Harry had fallen asleep. The Hospital Wing was silent when he woke up, save for the faint sound of breaths. He opened his eyes a sliver, peering curiously from beneath his eyelashes at the dim lanternlight illuminating the room. Dumbledore was sitting, still as a cat hunting a mouse, at a table in the corner, staring contemplatively at the chessboard before him. Across from him sat Snape. Snape looked less contemplative and more like someone had knocked the breath out of him. Harry suppressed the initial wave of rage at the sight of his pale, haunting figure to allow a little concern. The pained look he leveled at Dumbledore made the hair at the nape of Harry's neck rise. Snape's dark eyes seemed like a void trying to pull him in, so intense was their turmoil.

"Come now, Severus," said Dumbledore, amicable.

"Don't 'come now' me, Albus," Snape hissed. "The boy has destroyed our plans down to the last centimetre. So thoroughly, in fact, that I find myself at a loss as to how you can be so... jovial." The word "jovial" was dumped on the table before them like a Kneazle might dump a dead rat.

"Why, neither of us are dead, Severus." Dumbledore smiled in that indecipherable way of his. Harry had previously always perceived the expression as friendly, but now it was beginning to read something more like calculating. "Do you not find that worth some measure of joviality?"

Evidently, Snape did not. His eyes narrowed, the grey of them deep enough to seem black in the dim light. "You should be dead. I should be dead. The Vow was broken."

What vow? Harry thought. Then, more bitterly, Nevermind, why should I expect that they would tell me anything?

"Was it?" Dumbledore asked. Snape made an infuriated sound, and for once Harry couldn't blame him. "You promised to protect Draco, to guide him in his terrible task. You may not be protecting him or guiding him in the way that we both envisioned, but we can hardly say that you aren't doing so at all."

"The boy will be crucified," Snape snapped. "They would have forgiven his indiscretions were I to have completed the task in his place, but given that we are having this conversation, that is obviously not the case."

"Obviously," said Dumbledore, tone airy.

"Obviously," Snape repeated. Harry no doubt would've been able to see the vein pulsing in his forehead, had the light been any clearer. He seemed halfway between jumping over the table and strangling Dumbledore and halfway between strangling himself. "How do you suppose he will be treated now that he has failed? How do you suppose either of us will be treated?"

"I do understand, Severus, what a complex situation this has put you both in. I'm afraid I have only a simple solution to offer," Dumbledore continued. "Neither of you can return to their ranks. Despite common consensus, you never left the Order, and Draco will simply have to accept being its ward. Indeed, all the Malfoys may have to."

Draco could be dragged kicking and screaming, but Lucius would rather scoop out his own eyeballs. Harry wanted to scream. None of this makes a lick of sense. Malfoys in the Order of the Phoenix? Nevermind that Severus fucking Snape is apparently a triple agent. Of all the miserable, twisted bastards to choose... and Dumbledore chooses Snape? I can't be sure the Headmaster isn't completely out of his mind.

"Draco is smart enough to realise the danger he'd be in if he stayed," Snape conceded. "But getting Lucius or Narcissa's agreement would require an Unforgivable."

Harry didn't like how often he was agreeing with Snape on things as of late.

"I disagree," Dumbledore said. He hummed, and Harry could see somewhat of a wistful expression cross his wrinkled face. "They have made a great many mistakes, but in all their lives they have never once failed to care for their son. They will need to truly believe Draco is in mortal danger in order to be cooperative, but the capability is certainly within them. I trust you can illustrate the point well enough, Severus. You do have a remarkable talent at making prospects seem quite dismal, wouldn't you say?"

"If you mean to imply that I don't delude myself with idle fantasies, then I would have to agree," Snape spat. "Very well. I will convince the Malfoys that Potter has likely doomed us all to an unspeakable fate at the hands of the Dark Lord, and they will join the Order. Do try to stop our esteemed members from murdering them in their beds."

"And you yourself? The Order is as of yet unaware of your true allegiance."

Snape raised an eyebrow, seeming offended Dumbledore would even dare ask. God, he could be an arrogant prat sometimes. Harry still couldn't understand why his father's ego was such a matter of contention in Snape's mind. James and Snape were equally as egomaniacal. Harry suspected they clashed half because they couldn't fit into a bloody room without their big heads knocking together. "I would not be foolish enough to let them catch me asleep in the first place. Though I suppose you'll be telling them of the plan that Potter has so gracelessly trampled upon."

"There's no longer any need for them to believe you are a traitor now, Severus. You know I didn't craft this plan with your suffering as its goal."

Snape looked away. His hair fell in a curtain over his eyes and obscured his reaction, not that Harry could've interpreted it if he'd seen. Truthfully, it seemed he didn't really know Snape at all. Even the usually lank, greasy hair hiding his face seemed slightly nicer in the pleasant glow of the lamplight. For a fleeting moment, he looked vulnerable. Human.

Harry swallowed against the uncertainty clawing up his throat. How many of Harry's most hated enemies had he failed to understand? Voldemort was beginning to seem like the first in a line of many.

How many people simply had the bad luck to be born in unfortunate circumstances? How many people had the current system chewed up and spat out? In its failure to address its deepest flaws, in its deep-set denials, how many people was Wizarding Britain turning against it? How many Tom Riddles, Severus Snapes, and Draco Malfoys were simmering now in their own resentment, letting bitterness slowly chip away at their own humanity?

Fudge hadn't acknowledged Voldemort was alive until Harry was screaming on the floor of the Department of Mysteries. For years, the public were led to believe Harry was a raving lunatic drowning in his own paranoia, and in those years Voldemort had taken his time to plan and grow stronger from his vantage point in the shadows of an apparent madman.

What was to stop that from happening again? And again, and again, and again?

If Harry saved Tom Riddle, would his work really be done? Could it ever be done? How many more Dark witches and wizards would the Harry Potters of the world be tasked with saving, really?

Sweat began to prickle against Harry's skin.

Eventually, Snape said, "I assure you it is of no consequence to me what they do or do not believe, Albus. I simply want to know how they react to hearing of your failed attempt at de facto suicide. Potter's response will pale in comparison."

Harry suspected it was of no consequence to Snape because he couldn't let it be of any consequence. For all Harry had wanted to punch him in his beak of a nose and scream in his face until he was hoarse, he knew Snape had friends, some of whom he even extended a measure of fondness to, in the Order. He at least was on reasonably polite terms with Lupin and McGonagall. Well, polite by Snape standards.

How, then, had it felt to have cultivated their distrust? How had it felt to know he would soon be reviled in the eyes of the only people he deemed worth any consideration? For killing their beloved figurehead in cold blood, no less.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Ah, you wish for me to receive my worthy retribution for intending to place this burden on you all, do you?" This didn't seem to disturb him at all.

It didn't disturb Snape, either. Theirs was quickly showing itself to be a bizarre, grudging kind of friendship on Snape's part... and something like a puppetmaster fiddling with a particularly amusing marionette on Dumbledore's. "I've long since given up on attempting to thwart your... machinations, but I have no desire to stop others from making equally as futile attempts. Especially not members of an organisation that resents having to make use of a filthy Death Eater such as myself. And soon to be the Malfoys, or so it would seem."

"I will inform the Order of our ever-evolving plans once we can reconvene. For now, let the boy rest, know you have done as the Vow asked, and make your next move, Severus. Or else the chess might play itself!" Dumbledore gestured demurely to the board. The pieces were feigning falling asleep right where they stood.

"I suspect the game has been progressing despite us for longer than the last few minutes," Snape muttered despairingly. "You let the boy have the Horcruxes at his side and they whispered poison in his ear, as the Dark Lord does so often tend to do."

"Even I cannot remove the Horcrux within him, Severus. Surely you know that."

And for the life of him, Harry could not deny the thought of that now made his stomach turn. A part of Lord Voldemort had buried himself deep inside Harry's very being, and now he could not bear to be parted with it.

"You remain an observer while the Dark Lord endears himself to Potter. Not once have you thought to act before the boy falls prey to his charms, as have many a witch and wizard before him. The Dark Lord may choose now to rule most of his followers by fear, but I can promise he has not forgotten the skill of seductive manipulation. The question arises, and it is not as to whether Potter will succumb to temptation, but as to whether the footsteps he's following in are those of Hepzibah Smith... or Bellatrix Lestrange."

Harry's throat stung with rapidly-rising bile, disgusted both at himself and at Snape for being dangerously close to right about Harry's weaknesses. He would never join Voldemort, but he might not have Snape's wherewithal to never let the enemy catch him asleep. Especially not with the strange and unpredictable effects that came thanks to housing a shard of Voldemort's very soul, nestled now ever closer to his own.

"Severus," Dumbledore said. "You know Harry has a great deal of his mother in him. Did Lily not make James a better man?"

"Lily dragged him kicking and screaming into some semblance of integrity, and even then it had a convenient tendency to disappear where certain people were involved." Snape huffed. "And even I would not make a claim that James Potter came even slightly close to being able to match the Dark Lord's capacity for hatred and cruelty."

"He has never known love," Dumbledore offered, with a tone that could almost be called sorrowful. Would Tom take this change of heart as pity, or would he take it as regret at realising wrongdoing? Dumbledore rested his chin in his hands, the perfect picture of contemplation, and continued, "I see that now more clearly than ever. He feels deeply, and given it is all he has ever known, the emotion that he has ended up experiencing so passionately has been hatred. What, then, would happen to a Tom Riddle who is given love? And to be given it as freely and purely as Harry Potter does? When you turn on the lights, what happens to the dark?"

"It returns when the light leaves," Snape grit out, dripping venom. "The power of love will not heal the Dark Lord, or else the sheer amount of undying devotion he's inspired in his most frenzied sycophant would have turned him more virtuous than a saint. Helga Hufflepuff herself would weep at the loyalty Bellatrix Lestrange has so willingly bestowed upon him."

"Would you truly name Bellatrix Lestrange as your first model of unconditional love?" Dumbledore stared Snape down in such a knowing way that even Harry felt uncomfortably seen by proxy. It made him vaguely sick. "There is a much finer woman whose example is available to follow. Her blood even runs through Harry's very veins."

Snape looked as ill as Harry felt. Suddenly, his eyes filled with the viciousness Harry knew so well from him, transforming them from those of a cornered animal to fathomless, shadowy tunnels. Both gazes had been unsettling. Piercing. And now Harry had a forbidding inclination that Snape used this viciousness to offset the constant disregard for his well-being Harry was starting to see was not unfamiliar to him. Not even Dumbledore, the supposedly benevolent master Snape had agreed to trust with his life, was innocent in this. "And you yourself have such a wealth of experience in taming the Dark Lords who receive someone's 'pure' love, of course."

Harry hid his wince in the pillow he was pretending to snuffle into. When he looked back up, Dumbledore was smiling. It was a smile filled with regret, but not with hurt. "No, indeed. That someone's love was not nearly as pure as Harry's. No, that is on a different level entirely."

"You believe that much in Harry Potter? His virtue knows no bounds, not even the Dark Lord's? The soul sharing his body will be cleansed by sheer proximity to such infinite purity?" Harry could not find it within himself to be offended at the disbelief in Snape's tone. Honestly, he shared it.

"And what will that cleansed fragment do when it connects with others of its kind? What will those fragments do to their creator?"

"You think being loved will spread across what fractured mess is left of the Dark Lord's soul like a disease? You wish for Potter to infect him with kindness?"

Dumbledore didn't seem fazed by this accusation, or its wording, in the slightest. "Precisely so."

That wouldn't be possible, surely? Harry would never describe himself as a wrathful, resentful person, but he wasn't an angel. He had succumbed to his anger and his fear many times in the past, and likely would continue to do so many times in the future, even as he tried desperately to rail against the whirlwind of his emotions. Making mistakes was human, and Harry was human through-and-through. He'd come face-to-face with his own mortality enough times to know this particular fact very, very well.

Snape sneered. "Those are the foolish hopes of a desperate old man."

"Dearest Severus, we have always intended to end this war on my foolish hopes. Why should we stop now?" And with that, Dumbledore made his next move. Harry had the uncomfortable impression he was still looking through Snape, rather than at him. "Check," he said, pleasantly.

Harry turned away and went back to sleep.

Harry woke up in an unfamiliar room. The paradoxical familiarity he was beginning to form at this unfamiliarity made his head spin. It was, from what he could tell, a bedroom. An elegant, antique bedroom. The colours were all dark, subtle greys and rich, shimmering blacks. It gave the atmosphere a somewhat cold and distinguished tinge, but there was a warm, fluffy rug at the foot of the bed and a fireplace blazing merrily away in the corner. When he looked up, he could see the ceiling was filled with stars. One constellation glowed brightest of all.

For some reason, he instantly took a liking to it.

He knew now he was in another dream of Voldemort's. Where this was, he couldn't tell, but it wasn't Riddle Manor. Riddle Manor no longer terrified him, but he couldn't deny that this place had a certain warmth hidden beneath its reserved surface. It was a welcome change from the stark bleakness of the Riddle ancestral home.

He contemplated seeking Voldemort out himself. But memories flashed behind his eyelids, the sheer agony crawling up his arm, the silver chain, however hollow, being torn from his grasp. His hold on the blankets tightened. No, he would wait here.

He turned his focus instead to satiating his burning curiosity. Where was this? The dreamscape was always an exact replica of what truly existed in the waking world. Surely he could piece together whose room this was that was so pleasant? And had such soft blankets.

He set his socked feet down on the rug and slowly pulled himself into some semblance of standing. He was still woozy and feeling a bone-deep exhaustion. Both from the perils of nearly having the one person who could truly measure up to Voldemort's power torn away from the Light when he was needed most, and from the creeping, dreadful inkling that there was a lot more that needed to be fixed than just the jagged edges of Voldemort's soul. Luckily, something about the atmosphere of the room had an almost peaceful, healing quality. Stern, almost regal, but still caring. Though it seemed it didn't want to outwardly admit the latter fact. He was sure there was some sort of message to be sent here. Coaxing the gentle side out of the monster, patiently waiting to see what's really worth judging behind a book's cover.

Fuck, was his life just Beauty and the Beast? Was he doomed to be Belle forever, wandering from castle to castle, monster to monster?

Better to focus on the task at hand.

His gaze landed on the fireplace first. It was built from marbled, smoky black stone, and its flame lit the room in a flickering haze. On the mantle were various objects that could only be called knicknacks. A replica of a golden snitch, an empty potions flask, a white feather quill, a rose bloom, a green and silver handkerchief. A Slytherin Seeker who liked potions and classic decor. At least one of those things was relatable. Though Potions had not been so unpalatable with the guiding hand of the Half-Blood Prince.

He moved to the shelves. They were filled to the brim with beautifully etched books, spines shimmering with golds and silvers. The topics ranged, but did fit with what glimpse the mantle had given him. Potions books, Quidditch history, an entire section dedicated to ornithology. Harry supposed the white feather quill had once been part of the wing of one of these birds the Seeker seemed to dedicate so much time to caring for. Then there were the spellbooks. Dozens of them, ranging from offensive to defensive to healing spells. Some of them were in languages Harry didn't recognise, or engraved with runes that Harry couldn't remember ever learning. Nothing seemed too helpful in particular until Harry saw a spare piece of parchment with something scribbled crudely on one side.

He picked it up and vaguely made out the form of some kind of bird. He couldn't tell if it was a turkey or a peacock, given that the artist couldn't really be described as having any skill above that of a primary schooler. He flipped it over and read the messy handwriting on the other side.

I think they scream too loud

but I know you like them

so I made you one that doesn't make any noise at all

Hope you like it

-Vincent (and Greg helped a bit with the tail)

Harry nearly recoiled. Was his subconscious trying to tell him something about what Order members such as himself would be seeing if they really did try to kill their new wards in their sleep? He wasn't planning on bothering the ferrety little git, though he couldn't say he was all too torn up about him being forced to leave his mansion.

Which was apparently quite lovely.

Harry cringed. Yes, he told his subconscious bitterly, I am bloody well aware you want me to have heaps of 'pure' affection for sad, broken Slytherins who like to torment me. Am I going to wake up in Snape's bedroom next?

Actually, let's not go there.

He shuddered and walked out the room. Better to face the sad, broken Slytherin whose soul he'd chosen to purify first and deal with the next in the queue at a later date.

Harry wandered the halls of Malfoy Manor aimlessly, long since having given up on making any sense of the layout of the place. It was all twists and turns and every door looking the same as the last.

He hummed to himself, a tune he didn't recognise but couldn't be sure he made up. After all, in a shared dreamscape like his and Voldemort's, how much of himself could he truly be sure was really him?

The house was empty, as these dreams usually were, save for him. Him and the Dark Lord whose soul was so tangled with his own. He walked slowly, dreading the furious state Voldemort would no doubt be in after hearing Dumbledore still lived.

He meandered at this snail's pace until, finally, the halls opened, and he came upon a room with light. It seemed to be the landing of a great, spiraling staircase which likely led to another equally as labyrinthine floor. The light was coming from the staircase, bobbing lightly as it descended farther and farther down.

The light's from Lumos.

It's him.

Voldemort lowered his wand slightly, the pale yew gleaming from the light's reflection. "Hello, Harry," he said.

"Hello," Harry replied stupidly.

"You've accomplished quite something, I've been told," he continued. His voice was eerily calm, but Harry knew he must be seething beneath this manufactured exterior. "Imagine my surprise when my most loyal, my most reliable Bellatrix came to me with news that Harry Potter had thwarted her plans and an Unbreakable Vow she personally oversaw. Albus Dumbledore is not dead..." Voldemort trailed off with a meaningful look. "The Killing Curse aimed in his direction was deflected... deflected by something described in Amycus Carrow's own words as 'a silver tiara'. There is only one such piece of jewelry not in Lord Voldemort's possession that has the capability to deflect the Killing Curse."

"Ravenclaw's Diadem," Harry finished. "Yes, he's as happy about this as you are."

"You've spoken to my Diadem?"

"I promised to protect him," Harry said, and Voldemort's glowing, inhumanly red stare widened. Harry still couldn't suppress the shivers it brought down his spine. Something about it, how empty it sometimes appeared, seemed to pierce him to the core. Eyes were, after all, the window to the soul. And how much was left behind the panes? "You know I can't lie in here, so don't look so surprised."

Voldemort's descent down the staircase had paused completely. "Why would you protect me?"

"I wanted to." Harry smiled as blandly and vaguely as his answer. He may not be able to lie, but if he managed to be evasive enough, he could possibly get out of these shared dreams relatively unscathed. Direct his urge to spill every thought in his mind to much more humiliating, but far less classified information.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. Whatever was left of it. "And your idea of protection is to cast my Diadem into the path of an Unforgivable?"

"I know you can't use an Unforgivable on a Horcrux," Harry said. "That would be too easy. So I used the strongest thing in the room as a shield. And it worked. He's fine. Angry as all get out, but fine."

"So you had no intention of harming my soul by throwing it so carelessly into battle?"

Harry shrugged. "I protect you, you protect me. Fair's fair."

"You weren't protecting yourself," Voldemort hissed. "You were protecting him. "

"He protects me." Harry glared. "Or do you want to volunteer instead?"

"You bear my soul," Voldemort said. "You are already mine to protect."

"That sounds like you have to, not like you want to," Harry offered casually. Tom was so convinced that his counterpart would come around, would see them properly as equals, but Harry feared most of Voldemort's attention was because Harry acted so bizarrely around him. As infatuated as Bellatrix sometimes, yes, but also as defiant as his parents.

Oddly, Voldemort's serpentine face twisted up in a myriad of emotions at the words. Disgust, rage, even hunger. It took longer than Harry expected for him to regain composure. "I want to protect you." Voldemort spat the words out like they were poison. Harry blinked. "Yes, Harry Potter, bearer of my soul, Lord Voldemort wishes to see you under his protection."

Harry smiled. It was exactly as Tom had said, getting to know Harry as an individual, as the prophesied equal that had intrigued him for so many years, had made Voldemort slightly less likely to want to maim him. If only to further understand the meaning behind the Prophecy, yes, but still, it was a greater hope than he could ever have asked for, than he ever could've imagined, not even a year ago. His smile grew wider, into a bright grin. He felt alight with joy, magic bursting and glowing with it. This progress had kindled a small flame of optimism in his heart, where there was previously only hopelessness and an aching dread. Even if he was fated to fix broken things forever, seeing some progress in his ever-expanding list of projects filled him with relief.

Not that he needed to go writing sonnets or anything. Oh, Lord Voldemort, you light a Lumos within my soul.

Though, from Voldemort's reaction, he might as well have. The reptilian pupils had widened from their usual slits, as if seeing Harry's smile was injecting that happiness into his own veins. Infecting him with kindness.

Once Voldemort's pupils had dilated to something approaching normal human levels, he set one foot forward on the stairs. By the next step, Harry was looking into a face that he recognised as being closer to the Diadem's. His eyes were a deeper crimson than usual, or perhaps that was just a result of the shadows that encased him.

"Thank you," said Harry. "Oh, and, erm. Your face."

Voldemort raised his spindly fingers to his face and traced its contours. "Blood of the enemy, or blood of the ally. You seem to feel it depends, Harry Potter."

He shrugged, a little awkwardly. It felt uncomfortable calling this Voldemort his ally, but in a certain, deep-down sense he was. They shared no ideals, save for one: to keep Tom Marvolo Riddle's soul safe. Though they definitely disagreed on the correct methodology as to that ideal. "It does."

"You fascinate me, Harry." Voldemort finished his descent, but still stood towering over Harry's own lanky, knobbly form. "Am I your ally in this moment?"

"Not the way you think," Harry said. "Did... did Bellatrix say anything about Ron and Hermione?"

"Only that they nearly destroyed Borgin and Burkes in their escape." Voldemort hummed thoughtfully. "I would extend my gratitude, if they had been successful."

"Oh, right. You worked there, didn't you? Yeah, funny how I don't really picture you in retail."

"The position was far below Lord Voldemort's station, but needs must."

"Needs like Hepzibah Smith."

"Unfortunate as it may be, yes," Voldemort replied.

"I'm not her, you know," Harry began, suddenly insistent.

Voldemort raised a delicate eyebrow, now that there was one to properly raise. "No, indeed. You are the Boy Who Lived. And much more pleasing to the eye."

"I mean I won't just kneel down and kiss your feet."

"You may kneel," Voldemort said. "But not to kiss my feet."

Harry was a little afraid about asking which way to interpret that statement, so he didn't. "I won't do either."

"We shall see, Harry Potter," Voldemort replied, voice suddenly low and sweet and dripping. "We shall see." Then, he tilted Harry's face into his pale hands and traced the bow of his lips with one long finger.

Harry woke up with a gasp.

Author's Note: LOL VOLDEMORT DOESN'T HAVE A FOOT FETISH

Also I would die for Sad Slytherins, so Tom isn't the only Slytherin with blood on his hands that I'll be obviously empathising with in the narrative. If you can't stand people who like Draco or Severus, it'll only get worse from here. All angry snek boys are precious, send tweet.

I did warn no character bashing! I really cannot name a single character in the HP universe I have any slight dislike for, other than Umbridge perhaps. All characters are going to be painted in a sympathetic-ish light (pretty much the main theme of character development in this series is that all people have grey morality within them, so you really can't go either way, stanning or hating). From Dumbledore to Voldemort and everyone in between.

Also, I am not above slipping little hints of how Harry's charming every Slytherin in sight into my fic. The central pairing is Tomarry and will remain that way. But you can tell one day I'll end up writing some kind of wild Harry x his three evil Slytherin boyfriends fic, that's all I'm sayin'. Don't choose between Drarry, Snarry, and Tomarry, ship them all together all at once.