Author's Note: HI! Happy holiday season! I'm here with a new chapter. It's almost quite speedy of me, isn't it?

This one is dedicated to my dear friend Lus, who loves this fic so much (I DON'T DESERVE SUCH LOVE), and I couldn't bear to deprive him of updates too long. I am very grateful for his support. I hope you enjoy this one!

He was tired and hungry and the Malfoys were sitting in his lounge, thoroughly enjoying themselves. He could hear their laughter through the walls, smell the freshly-brewed tea they were drinking. Hermione and Ron had long gone off to bed, after Dumbledore had declared they would return to Hogwarts in the morning. Snape was in the room he had chosen for himself, likely reading. Or writing.

Writing notes.

Don't think about that.

Harry turned away and wandered aimlessly down the halls. He felt restless. The floorboards groaned beneath his feet, great beasts waking up from their slumber. Another great beast was lingering curiously on the staircase, his jeweled eyes staring up at the darkened shadows of the next landing. Tom was tapping his spidery fingers on the bannister impatiently. His sleeves, still taking on the appearance of the plain black robes he'd conjured for Narcissa, fluttered with the movement, as restless as Harry himself was.

"Something's weird," Harry said.

Tom's gaze returned to him instantly. It seemed to glow in the darkness. "Yes," he agreed. "There is something... strange about this house. It feels rather familiar, doesn't it, Harry?"

"I mean. It is my house."

Tom's mouth twitched in amusement. "Beyond that. I feel as if I've come home to an old friend."

"Is it the house's magic?"

Tom shook his head. "No, I know the feeling of a magical building's sentience, it's much more subtle. The house is feeling a great deal of confusion right now. Too much to get caught up in nostalgic reminiscing. This is something else."

Harry hummed. "Something dangerous?"

"No, not exactly." Tom's eyes strayed again to the landing. "Something powerful. Something that could be dangerous, but not to either of us."

Harry blinked. "Something... like a magical artefact?"

A grin threatened the edges of Tom's mouth. "Indeed."

Was this too good to be true? "Surely we wouldn't find one in Grimmauld Place."

"This home is filled with Dark magic, Harry. The Blacks are a Dark family, they have been for generations. Your beloved godfather was a notable exception, not the rule."

Oh, he was far too aware of that already. But for what possible reason would a Black steal away part of Voldemort's soul? Surely they hadn't been entrusted with it, the same way Lucius once had been? Had they taken it for leverage?

What leverage? Until just recently, Narcissa was a star pupil of the Dark Lord. And Bellatrix, well. She was the shining star in Voldemort's night sky of depraved murderers and psychopaths.

It couldn't have been Sirius. He had no idea just how far Voldemort had spiraled, none of them had. He paid with his life because of it.

Was it the Tonks side of the family? Had Andromeda stolen it in order to keep her life, keep her Muggle-born marriage?

She was a Slytherin, after all.

"Lead the way, then," said Harry nervously.

Just which fragment of Tom Riddle's soul resided with them in this house? Just how torn and broken was it?

Tom had a regal way of ascending stairs, one that crossed over between each of his forms. In a way, it almost looked like he simply floated up them, and it made Harry somewhat embarrassed to hesitantly stumble after him with absolutely no grace at all. They reached the first floor landing, and then the second floor, and then the third floor, but Tom just kept going. Harry was panting a little when Tom finally came to a stop on the fourth floor and rested his chin in one hand. "We're close now," he said contemplatively. "Can't you feel it?"

Harry tried to envision sweeping his magic around the house. It was made a little more difficult by the fact that he was still catching his breath, but eventually he felt it. A little tug, like a child's small hand pulling at his robes. It felt hungry. So, so hungry. And cold.

And alone.

"Yeah, I feel it," Harry breathed. What luck, to have a Horcrux literally fall into his hands! If only the rest could be so easy.

Tom strolled down the hall, past Sirius's room. Harry's heart throbbed at the sight of it, but he obediently kept walking. They came to a stop at the room opposite. The door was old, paint peeling, the knob dull and scratched. Harry had ignored it on all his previous trips to Number 12 Grimmauld Place. It wasn't his godfather's, so it wasn't relevant.

Stupid choice.

There was a faded slip of paper attached to the door with a Sticking Charm that read "Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black".

Hadn't Sirius had a brother?

"Ah, Regulus," Tom said, running his pale fingers along the paper. "He found himself in over his head and, alas, suffocated under the pressure. An all-too-common tale among my younger followers. Only a special few have the mettle necessary to truly commit."

Harry frowned. "Younger followers?"

"He hadn't yet graduated Hogwarts when he joined. He was a Seeker, did you know? So concerned with being a worthy son. Much like you, Harry."

"I didn't join a terrorist organisation because my parents would approve."

Tom just smiled. "Didn't you? Besides, as I said, Regulus experienced quite the case of cold feet. He tried to back out of our agreement, only two years in. Now, that just wouldn't do."

"You had him killed," Harry said blandly. "Didn't you?"

"I simply told my Death Eaters he was fair game. They did the work from there. Or so I assume. I haven't seen a trace of him since he tried to defect."

"How convenient for you."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Now, now. Surely you're not mourning the loss of a coward and a traitor, Harry?"

"He realised it was wrong. That's more than most can say. It's more than the Malfoys can, that's for sure. They're only here because they're scared of what you'll do to them for failing again."

Tom sneered. "Weak and afraid. I expect more from my followers, Harry, you know that." Entirely unsympathetic, he waved Harry off - like he was some sort of errant child - and pushed open the door. "Now, let's see what lies in a traitor's safe haven..."

There was a quick pop as Kreacher appeared at Tom's feet. He prostrated himself immediately, his angular, drooping ears flopping onto Tom's boots as he kissed them. "Oh, my Lord, please have mercy on Kreacher! Master Regulus has told him everyone is strictly forbidden from entering! Young Master made me swear, oh, he made me promise! There are things in there, Dark things, terrible things. They must be destroyed, he told Kreacher. And how Kreacher has tried! But they are powerful, very powerful, and they resist Kreacher at every turn!"

Tom shook his boot, and Kreacher fell backwards against the wall with an awful crack. Harry winced. Kreacher was a miserable little thing, but Harry didn't want to see him hurt. "Disgusting," Tom growled. "Oh, how I wish you had died when I told you to."

Kreacher burst into tears. "Kreacher was loyal to you, my Lord! Kreacher drank it! He put the Locket in the Cave with you, my Lord!"

Harry's eyes widened. Voldemort had used Kreacher to set up the basin of poison that burnt Harry's arm to a crisp?

"And then you went home."

Straight into Regulus's waiting arms, to tell him all about the Horcrux. He, a traitor, who wished to thwart his former master... It seemed this locket had the habit of falling into the clutches of whoever wanted it most desperately.

Kreacher wailed. "Master Regulus wanted to know what had ailed Kreacher so! And he must obey his master, my Lord! So Kreacher told him, he told him about the Locket! He didn't know Master Regulus would take it, or demand Kreacher destroy it! He didn't!"

Tom was tense, spine ramrod straight, hands clenched, teeth grit. It seemed to take every inch of his body to successfully restrain his rage. "But you failed to destroy it," he said, very, very slowly. "The two of you stole it, put a fake in its place, yes, but ultimately, you failed. And as to dearest Regulus, well. I doubt the Inferi were happy to have their resting places disturbed. You're a very lucky beast to have elven Apparition, Kreacher. Twice you escaped them by running away to this safehouse of traitors. But not so lucky as to be able to destroy a Horcrux, hmm?"

Kreacher's sobs reached a fever pitch. Harry rushed to kneel at his side and hold him, comfort him. He was reminded too much of Dobby's hysterics, of the blind, innocent obedience house elves had to their masters. "It's alright, Kreacher. You did the right thing, you honoured your master's wishes. And now your new master can take the Locket off your hands and erase the Dark magic from it, okay? You did well."

Kreacher cried and nodded into his shirt. "Oh! Master Harry has offered Kreacher forgiveness! He is so generous, when Kreacher is so undeserving!"

Tom snarled in revulsion. "You would comfort this creature? Out of his mind, changing loyalties with the tides, weeping pathetically at the feet of the many people he's failed?"

"Back off!" Harry snapped. "You should have told me more about the Locket when we realised it was fake! We could've put two and two together, figured out the Black house elf would take it back to the Black house. Which I own!"

"I thought someone in the Order must have stolen it," Tom growled. "Why would I bother telling you how it got there? If Dumbledore knew its location, no doubt the whole of the Light must have been traipsing around my cave like a flock of starving vultures. It wasn't until we arrived here and I saw that thing's snivelling face, still alive, that it occurred to me that Regulus hadn't been killed by another Death Eater! No, the thing came crawling back... And Regulus, the opportunistic wretch, seized the chance to assuage his pathetic guilt by sending the very house elf he volunteered to help me set the trap back to the Cave to help him dismantle it!" He began to pace, hands tearing furiously through his perfectly-coiffed hair and sticking it up in tufts. "Yes, I should have known! I should have known it would survive, given Regulus a chance to undo all my hard work. If he hadn't already paid for his treachery in blood..."

"Stop tantruming over your wounded pride and be grateful we found it before your counterpart did! No doubt he's realised it's a fake by now!"

"As if Regulus would let us forget! He probably signed his precious forgery, told us what fools we'd been."

Harry's stomach flipped. "Did you know? Do either of you know where Regulus lived?"

"No. He was still young, and only his cousin was a Death Eater. I had no reason to concern myself with his family, or his family's estate. The Malfoys are still safe here." He spat the words bitterly. "All these traitors can still congratulate themselves on their victories."

"Regulus is dead."

"He is the only one. And I'm sure he's laughing from the afterlife," Tom hissed.

"Look," Harry said, exhausted. "It works out in our favour in the end. All of this has. So, really, you're the winner here."

Tom scoffed. "How long for, Harry? How long for?" He stared down at Kreacher, who was still trembling in Harry's arms. "If they played me for a fool, they'll certainly have some fun with you. I'd be watching my back, if I were you."

"Don't try to infect me with your paranoia," Harry bit out. "Just... take a deep breath and help me find the real Locket. I don't think Kreacher's going to be much help, now you've traumatised him." Tom ground his jaw and looked away. "Look, please... what's happened has happened. All we can do now is make the best of it. And since making the best of it means we get another Horcrux, I think that softens the blow a little, don't you?"

Tom sighed. His shoulders loosened. "Perhaps."

"Let's keep searching."

By all accounts, it shouldn't have been as easy as it was. Alas, Harry wasn't going to go looking a gift horse in the mouth and would accept his victories wherever he could get them.

Regulus's room proved to be much as expected. It had all the moodiness of a teenage boy, just as Sirius's had, but without any of the love or charm. As tasteless as Harry found the cutouts from Playboy pasted on Sirius's walls in an act of brazen adolescent rebellion, he preferred them to the lifeless conformity he found here. Nothing out of place for a promising young Death Eater.

The golden Snitch on the dresser seemed to mock him. He was tired of having the parallels between him and every lost, broken Slytherin he'd ever heard of forced down his throat. It was the same story every time. Neglected by their family, alone and isolated, filled with a sense of hurt and an intense drive for magic. All of it Harry's origin down to the very last inch, until. Until what? Until they never had the privilege of Ron and Hermione to stay at their side? Of unconditional love, of messages of tolerance? Until they weren't fortunate enough to encounter the power of love?

It was so trite. And worse than that, it all came down to chance. Harry had no special qualities other than having drawn a good hand from the deck.

What had Dumbledore said? That Harry was infecting their souls. As if he were some paragon of purity and not a sad, confused boy who felt so incredibly out of his depth. He was here by one stroke of luck after another, like a very long line of falling dominoes, each one carrying another piece of his fate.

The room was otherwise devoid of character. The bed was still made. As it would always be. The books were dusty, just like everything else in this cursed house. There was a cupboard in the corner, a beautiful mahogany with an elegant mirror on each door. The mirror was quiet when Harry approached it, and it remained that way even as he pried it open and rummaged around inside.

He found clothes. Dress robes, casual wear, still-starched trousers. A Slytherin uniform, neatly-pressed. Underneath the hangars was a pile of school books, much like the beaten copy of Advanced Potion Making that Harry had unwittingly inherited from Snape. Worn covers of Transfiguration: The Practical and Theoretical, A Comprehensive Coverage of Charms, and Hogwarts: A History.

A typical Slytherin boy who made all the wrong choices.

How many quiet, unassuming students had Voldemort warped beyond recognition? How many had tried and failed to escape the path they'd mistakenly walked down? Was the Half-Blood Prince the only survivor of Voldemort's brainwashing to make it out alive?

And how was it that Harry was supposed to save his followers from their terrible fate?

It was the same line of questioning he always went down. And he had just as many answers as the last time. That was to say, none at all.

He kept looking.

There was a trap door which carried with it a rickety old ladder when it descended, and Harry quickly figured out the hungry, craving, pulsing feeling of magic was coming from just up above the half-broken rungs. He climbed, careful not to fall and snap his neck and ruin the War with a single careless mistake, into the dark, dank attic and inhaled the scent of must and water damage.

Charming.

His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light, nothing except the small sliver from the door to light his path. There were boxes, heaps of them, and old clothes, and newspaper clippings. Regulus's room had been filled with all those things already, especially the newspaper clippings. Page after page of Lord Voldemort's many exploits, a veritable biography. Tom had eyed them with a sick kind of amusement that Harry found unpleasant to look at. Worse was how every smile he wore suited his elegant face, no matter how vicious. Harry didn't like thinking about it.

The newspapers seemed, again, more of the same. Whatever hadn't made the highlight reel of terror and destruction Lord Voldemort sewed everywhere he went. No doubt the Locket was perfectly at home surrounded by his own accomplishments and accolades. Harry frowned and crawled deeper into the cramped space, pushing past crumbling cardboard and faded paper.

It was there, in the farthest corner, that he spotted it, a small shimmer of gold and silver, identical to the one in the Cave. Salazar Slytherin's prized jewel. The priceless possession Tom's mother had thrown away for a paltry sum, anything to survive, and sent into the doomed hands of Hepzibah Smith.

Harry snatched it from its resting spot instantly and held it against his fast-beating heart. Hunger came off it in waves, not pathetic like a child crying for its mother's milk, but wild and dangerous like a starving stray. Anything for fresh meat.

Anything to survive.

Harry hung it around his neck and backed out of the attic and down the ladder. Kreacher still lay at the entrance of Regulus's room, and he whimpered like a kicked dog at the sight of it against Harry's skin. "Kreacher hid it in the attic when he saw you'd come to stay, sir. It whispers dark, horrible things."

"You found it?" Tom darted to Harry's side with ghostly grace and gripped the Locket tightly. The chain pulled warningly at Harry's neck. "One of us. Home at last," he crooned. "We're here now. We've come for you, my dear. You're not alone anymore."

Harry grimaced as the metal pinched his flesh. "We barely made it in time."

"Yes, it was close. Too close." Tom stroked his long, thin fingers down its side, gentle as a lover. "Open," he hissed, in the language of his most beloved ancestor. The language of snakes.

The Locket's hinges opened like a book. The inside of each half was lined with green velvet and protected by a glass pane. Behind the glass lay a dark void, and encased in the twin voids was a pair of eyes. Long, black eyelashes blinked open to reveal a familiar stormy grey gaze, which moved between them both, slow and assessing.

Harry yelped. At the sound, the eyes filled with red. There was that hunger again, the desperation of the stray predator, now with physical form.

"Eyes are the window to the soul, Harry," said Tom sagely. He continued to lovingly pet each unfurled half. "What a nice evening to examine oneself in the mirror." He smiled. "This is Harry. He shares his body with another soul. Ours. You have this gold and glass to hold you, and I have him. Now, you have him, too."

Greedily, the Locket purred. The metal shuddered with the vibration.

Harry shuddered of his own accord.