The Gentle Art of Making Enemies

A Tom/Harry fic, set shortly after Goblet of Fire, with spoilers for it and the first three books as well.

Summary:

They all forgot one very important thing.

I can touch you now.

: : : : :

The day was hot and sweltering and not any different from any other on Privet Drive. The fact that it was Harry's birthday would have been entirely forgotten if not for the presents that had flown in from owls just a few hours before, in the early hours before even Aunt Petunia would be up and be disgusted at the owlscoming in to bring in more Freak things.

He had just sent Hedwig out to send out letters of thanks that he felt, despite his growing discontent on Privet Drive. To feel so was far from an unusual occurrence for him (it was the place of a lot of terrible memories for Harry. But it's safe for you, they said. Keep you safe from Voldemort. Well that still didn't stop the Dursleys from being unforgivably cruel to Harry, did it?

No, but he felt too many tinges of shame of what he went through with them, and continued to do so (if not as much as before) to speak aloud of it to anyone. But certainly they had to have an idea, if only after the escape from Privet Drive in Harry's second year, where they had to pull off the bars off his windows…)

Still, despite his irritation at the lack of information he had been getting lately (sifting through garbage for any sort of sign or news was not a very pleasant experience. Between that and the extremely vague notes from the few people who actually cared about him left him angry) he was grateful and happy for the presents he had received for his birthday.

Now if he could only receive something of note. Scrounging around for news in newspapers he found or trying to catch snippets of the news whenever his Aunt and Uncle weren't looking (you'd think they'd appreciate the effort of learning, but no, they assumed it was some weird thing. And even if they hadn't, they still didn't like Harry around them, which left him trying to catch parts here and there) wasn't exactly Harry's ideal way of spending the summer, but what else could he do?

Sirius had seemed, more than anyone, to get how restless Harry was (which made Harry think of Sirius' own situation. Harry didn't have it easy, certainly, but at least he could go out and about; Sirius was still technically a fugitive and on the run.) His letters had been short as well, but full of a bit more to try and make Harry actually feel better, rather than the vague letters from others. He loved his friends, but their notes certainly hadn't felt all that heartfelt.

Partly, Harry thought, it was the inaction that was bothering him. Harry was used to doing things.

It didn't always turn out for the best when he did so, but he definitely fit a great many of the usual Gryffindor traits of action. Part of it was due to necessity too, of course, given that he dealt with nearly every manner of thing since starting at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Technically before then too of course, but he had been too young to consciously remember that. Only in dreams and in a Dementors presence did he remember that night which he didn't ever want to remember.

Still, as much as inaction had been chafing at him as of late, today was a staggeringly hot day, so he hadn't felt up to doing much of anything after sending Hedwig off and probably would have remained laying on his bed, already starting to doze off from the heat, making him sweat, when something catches his attention.

"Harry? Can you come down here, please?"

He starts, rubbing at his eyes before putting his glasses on. He stops. He must be delirious from the heat, because that had sounded like Aunt Petunia. But she never called him by his name. It was always "boy" from her or "you." And she hadn't ever asked him to do anything a day in his life. It was quite unnerving. He must have been hearing things.

He starts to lie back down, when she calls out again "Harry? Please, dear."

He grabs his wand off his table without thinking. She hadn't sounded out of sorts, but just her speaking that made him wonder. He hesitates when he reaches his door, however. What if this was a work thing? Uncle Vernon often had people over for work. And while his Aunt and Uncle never wanted him in sight where any of these people could see him, perhaps one of them had spotted him before outside or something and learned who he was?

If there was anything his Aunt and Uncle wanted, it was to look good to others. So he hesitates. And puts his wand in his jeans, putting his shirt over for good measure. There. Just in case. He opens his door and starts to make his way down, hearing some murmurs of conversation from the living room but can't make out anything other than his Aunt's higher pitched voice conversing with a deeper sounding voice.

She must have been trying to make a good impression on someone then. She must have-

He steps into the living room and stops in place, eyes widening in utter shock.

Sitting in a chair (the best chair in the house, saved for the most important guests in the Dursley's eyes), legs crossed, was a brown eyed (not red eyed), and decidedly human looking Lord Voldemort.

He looks up and smiles at Harry.

"Ah. Harry Potter." Voldemort says, his voice free of the high hissing pitch he had after his recent resurrection.

"There you are."

: : : : :

He can't get his feet to move. His hands are frozen in place; not by a spell, but by shock tinged with fear.

Voldemort was here.

It didn't make sense. It defied both logic and magic. The magic surrounding the house, the blood wards, were supposed to keep him at bay. And they had. For fourteen years they had, since Harry had turned up at Privet Drive as a one year old.

Why...how?

His gaze moves from Voldemort's, which burns into him even when he is no longer looking directly at him, feeling the heat of his eyes even then, and looks at the couch where not just his Aunt sat, but also his Uncle and his cousin, Dudley. All of them looked nearly blank faced, quiet.

The Imperius Curse, obviously. Voldemort must have used Imperio on them all. But why? It didn't fit Voldemort's style; his style was more of quick and instant things. Crucio, the Cruciatus Curse, the curse of torture or Avada Kedavra, the Killing Curse were the spells he would usually employ.

Why bother to control the actions of the Dursleys?

To keep them quiet so Harry would come down, unawares? Possibly. But if he wanted to kill Harry he could have just used Avada Kedavra on them and made his way up before Harry would barely have time to react. So again...why?

But even more than that...how?

It shouldn't be possible for him to be here.

And yet there he sat, waiting with surprising patience as Harry's eyes turn back to his, a lump in his throat. His hand twitches. His wand was in his waistband and he didn't see Voldemort's wand in his hand. Did he have time to cast a spell? He was quick-he had to be-but he knew from experience that Voldemort was also quick. He was a master duelist and had skill that Harry, despite everyone's growing expectations of him, did not.

Their wands repelled one another, as he had learned at the tail end of last year, during the disastrous end of the Triwizard Tournament, but Voldemort hadn't gotten this far by being stupid. The man might be full of ego and hubris, but he doubted the man would make a second mistake like what happened in the graveyard-

I can touch you now…

Harry shivers, despite himself, not noticing the gleam in Voldemort's eyes.

Surely the man had another wand on hand. But then why… that was all Harry could come back to. Why? Why was he here? Why had the wards not kept him away? Why not kill the Dursleys?

Why not kill Harry?

Surely he had the time.

But all he is doing is looking at Harry, waiting. Smiling. A slight smile on his once more handsome face (a glamour? Surely it must be. Harry remembered his snake-like visage all too well, after the Dark Lord had been reborn, the pale skin, the flat face, the talon like nails…)

I can touch you now.

He shivers again, but manages to find his voice.

"What do you want?" He asks, trying to keep his voice steady and knowing he isn't entirely doing so.

Voldemort doesn't answer him. Instead he turns to glance at the Dursleys, waving a hand at them.

"Leave us. Do not come back until I call for you."

And like puppets on strings, all get up simultaneously and start to walk past Harry. He glances at Voldemort and then the Dursleys, torn. Should he try and stop it? He could be sending them into the clutches of Death Eaters. He might hate the Dursleys, but even they wouldn't deserve whatever might befall them with that sort of situation.

But leaving them here around Voldemort? It seemed like an even worse option for a maybe.

"Don't hurt them." He suddenly says, surprising himself. He hadn't meant to speak.

Voldemort's eyes turn from where they had been looking at the Dursleys departure and pierce through Harry once more.

"No harm shall befall them." Voldemort says, his voice clear.

And Harry...believes him.

Voldemort had done so many horrendous things, but if he could be counted on about anything, even when it was terrible, it was to be truthful. He felt no need to pretend anything. Once only, from the little Harry knew about him, back when he was still a boy named Tom Riddle who was mostly just playing at becoming a Dark Lord. He had hid his ambitions well.

But Lord Voldemort felt no such need. So if he said that...Harry could find that he believed it. If only for now. At least they could be free of Voldemort.

The door closes behind them, leaving the two of them alone.

And what did that mean for Harry?

: : : : :

What would Lord Voldemort want, other than the obvious being Harry Potter's death? He could see the man wanting to personally take care of Harry, the 'problem', but why not have other Death Eaters in waiting. And...there was something else, on the tip of Harry's tongue, but he couldn't quite place what he was trying to remember…

He had had a lot of luck up till now, when facing Voldemort or something Voldemort-adjacent, like Death Eaters (ironic that a Death Eater had taught Harry so well last year. Barty Crouch jr had been terrible, but had also been a great teacher, when acting like Moody.) But luck only lasted so long. And it looked as though it had finally run out on Harry.

He tries to keep standing steady but fears once the trembles enter his limbs and is unable to stop it. Strong, be strong, that was what others wanted from Harry, didn't they? That it should all fall on his shoulders wasn't...it wasn't fair. That so many would place their faith in a young man ignorant of the world which he had been brought into. The weight of them all, their hopes, their fears, their dedications...they pressed on him from every side.

Voldemort stands, walking towards him in an elegant kind of step that he remembered the man's younger Diary self doing, but this was even more than that. This was a walk of a man who had become a man. Who had passed that point of awkwardly growing limbs and unsurety and knew himself very well.

It was...a look that he hadn't seen in Voldemort's voice in the graveyard. Not in the beginning.

No, those eyes had been red as warm blood and filled with hate and mania and cruelty.

And then…

I can touch you now…

Voldemort's hand, long and tapered fingers, nails like talons...the touch on Harry's skin, pressing to the curse scar he had given Harry thirteen years before.

It was…

It should have been...awful.

He watches as Voldemort's eyes widen, looking confused, then many other things in such quick succession that Harry can't begin to place.

Voldemort's nearness had always caused him immense pain.

His touch upon Harry's skin should have been like sticking a hand into fire, but...it wasn't.

He watches Voldemort's eyes, as the red burns into the green of his own as he looks at Harry.

What was Voldemort thinking just then?

But he doesn't get the chance to know, as he is quickly forced to pick up his wand and duel a man decades his senior in age and power both-and manages to come out of it alive.

He steels himself, forcing his trembling limbs to find peace, as Voldemort comes to stand in front of him...but the man's wand does not rise at him. It's almost lax in his grip as he looks down at Harry (in both this form and in the form he had gained upon his rebirth, Voldemort was taller than he.)

He had never stood so close to the other man before (before he had been trussed up in a graveyard), especially in a situation that was...quiet. He swallows as he watches Voldemort's eyes (dark, very dark, like matured oak tree bark, with no red in sight) look over him for a long moment, not moving, not speaking.

"If," Harry croaks, finally able to force words out. "You are going to kill me, then don't make me wait any longer."

The other man's eyes burn at that and he hisses, nearly grabbing Harry before, for whatever reason, stopping himself.

"If I wanted you dead, Harry, I would have done so the moment I arrived." Voldemort says, echoing Harry's own thoughts about what he thought the other wizard would have done instead, because this...made no sense to him.

"Then why are you here?" He whispers.

All manner of things pass through Harry's mind, most (all, all. He could not remember the graveyard…) unpleasant. Voldemort wasn't above torturing people, but he didn't seem to like messes very much (Crucio, Avada Kedavra...powerful spells. Bloodless. Clean.)

"Why else would I come to a Muggle hovel? There is only one thing that could ever interest me enough." Voldemort says.

His hand (long fingers, tapered, but no talons, just clean and clear nails, beautiful-) is just shy of touching his face.

"You."

: : : : :

The statement should not surprise Harry so, but he still finds his cheeks growing hot and looks away from him (stupid, stupid! Never take your eyes off the enemy! ...but he can't look at him now.)

Having attention on himself always had made him uncomfortable (the 'legacy' of being The Boy-Who-Lived ill suited Harry, who just wanted to be with his friends, the people he had come to consider his true family, like Ron, like Hermione, like Sirius who deserved to be freed of the cloud of suspicion he was still under) and this attention, from Voldemort…

It felt like a brand of fire upon his skin.

Not the blinding pain that would scream into his head at the closeness of the other man, but of something else. Something which he couldn't-wouldn't-define. He had been linked, unwillingly, to this man since he was a child and now…

"Me?" He asks stupidly, shaking his head. "If you don't want to-to hurt me-"

What was he saying? Of course Voldemort wanted that! It was all he had wanted since trying to kill Harry as a one year old, since the rebound of the curse had taken Voldemort out of power for thirteen years (thirteen...what a powerful number. Even if Harry still couldn't wrap his head around Arithmancy, he understood the significance of certain numbers.)

Voldemort waits with a surprising amount of patience for him to continue what he was saying.

"Then what do you want with me?" He finishes.

In lieu of a response, instead the man turns and starts to go up at the stairs before pointedly looking at Harry.

"Come."

He gestures at Harry with an elegant hand.

Confused, beyond so, he does so, and is left with the odd feeling of being led by Lord Voldemort in the Dursley's house. Even more so when, after the older wizard looks around for a moment, they enter Dudley's bedroom.

Well, it was certainly more impressive than Harry's own, filled to the brim as it was with all manner of video games, computers, things that Harry only had a vague idea of (he knew Muggle things of course, as he had grown in a Muggle household. But he hadn't ever personally played any of these things as he hadn't ever been allowed. No, instead he was shipped off to Mrs. Figg at every opportunity-when not forced to do endless chores-and shown pictures of her cats.)

Voldemort looks around at the room, then at Harry, looking almost...disappointed at him? That couldn't be right.

"I see that you do not want for anything, but it is disgustingly Muggle, Harry," Voldemort says, in an almost chiding tone. "Where are the spellbooks? A cauldron? Even posters of Quidditch would say something like-"

Wait.

"This isn't my room." Harry says. Voldemort turns from his continued near rant and looks at him. "It's Dudley's."

Voldemort blinks and stares at him for a long, long moment. He half wondered if the man would Crucio him out of sheer principle, for making him realize he wasn't right about something, but he doesn't.

Instead, curiously, a flush comes up the man's neck and Harry watches fascinated. If it was anyone else, he'd have said it was embarrassment. But someone like him was 'above' those sorts of things, wasn't he...

"Right." Voldemort mutters. He picks his dignity up very quickly though. "Then lead the way, Potter."

"Oh, I'm back to 'Potter' now?" He quips, as he heads out of the room with Voldemort right at his heels.

Shut up. Shut the fuck up. What are you doing? He tells himself in a sudden panic, resisting the urge to beat his head into the nearest wall. You do not make jokes at Voldemort! Who knows how long his patience will last… It's a wonder it's lasted as long as it has. Maybe whatever he did to look like-like he used to helped? Or...Merlin, what the fuck is going on?

Voldemort doesn't respond to that, however, for good or ill (probably good) and Harry leads them to the door which led to his bedroom, formerly Dudley's second bedroom until the Dursleys, who feared any potential repercussions (after Harry's Hogwarts letter when he was eleven pointed out how he had been staying in the cupboard under the stairs) gave it to Harry.

He opens it, ignoring the queasy feeling as Voldemort walks past, looking around at the room. It was much more bare than Dudley's actual bedroom, Harry having got rid of the broken toys and other things that Dudley had discarded ages ago, making him flush with embarrassment.

Did Voldemort notice the loose floorboard, in his surprisingly thorough search, where Harry stored things away from the Dursleys? While the Dursleys liked to mostly ignore Harry's existence, their aborhence of magic also made them sometimes snoop around-mostly Aunt Petunia (after the incident with the Pig's Tail, Dudley was-although still a bully-less inclined to mess with Harry's stuff, for fear of the same happening. Especially so after the Ton Tongue Toffee incident) which left Harry doing what he could to have some privacy.

After a few moments, Voldemort, who had been silent this entire time, turns back to Harry. And once more Harry can see the disappointment in his gaze. Not as pronounced when they had been in Dudley's room, but there all the same. Why was he so disappointed?

Was he looking for something? That was an idea Harry could wrap his head around, why Voldemort might come here, besides the idea to kill Harry. But if he had no desire to kill Harry, at least at this moment, then perhaps it was that. What would he want? Harry didn't have much in the way of material possessions, especially ones that might catch the attention of someone like Lord Voldemort.

The Marauders Map (which Voldemort could have heard about from Wormtail), the Invisibility Cloak… but really, besides that and his wand, Harry couldn't think of what else someone of Lord Voldemort's skill and experience might want. He could see a map knowing people's location in Hogwarts potentially useful, but surely someone of Voldemort's skill could just cast a strong Disillusionment Charm or the like. And if he wanted the wand, he probably would have just said outright that he wanted it.

"Less Muggle," Voldemort finally says, though he looks at the near bare bookshelf, bare save for a few children's tales that Harry hadn't gotten around to throwing away yet, with a bit of disgust. "But still dreadfully pedestrian. Why do you not have much in the way of ourworld here?"

He looks a bit angry now as he looks at Harry and Harry finds himself speaking again without thinking.

"Well the Dursleys don't care for magic much. They probably made that clear when you showed up before you Imperius'd them." Harry says, not noticing Voldemort frowning at him as he steps inside the room, looking around himself.

"They don't care for magic." Voldemort says slowly, as if in disbelief.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure them calling me Freak all the time kind of-" He stops.

Why in the hell had he said that? To Voldemort? He turns to look at Voldemort who is looking at him with rising horror in his eyes.

"Don't hurt them." He says again. He had no love lost for them but he didn't want to see anyone suffer the atrocities that someone like the Dark Lord could put upon them.

"And so what, you hide the greatest parts of yourself away from their eyes?" Voldemort hisses. Harry's eyes widen at the man's tone. He takes a step forward towards Harry, making him take a step back involuntarily. "And you think that this is fine?"

"I…" Harry was at an utter loss of words.

Why in Merlin's name was Voldemort sounding so...angry? Oh. Well, he did have a big love of magic and a big hatred for Muggles, that was true, but…it almost felt like he was angry...for Harry. But no, that couldn't be right and it was both foolish of him to think so and to think that Voldemort could ever have any intentions that were not malicious ones towards him.

"How do these...people treat you, Harry?" Voldemort demands.

Harry shakes his head. "It...it doesn't matter."

"It matters."

"Why? Why does it matter to you?" He nearly shouts, fear being forgotten in wake of his building anger. "Of all people you should be glad I live in a place with people who make me miserable, who mistreat me and abuse-"

He claps a hand over his mouth, horrified. Voldemort stares into Harry's eyes, dark eyes bright with some sort of emotion. Anger? Surely. But what else. And why such anger? Anger because Harry dared to speak that way toward him. Then why… had he not acted, like he would normally? He still hadn't put his wand Harry's way.

"You tout Albus Dumbledore as someone so great," Voldemort says in a seething tone, taking yet another step towards Harry. "Yet do you ever wonder why he allows you to live in such a place?"

"To-to keep me safe." He manages to get out. "Safe from…"

You. Only, that wasn't the case anymore, was it?

Voldemort smiles mirthlessly, as if guessing Harry's thoughts.

"Yes, because a lifetime of mistreatment and abuse is worth it." Voldemort shakes his head, taking yet another step forward, leaving Harry with his back against the closest wall and the Dark Lord so close that Harry could almost count the tiny eyelashes on the man's handsome face. "Certainly."

He gives Harry a mocking look, making him flush.

"He doesn't know. I've never told him."

Voldemort laughs at that, a cold laugh that sends shivers down Harry's spine. He turns back to look at Harry, eyes bright.

"Oh, Harry. Of course he knows." Voldemort scolds. "He is all too keen on knowing business that is often not his to know, or when it is. It is that he turns a blind eye to what goes on here with them."

"You can't...know that." Harry says weakly.

"I cannot? I am Lord Voldemort. There is nothing I cannot come to learn." Voldemort says.

"Like?"

Voldemort smiles again, though his eyes are still angry.

"Many things," Voldemort whispers, a hand moving near the side of Harry's face, but not touching him. "I have learned many things over the course of my life."

"Someday, we will speak of them." He continues. "But now we are speaking of your saintly Albus Dumbledore and how he manages to sleep every night, knowing that the Boy Who Lived lives in an abusive household."

"I told you. I never told him." Harry insists.

Voldemort shrugs an elegant shoulder.

"I am sure. I too know how it is to live in a place with people who mistreat you and who do not want you." He says, to Harry's complete shock. "To feel ashamed to speak of such treatment to anyone else."

He was speaking of his past? To Harry? Was this some sort of ploy to try and get Harry to get behind him? But that didn't seem right. And as he thought of just earlier...Voldemort was not the kind of man to lie. Not to Harry, at least, funnily enough.

"I'm not…"

But he was, wasn't he? Hell, he didn't even get into finer details of his life at the Dursleys to Ron and Hermione. But they knew he wasn't treated well. And surely, even if they didn't know just how bad as well, people like Mr. and Mrs. Weasley knew. They had to. There's no way that the twins, Fred and George, wouldn't have told them about the bars on Harry's window. Or if they caught sight of the catflap on the door.

That summer, in his second year, was one of the worst he had ever experienced and some of the most humiliating.

So...they knew. But they didn't do anything? Or was it that they couldn't? Could Dumbledore have kept them from doing so? Harry knew there had to be strong protections on the Dursley's home to have kept Voldemort had bay for all of these years. He could see that being why Dumbledore would have silenced any potential protests.

He trusted the man. He did. But he couldn't say it didn't hurt something terribly at the realization that Dumbledore was willfully turning a blind eye to what Harry experienced at Privet Drive. In the least, he could have spoken to Harry about it. They all expected so much from Harry it felt like sometimes, but then he couldn't even be spoken to like more of an equal, about what was going on? He could be the one to defeat Voldemort but they still wanted to treat him like a child in other regards.

He hadn't realized how...infuriating it was, sometimes. Not all the adults were like that and not all the time. Certainly people like Sirius talked to Harry more than at him, but all the same…

"You," Harry starts to say, looking at Voldemort closer now, tense at the man's proximity and at the words he sent Harry's way, forcing Harry to think of things he didn't wish to. "You do know."

Because he did. Tom Riddle was as much an orphan as Harry, though by different circumstances. Harry's life had been upended by him, for reasons he still didn't quite understand, taking away Harry's chance at a normal childhood. The parallels they shared once sickened Harry (how could he share anything with Lord Voldemort) and it should have sickened him more than it did now that the parallels didn't quite bother him as much as they once did.

After that night, after the graveyard, covered in dirt and blood and filled with terror...he had also been filled with something else as well.

Curiosity.

Before, well, he hadn't ever wanted to think about any of it. But they were connected somehow. He didn't want to acknowledge it before, but now? After that night? There had to be a reason for it and it had been stupid of Harry to ignore it.

Not bad to do so? Maybe. If only for his own sanity for the first few years at Hogwarts. But whether he liked it or no, he was, in the eyes of the wizarding world, the Boy Who Lived. As much as he longed to live a life of mostly solitude, surrounded only by those he loved, he couldn't avoid the eyes of the world. Not any longer.

Especially when the greatest wizard of the age was determined, for whatever reason, to keep his own eyes on Harry.

"I do?" Voldemort asks, though it was obviously more a question of where Harry was going with what he was saying than a blanket statement agreeing with him. His other hand moves to touch the wall next to Harry, once more not touching him, but quickly invading his space all the more anyway. "What do I know, Harry Potter?"

Harry swallows, the proximity of the other man was rather distracting.

"You," Harry says again, licking his lips, not noticing Voldemort's eyes watching the movement closely. "You were sent back every summer, not allowed to stay at Hogwarts."

Voldemort's mouth thins but he nods. "Yes."

"You…" Harry hadn't thought about it closely before, despite knowing the dates that Voldemort had gone to school, had lived through… "He sent you back during the…"

He shakes his head, disgusted. "He sent you back during the blitz."

It hadn't really registered to Harry at first, despite knowing the time Tom Riddle had lived as a student at Hogwarts and despite knowing that he hadn't been allowed to stay at the school, the school, from what Harry had seen in those Diary memories, being as much a home for Riddle as it was now for Harry, both of them having lived in dire circumstance.

Harry dealt with neglect and abuse from the Dursleys and while he didn't know the exact detail of Riddle's life at the orphanage he had lived in, he could infer enough that it hadn't been a pleasant place. But even then, despite all Harry had been through, he still hadn't been forced to go back into the Muggle world during World War Two.

He couldn't even begin to fathom living through all of that. And Dumbledore thought it okay to send Riddle back into all of that? Surely, even if students were not allowed normally to stay during the summer they could make an exception while War was raging.

Merlin, had that started Riddle's hatred for Muggles, besides his experiences in an orphanage? It was twisted, but-

He flinches, horrified at himself. Was he sympathizing with Riddle? No no...Voldemort. He couldn't even think of him as anything else. Why had he thought of him as Riddle? Back (apparently) to his former handsome visage or not, it didn't take away that this was a man who had done horrid deeds. Who had-

Voldemort's brows furrow. "What? What do you-"

"You." Harry snarls and Voldemort flinches back, surprised. "Get away from me."

"What is the problem? I have spoken very civilly towards you." Voldemort says, silkily.

"My problem? How about you give me back my parents? The people you murdered? Or all the other people you murder because they don't agree with you? How about that! How-"

He moves a hand to push Voldemort away.

"Don't!" Voldemort barks.

Harry is the one to flinch now.

"What?"

"Don't touch me." Voldemort says. "You...might not like what happens."

"Don't touch you? That's rich," Harry says sarcastically, eyes bright beneath his glasses. "Considering what happened in the graveyard."

He expects Voldemort's anger, but it...doesn't come. And it's that which makes Harry realize that his scar hadn't hurt this entire time, even when the older wizard had obviously been angry at times. Not even a twinge.

Nothing.

No, even more than that. This entire summer, since the graveyard...he hadn't felt anything from the scar.

"Yes," Voldemort says softly. "And what a night it was, wasn't it?"

"When you had Cedric murdered you mean?" Harry says. But he's faltering now. There is a lump in his throat and he can't look away from him.

Voldemort hums. "I should have known then, even before my resurrection… that I have been solely fixated on you for all of these years, even when, to my own detriment, I have been burned. I should have known."

"Known what?" Harry croaks. They were so close now that the barest movement from the other man would almost certainly touch Harry. And then… and then… then what?

Voldemort smiles and Harry can't look away, despite himself.

"You are special, Harry Potter." Voldemort whispers, leaning in. "That you should be marked so, by my own hand, should have told me…"

His lips cover Harry's.

A wave of pleasure hits him. He gasps, gasps against his mouth, moaning despite himself, faintly hearing an echoing groan from the other man in return. He gets pulled into an embrace, the kiss deepening as Voldemort's hand cups the back of his head, moving him flush against his body.

His body feels like flame engulfed wherever Voldemort touches him, or where their bodies touch, like liquid fire shooting through his body but of pleasure, not the pain he had come to solely associate with the Dark Lord. It was completely overwhelming, especially to someone like Harry who hadn't ever kissed someone before or been kissed. Intimacy was completely foreign to him.

...Intimacy?

He recoils a bit, despite how good he was feeling, trying to pull back, but Voldemort holds him closer.

"What is it now?" Voldemort whispers against his lips.

"You're kissing me!" He hisses.

Voldemort pulls back slightly and his eyes gleam with amusement.

"Was it that obvious?" He laughs softly. "My plan so easily saw through once more-"

He moves to try and kiss Harry again, but Harry holds him back with a hand on his chest, ignoring the shudder that runs through them both at the touch.

"I'm not going to kiss Lord Voldemort."

"You already did," Voldemort says, smiling slyly at Harry's blush. "So what would another hurt? And you cannot tell me that you did not enjoy it."

He touches Harry's face now with the back of his hand and once more the pleasure lances through Harry at the touch, making him hold back a moan with difficulty.

"I know all too well what you are feeling. That you want it. So let me." Voldemort says huskily, leaning in to kiss him again.

"No." Harry says weakly. He couldn't-didn't!-want it. That thought was...impossible.

The memory of Voldemort's touch in the graveyard, which had not brought pain but had brought a lick of fire up his spine, must be ignored. Must ignore how he felt now.

"It's just...it's you. You did something." Harry insists. "I-I couldn't…"

Voldemort cradles the back of his head again, holding him close, almost like he was something...precious.

"Oh I did do something." Voldemort says softly, looking at Harry with eyes that felt like they saw through him, saw through everything. It was the most intimate look anyone had ever given him. "But not that. No… any desire you have is solely your own."

"That can't be...true." Harry says faintly. "This-this feeling…"

"Mmm, well that is just a...side effect, if you will."

"Of what?"

Voldemort smiles again, his eyes gleaming.

"The bond between us. Strengthened that night in the graveyard." He strokes Harry's hair with his free hand and Harry has to fight to keep his eyes open against the pleasure that it brings him. "It will become less overwhelming with time."

"I don't want it." Harry shakes his head. "I can't…"

"You cannot what?"

"What is this?" He asks, almost hysterically. "You hate me! You have tried to kill me for countless years. You… you killed people I cared about. Those I could have cared about, but did not get to know. You did that."

The older wizard looks at him for a long moment, silent, but his eyes do not flash with the fires of anger. It is a look of puzzlement and other things Harry can't define.

"I did those things." Voldemort says, finally. "But that is not the sum of all that I am."

"You-"

"I cannot begin to explain to you the years that I have gone through, Harry." Voldemort says, still clutching him close. "Not yet."

"I don't want to know. I can't." Harry says.

"Why?"

He closes his eyes, unable to look at him.

"Because you have to remain a monster." He whispers.

"I am many things, Harry," Voldemort says. "I am not so easily fit into a single box."

"No?"

"No." Voldemort says. Harry moans as a warm hand cradles his face. "Not any longer."

It's quiet. And then:

"Look at me, Harry."

He shivers. "No."

"Look at me."

"No. I-I can't. This is all...too much. I can't-can't think."

I can't think while you are touching me. Think of why you are touching me. Looking at me with eyes like...like there can be anything within you that resembles something other than hatred, envy or Evil. You are the monster parents have told to their children in tales at night.

So...why then are you treating me with such care?

Affection was relatively alien to Harry, only knowing it for the past few years from his friends and those who had slowly become family to him. But affection tinged with intimacy was something he had no experience with. Had no...shield against.

Especially when it, against all odds, felt genuine.

"You are not the only one who feels that way." Voldemort says and Harry's eyes pop open despite himself, once he feels the man's mouth covering his. He kisses Harry slowly now, the pleasure still high between them, as if savoring the taste.

Voldemort pulls back, his eyes boring deeply into Harry's own.

"I have never felt this way before." Voldemort says.

"What..." Harry says faintly, his lips tingling from the kiss. "What way?"

He strokes Harry's face again, leaning in close, making Harry tense (with anticipation. Oh god-) but he doesn't kiss him.

"I have never desired a person before." Voldemort says, sounding both bewildered and excited, his eyes bright with possibility within them, fascinating Harry despite himself.

Harry's eyes grow large in his face. Voldemort...wanted him? He wanted Harry?

The thought should so utterly disgust him. The man who had ruined so many things in Harry's life. Made the thoughts of what if run in his head for nearly fifteen years. Should make him push him away, denying the pleasure at the touch. But it doesn't.

He stares at him, a lump in his throat. He had never been wanted before.

Oh sure, many people sought after the Boy Who Lived, if only because of what they thought he represented. But Harry, just plain Harry? Harry had had tentative crushes on people but even then, would those crushes have gone anywhere? It was too easy for people to see him as a symbol and not see that he was just...Harry.

But despite being the one who, perhaps, should see Harry as solely The Boy Who Lived and nothing else...Voldemort was here now, holding Harry like he was something...something special. Like he was cared for.

He feels horrified as tears come into his eyes and he hurries to wipe them away but gets stopped by a hand grabbing his, both of them letting out hisses of pleasure at the touch.

"Why are you crying?" Voldemort demands. "Do I truly disgust you so?"

Harry laughs at the expression on the man's face, despite his tears, watching Voldemort look at him bewildered, obviously unsure of how to take the situation.

"Is that why you changed your appearance?" He asks amused, tears almost forgotten about now. "You didn't think I would kiss you back if you didn't have your nose?"

Voldemort looks almost offended, shaking his head.

"What has come over you?" Voldemort asks, almost to himself.

"If I knew, I would tell you." Harry says.

Voldemort looks back into his eyes and a moment passes between them suddenly. Harry flushes. Despite all that had already occurred...somehow he felt like something else had just happened, only he didn't know what exactly. Just that...here was the most highly feared wizard of the age, here in Harry's ratty little bedroom, bantering with him, speaking with Harry as if they were...equals.

"How did you do it, by the way?" He asks him, looking at Voldemort's face, fascinated and curious, for it was true and not just an illusion Voldemort had glamored on, his flush deepening as he recognizes now how much he's always thought how handsome Voldemort was as Tom Riddle, in seeing those Diary memories years before.

"How did I bring upon myself a nose, you mean?" Voldemort sneers, though his eyes are bright with amusement. "Highly difficult magic."

"And do you like the results?"

"Do you?" Voldemort asks.

Harry blinks. He wanted to know what Harry thought? He couldn't...but he did.

He wanted Harry's approval.

A curious feeling twists his chest at the thought.

He swallows, gathering his Gryffindor born courage, and touches Voldemort's face.

No.

Not Voldemort's face.

His eyes look at the sight of the man shivering at Harry's touch.

Tom's face.

: : : : :

Tom looks at him, waiting, not making a move to remove Harry's hand from his face.

This intimacy...it was overwhelming. Especially so, given who it was, but Harry couldn't...he couldn't find it in himself to deny it. It felt good. He liked being wanted. Did...did Tom truly want him or did he want what everyone else thought they wanted?

"I do." Harry whispers, licking his lips, watching Tom's eyes look at the movement hungrily. "Do you approve? Of me, I mean."

Tom's brows furrow.

"Just that...despite your actions before," Harry says, looking away, flushing. "I'm just Harry. And that's probably not what someone like you wants or wants to hear. But I-"

He starts when Tom grabs his hand once more, forcing him to look his way at the pleasing touch, watching as Tom kisses his hand, his lips making their way over each finger, again, as if Harry was something precious, special to him.

"Just Harry." Tom says huskily. Harry shivers. "You do not see your own value, I see. That these people have taken confidence from you-"

He hesitates now, his hand trembling as it holds Harry's.

"That I…" He trails off.

"Can we...not talk about that?" Harry asks. "Not while...not here."

"You are special." Tom says, repeating words he had spoken moments earlier.

"Because you marked me." Harry says, surprising himself with how bitter it comes out.

But Tom shakes his head, his hair falling more over his face, making him look even more handsome, if that were possible.

"No. You misunderstand me. You are not special because I marked you. I marked you because you are special. That you hold value of things I did not understand. That I...still wish to understand. That I am learning. That I wish to learn."

He kisses the back of Harry's hand now, holding it close.

"If you would let me."

And all Harry can find himself saying is "Yes."

: : : : :

They were both flying blind in this (I have never desired a person before) which left Harry with that feeling again of being equals, despite Tom being older and more powerful than he. He wondered if the other man felt the same way. They were in a position now that Harry could never have envisioned. And, despite the circumstances of history between them, he cannot find it in himself to pull away.

Perhaps it is the curiosity in Tom's eyes as he kisses Harry again and again, holding him close. Or perhaps it is the pleasure that follows the curiosity in his dark gaze, when Harry tentatively moves his hands around Tom's middle, holding him equally as close as he held Harry.

He does not shy away from Harry's touch, nor does he seem angry that Harry was exploring without asking him (he was, after all, a man who had liked to be in control, utter control.) But no, he seems pleased that Harry wanted to touch him in return, and was doing so.

His hands brush up against Tom's side, making him shiver and he falters, losing his nerve. Tom's eyes look into his dark and heady and full of such obvious want that it stuns Harry to look at. He swallows, unsure of what to do next.

Because he...he wanted too. It terrified him and thrilled him in equal measure.

He should not look at the man in front of him with anything other than contempt, horror, and revulsion.

And yet...and yet… here they were.

He could see the sincerity in the man's gaze as he looks at Harry, desire tempered momentarily by something more solemn reaching into his eyes.

"I will not take." Tom says quietly.

Harry shakes in his arms at that, at such a simple statement but one full of so much meaning behind it. He would not take Harry by force-

"I do not want that." Tom continues.

He wanted-

"All that I desire... " Tom pauses, glancing away for a moment as he appears to be gathering his thoughts.

"You've wanted many things over time, haven't you?" Harry asks hoarsely.

Tom's eyes look back sharply at him and he nods.

"Yes."

"Tell me." Harry says. "Please." Keep speaking to me this way, as equals.

"I want you." Tom says simply.

The quaking in his limbs intensifies and it is only the-pleasure inducing hold-of Tom that keeps him upright. Such open speaking, filled with a simple truth, is almost more than Harry can take.

"And I want to understand this more," Tom says, his voice lowering as he moves a finger softly over Harry's face, his lips, and finally, his scar which makes Harry nearly cry out as his hand moves across it, the pleasure a blinding force instead of the pain he had gotten used to. "This bond between us. But more than that-"

He leans in, his intentions clear, but he doesn't breach that final bit of distance to kiss him.

"I wish to be desired in return."

"Well.. there's probably plenty of people who would love to-to take you up on that offer." Harry says. He can't look at him now. "If you hadn't guessed how handsome you are. Or your...your followers who would probably chomp at the bit to-"

"I don't want them." Tom says. "I want you."

"O-Oh." Harry stutters.

"I told you, Harry. I will not take anything by force. I wish to see the extent of your own desire for me."

Harry finds himself relaxing a bit at those words, despite how much they shocked him.

"Surely you can feel-" Because, Merlin help him, he had been hard for so long now, at the pleasure from the contact between them, and the man's nearness and the sound of his voice and seeing just how much he was wanted by him.

And the fact that he kept thinking of him as a man and not a monster, should be that final indication for him.

Tom starts to speak, sounding a bit exasperated. "A physical reaction isn't the same as-"

Harry leans in and kisses him, feeling him still underneath his touch, pulling back a moment later and sees Tom looking at him, utterly stunned.

"Does that tell you?" He says, breathlessly. "Because I...I do. I do too."

Wrong or right… right now it was simply Harry Potter and Tom Riddle here at this moment.

And wrong or right… he did want it.

"So many things need to be spoken of." Harry tells him.

"But not now." Tom says. It wasn't a question.

"No. Not now."

"We may speak of ambitions later. But now…" Tom hisses, his eyes growing dark with desire once more. He smiles an utterly disarming smile.

"Now it will be my great pleasure to make Harry Potter scream."

: : : : :

The words do not bring the fear they would have even a day before, but instead he blushes further, especially at Tom's wicked look.

"Look at you." Tom croons.

He touches Harry's chin with a light hand. The pleasure is still there, but as Tom said it would, it was already fading (perhaps had been speeding up upon their continued contact? He had no idea how the bond between them worked and Tom only seemed to have the barest idea. Which, given how much the other man knew about magic, both Light and Dark, said a lot), leaving only the pleasant feeling of being touched.

Harry hadn't liked being touched for a long time, though he had also felt starved for it. For the majority of his life, he had only known the touch of an uncaring hand (or two) that was indifferent or brought with it a flash of pain. He had longed to be touched by someone who cared about him.

Part of that starvation had been tempered upon becoming friends with Ron and Hermione, upon meeting Sirius, his godfather, of being around the good tempered and kind Weasleys. But in some ways, that only made him long for affection even more. Because he wanted something that was solely his.

The Weasleys were great, but they weren't family to Harry; they were family adjacent. No matter how much time would pass, they would never be a true family to him. Not because they didn't share the same blood or that the care wasn't there, but because Harry was an outsider to that, being Ron's friend. It let him have glimpses of what having a family would be like, but at the end of the day, he was left to see the banter between them and not be truly a part of it. Nor would he ever be. Harry's home was not The Burrow.

Sirius was much closer when it came to family, being that he was Harry's godfather. But there was the burden there of Sirius being stuck in Azkaban for most of Harry's life and then being on the run afterwards. That and there was still so much baggage attached for Sirius, of the life he had known, the people he had loved like family, James and Lily Potter. Harry was a constant reminder of those he had lost. And while he knew Sirius held nothing like resentment for him, Sirius was still coming to terms with his past and trying to find a new life in the present.

Selfishly, Harry had found he wanted someone to be for him and only him. That he could be the center of someone's world the way he wanted to show them that they were the center of his. That they could be so bonded…

Bonded.

He swallows.

His life had been intrinsically linked with Tom Riddle's for almost his entire life. That he had grown to who he is now and come to want him...

They were bonded.

He didn't know what it meant, except that it felt important.

"I have never desired a person before."

"I don't want them." Tom says. "I want you."

To be wanted. Needed. That it should come from the person who had ruined Harry's life was the ultimate irony.

Especially so, given that Harry wanted him in return.

"That you tremble in pleasure at my touch." Tom says quietly, almost to himself. "That your eyes glow whenever I kiss you."

He kisses Harry softly, leaving Harry to moan at the difference from the insistent-though not forceful-and strong kisses from before. He hadn't ever thought Tom could ever be soft about anything. Though, as he feels when Tom presses in closer to Harry, his kiss might be the only soft thing between them right now.

Tom deepens the kiss, his tongue licking Harry's lips, in asking to be led inside. He opens his mouth wider, flushing, feeling like he is fumbling through this, but Tom doesn't seem to mind. He growls, tongue delving inside and Harry gasps at the sensations it brings.

He really was a good kisser. It made Harry wonder for a moment where he learned such a thing, given that he said he hadn't been interested in anyone before. He feels a twist in his chest at the thought that he can't describe.

"You are overthinking again." Tom murmurs. He pulls back, a hand running through Harry's hair, as if he had been doing it for years.

"It's nothing." Harry mutters. He moves to kiss Tom, to move past the situation, but gets stopped by Tom's other hand.

"It is if you are thinking that deeply." Tom says, though not in anger. "I don't know what you're thinking but I can feel the tension in your body and in your thoughts."

He hadn't thought, for whatever reason, that Tom might feel anything from Harry, the way Harry had felt from him the past few years.

"You can feel me?" He asks. The thought was a tantalizing one now, instead of the opposite it once would have been.

"Yes." He hisses. And Harry is startled for a moment, once he realizes Tom spoke in Parseltongue, the serpent language a sound of a low hiss that raises the hairs on the back of Harry's neck, making him shiver. He had never heard it from a person's lips other than his own before. The effect was rather...nice. "I have felt you forever and an age, Harry Potter. The bond between us…"

Tom blinks. "Ah, I meant that-"

"It's a strong bond, isn't it?" He replies in return, finding himself falling into the serpent tongue surprisingly easy, given he had a hard time speaking it normally when not around snakes.

The stunned look on Tom's face alone is worth the effort in speaking it.

"Stronger than I ever could have fathomed." Tom says. "The sum of what such a thing can be, I am still learning. But just this...finding you can speak the language I thought dead to all but myself…"

He turns the two of them before Harry can react, pushing him onto the bed.

"What are you…" Harry asks breathlessly.

"On the bed." Tom's eyes gleam. "Or I will fuck you where you stand. I have patience now, but even I have limits when something so tantalizing stands before me."

: : : : :

Tom's words cause him to flush, but it isn't until he finds himself pushed onto the bed, staring for a moment at the older man, that he realizes he's starting to undress himself, that he looks away, his face feeling on fire.

"No. Don't look away from me." Tom says. The commanding tone has Harry nearly gasping. It wasn't a sound of egotism, but of confidence. Of want. "Look at me, Harry."

He starts when he feels Tom's legs bump up against his knees.

"Look at me." Tom says softly.

Harry looks up at him.

"Look upon me. Know that what you see is what has been made of me."

He watches as Tom's hands move with swiftness and grace as they quickly pull his outer robes away, where they pool onto the floor, watches with embarrassment and want in equal measure (he had never seen someone else naked before, not really. Glimpses in the dorm showers at Hogwarts weren't anything. Not important. Not like this. He didn't want any of them, after all. He only… Merlin, he wanted Tom Riddle. Truly recognizing it was both terrifying and exciting in equal measure.)

The soft looking gray vest soon follows, leaving a swathe of naked flesh to Harry's eyes. He wasn't overly muscular, instead possessing a more wiry, lithe look. Which made two of them, he supposed. Harry had gotten a bit taller over the summer, but he doubted he'd be very big either.

He swallows when his eyes trail further down his chest, down the flat stomach, where a sparse trail of hair travels further below, into Tom's trousers which he had yet to take off.

"And what has made you?" Harry asks, employing the same Parseltongue speech as Tom.

For something that sounded so important from Tom's lips, in the snake tongue, it felt only right to speak back the same. And...it was nice, speaking to another person this way. He could start to see why Tom liked to do so. For the first time since learning he could speak it, Harry was truly enjoying Parseltongue.

He wasn't sure what he expects Tom to say or do, but he still finds himself stunned as Tom kneels before him, the man's hands on his knees, looking up at him with something bright in his gaze. Tom's eyes were incredibly expressive, Harry was coming to learn.

"What made me, as I am now?" Tom asks rhetorically. Harry nods hesitantly.

Tom strokes his face.

"You."

: : : : :

The sight of Tom on his knees in front of him is enough to make his head spin. Tom Riddle bowed or knelt to no one. Even if it was for a situation such as this...whatever he was thinking...it just wasn't something he did.

The bowing he had done in the graveyard when he faced Harry had been in the height of mockery (perhaps even that was something more, now that he thought of it. Even in mockery, he didn't see Tom bowing to anyone. But he had done so rather easily for Harry, bowing, again, a sign in the wizarding world usually reserved for deference or for someone you looked upon as an equal.)

"Me? I didn't do anything." Harry shakes his head, feeling a bit lightheaded at Tom's nearness, his touch upon Harry's legs.

"Didn't you?" Tom says. He strokes up Harry's legs, making him gasp. "Your blood gave me form again. I cannot explain to you the true meaning of the word pain, Harry. It does not do justice to how I felt for all of those years, split from my body as I had been."

Aaah… pain beyond pain, my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost… but still, I was alive.

"The ritual did more than even I expected," Tom continues swiftly, as if wanting to push past part of what he had been saying, as it rang close to what happened That Night, when Harry's world had been changed forever. "Your blood had been...fitting, so I thought then."

Now he hesitates again and Harry understands why.

"It's okay." He whispers to Tom.

It wasn't, in many ways, but at the same time...they were too bound by things, by the past. There wasn't a way to avoid them. And if Tom was willing to risk speaking of them, risking Harry's anger (Tom was more powerful than Harry, but he had come here to Privet Drive with intentions different than even a few months ago that he would have. So Harry could show similar courtesy.)

"It's okay." He repeats. "You can continue."

You can… surely such a phrase would have incited Lord Voldemort's anger before. People did not allow him things, after all; he took. But he does not correct Harry, nor does the anger come. That was something that Harry noticed now… that Tom seemed lucid in a way that he hadn't in the graveyard in the beginning, if lucid was the right word for it.

"It was your blood which let me inside." Tom says and Harry has to hold back a shiver at the hunger in the man's gaze. "Bypass the wards set by Dumbledore and let me...touch you."

The last part is spoken in a whisper as he leans in, kissing Harry again as if unable to stop himself. Harry moans underneath the touch, kissing Tom back just as hungry as the older wizard kisses him. They sit like that for a long time, tasting each other, until Tom finally pulls back, leaving Harry to gasp for air, blushing at the small trail of saliva that passes between them as he does so.

Tom looks at him as he licks his lips almost obscenely, smiling at whatever expression must be on Harry's face.

Still though, Tom's words leave lingering questions within Harry.

"So you can…" He swallows and glances away. "Come and go from here now as you please."

It should terrify him and yes, he felt the echoes of fear at the thought, but this here now, with Tom, it made it increasingly hard to remember the sheer terror from even a short time before.

"I can." Tom confirms. "But it is something you must not fear. Not any longer."

That makes Harry turn back to look at him. He looks at Harry almost solemnly, seriousness etched into his handsome face.

"I don't?" Harry asks, almost in disbelief. "After...after all of these years…"

"I know." Tom says. "And I will not ask you for something that I do not deserve. But I wish you to know that now, as I am now...that you must know that you need not fear the censure of Lord Voldemort. Not any longer."

"And everyone else?" Harry asks daringly.

Tom frowns. "Harry-"

Harry bites down on harsher words that come to mind, not wanting to-entirely-ruin whatever this moment between them is.

"Things are...complicated." Tom finally says. "More than you realize. More, certainly, than Dumbledore has told you."

There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.

"And there is much that needs to be done." Tom continues. "And to learn the extent of the bond that we share."

"I don't want you to-" Harry bites off.

I don't want you to be what you were before. Still are? Are you even that man? I believe in your sincerity, but does that madness still lead you into dark places?

"I am a reasonable man, Harry." Tom says. Harry lets out a sound at that. He strokes Harry's legs again. "It has not been that way for many years, but I used to be able to listen to reason well enough. It was not until I...began my experiments that I delved headfirst into madness. It made me lose myself, my sense of self. I will not excuse it in a way to ask for forgiveness, but in that I hope it makes you understand. I will not confess to be a goodman. But what I was before...for those decades, was not the Lord Voldemort I originally envisioned myself to be."

"You...lost sight of yourself?" Harry asks.

"I was...am...fractured." Tom says slowly, frowning to himself. He looks back up at Harry. "Your blood let me touch you. And touching you brought me sanity once more."

"You tried to kill me." Harry says.

Tom shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "I was...angry. I was elated. But I was also angry because I was elated. I had not felt such feelings in years, some feelings I had never felt. I did not know how to handle them. For so many years, my first instinct was to...lash out. And I wanted to test you."

"Why? I'm not anything special, despite what the rest of them out there seem to think."

"You are." Tom insists, as he had earlier. "It is primarily why I wanted to test you then. There was a bond there between us that I recognized. I was curious. Insatiably so. I wanted to see what might happen. And, as I said, I was angry."

Curiosity...the same thing Harry had felt in the graveyard as well, despite everything else that had been occurring. They were once again more alike than he had expected them to be.

"Was angry?" Harry finds himself asking.

Tom's hands settle back onto Harry's knees.

"The anger started to quickly leave me, in a way it had not in an age, leaving only my desire. Desire to feel what it was like to have a body again. Desire for knowledge, my unquenchable thirst for knowledge; to try and understand the nature of the bond, to test the limits of the blood of yours that had been...taken...and my desire for...to my shock…"

He leans up to kiss Harry briefly again.

"My desire for you." Tom says. "But I...wondered at your thoughts. And after what happened, I did not think you would accept me at all, but if I were to have that chance of you accepting me willingly, then I must craft for myself my old looks."

"It was very difficult," Tom says, though not in the way he had spoken of it earlier, with an amount of pride and ego, but more of just a general statement. "As a mere glamor wouldn't give anything in truth, only give the illusion of it. But as I have ever persevered in my studies of magic, since I first learned of our world, I was determined to find a way."

Harry couldn't imagine how much work had to be put into it. Even glamors-truly good ones, anyway-still took a good bit of magic to pull off. Things that had to do with changing a person, such as Polyjuice Potions, glamors and the like, tended to be very difficult to do well (part of the reason why it was so amazing that Hermione had made such perfect Polyjuice Potion in their second year of schooling at Hogwarts.)

"I'm not someone who just wants someone with good looks." Harry says, flushing. Tom had gone through an incredible amount of work just for Harry? It made a funny sort of feeling twist in his stomach. "I am not so vain as that."

"I know." Tom says. "But I wished not to remind you, overly much, of things you would not wish to think of. And you'd ever be reminded of that night, the worst parts of it."

"Not all of it was bad." Harry says softly.

Tom looks at him, surprised. Perhaps he hadn't expected Harry to admit so; Harry certainly hadn't expected to say it.

"No?"

"No. I mean...when you-when you touched me." Harry swallows. "It felt good. I didn't want to think of it then, but it did. And when our wands connected, that golden light between us…"

"That our wands would be connected too…" Tom says. "We've been bonded for a long time, you and I. Longer than I realized."

Tom is silent for a moment, before seeming to come to some conclusion, looking back up at Harry.

"Tell me, Harry...do you believe in destiny? That some things are meant to be?"

He almost wants to laugh, given Trelawney's general over the top false predictions in Divination, but then he quickly remembers that she had given a true prediction a year and a half earlier roundabout, about Peter Pettigrew that had come true (Dumbledore had said something then as well, after hearing about it from Harry, hadn't he? What had he said? That she had been right twice then?)

"I...yes. I-I think so." Harry eventually says. "There are Seers out there. Predictions they make?"

"Prophecies." Tom whispers.

"Why do you bring it up? And now?" Harry asks. He gestures at Tom-and his half naked form kneeling in front of Harry-with a blush.

Tom looks at him for a long, quiet moment, before seeming to come back to himself, shaking his head slightly. He smirks at Harry, making him blush further.

"You're quite right." Tom agrees. "There are much better things that we could be doing right now."

"Like?" Harry asks, faintly.

Tom's smirk widens. He moves his hands from Harry's legs and grabs at his belt, pulling it off with a quick motion before Harry can react. He starts to grab at his zipper before Harry grabs his hand.

"What are you doing?" He squeaks, mortified at the tone.

Tom laughs softly, the sound a contrast to the cold laughter he had come to associate with the man. He seemed genuinely amused. Despite Harry's embarrassment and hesitance, he still can't help but be drawn to these things of Tom that are slowly unfolding before his eyes, things that Harry could never have guessed that Tom Riddle could say or do; or that anyone else could believe Tom could say or do.

"Is it not obvious?" Tom purrs. "Poor sheltered Harry. Do you think I would kneel for just anyone?"

Harry swallows. "I…"

"You keep thinking too much. Let yourself dissolve in the sensations." Tom's voice is almost hypnotic in its seductive tone, though no magic was laced through it. "We may speak of many things after this, you and I. It is something I have found I greatly desire. But today...speak your desire to me and know you will find no censure for anything you want. You have but only ask it of me."

There he was, looking sincere again. How could Harry keep resisting that? He couldn't. He had little defences for things like that. True affection and care were things Harry had come to desire above all else, given how little he had it in his life until the past few years.

But speaking the words aloud? It was...difficult. Very difficult. This was the man who had uprooted Harry's life before it could properly begin. But...here now were things like sincerity, desire, sanity. Tom had shown Harry a great amount of vulnerability already, something Harry felt pretty certain that the wizard showed to no one. Because to show vulnerability was to invite thoughts of being weak.

But here he was, waiting with a patience Harry never would have thought possible from him. Showing and speaking vulnerable things that could, in the wrong hands, hurt him. Trusting that Harry's hands were not the wrong one.

Harry wasn't a god, he wasn't even the 'great wizard' that the Wizarding World thought he was. He wasn't a bad one, but he was still learning. He was someone who loved and hated and learned and thought, just like anyone else. He wasn't special because he 'defeated Lord Voldemort' all those years ago. He hadn't defeated anything.

He was just Harry.

But Tom...he seemed to see him, as he truly was.

I'm not made of stone. If I'm hurt, I bleed, the same as anyone else. And if I'm shown care, I can't be expected to keep up walls. Especially because I…

"Want you." He says hoarsely. He feels suddenly like he might cry. "I want you."

For a brief second, he wonders if he misjudged the situation, but Tom pulls him down for a kiss and Harry can all but feel the relief there, the same as he feels. When Tom pulls back and reaches for his pants again he doesn't try to stop him, but he still squirms a bit as Tom lowers the zipper. No one had ever looked at him before, not deliberately.

Tom hums a bit under his breath, almost unruffled as he starts to pull at Harry's pants.

"Lift your hips, if you will." Tom says, rather calmly.

Harry does so, trying to ignore the trembling in his limbs at Tom's closeness at what he might do next and instead focuses more on Tom's attitude now.

"You've...done this often?" Harry asks, a bit breathlessly, trying to ignore the clenching in his chest. "I thought you said you hadn't-"

"I've never cared about anyone before, Harry." Tom says, glancing up at him. "But I cannot say that I am unfamiliar with the art of seduction."

"Ah. I...see." Harry says.

Just because Tom didn't like anyone before didn't mean he couldn't have engaged in acts with people before and it was probably foolish on Harry's part to expect otherwise. Just like he shouldn't be feeling the flash of jealousy deep in his chest, like a monster trying to wiggle its way out, either.

Something on his face must show, because it seems to make the older man compelled to speak up further.

"It never went very far, of course, because I couldn't abide being touched." Tom says, sounding a bit disgusted. "Grubby little hands, greedy, wanting things I couldn't ever give them. But words, certainly there weren't many better than I at getting what I want through sweet words."

"Then why are you…" Harry says. Tom looks at him. Harry gestures between them, flushing. "If you don't like-"

"I told you. I didn't want them. But I want you." Tom says easily, as if not continuing to turn everything Harry thought he had once known on his head. "The thought of touching you...I have thought of it often since that night."

In an answer to Tom's open and easy declaration, Harry silently lifts his hips. Tom smiles, pulling them down and tossing them aside with ease. Tom lets out a low whistle, which just makes Harry blush further.

"No underwear, Harry? How...adventurous." Tom says with a grin.

He would not say it was because he was in the middle of doing his laundry or that he hadn't minded because it let his right hand get quite a workout this summer. He would not.

Hesitance creeps up on him and the thought of Tom seeing him there has him trying to shyly cover himself up, which only seems to rile up the older man further, pulling Harry's hands away with a groan.

"You could tempt the dead." Tom hisses. He bats at Harry's hand when he tries to cover himself again. "Do not."

"I-I've never." Harry stutters, eyes wide in his face. His nervousness seems to calm something in Tom because he softens, just a bit, kissing the inside of his wrist before-slowly-pushing his legs apart.

"I know." Tom says. "But let me. I wish to see you, Harry."

But what if you find me...lacking? What if you decide that you don't want this?

"You have too little faith in yourself." Tom looks thoughtful for a moment before looking back at Harry, brow raised. "Remove your shirt."

"I...why?" It was, er, pretty clear just what Tom had been thinking about doing, relatively speaking, so the request threw Harry off.

"Because it would be unseemly to be the only one naked?" Tom says, though it's clear by the expression on his face that he is...Merlin, he was joking with Harry. Was this what...what intimate things were like between people? This back and forth, the sensuality mixed with banter and...it was all rather overwhelming.

"You're not naked." Yet, is the somewhat scary, exciting thought.

"Ah, you're right." Tom says, as if just realizing it. His eyes glitter as he looks at Harry. His hands move with a swift deftness to his own belt as he stands, his gaze never leaving Harry's as he divests himself of the rest of his clothing, leaving him bare to Harry's sight.

Tom's eyes hold no shame or embarrassment as he stands in front of Harry before kneeling in front of him again.

"Your shirt." Tom says promptly.

"I...what." Harry says, sounding dazed.

Tom smirks again, looking pleased.

"Your shirt." He repeats. His hands move quickly, pulling it up and off of him in moments before he can really make any sound of protest.

"There." He says, sounding satisfied. "Better?"

Harry can't stare him in the eye. His eyes look around until he notices (oh god that was Tom's-!) He yelps and looks up at the ceiling. Tom chuckles.

"Why Harry." Tom says in an airy tone. "You wound me. If I didn't have empirical evidence in front of me, I might think you didn't like me."

Like. Harry can feel his heart beat faster in his chest.

"S-Shut up." He says.

"Make me."

Oh god it wasn't right that they were the only two people who could hear the symbolant hisses of the serpent tongue. Or maybe it was. It sounded like seduction to his ears, even when Tom wasn't trying to seduce. Was that the nature of the language? Or was it just Tom's nearness affecting him so the language was sounding even nicer to his ears?

"No."

"That would sound stronger from your lips, Harry, if your eyes weren't currently plastered to the ceiling."

"Well it is a fascinating ceiling." Harry says, as if his face wasn't currently feeling like it had been stuck into a fire.

"Clearly the height of architecture." Tom says dryly. "The Founders of Hogwarts have met their match with Plaster of Paris and is that...chewing gum? How charming."

He turns to look at Tom in exasperation. "Look it hasn't been my bedroom for very…"

He swallows. "Long."

The look of sheer hunger in the older man's gaze makes him gasp and Tom strikes forward, as quick as a viper, kissing Harry. Was this what kissing was like? This all encompassing feeling, of feeling like you were simultaneously drowning and falling? Like you had a hard time breathing but at the same time didn't, couldn't, pull away, because you had to have more?

But finally the true need for air makes him start to pull away, shivering as Tom's tongue glides across his lower lip as they pull apart. He shivers further, needy, as Tom's hands move teasingly up his legs, to his hips, holding him as if afraid he'd move away.

"What do you want?" Harry asks, swallowing against his dry throat.

"Is that not obvious?" Tom asks huskily.

Harry shrugs, almost helplessly.

"I...don't know what to do." He finally says. It gives him pause. It wasn't that he didn't want this, whatever this was, because...god help him he did. He just didn't know how to go about it.

"I know enough for the both of us." Tom says, before pushing Harry flat onto his back, leaving him to scramble back as Tom makes his way onto the bed, slowly moving his way up, looming over him. The utter closeness of him was enough to make his head spin. "And what I do not know, we will learn."

"What? The great Voldemort is admitting a fault? That he isn't all knowing?"

"You're impudent." Tom tells him.

Harry's hands are hesitant, but eventually make their way to touch Tom's arms. The older man jerks briefly in surprise, but he doesn't move away.

"It's a useful trait to have." Harry says.

"Gryffindor." Tom scoffs.

"Slytherin." Harry hisses back.

Abruptly Tom kisses him again and the air between them, which had been briefly full of banter, is once more charged with tension again and Harry gasps against his mouth (oh god how could a mouth so used to sending Curses flying be so skillful at kissing?), shudders as Tom's weight comes down upon him, crying out as the pleasure blooms, almost painful, as they touch skin to skin in a way they hadn't before.

It felt good.

He hadn't ever thought about being with a man before, so he didn't know what went into things like this (beyond some of the rough talk that some of the students at Hogwarts would sometimes joke around with.)

In hindsight, he thinks hazily, as Tom nudged Harry's legs apart with a knee, he should have figured he was also attracted to men, as much as he noticed the handsomeness of some males to varying degrees. Still, he thinks with an inward blush, none of them, those thoughts, compared to how much he had focused on the handsomeness of Tom Riddle. If he wasn't so aroused now, he might have been a bit mortified, but as it was now...he couldn't bring it in himself to really care.

"What now?" He whispers. This was a completely unfamiliar road he was now travelling down, with the most unlikely guide he ever could have imagined-if he had ever imagined such a thing before.

"Now?" Tom hisses in that soft whisper of Parseltongue. "Now I will see what the expression of Harry Potter is when he reaches the height of pleasure."

He leans down and rubs himself blatantly, leaving Harry to cry out as skin meets skin even more intimately. His cock throbs against them, the feel of Tom's surprisingly soft skin against his heated flesh enough to make them groan. He wants to see if Tom was as...affected as he was, but can't work up the courage (some Gryffindor he was!) to do so.

But it doesn't stop there, as Harry is given little time to try and absorb these new sensations as Tom's mouth is a hot brand upon his skin, kissing his mouth, his cheek, his neck, slowly making its way down as he rocks against him.

"How do you feel?" Tom asks.

"I…" He swallows.

"Tell me, Harry. Don't be scared." Tom says, pulling back enough so Harry can see his face.

"Easy for you to say." He mutters.

"No walls." Tom says, looking as serious as Harry as ever seen him. "No censure. No hesitance-as much as can be expected, anyway. I am sincere when I mean that I want to explore whatever this is that is between the two of us."

"No censure…" Harry says slowly. "No walls?"

"No."

"It feels good." Harry says. Tom's eyes glow at that. He smiles shyly. "I like how you feel."

"I like how you feel too." Tom says. "The pleasure you are bringing…"

He leans down closely, close enough to kiss easily, but he doesn't. Instead he pushes back some of Harry's fringe and strokes his scar. Pleasure blooms forth at his touch, where once only pain had been. The pleasing feeling between that Tom had said would start to lessen had already done so, but comes up at the older man's touch, as if directed by him, giving Harry feelings which he never thought he would ever feel-or that he could ever describe to another person.

He kisses Harry.

Harry's arms wrap more boldly around Tom now, urged by Tom's softly spoken words, wrapping his legs around him. He could come just like this, he realizes with a jolt, hips thrusting eagerly up against Tom's body, their erections sliding against each other, their embrace almost painfully tight.

And he wants it. The thought is exquisite in its equal parts pain and pleasure. That he could come undone so much by the hand of someone he shouldn't want.

But that he did want.

That he wanted to be w-

He cries out, surprising them both as he comes suddenly, his vision whiting out before Tom starts to return to Harry's vision in a foggy focus that clears (some sort of wandless magic, he realizes hazily, to keep his glasses from staying so fogged-something he never would have thought of. And wouldn't have been able to do anyway, given the Trace.)

He starts to collapse back onto the bed, limbs trembling, but Tom's arms are warm and firm, keeping him from falling back completely. Tom moves against him more urgently now, trying to reach the peak of his own pleasure and Harry wants to see it. To be gifted things that no one else could lay a claim to...yes, he wanted it badly. He needs it now.

He starts to kiss down the man's neck, arms moving down his body as Tom's grip becomes tighter and it takes a moment to realize that Tom is coming, shuddering silently against him.

"Oh god." Harry says.

Tom was coming all over the both of them and the sight of Tom Riddle coming undone on Harry, against Harry, because of Harry…

He feels something, tentative, in his mind then and willingly, blindly, accepts it, feels his whole self straining to reach it, to grasp it in return. It is...indescribable.

In that moment he feels complete.

And is left to cry out once more as a second orgasm is wrenched from him, leaving them both locked in their heated, amorous, embrace as they both come together. He does fall back then, seconds later, feeling both energized and exhausted in equal measure.

He looks at Tom and their eyes meet. The look on Tom's face, in his eyes…

"Tom." He whispers, wrecked.

It's quiet. And it takes Harry a moment in his state to realize just what he had spoken aloud. Tom had been in Harry's thoughts for a long time now, but no one spoke that name to him, the name he shared with his hated Muggle father.

No censure.

Tom once more touches Harry's fringe now, pushing back to briefly touch his scar.

"Precious soul." Tom whispers.

Harry's eyes close against the touch, feeling overwhelmed.

"Say it again."

His eyes open and he sees Tom looking at him almost needy.

"Tom." He says.

"Again."

"Tom."

"Again!" Tom exclaims, eyes growing more wild now.

"Tom." He swallows. "B-bonded."

"Yessss." Tom hisses. "Again."

"We're," He licks his lips. "We're bonded."

"Yes." Tom says, his eyes bright with some emotion that Harry cannot name. "We are bonded, you and I. And I will never let anything take you away from me."

: : : : :

"I must go." Tom says, regretfully.

His hand pauses from where it had been stroking Harry's hair for the past little while, Harry being held in Tom's surprisingly strong embrace. He looks up at Tom, frowning as the man removes himself from the bed (and Harry) as he starts to dress himself. While the sight of Tom's naked form-and getting dressed, surprisingly enough, in the Muggle way and not with any magic-was incredibly pleasing, he still cannot help but feel a frisson of apprehension.

This...whatever this was between them was a promise, Harry felt. But that didn't mean that things would so greatly change in other areas.

"You don't," Harry says quietly. "You don't have to go."

He wonders if the regret on Tom's face now is the first time the man has ever truly felt the emotion. Harry doesn't doubt Tom's sincerity; he can...feel it, in a way.

"I would not if it wasn't necessary." Tom says, somewhat cryptically. "I trust my skill against whoever of the Order they have watching you now, but I will not tempt fate by Dumbledore or something else trying to take you from me. Not when I finally have you."

While he was flattered by Tom's words, he was also confused.

"Watching me? What do you mean?"

Tom pauses in the middle of where he had been buttoning his shirt. It is his turn to look confused for a moment.

"The Order is watching this place. They have since my resurrection at Little Hangleton." Tom says, looking at Harry. "But whoever is watching today seems to have neglected their duty. I've been watching them watch you for a while now, you see. So I seized the opportunity when it presented itself to me. But I expect the changing of the guard, so to speak, to happen soon."

"They've been watching me?" Harry says, shaking his head. While he knew it was to protect him, he still felt like an invasion of his space had happened.

He had always hated the spotlight to be on him, preferred to keep to himself or to the small space of people he trusted. To know his actions this summer had been watched… wait. That meant the Order knew he had been hunting news this summer about Tom and the Death Eaters and other things and they still kept him in the dark?

Why?

"Not a pleasant feeling, I know." Tom murmurs, finishing up the last buttons and coming to stand in front of Harry. "But one they felt...necessary, I suppose."

His mouth twists in obvious disgust and Harry finds himself laughing, despite himself.

"That worked out real well for them, didn't it?" Harry asks, wryly.

Tom smirks. He reaches out a hand to stroke Harry's face.

"Indeed." Tom murmurs. "But their loss is my infinite gain."

"Do you…" Harry starts, but stops a moment later, frustrated as the words won't come out like he wants them to, but Tom waits, patient. "What will you do now? I don't want-want you to-"

He trembles and Tom is swift to lean down, pulling Harry into his embrace.

"No action shall be taken, one way or the other, until we resolve things between us." Tom assures him.

"But your Death Eaters-"

"Will do as they are told." Tom snarls, but the emotion is not directed at Harry. "I will have nothing interfering. Nothing and no one, do you understand? Not the Order or even my own Death Eaters. No one."

"This," Tom hisses, grasping Harry's chin in his hand. "Is more important."

He kisses Harry briefly, but strongly, barely giving Harry time to respond before pulling back.

"I will contact you soon." Tom says, voice softening a bit in contrast to his last action.

"What should I expect?" Harry asks, the excitement filling him, the danger of it (well, no one could say he wasn't a Gryffindor through and through, that was for sure.) "Surely not Owl Post?"

He briefly amuses himself with the thought of Lord Voldemort being like a pen pal but Tom shakes his head.

"We cannot trust it, not with the Order watching you so closely. No, I was thinking something more…"

A finger traces Harry's much abused lips.

"Intimate." Tom says.

Harry flushes, leaving Tom to smirk at him.

"I have no idea what that means."

Tom's smirk widens.

"Well...you have more of an idea now, don't you?" Tom asks in mock innocence. "After all of that rolling around on the bed…"

"Tom." Harry hisses.

Tom laughs, but takes pity on Harry.

"There is a place they cannot interfere. I will see you there, assuredly."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

His eyes grow serious.

"Do you trust me?"

Harry looks at him, feeling overwhelmed once more, but nods. Merlin help him, he did. He really did. If Ron and Hermione ever found out, or Sirius or Dumbledore… but he did. He trusted Tom. And he wanted Tom to know that he could trust Harry.

There was...well a lot that needed to be talked about and decided on and hopefully fixed (for Harry couldn't ever get behind much of what he knew the Death Eaters had done, what Tom had done, and he knew that Tom knew that. Trying to push Harry into the Dark wasn't what this night was about, he knew. Or what Tom was trying to achieve. Another one of those feelings that Harry did not doubt.)

"Then I will see you tonight. That is a promise. And Lord Voldemort does not break his promises."

"What about Tom Riddle?"

"Tom Riddle breaks no promises to which he is Bonded to." Tom says softly.

"Okay...Okay." Harry lets out a breath, looking away as Tom steps back, preparing himself to leave. "Wait."

He turns back to Tom.

"What about the Dursleys?"

Tom raises a brow.

"What about them?" Tom says disdainfully. "I hold no respect for them, Harry. Even if they were magical like us, they have hurt-"

His nostrils flare and he is the one to look away now.

"I have been extremely lenient with them." Tom says evenly. "If only for your sake. Not even caution about the Order's response to it would keep me from doing something to them."

"Only me." Harry says.

"Yes."

"They will be...mostly the same." Tom says, still sounding disgusted. "But there will be enough change there with my Imperius that should benefit you. And that will not be noticed by the Order."

He turns back to Harry.

"Do not do anything foolish. I am doing what I can, but even I cannot control all variables, as much as I dislike that fact."

He almost wants to joke again Well I am a Gryffindor, so maybe you shouldn't expect too much! but Tom looks too serious and wound up now for Harry to do so. Especially that Tom seemed to be showing concern. For Harry. That fiery feeling is back, burning deep in him.

"I won't." Harry promises. He reaches forward to grasp Tom's hand, grateful that Tom doesn't pull away, despite how tense he looked. "You...do the same."

There was a lot Tom could have said to that. Some biting comment or sarcastic quip, but he just squeezes Harry's hand.

"Yes." Tom says. He looks regretful. "I truly must go now."

"I almost forgot." He says.

He kisses Harry.

"Happy birthday."

And is gone a moment later.

Harry sits like that for a moment, feeling the heat of Tom's hand lingering on his. He lays back on his bed, laughing helplessly, before he feels the hot sting of tears in his eyes, falling onto the bed.

Everyone he knew would probably never forgive him.

To even having spoken to Tom in anything but anger and vengeance was probably enough for them all to hate Harry, if they knew. At least the Order. Be disgusted.

But all he can think then is…

I miss you already.

: : : : :

Awhile later, the Dursleys still have not returned (though he expects Tom to keep to his word) and he finally manages to sum up the energy to get up, getting a shower, able to take time in a way that he never could before, letting the warm water help relax his muscles, relax him, watching with a blush as his and Tom's essences are washed off his body, down the drain.

He realizes then that Tom had left without either cleaning himself by hand or by magic. He hadn't gotten dressed with magic either, though he surely could have done either task with magic. Perhaps it was just because he didn't want the Ministry hounding the house if they caught wind of it? But surely someone as powerful as Tom could find a way around that.

So it was more like he...wanted to keep the reminders of Harry, of what he and Harry had experienced upon him.

The thought is enough to make Harry aroused again, despite himself, but taking care of himself by hand in the shower is little comfort compared to the pleasure he had experienced with Tom in his bed. Oh god, his bed. Tom Riddle had gotten off in Harry's bed. How could he ever look at his room the same again? Look at his bed the same? Look at it and not want to have a wank?

He finishes his shower quickly and stares at his bed with wide eyes once he gets back to his room. While Harry was far from an expert in these matters, it didn't take a genius to realize that his room smelled of sex. The musk from Tom, from their bodies, from when they (he blushes brightly) climaxed.

He probably should have asked Tom to clean up the smell before he left (thank god the Dursleys rarely ventured into Harry's room. And would probably do so even less, if Tom's words had been an indication.)

Speaking of, he hears the door open minutes later, when he's in the middle of making up his bed with fresh linen and hears the high tones and droll tones of his Aunt and Uncle, followed by the annoyed tones of his cousin moments later and feels something relax in himself.

He had no love for the Dursleys and vice versa, but he wouldn't have wanted them to suffer anything truly bad, especially because of him.

Despite how exhausted he was, he didn't think he'd fall asleep so easily. His mind was going a million miles a minute. There was so much to think about. There was-

He falls asleep almost the moment his head hits the pillow.

: : : : :

The room was not small but cozy. It was bigger than Harry's own bedroom at Privet Drive though, with the walls a lacquered rich looking wood, with a stone fireplace that was currently unlit. There was a small wooden desk that had a couple of books on it and a bed that was off to the side, neatly made.

He looks around in confusion.

"Where am I?" He asks aloud. The last thing he remembered was laying down on his own bed at the Dursleys, then...this.

"Where no one can bother us. As I promised. In the one place that is solely our domain."

Harry whirls around and sees Tom there, standing in an open doorway, looking as he had the last Harry had seen him.

"Our dreams."

Tom smiles.

: : : : :