(TW & AN: Sexual scene. I'm moving house, shit's crazy, catch y'all on the other side of that.)
Exploding, Mehro
Beating in my chest
Leads me to this
I can't explain
I feel like an animal
I must be the fool
I'm out of control
I'm gritting my teeth
My blood's boiling, boiling
I don't care what you've done
And I don't care where you're from
And I don't need any of your warnings
I'm ready for your anything
Just keep on doing your thing
'Cause I'm on the brink of exploding
Break me down, make me innocent
'Cause I'm on the brink of exploding
Harry had been put to sleep in the Dark Lord's chambers—dosed with three potions—and woke alone a few moments before Voldemort entered to find him rolling for the edge of the over-large bed.
"You didn't sleep again?' Harry assumed.
"Too much to be done."
"How are they?" He also assumed that the Dark Lord had overseen the Weasley situation through the night with Narcissa.
"Displeased to be here. Confused."
"Yeah, that makes sense. Are they together? The twins, too?" Still fighting his way off the bed, Lethifold unhelpful, too warm and comfortable.
"Yes. Examined individually beforehand."
"So they've… Got snakes in?"
Voldemort nodded once, examining Harry's face while he examined his. The Dark Lord was tired—blue-black rings around bloodshot, hooded eyes—swaying slightly, lids falling closed, startling himself when he leaned too far to the right.
"And Ginny?"
"You will see for yourself once your Horcrux is fed."
Harry was torn on whether he really wanted to see. No choice in the matter. "Did you find anything in their minds?"
"Nothing of use. Absences of information, as expected."
"How many potions have I got left?" Harry asked, finally upright, numb and irritating cold creeping into his limbs.
"You will need more by tomorrow."
"You're not feeding Crux the same day as the Unspeakable takes your blood, are you?"
"I will take Replenishers, if need be." He motioned Harry toward the doors.
"You will take Replenishers," he ducked into the bathroom before he went as directed and took one and a half of the potions that washed the cold out.
Harry pestered Voldemort into eating breakfast as usual. A frustrating routine. Progress made and undone as though on a schedule. He'd kept regular with the potions that stopped him from starving, and Harry struggled with the rest.
Afterwards Crux was fed in the crater that the Dark Lord dug ever deeper. Another routine—watch with heavily squinted eyes as Voldemort exploded, Apparate to the centre once it had cleared, fight his spitting rage in the steaming dirt, and subdue him with the curse that rendered him incomprehensible.
After two Replenishers and a return to Gwrych, Voldemort was somewhat coherent.
Not coherent enough for Tom's liking—several questions and comments whirring in his thoughts—the Dark Lord resistant to his attempts at discussion, lolling in his seat in the piano room and rolling his eyes childishly when Tom attempted to broach any subject.
"Perhaps you need another," Tom said, eyes narrowed.
"No."
"I can send for Lydia if you require more."
"I said no."
"Well, in that case, we have several matters to discuss."
While Tom was preoccupied with the logistics of recent events, Harry was thinking about the prophecies—when he wasn't borderline giggling at the glow in his mind. Specifically, the Almadrasat prophecies, strung together like pearls to create a larger image. And Har's words, that it needed to be mutual. That the Dark Lord needed to feel as Harry did.
Tom let Harry needle those thoughts while he attempted to bait Voldemort into seriousness, and provided pieces of his ideas on the matter between panicking about Reed, the spy, the time limit on everything, and his almost all-encompassing obsession—shared and fed by Harry.
And he supposed he should have noticed—he chalked it up to being busy—that the Dark Lord appreciated gifts. Particularly receiving gifts.
'How would I even give him something? Like, what would I give him? How?'
'I don't know, Harry, this is your idea?' Tom thought, amused.
He gnawed on the notion until the Dark Lord drew his attention.
"…A fucking spy," punctuated with a high-pitched snort-laugh, "Expected in the lower ranks, of course. Of course. But higher? I'd thought…" He laughed again, groaned, then rubbed his face with both hands. "I had thought that the checks and balances I put in place would have prevented this."
"…Evidently not."
"Evidently," Voldemort snapped, eyes bugging.
"Soon enough, the Order will assume you know of the spy," Tom said, "There are good odds they will conclude your sudden secrecy means-"
"I know."
"And so, you have a small window-"
"In which to vet my followers and plant false information. Yes. Excellent. Thank you."
"You're welcome," Tom scowled at Voldemort—scowling right back at him. "On the matter of press coverage-"
"God. Shut up."
"On the matter of press coverage." Tom enunciated each syllable, and the Dark Lord groaned like a child forced to hear a lecture, "It would be to your benefit to undo your smear campaign on Harry's name."
In response, the Dark Lord laughed. Giggling hiccups until he was buckled in half and silent, shoulders bobbing—neck red. "In my- in my benefit, or yours?"
"Ours."
He stopped laughing, still smirking as he sat up and wiped tears from his cheeks. "Ah, my only adviser. Trusted in the name of betrayal—your prerogative aligns with mine, so here we are. Tell me, when they do not align-"
"You resist, and you know I am right," Tom said, "Infuriating."
"You are right," Voldemort sighed, "Infuriating. This… I cannot begin to trust it- you. Him," he gestured at Harry then bit his fist, jaw shaking with the force, "…I can't begin- If I did-" he gasped like he'd been drowning. "I can't, all I can think about- I can't- this—is—insanity," hands locked in his hair—skin glowing red—he screamed into his knees.
Harry bared his gritted teeth and Tom stood up. He put his hand on the back of the Dark Lord's neck, looping the curse around his throat and immediately silencing the frustrated groaning that followed the screaming. "You are overtired and overworked. I need you capable. You will go to your quarters, drink as much as it takes, and sleep all day. I will deal with the Weasleys and the Sallow twins. Harry's Horcrux will come with us."
'Oh, no?' Harry thought.
"No," Voldemort said.
"You want me to drag you around, hopeless as you are now, and watch you make poor decisions?"
"You're a power-hungry leech."
Crux was in his head, allowed entry instantly, 'What are you up to?'
"You should consider yourself lucky you have me. Have us—to make sound choices where you cannot." Tom said.
"So you take to ordering me?" Spoken into his knees, almost muffled incomprehensible, "What makes you think this bastard Horcrux will let me rest?"
"I am strongly suggesting you regain some strength and sanity; you are free to make the wrong decision," Tom said, "He is already in here." He tapped Harry's temple.
'Yeah, let's go I wanna see what you're up to. You're up to something? Right?' Crux started snooping, so Tom started dishing:
'We will not just be speaking to the Sallow twins, but I still need to convince him to give me the time.' Then he said, "You can watch the day for yourself when you wake tonight-"
"Fine. Fine. Do not seek out the damn vampire until I'm-" He stood abruptly, breaking the curse, scowling, "Only speak to Narcissa regarding-"
"I know," Tom told him.
Tom took an immediate detour in the plan after he watched the Dark Lord vanish down the hall. He still sought Narcissa, told where she would be, but not to speak to the Weasley family. Not straight away.
Instead, when he found her in the library—glass ceiling part obscured by snow, washing the white shelves out with dull winter light—he asked after Charlie.
Narcissa was baffled to see him alone, with more emotion on her face than Harry had ever seen, eyes bulging, and brows wrinkling her forehead. "…Harry? Are you- Where…"
"He is indisposed. I need you to take me to them. Then I will need a room for a small meeting. First, Charlie?"
She rose slowly from her desk—stacked letters covered almost the entire surface—fingertips on the wood, her lips in her teeth.
'You've Dark Lorded all over her face, Sweetheart. What're you gonna do with Charlie?'
'Return him to his family,' Tom thought.
'Oh, that's boring.'
Harry didn't find it boring, hit with an increasingly common rush of pure, breathtaking love for Tom. So intense that he gasped a breathy laugh, heart catching in his throat.
"…Harry," Narcissa repeated, shaking her head.
"He has authorised me to act on his behalf today."
She looked like she didn't believe him, but hesitated to refuse, frozen at her desk like a shocked mannequin.
"How is Draco's arm?" Tom asked, in part genuinely wondering, mostly reminding her that her son bore his mark, that he was not another Death Eater; he was clawing his way to the top of the pile. "You would do best to accept this. I would not endanger you."
Still wary, she rounded the desk, not taking her eyes off him. "Draco is recovering well. Perplexed with having to regain his grip strength."
Harry took that to mean that the Slytherin had been endlessly complaining.
"Charlie?" Tom repeated.
"The healer expects him to be cognisant by tonight. To what degree, she is not certain."
"When he is healed, have him moved in with the rest," careful when mentioning the Weasleys, over-paranoid.
She didn't agree or disagree, and Tom assumed that she'd run that decision past the Dark Lord. He was confident that it would be done regardless.
Harry followed her out of the library and into the depths of Gwrych, underground but no less opulent than upstairs, stone walls draped with cream fabric and classical art—some moving, some still.
Narcissa keyed him into visible wards and kept her wand drawn as they passed through.
'I'm bored with the Weasleys,' Crux thought, 'Let's go do other stuff.'
'We haven't even seen the Weasleys?' Harry thought, though he almost agreed.
'I'm more interested in Tom's idea, aren't you?'
Harry did find the real reason for Tom's insistence they be left to their own devices for the day more interesting. Spurred on by Harry's idea that the Dark Lord liked gifts and their ready access to the necromancers, he'd decided he'd simply ask for Grindelwald's hookah to be stolen from Avalon's manor.
He figured all was fair in the scheme of things.
Minor assisted theft in the name of stopping the apocalypse.
Sort of.
'I still don't think he's gonna go for it. I mean, maybe? Maybe I'm half sure he won't accept a gift. Scared of you, he is, Princess.'
'…Then we will not present it as a gift,' Tom thought.
'Oh, I see what you're working with,' Crux examined Tom's plan and so did Harry.
Claim the hookah wasn't for Voldemort.
'Honestly, that will work,' his Horcrux almost seemed impressed, 'It's like you know the guy.'
'…Is he asleep?' Tom wondered.
'Uh, lemme check,' a pause, 'Yeah, laid out with his mouth open. Drooling.'
"We will see the twins alone, first," Tom told Narcissa when she stopped them outside ornate, tall double doors.
'Hey, Harry remember that time you called the Dark Lord a stupid orphan dickhead in front of his groupies and then ran away dramatically to cut your arm off? I think about it a lot. He wanted to want to kill you so bad.'
Narcissa left them in the hall for a moment, shields already up as she entered the room.
'I still can't believe he didn't want to,' Harry thought, happily distracting himself from his proximity to Ginny and yet another murder.
'Neither can I,' Tom added.
'Oh, I can,' Crux snorted. 'Let's go wake him up?'
The Malfoy Matriarch returned at the perfect time, relieving Tom of the need to refuse Harry's Horcrux.
Inside the double doors was a wide sitting room, so warm that Bed Sheet flared on his shoulders. The fireplace blazing. Eight leather armchairs set in front of a single tall bookshelf.
Fred and George occupied two seats, clean-shaven with their sleeves rolled up. "Sorry about the heat; mum reckons she's freezing 'down here in this dungeon.' I think she's hallucinating." George spoke softly and gestured around the room, decadent and comfortable as far as prison cells went.
"You may leave us, Narcissa," Tom said, and she bowed automatically—hinged at the hips and correcting upright with a startle.
She shook herself and left without a word, frowning.
Three white doors attached to the space, excluding the one that led to the hall. One on each wall.
"…It's massive. Everyone's got a room. Fully stocked kitchen, house-elves. Mum's been cooking non-stop, so if you need any carrot-cake muffins for anything, Harry…" Fred trailed off and they both stared at him for a stretched minute.
He sat on the edge of a seat, gnawing his tongue, "Sorry about Muriel." He wasn't even sure if they knew she was dead, but her absence had surely been a clue. "Sorry that I had to… Hurt them." His apology felt wooden, and he scowled at himself.
"So… That's Voldemort, huh?" George said, ignoring his apology.
"Best to keep any… Comments to a minimum," Harry said, a vague warning.
'Yeah, are we taking bets on whether Morty will go through your memories of today with a magnifying glass? Creepily obsessed, don't you think?'
"Watching you with him is- it's something else," George continued.
Harry wanted to ask what that meant, but he didn't.
Fred explained it anyway, "You stand like him, you talk like him, and the tension," he tried to say tension with humour, but it missed, "Dense tension. Disconcerting, I want to say."
He cleared his throat, Crux laughing between his ears at 'Dense tension'.
"…Anyway. I wanted to ask about Ginny."
"You could talk to her," George said, "She's in there." He pointed at the door to his left.
Ginny was his Secret Keeper. Anything that happened in Reed's head—and everything beyond it—not protected by any magic, kept safe by her loyalty to him—was possibly free knowledge after brain-scrambling.
Harry made a face.
Fred said, "What do you want to know? She's different. In a lot of ways. Still the same in lots of others."
"What has she said? About me?"
"She's said so little about you that Mad-Eye was trying to convince Dad to let him dose her with Veritaserum."
Immediately enraged at the thought, sitting forward in his seat, sweat blooming on the back of his neck, "I need Reed Harlow to undo what she did. To do that, I need to find her. You'll convince your family it is the right thing to do—one among them must know something." Tom took over Harry's sentence midway.
"We've been working on it. I can't tell whether the environment helps or hinders. Mums just about lost her marbles with the confusion, and Dad… Everyone's gotten a bit… Odd. Very much convinced we'll die at any moment; that's one thing we've all still got in common," Fred said, and George nodded, lips pursed:
"Are we going to die? I can't say I trust Voldemort's word."
"Not if I have anything to do with it. Do you know how many prisoners he's got in luxury accommodations with their families for company? None." Harry said, "He keeps the other prisoners fairly well, but this?" Not mentioning the executions, "I don't believe he'll kill you. You've got better odds if you help me."
He found himself wondering if it was necessary to see Ginny as she was. Watching the twins blink at him as though he was an alien, and they'd just never noticed. Wincing each time he thought about his increasing body count—if he examined it too deeply, he felt he might find he didn't care as much as he should.
And maybe that was worse.
"Did you… Love Muriel?" Harry asked.
"Oh, Merlin, no," George shook his head, "Right old bitch. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, mind. Honestly, I thought it was going to be more... Gruesome."
Harry didn't know if the comment was meant to hurt or comfort him. It did neither. "You have Squib snakes?"
"…Dastardly," Fred said.
"Bloody beastly, is what they are," George added.
Harry couldn't see any tell-tail coils under the skin of their forearms, so they had to be elsewhere. "Yeah, they're a piece of work," Talking about Squib snakes and not thinking about Squib snakes was a high-wire act he wished he hadn't gotten himself into, the question out of his mouth before he could reconsider it.
Thankfully he didn't need to not think about it long. Ginny burst into the room as though she'd kicked the door in, stomped over to Harry after locking on like a predator, then shoved him by the shoulder, unexpected enough to throw him back in his seat.
Then she was wailing, sunk to the floor, punching his knee until she stopped inhaling properly—gasping, "This is your fault," over and over.
Tom drew the Snakewood wand and stunned her.
Molly, Arthur, and Bill had followed Ginny in—had hesitated to stop her—watching Harry as though they'd stumbled unintentionally into a lion's den.
"Was not expecting her to do that at all," George muttered, staring at his toppled-over sister, frozen in the action of releasing a barrage of emotionally charged punches on Harry's left knee. "She's been so quiet about you."
For once, he had a clear and unshakeable sense that this wasn't his fault. Though Ginny saying as much might have cut into that once sensitive part of him—not that long ago—it didn't. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that she—in her right mind—understood. That she would understand.
It was no longer black and white, if it ever was—he felt as though he was always hidden under a false layer of purity, that something else had always been itching under his skin.
And maybe that part had been Tom all along. Maybe it hadn't. In the end, Harry figured the result was the same regardless of origin.
Like everything else, this resulted from a game he was finally learning to play.
"Molly, look what you've done to her," he pointed though it was unnecessary.
'Fuck yes, tell her, Harry,' Crux thought, fully invested in the scene. 'Make her weep.'
"What, no, I- we- you don't understand. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has done something to you, Harry. Please. What has he done?"
"We aren't talking about Voldemort right now. Or me. You took her choice away," he was angrier each time he thought about it. All he'd done to ensure she was free, only for her family to revoke it—what wasn't theirs to revoke, "At every single point, I let her choose. I made sure. When she pulled away, I let her. When she came back, I let her. She made every decision while I warned her."
"Whatever he did, maybe we can undo it-"
"Molly." Harry inhaled and sought patience, thinner and thinner by the moment. By the day, "I used to think the only reason she shouldn't be with you was because Voldemort will dismantle the Order of the Phoenix, but it's more than that now."
Bill and Arthur were muttering to each other, but he ignored it; he knew he needed to convince Molly. The rest would follow her.
"You took people she loves from her, so she'd fit back in nice and snug without complaint. Because she fought you, didn't she? You had Reed Harlow do it. Her friend. She withdrew from you because of Ron and what she did, because she thought you'd never accept her like we do. You can prove her wrong by helping me fix what you've done. You can be with her, and she can have her mind, it's what she would want. I need Reed to fix this. I'm allowing you to undo what you've done."
A persistent lock had formed in his throat at the sight of Ginny's face. Still rage. Furious contempt.
He refocused on Molly, "If you don't help me, and I fix her anyway, do you think she'll forgive you?" He let his words sink in, then stood up. "I'll let you think on it."
'I agree, if you're not going to kill anyone, I'm bored. Let's go.'
"Hold on," George said, "We heard… We heard Charlie's not dead?"
"He's not dead," Harry agreed. "He tried to Crucio me when the Order kidnapped me. I Crucioed him back. Voldemort left him broken until recently. The healer believes she will return him to you tonight if my request to return him to you is accepted." He started telling them, and Tom finished.
"Wait…" Fred said, and the Weasleys exchanged looks.
Molly was in tears, hiding her mouth behind her hand; Arthur was shaking his head; Ginny was motionless on the floor; Bill was scowling at Harry.
"…If your request is approved?" George asked.
"I don't control Voldemort," he shrugged, "But I'm confident."
"And Cho?" George continued.
"Huh?" Harry had almost said, 'Who?' He'd forgotten she was even there.
"Cho? Cho Chang?"
He frowned and said, "Uhh?" Stuck between the door and the twins, his Horcrux chittering about boredom and murder.
"…She's my girlfriend," George made a face and Harry blinked at him.
"Oh. Oh?"
"He felt proper guilty about it for a while," Fred jabbed George with his elbow.
Harry stared at them until Fred laughed—a short sound.
"I don't think he cares that you're dating his ex, George."
Then Crux was cackling in his head, encouraged by Tom's amusement, until Harry snorted. "Uh, yeah, I don't care. I'll see what I can do about… Saving her?" He backed for the doors. Wand in his left hand, Tom released the stun on Ginny, and he was out before she got to her feet.
Narcissa fulfilled his request for a small meeting room. She had led him back to the higher levels of Gwrych to a room set to hold five people, a round table bearing tea and biscuits on silver trays.
Tom pressed the Snakewood wand to Harry's mark—sleeves rolled up and outer cloak abandoned after the heat of the Weasley's quarters—running a lesson internally on how the magic worked.
He didn't need to know their names, or even their faces—if the situation simply called for numbers, he saw that he could summon any of them, the marks forming in his mind's eye like a catalogue of magical cores.
Tom called Pollux, Ruby, and Avalon. Their marks were more familiar than most of the rest. He then told Narcissa to bring them to him when they arrived.
'Would you fuck me if I had a body, Harry?' Crux sidelined him, made him drop his biscuit, 'Not Morty's body, I mean, if I spontaneously grew my own legs. And the rest, obviously, not just legs.'
Harry didn't need to answer, his Horcrux too entangled in his thoughts to miss his response.
'I was not expecting this, you know?' Crux thought, 'Really weird that the answer is yes.'
'…Makes two of us.'
'I think it's all four of us surprised, Princess. It's a shame you don't know how I feel about it.'
'How do you feel about it?' Harry wondered, wincing at the question; too late to retract it, biscuit forgotten.
'I said it's a shame you don't know how I feel about it.'
'Okay, great.' Harry sneered at the table, snatched his jam-drop, and bit it with a grudge.
'Your best friend seemed thrilled to see you, didn't she? Pretty emotional for someone who allegedly doesn't talk about you at all.'
The comment didn't particularly faze Harry, 'She's been brainwashed. None of it's real.' It stung to see her that way, to see her family see her that way and not decide on the spot that it was time to end it.
At least work to end it. He was trying to shake the discomfort off, was telling himself that so long as there was a way he'd fix it. That Tom would make sure of it. And there was still a way.
He knew his trust in Tom wasn't misplaced. He could hear him working constantly—under a barrage of distractions—steadfast in his planning, overturning thoughts, dissected and linked, deconstructed again, twisted with others to create a bigger picture. Examined thoroughly, whirring endlessly. Names, faces, places, magical theories, relationships, temperaments, and perhaps most importantly—if you asked Tom—acquisition of power.
All of it regularly interspersed with giddy, nearly delirious adoration.
Narcissa's knock was a welcome distraction, the door swinging in for Avalon, Ruby, and Pollux—dressed in uniform, so that Harry wondered at the state of the school and its faculty. He hadn't been asked for input, but he wouldn't have been surprised if it had fallen to the wayside under the weight of his and the Dark Lord's obligations.
Picking out staff was the last thing he wanted to be worried about.
He didn't ask, saved the question for later. Instead, Tom silenced the room with the Snakewood wand.
"Eris was horribly disappointed to not receive an invitation," Avalon said, sitting down first, already serving tea with her wand.
"I'm sure that's not true," Harry said, taking a cup and saucer.
"He wasn't disappointed he was mad," Pollux supplied, and Ruby agreed—nodding eagerly.
"These two," Avalon bugged her eyes and shot the twins a pointed look. "Ils sont complètement fous."
'They are completely insane,' Tom immediately supplied.
'I kind of like the stupid one,' Crux thought, 'Doe-eyed moron.'
'I don't think she's a moron-' Harry thought.
'Demented. I know you agree, Sweetheart.'
'Demented maybe, not quite stupid. Close.'
'That's generous, are you generous?'
Tom ignored Crux in favour of Pollux. "I need everything you know about ironwood as soon as possible. Addresses. Names."
"I have Reed's letters. Can I have your blood now?"
'I wonder what he'd see. I wonder what he'd say? 'I foresee the Dark Lord's balls smacking against your chin.' Is my guess.'
"No, Pollux," Harry said, barely blinking at Crux's commentary. "Are the letters at Hogwarts?"
"Yes. She wasn't allowed to know much. So she didn't say much." As usual, he didn't inflect, and Harry could see that his hands were whirring under the table—had likely taken the puzzle from his pocket.
"You will bring them back here today," Tom told him. "As well as anything she did not write down."
"We're like Death Eaters, aren't we?" Ruby asked, "Except we're your Death Eaters."
"Yes," Tom didn't let Harry answer, though he wasn't about to say no.
"…Cool." She grinned and nodded until she was bouncing in her seat.
"Is there any word on Ginny?" Avalon spoke before Ruby launched into a barrage of questions.
"Nothing new," he didn't like lying about the youngest Weasley, more so for the way Avalon's face fell.
"You can go, Pollux. Ruby. Anything you remember, either of you, write it down," Harry said.
Pollux stood, and his sister reluctantly followed, sipping her tea and giving Avalon a comically pointed look before they bowed awkwardly and left him alone with the necromancer.
"I need Grindelwald's hookah by the end of the day. Can you get it done?" Harry asked without preamble.
Her dark eyebrows shot up, and she didn't hide it with her tea, sipping it and staring over the rim. "You need the…? Harry, that's Cedrum's?"
'We should do a dream,' Crux thought, and Harry put his teacup down—almost enough force to break the fine China.
'Tonight?' He wondered.
His Horcrux dug into his thoughts, ignoring him in favour of his subconscious response. 'Oh, you're filthy nasty, Princess.'
"Do you care?" Harry ground out, shrugging when Avalon frowned at his biting tone.
"Only a little. If I tell him it is for the apocalypse, he will have no choice but to forgive me. Is it for the end of the world?" She seemed to know it wasn't, not really. Not directly.
"Er, I guess you could say that."
"I will say that then," she got to her feet, sensing he was done.
"Is the school restaffed?" Harry asked.
"Yes. Classes resumed last week, thank Merlin, I was becoming horribly frustrated just waiting around."
"Are they any good?"
She nodded, then shrugged, "Mm. It's something to do. You should have asked Pollux; he pays close attention." She watched him and then said, "They seem fine enough."
He nodded, told her to find Narcissa when she'd successfully stolen the hookah, and let her go.
'I wanna bring your attention back to this,' Crux thought, pulling on his reaction to the prospect of a dream. '…Harry.'
"What?" He snapped out loud, standing without meaning to. "It was just a thought, automatic, I don't actually want to-" He stopped talking when the fact that he was lying was obvious.
Tom walked them out, not assisting Harry at all with Crux, fighting a smirk instead.
"Tom."
'What? Nothing. Is there a problem?'
'Yeah, Harry, is there a problem?'
'…I hate both of you.'
'You're not any good at lying for someone who does it all the time.' Crux projected Harry's thoughts and embellished them.
Tom, the Dark Lord, and Crux, with their attention on Harry. A curiosity—quickly turned heat—at what their hands might feel like on him. Three mouths vying for his attention. His Horcrux vicious and unpredictable, Tom adoring and reverent, and the Dark Lord obsessed and terrified of him.
A heady, toxic combination that had him braced on the wall in the hallway.
'Alright, Princess, you've convinced me.'
'No? It was just a thought, I don't want- okay, maybe I kinda want- that's not the point. It's not an actual idea.'
'When did anyone ask whether you meant to think it? Who cares. It's a good idea. Don't you think so, Sweetheart?'
Tom didn't respond. His inner thoughts did—though he attempted to stop them, possibly more frustrated than Harry at having his private, knee-jerk reactions examined—and he thought it was an excellent idea.
Rock hard leaning on fancy gold-lined wallpaper.
'Good. It's settled. Next dream we take the chains off and see what happens?'
'Wouldn't call it settled,' Harry grumbled, stomach flipping with adrenaline, 'He'll know? He'll go through my memories and see it coming?'
'So? What's he gonna do, stop me? Resist?' Crux thought, '…Give him that hookah, and we'll see how long he prioritises looking in your head in favour of getting between your legs.'
"Uh-"
'Wait, what if you were the only one… Restrained, Harry?' Crux thought.
He hated that he gasped—breathy—at the rush Tom got from the image—at the anticipation he couldn't deny was his.
'Why does he kiss you and not me?' He hadn't seen the question coming even though he'd asked it.
'Oh, my God,' Crux laughed, 'Sure. He hates me. He's pretty secure in that. We're secure in that. Are you following me? He likes to imagine that I'm a figment of his imagination, a safe place to leave all his seething vitriol, a safe place to play pretend without the threat of unfamiliar emotions. Far enough removed from you to not be you, but so close enough that he wants to taste my tongue.'
"So… He wants to?" Speaking aloud in Parseltongue made him realise he was still leaning on the wall, so he pushed off and let Tom walk.
'He wants to stick his tongue so far up your ass it comes out your mouth.'
He stopped again, almost stumbling Tom mid-stride.
'Don't stop we've got things to do,' Crux thought, grin palpable if not visible. 'Here's what I think; here's my plan. Harry. My idea. For the hookah, not the fuck dream, settle down.'
Harry exhaled forcefully.
'Refuse to let the skull go. Say it's yours, Harry. Yours specifically, not Tom's; we don't want to get him overly jealous. After he's ripped it out of your hands and stared at it longingly, you tell him that not only did you get it for him, it was a whole secret mission. That's your best bet. Trust me.'
Tom didn't think aloud that Crux had just extended Tom's plan. His Horcrux caught it anyway.
'This is a purely original plan that I came up with?'
The Dark Lord had an office in Gwrych that he seldom used. That was where they waited, surrounded by generic, brand-new books stacked neatly on pristine shelves.
A high-backed red chair that Harry had draped himself on, his legs dangling off the arm.
Tom had told a house-elf to let Narcissa know where he was, and he didn't need to endure Crux's wild conversation for long; the Malfoy Matriarch's knock heralded Avalon around mid-afternoon.
She levitated a wooden box, three tied stacks of letters, and two notebooks in behind her. "You'll be pleased to hear Eris is spitting fire about your priorities and your theft right now." She sat across from him—he hadn't sat up—and placed the box and letters on the desk.
"I'm not pleased, I don't care." Harry finally straightened to let Tom take the box and check inside, "My priorities are fine, thanks."
'I hope so," her arms crossed, sleeves rolled up to show off a serpent perched atop a golden skull, brilliant on her dark skin. "Because you seem more concerned with the box than Pollux's letters."
Harry gave her a look that said, 'And?' Far too preoccupied with the hookah.
"How does the creepy bong help with the apocalypse? I have thought about it, and I think maybe your sudden interest in Reed means you're no longer focused on Ginny."
"That is on a need-to-know basis," Tom told her, "It would be unwise for you to assume anything at this point in time. I am focused on all of them."
"Does anyone need to know anything?" Avalon's question was pointed, and he might have felt targeted.
Instead, Harry thanked her, ushered her out of the office then off the estate entirely—box clutched tight to his chest, the rest floating behind him.
It was nearing four o'clock, so Harry only hesitated momentarily outside the Dark Lord's door. He figured he'd slept enough, and he was giddy—the box in his sweating hands almost felt hot.
Voldemort sat bolt upright in the near darkness when Harry entered, his wand drawn and pointed at him. Wide-eyed with an Imprint of the wrinkled sheets on the side of his face. "…Oh." He tucked his wand away, scowling until he saw the box in Harry's hands.
Then he was suspicious.
"What is that?" The Dark Lord stood, hair an absolute mess, like he'd rolled down a hill.
"It's mine," Harry said, trying for smug-defensive, turning his chest away from Voldemort so he missed the box on his first grab.
"You wasted time on yourself?"
"…Not a lot of it," Harry grinned, and Voldemort lunged a second time. "Hey. I said it's mine?"
Tom dropped the letters and notebooks on the floor next to the coffee table, and Harry let the Dark Lord take it on his third attempt, sighed dramatically. He let Bed Sheet and his robes off his shoulders—to the ceiling and to the floor, respectively—and fell onto the bed to watch him, elbow on the covers, propping his head up.
Voldemort cast over the box, detection spells—Harry rolled his eyes—before he pried the lid off with magic and stared down at the skull for a long, frozen moment.
'I've gotta see this. Bye Princess. Sweetheart.' Gone before they could respond.
"Why would you need… This?" He put it down on the coffee table so he could remove the skull, cupped in both hands, the mouthpiece wound around his forearm.
Harry shrugged, fighting the goofy grin. Made harder by Voldemort's slack jaw and dishevelled hair. The Dark Lord flicked his wrist and lit the room, candles and braziers joining the dying fireplace.
"Saw it at Avalon's. Wanted it. Then I thought… I could just ask for it?"
"Why would you want this," tilting his head this way and that, checking the bottom for some reason, mouth open, lightly frowning.
"For you." Harry watched him unravel, a slow event.
First he froze, skull level with his face. Held so still he looked like a sculpture. Scowl deepening, a creeping thing; until it fell away entirely, and he started twitching. Mouth opening and closing, eyes torn between the skull and Harry, fingers spasming on bone. He turned his upper body towards Harry, then away again, and then for the door as though he'd considered just running away.
"…What do you mean?" He whispered, not meeting Harry's gaze.
"I got it for you. Well, I wanted to get you something, but I didn't know what, or how… So… Tom thought you'd like that. And he had Avalon fetch it."
He swallowed repeatedly, staring at the hookah, eyes unfocused. "A manipulation?" Something fragile and small in his voice.
Harry hesitated to answer. If you asked Tom—and he was forced to answer honestly—He'd say he was shamelessly manipulating the Dark Lord.
"Not on Harry's part," Tom eventually said.
Voldemort turned to the fireplace so Harry couldn't see his face or the hookah. He placed the skull on the mantle, next to their crossed wands. He didn't let it go, held it there, motionless again.
"…What are these," whispering.
Harry assumed he meant the stacks of letters and notebooks, though the Dark Lord wasn't looking at them, "Everything Pollux knows about Ironwood."
"Take your clothes off."
Harry said, "Oh," and Tom had started undressing halfway through the word 'Take.'
He kicked his boots off and worked his pants off his hips in the same moment, then went for the buttons of his shirt once his pants were around his knees—shaking them off.
He was naked by the time the Dark Lord turned around. Awkward only until he stalked across the room looking starved; on his knees at the end of the bed, he dragged Harry toward the edge and left his brain on the covers—fallen entirely out of his head.
One hand holding his legs apart, the other feather-light on his cock, "Harry Potter," hushed Parseltongue like a prayer, "Tom Riddle," a curse.
The Dark Lord pressed his tongue to the underside of Harry's cock.
Bliss, adrenaline, and adoration had him laughing, unable to prop his head up, lolling instead. He caught mind-cracking glimpses of his mouth, his tongue swirling the tip, before his neck dropped his heavy skull. Repeat.
Tom twisted a hand in the Dark Lord's hair, and Harry's hips moved of their own accord.
There were no thoughts in his head, but words fell from his mouth, borderline gibberish, burning from the inside out. His thighs spread almost painfully, Voldemort's hands too hot—sharp, bright pain sought his bones. Heat on his tongue, almost enough to burn, Harry knew without looking—no longer able to lift his head, eyes fused shut—that the Dark Lord was bleeding light, more than heat.
The awareness that only he could reduce the Dark Lord to pure, uncontrolled magic—that his cock in his mouth would inspire light—was as intoxicating as the hum in Voldemort's throat.
Tom was caught on his name from the Dark Lord's lips. He'd said it before, but it was the first time Harry could clearly see Tom's reaction to it.
His relationship with his name was complicated.
Once a relic that made him sick, becoming something else when he was christened 'It', something other when Harry said 'Tom' with the full weight of his love.
Another thing entirely when Voldemort spoke it like a lust-rage fuelled anti-prayer.
"Defeat, my defeat… My deathless courage," Tom raked his fingers through the Dark Lord's hair, gripping sporadically. The darkness crept up his forearms, unbidden but welcome.
The bliss, the light and the curse made language difficult, particularly for Tom—mind blown wide with obscene pleasure—Parseltongue whispering fired chills from his neck to his cock. In his mouth.
Again he tried to lift his head—considered using his free hand to hold his ten-ton skull up, his monkey brain aching to see him—Tom offered no assistance, and Harry's limbs were like noodles.
"You and I shall laugh- fuck, oh, fuck-" Two slick fingers manoeuvred inside him to the knuckle before he drew a full inhale, rocking Tom out of recital and robbing Harry of the ability to exhale.
No clear thought other than, head: Up. A task made almost insurmountable, whole body destroyed, each nerve blazing, muscles spasming, air lost in his lungs, puffed out in gasps—his and Tom's—dual effort required to breathe. One cursed hand holding himself up by his hair, the other gripped tight in the Dark Lord's curls.
And he didn't know if he was thinking it—hard to tell if he was truly thinking anything, leaking out of his ears like water—or if he was babbling it, but he was so beautiful with tears clinging to his eyelashes—eyes closed. His mouth stretched around Harry's cock; cheeks red both with flush and with fire. Too hot fingers scissoring, curling forward, maybe he'd go permanently blind, looking at Dark Lord like that—sunlight rolling under his skin, glowing fingers gripping his thigh, burning and bruising a handprint he decided he'd leave there. Gagging, moaning on his throbbing cock.
Harry came so hard he did lose vision—temporary white-out—holding his head right where it was, frozen in an upward thrust, cock-pulse pounding a furious beat at the back of Voldemort's throat.
Fingers relentless inside him, faster, sucking and curling and opening. Drinking Harry like a man on the brink of death by thirst. Excruciating. Impossible to escape him; one arm locked around Harry's thigh was all it took—bliss, curse, light, and orgasm overwhelming; Animal yelling turned whimpering.
"Stopstopstopstopfuckplease."
The Dark Lord let him go—a blessed, cursed relief—wiped his chin with the back of his hand, and the other undid the buttons of his pants.
Harry dropped his head, eyes rolling closed, sick with pleasure. He propped his knees up and caught Voldemort with his legs and arms when he predictably fell forward.
"You and I shall laugh together- with the storm, and together… We shall dig graves for all that die in Us," Tom held the Dark Lord's face, arms fuzzing up to the elbows with cursed bliss, his cock bouncing with the aftershock, glowing and warm at the core of himself.
Harry stared into his eyes with all the intensity he could muster—breathy when he felt Voldemort's cock pressing into him—committed the look on his face to memory. Like he might cry. Or cum. Fighting to look away and losing the battle. His eyes and cheeks lit red from within, face too hot to hold. Harry didn't let go.
"And We shall stand in the sun with a will… And We shall be dangerous."
The Dark Lord buried his face in Harry's neck and his cock to the hilt.
(AN: Tom recites 'Defeat' by Kahlil Gibran.)