It was nothing new for Harry Potter to be dragged behind the Dark Lord's eyes at the behest of strong emotions-usually rage and sometimes happiness-but it had never been confused before.

Voldemort had been abroad for so long that seeing him back in Britain, standing in what was most likely the study of Malfoy Manor, was odd. And seeing through his eyes in full light was even stranger. He'd never had strong vision, and being condemned to the wrong prescription for so many years had only damaged his eyes further, and so suddenly being thrust in to a situation where he had inhumanely acute vision was more than a little bit discombobulating.

The headache that he could distantly feel beginning to build had nothing to do with his scar.

The Dark Lord's nightmarish claw looked like an eldritch painting made in unnamable shades of white grey and blue, slightly scaled skin stretched so tightly over bones and sinew that it appeared almost transparent. Clutched in the long blue talons which tipped the spidery fingers like frosted crowns was a small bottle rather similar to the ones that he'd seen in Dumbledore's cabinet, containing a silvery liquid that he recognized immediately as a memory. The writing on the label looked vaguely similar to something he might once have seen before; precise, florid and slanted, penned in metallic golden ink.

'The Promise I Failed to Keep'

The confusion radiating from Voldemort intensified as he turned the vial in his hand, no doubt raking his ravaged mind for the Malfoy to whom the writing belonged and the situation to which the promise that wasn't kept applied or even simply had occurred. Unable to do so he waved his other hand in a flippant motion and, with a pop, a cowering House Elf appeared.

"Bring me the Malfoy's pensive!" The high, reedy susurrus of his voice sent shivers down Harry's spine and seemed to very nearly petrify the poor House Elf who quickly did as it was told.

The pensive owned by the Malfoy family was very different in appearance to the simple grey stone one owned by Hogwarts for the use of the Headmaster or Headmistress. It was taller and thinner and far more ornate, more like a fluted glass than a flattened goblet, and had been carved from volcanic glass. Etched precisely around the lip of the pensive now sitting atop the heavy cherry desk were Runes which glowed a pale but vibrant blue.

Voldemort removed the cork of the vial with a popping sound that resonated like a gunshot through the otherwise silent room and, had Harry been in his own separate body at the time, would have made him jump. He upturned the vial, allowing the memory to pour out into the potion which filled the pensive.

Pale silver turned dove grey on contact with the clear fluid, spreading outwards in threads and random shapes as it diffused into the potion. The Dark Lord wasted no time in leaning forward and the all too familiar jerking sensation yanked both Voldemort and Harry-his as of yet unnoticed passenger-into the window to the past.

The plummet into darkness was brief, and when they landed they were standing in what quite honestly looked to be the den of a Pureblood manor. Banners of deep emerald hung from the ceiling, emblazoned with a silver basilisk wrapped around a wand clearly made from Yew. A fire roared in a stone hearth behind the wing backed leather chair in which a young Tom Riddle sat at the head of a long walnut table occupied by, presumably Pureblood, Witches and Wizards.

He looked no different than he had in the memory that the Diary Horcrux had shown him in an effort to convince him that Hagrid had been the one to open the Chamber of Secrets. His skin was pale but still possessed the glow of health; his cheeks, though angular enough to cut glass, were not yet hollowed; his lips were full and red instead of nonexistent. His eyes were still dark and, much to Harry's absolute surprise, warm and baring the beginnings of what would become smile lines in later years-far more inviting than the red slit pupiled glare the Dark Lord now possessed-and he still had hair.

A full head of dark brown glossy curls complete with the rebel cowlick that hung between his eyes.

"My Knights," sixteen year old Tom Riddle still spoke with a mellow baritone, no signs of the half-serpent monster he was destine to become yet audible in his words, "this meeting is adjourned. Please hurry to your respective common rooms; it wouldn't do for us to be caught out after curfew, would it?"

"No, Tom."

Tom? They called him Tom, the name he'd been so eager to impress on Harry that he hated, and he allowed it? The raven was incredibly confused, irritation on Voldemort's part bleeding through their link.

Chairs scrapped against the wood paneled floor as the members of the budding Dark Lord's 'Knights' got to their feet, forming up a que to each press a kiss to the still seated brunet's hand before filing out the door.

"Abraxas." The blonde-plainly a Malfoy by the hue of his hair-who had been in the process of walking out the door turned back, "stay behind, please."

The last few stragglers exited the room another handful of moments later, leaving the blonde alone with the young Dark Lord. "Is something of concern, Chéri?"

The brunet sighed and unfolded himself from the chair he'd been lounging in, reaching up to run long fingers through his hair and upsetting the way that the curls had been laying. He turned to the fire, the flickering light throwing his face into sharp relief.

Abraxas crossed the room and gently gripped Tom's shoulder. Turning him about and reaching up to rest his palm against that angular cheek, the motion one that translated undeniably to the context of comfort in intimate contact.

Harry was alarmed. Voldemort was furious, disgusted, but too curious as to the meaning of the memory being labeled as it had been to pull away. The raven had thought that Tom Riddle looked down on the concept of relationships. Had had no friends. Refused to allow himself to be called his father's name by his circle of followers. And everything that he'd been shown told and experienced up until then had supported that.

Yet here, so clearly, he saw the truth that Tom Riddle and Abraxas Malfoy were lovers.

What the bleeding hell had he stumbled on?

"Tom," that tender tone was the one that Harry had heard Molly use with Arthur, Hermione use with Ron, Ginny use with him. It was the tone of genuine and honest concern. "Please. Tell me."

"Have you noticed it, Abraxas? I have. The new wand. That blasted bird. His sudden shift from 'waiting for Tom Riddle to snap and show his repressed hatred for Muggleborns'-Merlin, I hate that bloody term; it isn't even remotely accurate!-to 'he's just another student' doesn't feel right to me." He said. "He's been acting strange. Ever since he put a stop to Grindlewald earlier this year. I'm going to confront him."

"Confront him-!" The young Malfoy yelped, looking more than a little taken aback. "Chéri, are you…I know that you're stronger than any of us but if he is what you think…"

"When I say confront him I don't mean that I'm going to declare 'I know who you really are' and challenge him to a duel. I'm not a Gryffindor; you ought to know better." He said tartly. "If the stories of his obsession were true, if the wand that he has is what I think, I wouldn't stand a chance. I'll have to take it slowly and gather enough evidence is presented, but we'll have to hope that our government will do their jobs."

"It may be a waste of energy to hope for that."

"Yes." Tom sighed. "But at this point there's nothing more that we can do. Maybe in time I'd be able to match him, but we don't have years to wait." He said. "And that's why I wanted you to stay behind so we could speak. I need you to do something for me. In case things go wrong."

"What do you need me to do?" Abraxas looked wary. Tom resigned; it was an expression that Harry couldn't help but feel didn't fit properly on his face.

"You know why I started the Knights of Walpurgis to begin with. Because I didn't buy into the idea that blood mattered; Magic is Magic. Because I was chosen by Mother Magic to help keep the balance. I want a promise made that, if I ever stray from the Knight's ideals or resort to violence without provocation that you'll put me down."

Abraxas was already pale, but he turned almost ashen at what had been asked of him. Tom stared placidly. Voldemort was absolutely affronted. "I-I-! Tom, I thought that you were-."

"Afraid of death?" the blonde nodded, eyes wide in shock. "I am. But I've a duty to preform and…I'd rather confront my greatest fear than live in a world where Magic died because I failed in my duties."

"I suppose that I can understand that," he said, "but why me, Chéri?"

In the closest thing to guilt that Harry had ever seen the other man display, Tom's dark eyes shifted downward to focus on the floor at his feet. "It's because I'm a weak man that fears pain almost as much as he fears death itself. And because I can trust you more than any of the others to both respect my wishes and to make it as painless as dying can be." He said. "I don't ask this of you to be cruel. Please don't think that."

"I don't, Tom. I understand."

"Then you'll do it?" there was a grim hopefulness in his eyes as he looked up again, "you'll promise me?"

There was pain in the set of his expression as Abraxas stepped forward, dropping his head onto the brunet's shoulder. Tom wound his arms around his waist, propping his chin atop pale blonde hair. "Yes." His words were difficult to make out, stilted and broken. "I promise."

The memory collapsed around them into darkness, and as the irate and utterly bewildered Voldemort surfaced from the pensive Harry opened his eyes.

The fabric of the tent stretched above him, flickering in the slight breeze and stained the pale amber of painted glass by the sunlight slanting through it. The locket rested heavy against the bare skin of his chest beneath his shirt, still cold despite near constantly being worn by one of the three of them and ticking away as if possessed of a heartbeat all its own.

They were still in the woods where the Triwizard Tournament had been held, having just escaped from the Ministry two days before. They had their first Horcrux, were still without any way to destroy it and now, of all times, the raven had begun to think that perhaps destroying it wouldn't be the correct course of action after all.

He's just seen Voldemort view a memory left behind by Abraxas Malfoy. Abraxas Malfoy, who was the father of Lucius Malfoy. Abraxas Malfoy, who had been the lover of a Tom Riddle who was set entirely apart from anything Harry had been taught. Abraxas Malfoy. Who had promised to kill him if he ever became what he never wanted to be.

Voldemort.

Nothing made sense any longer, everything that he knew to be the truth had been turned upside down, neither Tom nor Dumbledore-who had been the one to tell him about Tom, show him the memories of Riddle's childhood and had set him on the course of destroying the Horcruxes-were looking to be quite who he'd thought they were and if what he'd seen could be believed, and Harry James Potter didn't like it one little bit.

He didn't like the thought of being used, and he was beginning to feel that that was precisely what was happening.

'I'm going to confront him.' 'He's acting strange.' Was it possible that Tom had been talking about Dumbledore? 'If things go wrong'. 'But I've a duty to perform.' Could the Headmaster, the kind old grandfather of a man that Harry had always perceived him as, have somehow had a hand in creating Voldemort?

There had been a time where Harry would have answered his own question with a resounding no, but hadn't he begun to question his integrity and intention himself just recently?

Whatever this new revelation could mean for the future could wait just a few minutes longer before it was acted on. For now he needed to confer with Ron and Hermione on the matter.

The pair had woken up before him and were sitting outside of the tent, gathered around a small fire which had been built to both stave off the cold of early morning and to cook another can full of the rubbery mushrooms which was all they'd been consisting on since they'd landed in the area.

Ron was looking much better than he had before now that he'd had a few successive days to recover from the shock and blood loss caused by his splinching in their sudden escape from Yaxley, and was eyeing the billycan with a suspicion that the raven could quite readily sympathize with.

They both looked up at him as he exited the tent.

"Morning." Hermione said, attempting to sound bright. Ron just grumbled something which vaguely resembled English and shot another half-glare at the fire.

"Morning," he took a seat beside the fire as well. "We need to talk. I'm not certain that we're doing the right thing. By finding the Horcruxes. By trying to destroy them."

Ron and Hermione both went stiff; the red head gaped in surprise and looked at him as if he'd spontaneously sprouted another head; Hermione demanded that he hand over the locket immediately, as it was clearly beginning to influence him in danger ways.

All in all, they took it rather well.

"I'm not being influenced; I'm not saying that he's right or that we shouldn't be trying to stop him, I just…" the egg-sized clasp clattered on its chain as he pulled it over his head and handed it over, "something isn't right. Things aren't adding up and…it's concerning me that there could be more to the story and that we could be playing into the hands of something bigger."

"Like You-Know-Who, you mean?" Ron said sourly, unappetizing mushrooms for the moment left forgotten.

"No. Not like him; I'm starting to feel like he might be just another piece in something bigger. Something worse." He said. "Last night I had a dream-."

"Merlin, Harry! How many times do I have to keep telling you to-!"

"To shut him out because he could trick me, yes I know! Contrary to what you may think, Hermione, I did learn from what happened in our fifth year and I'd really appreciate it if you could stop talking for a minute so that I can make my point!"

It seemed odd that there would be a 'church mouse finally roared' stunned silence at his outburst given the fact that he'd gone off on them before, but the raven seized on the afforded opportunity regardless.

"I'd been having a string of them in the days before, all about him being abroad looking for some bloke named Gregorovitch, but this one was different. He's back in Britain now; was in the study at Malfoy manor and was probably looking through their stored memories. I don't know what happened exactly because I came in when he was looking at a vial labeled 'The Promise I Failed to Keep' in confusion." The words poured out of him like water from a high pressure tap in an effort to effectively make his point before he could be interrupted. "The memory, it turned out, was one from Abraxas Malfoy; Lucius' father. They were lovers. He and Tom, I mean. But Tom wasn't at all like what Dumbledore showed me or like he is now; he was still an arrogant prat, obviously, but he was talking about how blood didn't matter because Magic is Magic and said something a little strange about being 'Magic chosen to help preserve the balance'."

Harry paused only long enough to take a breath before plowing onwards.

"Apparently Dumbledore had started acting strange and Tom was concerned. Was going to 'confront him'. He was worried that he'd catch on and would do something to make him change and made Abraxas promise to kill him if he ever resorted to the methods that the Death Eaters are now using. But that was why the vial was labeled like it was; Abraxas couldn't bring himself to do it." He said. "And I know that this wasn't a trick because he was even more confused than I was. Something is wrong here, Hermione! What if what he's doing and what he's done isn't his fault; what if someone else drove him into acting like this. What if he's innocent; what if Dumbledore turned him into this?"

"Woah, mate, hold on. You think that Dumbledore is the evil one now? Did you forget the fact that he's fought You-Know-Who for years, or maybe that he was murdered on his order?"

"It isn't impossible that he could have faked his death; Muggles are able to do it, and with Magic it would only be easier. And we all have to admit that there is something weird about all of this." Hermione said; Harry could practically see the gears turning in her head. "Looking at everything objectively Dumbledore did have a lot of power-he knew that the position of Minister for Magic was basically a figurehead position so he refused to take it, going for Supreme Warlock of the Wizengamot instead, and with Fudge in office and his habit of taking his cues from him the Headmaster had even more-and a lot of what he's done is…questionable. Most especially assigning us this mission when we should still be in school! And all because of a prophecy that says Harry has to be the one to kill him? Your Mum was right to question it."

"'Mione, we know that Prophecies are real-."

"They're self-actualizing!" She snapped. "But don't think that I agree with you on everything, Harry. Once again you're showing yourself to possess a chronic hero complex, and I think pronouncing him innocent-even if he is the victim of some nefarious machination-is a little bit excessive. That being said it would be incredibly remiss of us not to at least look into this; if there's any choice we can get through to him and prevent war completely we need to take it."

"Well, what's our first move?" Harry asked her, unable to keep an eager edge out of his voice. Finally they'd really be doing something. Something with a somewhat more tangible, if perhaps considerably more difficult, goal. Something that, to his very core, actually felt right.

"We need to look into who Tom Riddle really was from at least one other source who knew him back then. Memories aren't perfect, after all. And if they really were involved with one another it's possible that Abraxas simply perceived him as a more benevolent figure than he truly was. We need to make certain we're not getting in over our heads before we do anything."

"Fat chance of doing that," Ron said, "they're all either Death Eaters or dead, aren't they?"

Harry deflated with disappointment but Hermione simply sent them both an exasperated look.

"Professor McGonagall went to school with him; she was a few years below him but her testimony will be more than suitable for our purposes." She said. "But that presents us with a new problem."

"And that would be?"

"We're going to need to steal an owl."