. "Voldemort doesn't make any attempt to tamp down on his, uh. Darker urges."

"Darker urges," Tom repeated. "That doesn't make it seem like murder. It sounds far more base."

"Um." Harry straightened his sleeves. "Point proven. Throwing words back at me."

"But you make it so easy, Harry. It's hard to tamp down on the urge."

Soon, Harry grew restless and impatient, waiting for Dumbledore to call on him. But he was frequently away, and strange things - stranger things than usual - were happening at the school without his noticing. Or, perhaps, in the dark recesses of his mind, Harry considered Dumbledore might be ignoring things purposefully. Malfoy's odd behaviour seemed so casually brushed off.

He wanted to take matters into his own hands. He'd followed Malfoy before, trying to piece together just what he was up to, but he'd always ended up letting himself be thrown far off the trail. Malfoy would do something unexpected, something that made no sense, and all Harry had figured out was that Malfoy was fixing something. And he needed the Room of Hidden Things for it.

Not much to go on, but enough to raise concern. What if he brought Lord Voldemort to the school, after what Harry had done? How the hell would he explain himself? Voldemort loved to draw out suffering, he wouldn't - couldn't - take all the credit, not if Harry could take the fall. His smug attitude made Harry want to jump off Gryffindor Tower, but all of his grandstanding was easily backed up. He was unfairly talented at everything. But he wouldn't lie about it, especially not if it saved Harry's skin. He'd twist it to his favour, that he - in all his Glory and Persuasion - had coerced Harry into granting him access to blood magic, straight out of the veins of the Prophecy's Chosen. Which was true enough to pass.

Harry had no control in his mindscape. He'd wanted to see Tom wear his own face again, but what else had he unknowingly given? He wanted a lot of things, and not all of them were suitable to come true. He wanted the Half-Blood Prince's book back, he wanted to befriend the cruelest wizard alive, he wanted to make Bellatrix pay, he wanted people to listen to him like they had with Voldemort himself. Sometimes he wanted to hang Malfoy from the ceiling by his bloody silk pants. Actually, sometimes he wanted to hang Tom from the ceiling by his bloody silk pants, too.

None of those were good ideas. But what if he'd given Voldemort the power to carry them out? Worse, what if Voldemort had given him that power? A power he knew not. Literally.

What would Harry do then?

Author's Note: LISTEN? This isn't all bc I was Googling Ralph Fiennes or anything. ShUsh r i ght now how dare you accuse me of such shallow reasoning?! i follow A PLOT. i have nARRATIVE. i breATHE charACTER DEVELOPMENt. i have never seen a gay. voldemort is not flirting. harry doesn't know about the pants tom wears. everything is realism.

oh my god what the hell do i keep doing

snake-faced voldemort will still appear though. i juST want all the toms?

Forgive me for being so late! I fell sick with the suckiest virus ever, and it made writing really difficult to focus on, and I worried that it might turn into something out of a fever dream. Then I realised pretty much everything I write seems like it's out of a fever dream regardless. Oooops? :S