Dark eyes burning with a cold fire vanished from the air. Harry brushed away the heat that rushed through him at their intensity and inspected himself carefully in the conjured mirror.

He'd learnt ages ago how to feed it just enough life, how to slip into it just enough of himself… how to bring him alive. A drop of blood on the page, a whispered incantation, and then all that was left to do was feel—to savour the darkness inside him and to let it seep through the bindings. He felt adrenaline flooding his veins, felt the blackest of magics infiltrate every particle of his being, and then—Harry shivered at the thought—then he would arise. Bound so long between the blank pages of a book, confined so long within a memory… But Harry had set him free.

Harry was soon sweeping through the entrance of the Slytherin common room. Sleek greens and the tang of tarnished silver greeted him and he inhaled the scent of dark magic and dank dungeon with an expression akin to mocking reminiscence. It was all so quaint to him now—now that he'd discovered the lair of the Basilisk, now that he'd discovered the diary, now that he'd discovered him.

Draco was seated on the couch, his eyes boring into Harry's flesh, his very being breathing expectancy. He didn't know why Harry no longer came to him in the darkness. The Prince of Slytherin couldn't understand for whom his King could forsake him. Harry knew that Draco was remembering nights filled with passion and need; nights filled with love. Love tainted by their twisted souls, perhaps, but love true enough. Harry felt a pang in his heart; he himself couldn't explain why he chose a memory over his flesh and blood lover. But then the past few hours seeped to the forefront of his mind, and the lust flushed away all else. No, he knew why he chose Tom Riddle.

Tom was darkness deeper than anything he'd ever experienced before. He was strength, and malice, and the blackest of souls. He was power, and dominance, and the most tainted of lusts. Harry looked into Draco's eyes and he saw the streak of purity, of love, and a sneer came over his face. That streak seemed to taint his own darkness, to shed light on things he wanted to forget. Harry turned abruptly and stormed back through the portrait. He stalked angrily through the corridors until he reached the one he needed. Moments later he had reached his destination, revelling in the coolness of the Chamber of Secrets. He tore the small book from his pocket, spattering a page with hastily shed blood, and pressed his wand to it with poorly concealed desperation.

The flood of darkness from his soul and into the diary was rushing, and he poured perhaps more than he normally would—more than he maybe ought to have. A wave of weakness overcame him and he dropped to his knees as his darkest of lovers emerged from the precious pages.

"What's happened?" the cold voice demanded.

Harry shook his head and dragged himself to his feet. "Make me forget," he whispered harshly.

Tom's eyes narrowed only a moment, and then Harry was being pressed against the wall. He felt the cool wetness of ancient stone seeping through his shirt, and then he felt nothing but Tom's lips upon his own and his roughly demanding passion.

When Harry didn't turn up to breakfast the next day, Draco began to worry. The day trudged past in painful slowness, and when Harry still had not appeared by curfew, Draco made up his mind. He crept from the common room silently, retracing the path he'd followed Harry upon so many times. It took him several tries to reproduce the sound his lover always made before the faucets, and then he descended into the bowels of the school. It was only then that he allowed himself to feel the worry that was building in his heart. The closer he got to his destination, whatever it might be, the more terrified he became of what he might find beneath the school.

Please let him be alright.

The fear had mounted too high and he found himself running, splashing loudly through the shallow water of the chamber. And then he froze.

"No!" His scream echoed through the stone buttresses, rippled the water at his feet.

"Yes," a dry voice said softly. "Yes, indeed. The idiot has left us."

Draco's eyes flew to the tall, dark, handsome boy. "You did this," he snarled, starting toward him with his wand drawn, a surge of anger and pain roiling through his veins. "You killed him. You took him from me, and then you took him from… from everyone."

Tom laughed, a smirk rising to his lips. "No, little Malfoy. His own haste and foolishness took his life. I merely made his departure more pleasant."

But Draco wasn't listening. The rage was building, was roaring in his ears. "Avada Kadavra!" He watched the green light consume his opponent. Tom disappeared and ink began to spurt from the book that had lain at his feet, but Draco didn't notice. He lunged toward the body of the boy he loved, his heart tearing into a thousand shards of glass and painfully piercing his flesh.

Spell after spell flew from his lips, entreating Harry to return to him, to come back from whatever darkness he'd entered. Hours passed, and his magic drained, and his energy waned, and he finally collapsed upon Harry's chest in grief and defeat.

"I love you," he whispered into the darkness, and it seemed to him that the chamber echoed it back mockingly as tears spread across Harry's thoroughly mussed shirt.