Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry Potter can't stress it enough - it is neither his fault nor intention to maim soldiers on the day of the parade. Really, it isn't. They are to be sent to war and to die gloriously in a fire or live a very difficult life after surviving said fire. Either way, it may as well be the last day they feel true happiness, and it is not Harry's business ruining that. But it also isn't their business assaulting him in their giddy elation.

He has enough on his plate with his boar of a cousin who got mixed up in some shady business (because he is stupid). His concerned shrilling please-check-on-your-cousin-you-sorry-waste-of-space aunt is not making things easier either. Really, he moved out last year and hoped the Dursleys forgot he existed all together, but aparrently, he is still being seen as an arrand boy from their attic.

So when he sees two men in uniform leering at him like he is their new chew-toy, he is not in the mood for anything, least of all trouble.

"Hey, boy," says one of them, setting Harry's nerves immediately on edge.

"Thanks, no thanks," says Harry immediately and tries to sidestep their bulky figures in the narrow allay.

Of course, it is unsuccessful. These assholes are taller and were evidently well fed as children. Speak of privileges.

"Come on, little mousey, be a darling and come with us. We just want to have some fun before we go to war. You wouldn't want for us to die alone and sad, now would you?"

Harry has the sudden urge to rip off their kneecaps.

"Oh," says Harry and grins, "but I do. Alone, sad and right now would be lovely, actually".

Their faces turn angry, and really, sometimes Harry just wishes he kept his stupid mouth shut.

***

Tom Riddle doesn't know what to expect when his ring flares up and leads him away from his initial destination. He is perhaps a little disappointed. It is after all so utterly mundane to meet someone he might or might not have been searching for (no one has any proof) on the day when every rat is outside, celebrating this ridiculous war as something harmless and funny, something to be proud of instead of utter tragedy it actually is. Tom feels sick to his stomach only thinking about destruction of streets full of breathing living history and hidden magic, while the roaring crowd is happy to dance danse macabre and sing prayers to their silly machines of desolation. People are going to die and they are happy to do that as long as they are granted at least some indulgence from their oh so mighty king Grindelwald and his damn court magician. Tom thinks how to hide away and his mentors think of the best way to destroy the whole country. 

Therefore, Tom reflects how he is going to curse the oblivious idiot his ring leads him to, in case he sees another elated smiling face in the crowd. He feels numb to the core and thinks where he should go to after today's errands, to which house to switch in order to finally be left alone. 

In the end, he is anything but numb for the first time in almost fifteen years.

The first thing Tom Riddle sees after following the useless ring's instructions (it burns his finger in retaliation, the damn thing) are two soldiers lying on the ground and a ruffled young man, huffing and looking at him cautiously like a cornered animal. He looks like a typical street urchin in his hand-me-downs but his eyes are the shade of green he would so like to steal and hide, and he found him. 

"They tripped," says not a stranger - Harry, his mind supplies - in defence and defiance while also kicking one soldier in the shin and not even trying to look believable or apologetic. Not that Tom cares for groaning bodies on the ground, his focus being solely on Harry the whole time. 

Tom blinks and thinks excitedly that oh, it only can get more complicated after that, now can't it.

***

Harry doesn't think that anything good comes from beautiful strangers with greedy black eyes and flexing hands. The man in front of him is no exception and more like a prime example of that rule.

He is well-dressed, Harry supposes, with his green jacket and loose blouse, the front laces undone. Usually, Harry tries to avoid people in such clothes, because they scream money, magic and trouble, and he doesn't want to deal with any of those, no matter what his aunt likes to scream at him. The stranger's hair is smartly styled and curly, and Harry knows for sure it doesn't give him any grievence in the morning, so unlike his own bird nest. The multiple rings and necklace reflect the sunlight but one black ring in particular sucks it in, traps it like a an unruly fly. 

The only thing Harry thinks is that it hurts to look at this man and that he must leave now. 

"Well, it was nice seeing you, stranger, hope to never see you again," he says amiably and turns to leave the allay and be on his way. Dudley doesn't get his brain fixed without his loving fist, after all.

He doesn't expect the hand with the black and viciously looking ring on his shoulder.

"Hands off," he warns, "or I'll do it for you."

The stranger not only stays where he is but leans over him like another tall asshole. Just his luck. 

"Now, now," he hears, and even the voice sounds like magic to his ears, the tone low. Harry wants to punch him in the face even more after hearing it. "I just wanted to make sure you are in one piece. It's never a good idea to attract soldiers' attention. I wouldn't want for you to be hurt. After all, I've been looking everywhere for you".

Harry is immediately tense and on guard. The low tone doesn't sound particularly friendly anymore. 

"If you are trying to get to Dudley, try your luck elsewhere," he clenches his teeth and reminds himself that it's not a good idea to pounce on a magic user, especially such an important one, judging by his attire. He doesn't want to deal with more consequences of his rushed actions. "I won't give you a knut for his sorry ass, and he won't do it for me either".

The stranger's hand tightens on his shoulder briefly but then leaves all together. Harry realeses the breath he didn't know he was holding in the first place and steps away from the wizard. 

"My apologies, I didn't want to cause you distress," comes from behind, and Harry looks cautiously over his shoulder. The stranger bows shortly and elegantly, and really, must all his movements be so enticing? "My name is Tom Riddle. To repay you for my rudeness, I'll give you a lift. I don't think the streets are save now, with so many drunk people around."

Harry turns to him fully and takes another step back, holding hands in a placating gesture. He gulps and hysterically thinks that the most dangerous thing in this allay are definitely not currently immobile soldiers. The stranger - Riddle - follows him, all the while smiling and looking like a fly trap.

"Appreciated, but not necessary, I know all the shortcuts I need." 

"I insist. Besides, you certainly haven't tried the one above yet."

"Above? The fuck you mean-"

And just like that Harry is swept from his feet and lifted off the ground. They are walking on the literal air like it's the most normal thing to do, and yeah, Harry thinks almost absently, fuck his life and fuck this Tom sideways. It's only ten in the morning. 

Chapter Text

Perhaps he was once again too quick in his judgement, Harry comes to the conclusion, once he stops screaming bloody murder at the smiling bastard. Harry supposes that flying or rather just being in the air is the best feeling he has experienced in his life so far but for the death of him, he's not going to admit it to Riddle. The crazy wizard behind him is far too smug for his own good, even without Harry confessing to him that he finds the gifted vertigo a blessing. 

Harry looks at the dancing crowd below them and breathlessly wonders if the giants from legends had the same point of view. Everything feels so light here, so easy and within his grasp. He tries to imagine how it would feel to control his ascent and descent in the air and play with distance and height, space itself by sometimes soaring through the crowd and leaving only strong gushes of wind behind. Harry suddenly clearly sees himself on a flying broom of all things, and as ridiculous as the thought is, it makes him feel nostalgic and at home. Harry wonders if this is what freedom feels like. 

Harry catches Tom smiling knowingly in the corner of his eye but can't bring himself to control his thrilled expression. The air feels like his domain, even if borrowed through Tom's magic and - he can admit - his grace. 

"Fascinating, isn't it?" asks Tom. "They are like oblivious ants, ready to be squished under our feet."

And just like that, the moment is ruined. 

"Why am I not surprised that a stranger-danger sees everything as an opportunity for violence?" he asks no one in particular and sighs. 

"Darling, you wound me. And here I thought, your performance with the soldiers was an indication of a kindred spirit."

"I told you already, they tripped!"

Tom chuckles candidly, like he told him a joke, and Harry would like nothing more than kick him if not for the hands holding him in the air. At this moment they are the only thing keeping him from crashing down. Hostage situation at its finest. 

Before Harry can ask Riddle to please put him down and kindly fuck off, the wizard starts to descend exactly to the restaurant where Dudley works, and Harry's hackles rise with apprehension. 

"Not only a general creep but a stalker as well?" he asks bitingly and tries to gauge Tom's reaction. 

Tom simply smiles. 

"I'm just good with directions."

"I didn't give you any!" 

Tom chuckles again, showing off his unfortunately very attractive dimples and makes a move to put him on the balkony of the Two Drunks restaurant. Harry hurriedly jumps off, before Tom can put his hands on his waist and help him down like a damsel in distress (distress caused by Tom himself by the way). 

"You are very welcome, my dear," Tom says good-naturedly and bows slightly, still hovering over him in the air. "It was truly a pleasure meeting you, but I'm afraid I'm on the tight schedule today. I'll catch you later, I'm sure."

With that, he leaps in the air and starts to soar into the sky. 

Harry. however, doesn't give him the pleasure of having the last word. 

"Try never, you creeper!" 

Tom laughs again, and just like that, the strangest encounter in Harry's life is over. He frowns, not really sure how to feel about the whole exchange, and scratches his chest. 

Luckily, he's not given much time to ponder on his mess of emotions. The door to the restaurant backroom slams open, and Dudley himself steps into the daylight in all his annoying glory. He looks like he's eaten a lemon upon noticing him. Good, Harry thinks. Happy family reunion. 

"Oi, freak," Dudley tells Harry instead of greetings and wipes off his dirty hands off his equally dirty blue work trousers. For once, he actually looks like he has been working instead of shirking his responsibilities and playing cards with his colleagues. Poor Dudders, born to fool around, forced to be a working class. "The fuck you're doing here?" 

Right, back to reality and away from flying pigs. 

"Your mom is worried," says Harry simply and shrugs, putting his hands in his pockets. 

It's not like he himself is either concerned or needs to explain the reasoning behind Petunia's worries. Dudley has been restless lately, and it projects on his money dealings. Poker is not much of a problem, in Harry's opinion, even if Dudley is atrocious at it (he is). Vernon and Petunia have enough money to cover Dudley's card debts, even if he looses his job due to his progressing addiction. 

What really worries them is Dudley's sudden interest in magical artifacts. After all, being normal has always been the main Dursleys' mantra, and even touching something magical screams abnormal to them, good folk. Moreover, dealings with artefacts are seldomly legal, especially with the war being around the corner and all magicians being drafted. The Dursleys want neither attention from the freakish side of their society nor to have a black spot on their otherwise spotless reputation. Or God forbid have their precious baby sent to the battlefield for getting himself mixed up with something he doesn't understand (because he is dumb, Harry helpfully supplies again). 

He thinks that Dudley's teenage rebellion stroked them a few years too late, what a late bloomer. 

"Not your business, freak," Dudley grunts and sits on the nearest chair for the smoking guests of the restaurant. He evidently doesn't want to invite Harry inside, and Harry wonders if he will need to jump from the balcony, once their conversation is over. For the old Harry Hunt's sake and all that. 

"You're right, it's not and I don't care," Harry shrugs nonchalantly and puts his hands on the balcony railing behind him, all the while keeping Dudley in his line of sight. "But with your parents' nagging it somehow becomes my responsibility to babysit you and tell you to go home like a good little boy."

Dudley jumps from his chair and immidiatly is in Harry's face, his fists twisting Harry's linen shirt. 

"Listen here, you-" 

"Ah-ah, dear Dudders," Harry stops him before he can continue with the insults and comes even closer without breaking the eye contact with his cousin. "I don't depend on your family anymore and am no longer afraid of your parents. I'll give you as much as I get. An eye for an eye or a fist for a fist if you want to be literal. I'll even do something freakish." 

Dudley snarls but puts down his hands and takes a cautious step back. He doesn't quite meet Harry's eyes, and Harry fights an uneasy feeling that comes every time he is reminded that, though Dudley truly despises him, he fears him even more. Harry uses this knowledge sometimes to get away from Dudley's aggression bursts, but it doesn't mean he enjoys it. 

"Whatever," Dudley mutters and puts his restless hands in his pockets. "I'll come by, you can tell my mother that much. But I'm not planning to stop. I found something I can sell for a good sum of money to soldiers or magicians and am not letting you of all people ruin this for me."

How reckless and stupid, Harry thinks forlornly. It can cost you and your family your lives, but the cash is the cash. Vultures are always loyal companions of war. 

"Do what you want," Harry says hollowly and turns to the street bellow them. People are observing the brand new flying machinery and conversing about the soon-to-be successful battle with help of such inventions. Families gather around and children are running back and forth, imitating the new aircraft. "It's not like it's really my business, what you do with your life. Just know that everything has consequences. The war will be over, and sooner or later, everyone illegally profiting from it will face punishment. Think really hard about whether your games with magic and witches are worth your future."

"Like you're the one to talk!" Dudley roars and once again gets into his face. Is his personal bubble really that easy to ignore? "I saw you with that other freak in the air. Catering to your kind now, Potter? Not afraid that he eats your rotten heart? Or are you going to eat his?" 

"He is not my kind, Dursley. And it's not like it's your business, either," Harry pushes Dudley away and climbs over the balcony railing, ready to leap off. He is honestly done with this whole exchange and doesn't understand what else he expected. Their conversations have always felt like pulling teeth, till someone coughs up blood. "I don't wanna get mixed up in your shit either. Just know that: if your collectors or other people you pissed off come to my door, I'm not giving a knut for you. I won't tell them where you are but that's all I'll do for you, for the family's sake".

Dudley huffs and turns to leave, evidently done with Harry as well. He lingers, however, at the door and says resolutely, 

"Like you are even part of our family."

He goes back to work without glancing back. In the distance, Harry hears firecreckers and children's shrieks of laughter and just wants to go home already. He sits instead exactly where Dudley has left him, gazes at the sky numbly and lets his thoughts eat him alive. 

Harry was never loved as a child. Sometimes this fact feels like a twisting knife in his heart, a forever open wound he will never be able to knit together, no matter which threads connect him to other people. They always come short as soon as he gets a grip on them. His wound is still leaking in the middle of his chest like an oozing rotten pit, and Harry isn't even sure  if he should try to fill it. 

He has been kind to the Dursleys, he's still trying to be understanding towards them sometimes, even if his mind screams at him in his aunt's voice, how stupid he is being. No matter what he does or feels, the disconnection between him and this family remains too big for him to overcome on his own. The thing with broken families is, as far as Harry understands, that both sides should be willing to atone and forgive. Harry is always ready to forgive, but the Dursleys will never be willing to atone. 

With time, he lost the insisting craving for their affection and now, he doesn't understand why he tried to get it in the first place. The Dursleys are nasty people who hide their nature in the seeming normalcy of things. If Harry had a choice, he wouldn't even be in the same room with them. They are also creatures of habit, adamant in their abuse till this day. This much has been evident in his conversation with Dudley just now. Harry being a good boy wouldn't ever have made them accept him, because all he is for the Dursleys is a little boogeyman in Dudley's hands-me-downs. 

At least I survived them, Harry thinks without satisfaction. He gazes at his empty hands, absently scratches his chest and suddenly wishes Dudley's threats were real and his heart was eaten by an evil witch.

Chapter Text

Harry doesn't hurry to go back to work. His master Ms. Bones is away visiting her family, and he doesn't have any urgent orders at the moment. Sure he has a handful clients on a good day, interested in his handmade jewelry, but today, everyone is attending the parade, and he honestly doubts any client will swing by till the very evening. He can wallow in his misery in peace. 

Nevertheless, Harry scrunches his nose up and speeds up a bit. People may be busy now, but as soon as the celebration reaches its peak, some soldiers might pay him a visit even earlier. The crowd may be having fun at the moment, but he doubts anyone truly forgets the the true reason behind the bright merry music and dances. Tomorrow, they will go to war. If this fact doesn't varrant for a ring for their loved ones, Harry doesn't know what does. 

Harry carefully sidesteps one such seemingly happy couple. A beautiful woman in her thirties, dressed fashionably in yellow and liliac, and an okay-wish looking soldier in his deep state of intoxication. The only thing Harry notices is his red nose above an impressive red mustache. The woman looks fondly exasperated at her companion, if only a little nervous. Or not a little, thinks Harry, as her lips wobble and eyes turn glassy. The man goes on and on about how he will defend her, how he will return home and bring her foreign flowers, how they are going to be so happy, once everything is over, how he will propose to her and she will marry a real hero. She asks why he even needs to go to another country for that. The soldiers answers that only then he will deserve to marry her and have her wear his diamond ring. 

Harry furrows his brows, his thoughts changing direction to the more professional ones. It's such a foul taste to buy a diamond ring if you know at least something about gemstones, precious minerals and metals. His opinion, of course. Such a ring is popular, sure, but at the same time, extremely overpriced and unfairly tedious to make. He doesn't expect a lot of creativity from his customers, but just the other day, he had six orders of a rich looking golden ring with with the biggest diamond you have, jeweler and Harry was bored out of his mind. Boredom threatenes to strike him now in advance, because such orders are very likely to be the only ones he's going to receive today.

But good luck on the front, Harry shrugs absent-mindedly, and leaves the couple to their hush promises. Hope you won't be so uncreative in your survival and that your ring won't stay in my shop post mortem. 

Harry once again hears roaring firecrackers and loud voices of the crowd and hurries home. Neither this parade nor this stupid war really concern him. He's not afraid of death but if he had to choose, he would die of old age in his workshop rather than while invading another country. He only concerns himself with jewelry and his boring normal life. He's not going to play hero for damsels - he is content in making rings for them. 

In a few meters, Harry sees his workshop and smiles a little. Here, his peaceful haven in the sea of lunatics, his atrocious diamond rings, stability and, most importantly, lack of the Dursleys. He was so happy when the shop newly opened and Ms. Bones allowed him to ban his relatives from ever entering. Call him petty, but he wanted a little revenge. It was either that or putting their house on fire. Harry likes to think that he has more morals than that. God bless Ms. Bones for indulging him at the time because otherwise, he would be a happy arsonist. 

Humming a little and getting mentally ready to set everything ready for work, Harry tries to turn the key but stops in confusion. The door is unlocked, and he is quite sure he locked it before leaving. Someone broke in. 

"No need to worry, boy! Come on in," comes a strange voice with hysterical notes from the inside, and Harry acutely feels every needle of chill going down his spine. He almost laughs from his nerves: he honestly had enough surprises and drama today. He wants some peace, please. "And you'll get it in no time. But first, we need to have a little chat, Itty-bitty Potter. NOW COME IN!" 

Instead of previous chill Harry feels, as though burning hands push him in the back through the doorway. The door slams closed behind him, and somehow, it sounds like a final nail to his coffin. He can't wait for this day to end already. 

His workshop is still and quiet, but this silence is ominous and doesn't have anything pleasant for him in store. Different gems sparkle in the daylight, his red-toned workshop looks alive and not threatening but one corner is unnaturally dark and doesn't let the light in. Harry looks away in a hurry, not able to summon his bravery just yet. He suddenly is very afraid and wants to live. 

He checks his back in an afterthought. At least he doesn't have any burns from ghost burning hands. 

In the next moment, his chin is forcefully grabbed by a hand with pointy black nails, and he finally thinks well, if he still is going to die today, he can at least look his executioner in the face. 

"Not executioner," the woman basically purrs at him ,and he really tries to control his face and not dig himself an even deeper grave. Her breath is foul. "Just a torturer, dearest."

Harry laughs nervously. 

"Somehow, it doesn't make the situation better. Ma'am."

"Not for you, no."

The woman smiles a deranged broad smile with black teeth. Her hair is even more a curly mess than his, and it's honestly saying something. She is dressed in total black which is more a statement now that colors are becoming more fashionable with every season, going hand in hand with bright future, promised by steam technologies. The woman has black eyes, red lips and a promise of pain in the corner of her mouth. Why Harry even thought he was safe from lunatics here? 

"Careful with your thoughts, Potter. Once my good mood disappears, we are getting straight to the main course."

Shit. 

She hums agreeably, not taking her eyes from his. Her nails dig deeper into his skin, and he feels that sooner or later, she will draw blood. 

"You have such lovely eyes," Harry is afraid of her compliments, for he doesn't know, what to expect after them. "It's almost fitting you work with gems, don't you think."

He slowly nods, although it didn't sound like she actually needed his input, and tries to just stop thinking. Right now, his mind is as unreliable as his tongue, and he doesn't want to bring his torture session nearer if he thinks something offensive. 

"Aren't you a cautious one," remarks the woman and at last releases his chin. 

She goes straight to the shop counter near the northern red wall, and Harry carefully follows, not actually having any other choice. Behind her stands a china closet, full of already finished orders and his best showpieces. The woman jumps on the counter and rather gracefully puts one leg on the other, and the showpiece slightly tremble. 

"My name is Bellatrix. Aren't you going to ask, who I am or want I want?" she asks. 

"Am I allowed to?" asks Harry in turn and bites his tongue. He just couldn't help himself, could he? 

Bellatrix laughs. 

"Ah, I've forgotten, how entertaining your lot can be. Yes, you are allowed to." 

Harry tracks her deceivingly languish movements as she takes a black tourmaline he has been working on for the past couple of evenings and crushes it with just her two fingers. 

"I already know who you are", Harry feels anger gather in the pit of his stomach. He may be afraid of her, but it's his work and he's not going to let anyone destroy something he holds dear. "You are the Witch of the Waste."

Bellatrix theatrically claps. 

"Five points to the gemboy."

"What do you want from me?" 

The witch jumps from the counter, her heavy black leather boots clank louder than the bells near the city hall. 

"I have two problems with you, Potter. Well," she says and makes a brief pause as in thought, "three, to be precise, but it's neither here nor now. We'll leave it for the next time. I'll make you pay with your eyes when this time comes," Harry knew that her compliments were just veiled threats. "But first, does the name Dudley ring any bell?" 

Harry is going to fucking kill him. 

"I suppose it does", concludes the witch delightedly and continues. "Your cousin stole something from me. My multiplying puppet. Nasty beautiful thing but utterly useless in his amateur hands. I was going to rid him of trouble and rip off his hands, but he was so kind to leave your lock of hair in my study. I decided to visit you first and ask you to fetch my toy from him. Only polite, no? I was basically invited."

Scratch that, death is too merciful for his cousin. Harry is going to skin Dudley alive if he survives this. 

"I obviously don't have your artefact, and you know for sure ,where my cousin is. I don't see why I should do what you ask of me, witch," says Harry through clenched teeth and seething anger. He is simply past the point of caring. Let him die, make him bleed, but he's tired of holding his tongue back. "What's your second problem with me?" 

Bellatrix smiles almost pleasantly, before every one of the cabinets and showcases in his workshop comes crashing down. Glass is everywhere, priceless pieces of jewelry tear and break under press of oppressive magic. Harry hears his heart break with them.

"Our second problem," says the Witch of the Waste, her rage palpable now and not masked anymore, "is Tom Riddle. We had something special, him and I, but for some reason, he ran away from me. He'll change his mind, I'm sure. After all, he owes me his heart."

Harry stares blankly at her before shouting in his own rage, 

"Are you fucking serious!? Everything because of this posh motherfucker? I spoke to him once!" 

"More than enough, gemboy!" 

Bellatrix suddenly stalks nearer and once again, snatches his face, completely blocking his vision with her foul hands. Harry feels burning, like she put his whole head on fire. Harry desperately claws at her hands but he doesn't have enough strength to pull back or even to try to push her away. He is helpless, scared and so not ready to die. 

But the witch loudly cackles, and Harry sees red. 

He digs his fingers in her hands and simply wishes she burnt and hurt with him. He wants her afraid and bleeding as well. 

The last thing Harry hears before passing out from pain are her answering painful shrieks, and he now understands what gratification sounds like. 

***

Harry opens his eyes and sees the white ceiling of his ruined workshop. Red walls look bloody in the dim dusty light. But it's already more than he even hoped to see, when his face was literally set on fire. Harry chances to look around. No trace of Bellatrix, thankfully. 

He tries to stand up, but his body feels heavy and more uncoordinated than he remembers it to be. Harry sighs, looks at his hands and freezes. They are wrinkly and covered in brown specks, typical for old age. Last time Harry checked, he was twenty-three. 

Harry quickly sits up and hears his bones crack at the movement. He still stubbornly stands up. His knees almost give up under his weight. Harry hurriedly scans the room and finally sees a broken mirror in the right corner. He rushes to it in hope that what he sees and feels is a lie, that he is just seeing things after the stress of this abysmal day and that, once he disperses this illusion, he can live on normally. 

But when Harry looks at his broken reflection and sees clear green eyes watching him from every angle from a slightly familiar old face, he turns away in horror. He then blinks, turns back in incomprehension, touches his cheeks roughly till he gets red splotches and only then stops tormenting his heavily wrinkly skin. He notices red scratches and dried blood from Bellatrix's nails on his chin, and so, the last doubt is gone. It's really him. 

He takes a step back, moves away from the mirror view, comes back again and moves raptly and rather ridiculously in front of the mirror again, until he feels sharp and sudden pain in his back. He almost falls down on the floor, if not for the green wooden chair nearby. He really aged and not only in apperience but inside, too. What should he even do now? 

Harry carefully sits down and once again looks at the room, full of broken things that only a couple of hours ago were his whole life. He looks unseeingly at a dead spider that lies among the chaos on the floor, and wonders if it died naturally or was it also crushed with the powerful magic. He hopes for the former. It would've been nicer. 

Harry wonders tiredly if he should be called Hadrian or some other fancy name now, since in his current years he is either respectfully dead or respectfully senile. He shakes his head - God, even his unruly curls are white now - and thinks no, it would be unfair both to senile and dead people. He earned neither death from old age nor progressive senility yet, and thus, no respect for him and no fancy name. He has been and still remains just Harry, for the better or worse. 

Harry puts his hands on his eyes and then presses them in, till he feels that tears stop and are not going to drop. He tries to understand not for the first time the reason. Why is he always in the middle of some troublesome shit, why must he go though the literal body horror when all he has ever really wanted was a normal peaceful life, with a boring job and stable future. From paycheck to paycheck, from cradle to work to graveyard. He hates the Dursleys, but God knows, he fully embraced their commandment You shall live and die normally, freak. He has been trying to stay away and not let himself get mixed up in anything strange his whole life, but his workshop is an evidence in itself if this attitude saved him trouble. 

People like Dudley basically pull magic doors wide open, spit on everything not to their liking and get away with this. Meanwhile, Harry might slightly breath in the direction where trouble lives, and it's already on his trail like a damn hellhound. 

Finally, he rasps in a familiar but strange voice,

"Fuck Dudley and fuck this bullshit. Like hell I'm doing some errand boy shit in this age. Fuck you, Bellatrix."

He's going to spite her, he decides, he's going to use this curse and run away, leave everything behind. He's going to finally live like a normal person in the countryside, where nobody will be able to find him. He's going to do everything Bellatrix doesn't expect him to. He honestly hasn't dared hoping he would survive till his retirement, with his Potter penchant for trouble. Now, he is old, and it feels like jumping over a few unnecessary stages in life and landing in the most peaceful era. The crazy bitch has literally blessed him.

But first, Harry thinks grimly, he's going to find Tom and he's going to make Bellatrix his problem. 

Chapter Text

Harry leaves his workshop in disarray. He really doesn't want to but he doesn't think that his old bones are suitable for moving and carrying broken closets and cabinets. His back hurts just from walking and he doesn't want to find out if he dies from blood infection once he touches broken glass as well. He mentally sends a thousand apologies to the poor Ms. Bones - she would sue him for property damage, his God-like master, she would - as he gathers a little bit of food and water. He supposes he doesn't need a lot, just enough for the light dinner. Harry really hopes he will find Tom soon and won't just die from hunger in the Waste. His straw hat and a black cape he takes as well. He always wanted to dress a little bit silly but the current fashion calls for strict probortions and rich fabrics, there is no place for straw hats and capes. For hand-me-downs neither but these look at least more or less appropriate in city life. 

Closing the workshop seems unnecessary and rather difficult considering the fact they don't have doors anymore. Well, technically they have, but something tells Harry that doors should not lie on the ground and have several holes in them. And so he cautiously steps over the ruined wood and leaves the place without a second glance. 

The sun is slowly moving towards the horizon like a piece of butter across a plate. Harry finds himself basked in the golden hour sunlight, its sticky warm rays hide in his deep wrinkles, and for a minute, he just stands there, in the middle of densely crowded street, staring at the sky, breathing and deep in thought. He suddenly understands he's hungry and plans to make himself a sandwich once he is not in the city anymore. 

The sun has not even set yet is his second, more somber thought. In afterthought, his day resembles a giant stone he needs to take up the hill again and again. After every event it goes down to the starting point and almost crashes Harry under its weight on its way back. He doesn't think he should be happy while rolling it nor is he ready for another disturbing occurrence - Harry has had enough of those for a few lifetimes. 

Although he is determined to start everything anew (of course, after making the damn bitch pay), he still can't wrap his head around everything that has happened so far. First, an assault and a completely unnecessary rescue, then a family drama, after that the Witch Accident™ caused by said rescue and said family drama as well. How interconnected, he thinks. It would be a tragedy if Harry gave a damn and didn't actually enjoy his curse. 

Harry starts moving. He catches a red steam tram, finds himself a seat. With a loud whistle, the machine starts riding towards the city borders. The streets are a blur of motion and life Harry no longer belongs to. People talk, laugh, express fear and for the first time in his life, Harry is truly happy to be excluded and just feels tired contentment and rather pleasant drowsiness that always catches him in public transport. 

Before, this exclusion meant that something was fundamentally wrong with him, like a puppet whose face was partially destroyed and then painted anew. Now though, he is just an old man in a silly straw hat, and no one expects him not to be awkward or ill-fitting. Harry smiles, old age is really freeing for those who don't understand what they should do with their youth. 

They pass the King Grindelwald's palace and Harry fights the genuine urge to puke. The place is huge and not really fit to be called a home for anyone. Its numerous white towers scrap the sky till it bleeds the sunset. He thinks he sees golden gargoyles and so many windows Harry wonders if the the owner has some sort of personal vendetta against the concept of privacy. He doesn't understand how the king Grindelwald and his court magician Dumbledore survive there. On the other hand, it would explain their decision to invade another country. Too much space and opulence must drive people to ridiculous ideas of grandior. 

Blond hair catches his eye and Harry wonders if he's seeing things. The palace servants look disturbingly alike. They all are blond boys with ridiculous bowl haircuts and dressed in identical light clothes with big bowties that look more like leashes. They move alike, in one fluent motion like an ocean tide. The boys observe the passerbies, and Harry catches the eye of one of them. He fights the sense of dread rocking his whole body. Never in his life he has seen such dead exhausted eyes as the ones of this child. What are they doing to them? 

In the next moment, the tram shakes violently from the sudden earthquake, and Harry barely catches himself in time. If he fell down, he would've for sure broken something. He glances around, people find balance and look at each other in bewilderment and relieved smiles of experienced adrenaline. Harry though settles deeper in his sit and thinks he still can take a little nap as a treat. Rush of adrenaline can't be good for his age. 

***

The ride to the Waste is otherwise uneventful. After the tram he catches the last carriage that brings him deeper into the endless green fields and right to the border of the Waste. The kind man that has helped him warns him though of the looming doom and gloom awaiting him in these supposedly cursed magic lands. Allegedly, people don't come back from the Waste. And if they do, they are forever changed in the worst ways. 

Harry controls his urge to point to his own face and make the man look at him closely. He was already touched by the Waste, he's sure it's magic is settled on his shoulders like invisible stone. He is ready to face witches and their tricks. One has already stolen his youth, he has nothing more to lose but his life. And although Harry now knows from the embarrassing experience that he is in fact afraid of dying painfully, he still has no fear of death itself. Death is natural, and he avoids only the unnatural.

With a polite smile and a promise to be careful, he bids the man farewell and goes deeper into the forbidden land, ready to find the Moving Castle from the circling rumors. 

As it turns out, Tom Riddle has quite a reputation. Aside from the titles of a homewrecker, womanizer and certified loverboy, Tom Riddle is often described as powerful, wicked and heartless. Harry huffs at this and takes a sit on a more or less comfortably-looking stone. He seriously needs a break before going higher the hill. He takes out his food and continues to speculate in his head while fixing himself a light dinner.

The man he met this fateful morning certainly fits the first category of rumors but fails to appear intimidating in Harry's head. Maybe a creep but Harry's not the one to judge to be honest. Now more than ever he dreams of setting the Dursleys' house on fire and dancing on its ashes. He chews his toast with butter, cheese and tomatoes and suddenly regrets that Ms. Bones saved him from the life of a wanted criminal a year ago. 

He sighs and feels breeze running though his hair. Now that the burst of righteous anger is over, he's not sure why he even wants to find Tom. Although charming, Harry wasn't really charmed. His powers are not going to break his curse, because Harry doesn't want it to be broken. Bellatrix mentioned as well that Tom had run away from her, once upon a time. Again, Harry isn't the one to judge, especially after meeting the woman. He only wonders if Tom was afraid of her powers or of her steel grip on him and his heart. Harry hopes for the latter. In such a case, his search for Tom wouldn't be in vain and together, they could track the crazy witch down, for he now isn't sure if he can really live while Bellatrix is out there and for sure wants to rip out his eyeballs. Besides, Tom is solely responsible for this whole mess with his ex. It's only right if he provides Harry with both refuge and revenge. Yes, Harry concludes, it's everything he needs at the moment. 

He suddenly notices some movement in the corner of the eye and takes a small knife from his road pouch, ready to defend himself. Turns out, it's only a stick in the bush. Harry sighs in relief but decides to check it just in case. Magic tricks can be subtle. The stick looks sturdy though, like a good cane, which Harry urgently needs. He pulls the stick but it doesn't budge at all, completely stuck. Either the stick is heavier than it has any right to be or Harry himself is unexpectedly weak. Both variants are disgustingly possible. 

At last, the stick gives in and in the next second, Harry stands face to face with a literal black and white scarecrow. That stands on its own and jumps around Harry in apparent gratitude. 

"I don't have any words, really", Harry says blankly. "I'm not even surprised a scarecrow is sentient. After today, you can tell me you are a prince of another land and I will believe you. You certainly have brains for that". 

The scarecrow suddenly stills and just looks at him as if conveying some message. Harry turns his gaze away from it, uncomfortable with the blank unfocused stare, and slightly shakes his weak shoulders from the night chill. 

"Wow, you are hilarious, Turniphead. And I mean it derogatory", Harry says again to fill the silence. "Nice clothes though". 

He is met with expected silence, and Harry wants nothing more than to hit his head against some tree repeatedly. He is socially awkward even with scarecrows, who would have thought.

When the wave of embarrassment passes, he thinks for a few moments and slowly turns back to his new silent companion. He then asks cautiously, 

"You didn't happen to see a castle, did you? Supposedly, it should move and look like a big dump, or so I've been told". 

Turniphead stands still. Harry has never thought that he would have a one-sided conversation with a scarecrow of all things, but apparently, life wants to show him everything he's tried to ignore so far. It would be great to experience happiness for a change but he can't really choose, now can he. For some fantom reason, life also wants to fit everything in one never-ending day and make him choke with it. The cruel entity is evidently an overachiever. 

Suddenly, the scarecrow makes a leap and continues jumping towards the city. Harry can't believe it. 

"Thanks for nothing, asshole!" he screams and painstakingly slowly starts to climb up the hill. He doesn't need help from stupid crow boogeymen anyway, even if his knees protest and sound like they are ready to break. 

After a few minutes of his struggle, the Turniphead is back and it holds a cane for him. Well, Harry is once again embarrassed. 

"Ha-ha", he awkwardly scratches his cheek but takes the offered gift and looks at his companion in gratitude. "Thank you and sorry, you are not an asshole. A warning would be nice though". 

The scarecrow looks at him like he is stupid and leaps forward. Harry follows and thinks okay, fair. 

***

They have been walking for approximately an hour. Harry is tired and frustrated and daydreams of bed or any other surface fit for sleeping, really. For miles, he still sees only hills, onward and onward, into the horizon line. Under his tired feet lies grass doted in red, yellow and pink flowers. Harry thinks people don't return from the Waste, simply because they get lost in this sea of vast greenery. 

But Turniphead is leading him somewhere. He is not sure what awaits him at the end of this trip, but both death and his destination promise him rest, so he is not too worried about it. 

Over another hill, he finally sees something new and so out of place he's surprised he seem to to notice it only now. The thing in front of him looks like the biggest nightmare of any architect. Harry is so happy to look at it he might cry. 

It's the moving castle from the rumors. It's moving on legs, how it's even capable move on such tiny legs. Although, the thing looks more like a small metal town after it was run over several times and squashed with strong vices for the good measure. Castle must be a title then, Harry thinks hysterically. Its windows resemble eyes and huge gates look like a all-devouring mouth. The second this thing speaks, Harry tries his luck with the Witch of the Waste. He can only take that much absurdity. 

The scarecrow is suddenly behind him. It leaps in the air and takes Harry with it before he can protest. Harry doesn't quite manage to scream though, because in a second, they land on the porch of the castle's backdoor. Harry is grateful and annoyed in the same measure. 

"Thank you, Turniphead", he says nonetheless exhaustedly and lays a hand on the black doorknob. "I don't think you would be welcome here. Hell, I'm not even sure if I would be welcome here. So it might be better to say our goodbyes now. Be careful out there and stay away from evil bushes. You don't often meet old men with nothing better to do than help such Turnipheads as you". 

The scarecrow again simply looks at him for a few moments and then jumps into the dark of night. Harry hopes they'll see each other again. Turniphead a good boy. Or well, a good scarecrow. 

Harry takes a tired step inside the castle. It's dark and and hard to see anything except for the white furnace, in the center of which a flame is burning. Harry takes a few more steps and practically collapses on a chair in front of the dying fire. He thinks if he should wake the owner of the house but decides against it. He's too tired to deal with Tom's wit so late in the night. 

He wonders if the flame moves unnaturally in the furnice or if his eyes simply trick him. He knows better than to simply dismiss his hallucinations and continues to observe from the corner of his eye. At this point, Harry is ready for the flame to be sentient, too. 

He is fucking right. 

"You are not Tom", says the little flame and looks at him with the same black eyes as Riddle. His tired brain manages to think, Relatives? 

"No", says Harry and tries to get into a more comfortable position to sleep in, "I'm not". 

"A human not afraid of my flame. Either a wizard or simply stupid". 

Try cursed, Harry wants to say but the words get stuck in his throat and bind his tongue. The more he tries to push them out, the less air he has. Finally, he gives up and breathes greedily, feeling his face has turned violent red while he has been fighting with the suffocating magic. 

"Ah", says the flame neutrally. "Cursed, too. Why did you think it was a good idea to come here, then? The boy is cursed himself. And I'm sadly with him".

"I don't care", rasps Harry and tries to find any emotion in the black eyes in front of him, other than blatant malice. "I actually don't find this so bad. No, it's a blessing, really. I think I'll thank Bellatrix next time we meet and she is not out for my head. But Tom should still take responsibility for this, I wasn't planning on dealing with his crazy ex-girlfriends". 

The flame hums and cracks wood underneath it. 

"My name is Voldemort", says the flame. "Unlike yours, my curse stays a curse, no matter how I look at it. Help me lift it, and I'll serve you Bellatrix's head on a plate". 

"I hope you mean it metaphorically", Voldemort only grins viciously in response, and Harry feels sorry for the Witch of the Waste. But only a little, he's not merciful. "But sure, I'll do it. After I take a good night sleep. You have no idea what a day I've had".

Chapter Text

Harry comes to when he feels an intense stare directed at his left cheek. Apprehension builds up inside him, after all he's currently in a magician's house. Harry wouldn't put it past Tom to keep a giant people-eating snake in his toilet just for the kick of it. And so, he decides to stay still and silent. 

"Is he dead? " comes a child's voice. Maybe he is being too good at being still and silent. 

"Perhaps", the fire - Voldemort, what a pretentious name, really - replies carelessly. 

"Who is he, anyway? And why did you even let him in?" the child sure sounds bossy, Harry thinks and and can't help but worry. 

He doesn't exactly know who or what Voldemort actually is, but something tells him it's better for the child to exercise some caution. He himself wouldn't follow such advice but he has had a death wish and a too sharp of a tongue since he was a toddler. He is not the best example of the safe behavior. 

Voldemort doesn't grant the child with an answer and just keeps cracking wood in his hearth. The child humphs and loudly stomps before starting to agitatedly ruffle through some clothes judging by the sound of that. 

Cute, Harry thinks. 

He peeks with one eye and almost falls down his chair in sudden fright. Too close to him for comfort stands a skeleton, a literal framework of white bones held together with nothing but obvious magic. It has long bushy hair, Harry thinks hysterically. 

"So you weren't sleeping, mister", says the same childish voice from before, and Harry blanches. It's wrong on so many levels. 

"Hi, little miss", he replies with false cheer. "I'm just a new worker here, I think".

"You are not sure?" the girl, he presumed correctly, it seems, furrows her brows. Or rather, a place where they should be. It's honestly disturbing to see the bone matter move without any skin or muscles. 

"But never mind that", he says quickly and leans a little bit forward. "Do you perhaps need help? Are you being held here against your will? You can't pass on or something like that?" 

For a few moments, it's completely silent in the house. Then, Voldemort cackles with hissing laughter, and Hermione stomps again with even more force than before. Fascinating, Harry can't help but think, the bones don't even crack. Is it the power of those who died young?

"I'm not dead! It's just a form I prefer to be in when I'm home. Looks are not everything, you know", the girl tells him with judgement, and Harry indeed feels a little chastised. He still intends to find out if she needs exorcism though. 

There is knock on the door that stops their conversation. The girl quickly throws on a dark-blue cape. Harry watches her grow skin and finds inner peace at last. Thank God she has a normal childish face, with a snub nose, rosy cheeks and sharp brown eyes. The teeth a just a tad too long, and the hair still stays bushy in her new form but it's not like Harry has any right to judge anyone's hairstyle. 

"Coming!" she screams and in a few seconds, stands by the door. 

She turns some colorful round device and Harry watches as the blue hue of the morning Waste changes to the sun-blocking towers of Kingsbury. The girl opens the door and looks at the palace guard standing there. 

"A letter for master Marvolo. His Highness requests his presence as soon as possible". 

"I'll pass on the word, thank you", the girl rather snobbishly and closes the door not even waiting for the man to respond. 

She goes to the dining table and puts the letter there, to a neat big stack of other unopened messages with Grindelwald's seal on them. 

Harry snickers a little and chances to look at the room, now that it isn't obscured by the late hour. The room is clean, is his first and honestly the only impression. It's so clean and lifeless in fact that Harry needs to do a double take. The sterility doesn't go away though. If anything, the vastness of the room becomes more oppressive, once he tries to focus on anything that could betray the character of the owner. It stays blank. Emerald walls constrict him like steel vices ready to squash him and bury in black cabinets and closets that are also half empty save for a few plates and cutlery. There is also no carpet nor lamp. This is just sad. 

"Master is a little bit of a clean freak", says the girl beside him when she notices he is ready to balt. "My room has books", she adds unhelpfully. 

"Oh, must be nice". 

Honestly, the only thing he understood from inspecting the place is that Tom might like green and that his hobby is apparently aggrivating the king. Which, fair. 

There is a sound of a doorbell, and the girl once again rushes to the device. After she turns the thing to the beaming yellow, Harry sees the towers of Kingsbury disappear leaving only the clear blue sky behind. This time, he follows the girl to the door, curious. 

She makes a practiced wave with her hand and in a moment, her appearance changes slightly once more. The girl produces a long gray beard of all things and tucks her hair under her cape. She opens the door.

Behind it stands a man in working clothes and with such a big mustache that it obscures half his face. 

"Hello little fellow. I'd like to pick up my order. The name's Burrow". 

"Wait a moment, please", the girl gruffs in a stll obviously childish voice, and Harry expects the man to call her out on that. 

"No problem". 

The girl goes to pick up the man's order and leaves him waiting at the doorstep and Harry in already regular state of crisis. Of course it's completely normal if someone old has an obviously fake beard and no winkles. It's also normal if they speak in the childish voice and have a child's height. Silly him. 

The man and Harry stare at each other in silence. 

"Do you have lice?" Harry suddenly asks. He can be absurd, too. 

"Excuse me?" 

The customer is saved from Harry's newfound hobby of fucking with people by the girl's timely appearance. Shame, he'd really like to know the answer. 

"Here is your order. Take the potion in the morning and before sleep but no more, otherwise your hair will fall off and you'll have a severe case of diarrhea".

The man only nods and bids them farewell. It's apparently normal, too. 

"What potion has such drastic side effects?" asks Harry weakly, already fearing the answer. 

"Cough remedy, why?" asks the girl in return. 

Harry is done. He'll better try his luck with a magical device on the wall than with explaining this child why their potion gives him existential dread. 

The girl shrugs after his prolonged silence, takes off the cape and leaves Harry at the door. In the blink of an eye, the piece of clothing is gone and with it, skin and muscles. She is once again in her skeleton form with bushy hair and bossy attitude. 

Harry quickly turns back to the device. The sight becomes increasingly familiar but is still a little gruesome. He supposes he has no other choice but get used to it. 

From up close the device looks like a peculiar clock with four colors - red, yellow, blue and black. He already understood that red stands for Kingsbury, his hometown, and yellow - for the Harbour of the Folding Valley. Blue should represent the Waste. It leaves only the black, then. 

Harry turns the device and opens the door. He is met with nothing but palpable darkness and screaming silence. Harry closes the door. 

"Stop playing with this thing already, you'll break it", comes the girl's voice, and Harry gingerly follows the advice. Better not to touch something that can eat him whole. 

He goes back and again observes the girl as she fixes herself breakfast. Or attempts to. She tries to make fried eggs with bacon but Voldemort looks at her from his hearth and threatens to burn her fingers with his hissing. 

"Do you need help? I think I can cook something simple for both of us", he suggests kindly. Although he's stated earlier that he is a new worker here, he doesn't actually want to impose. Especially on a child. 

The skeleton turns to him slowly and looks at him in offence 

"Be quiet and sit mister", she orders. 

"Yes ma'am". 

He takes a seat at the table and helplessly watches as the girl tries to negotiate with the willful fire. Nothing happens for a few minutes. Harry scratches his cheek. 

"He always does that", she tells Harry resentfully, her eyes ablaze. "He only listens to master and either ignores me completely or throws insults like I'm an amateur and don't deserve to be here. I'm a witch, too! And I can cook!"

Now Harry understands how he might've offend her earlier. 

"I don't think it's something to do with you". 

"You think incorrectly", drawls Voldemort out. 

Harry continues to speak like he hasn't heard him. He's getting good at ignoring things that make his life difficult. 

"You are dealing with fire. The only way to control it is to press on". 

He doesn't know where this confidence comes from but still gently pries the pan from the girl's hands and stands face to face with Voldemort. His black eyes take him in, unimpressed. 

"I'll burn you", the fire tells him and cracks wood in warning. 

Harry shrugs and puts the pan on him. He doesn't want to be hurt and so he won't be. 

Voldemort heats up and indeed tries to burn not only his fingers but his whole arm from the looks of it. Not very successful though, the flames only lick at his hands like obedient dogs and don't do any real damage. After awhile Voldemort accepts his fate and lets Harry use him as an unwilling oven. 

The girl meanwhile watches him with stars in her eyes. His trouble senses are going off.

"Are you a wizard, too?" she asks. 

"I'm just Harry". 

"And I'm Hermione the Witch! Did you know that if you get burned by Voldemort, the burn from his flames will feel like hellfire and never go away? Master told me it would give you pain till you die". 

Harry swallows nervously. 

"Perhaps I should've heard that before I put my hands in the hearth". 

"You didn't ask". 

Ah yes, he always should inquire if something is secretely a death drap for him. Good to know. The rules of this household are very transparent. 

The door suddenly slams opened. Harry looks up from his cooking and quickly looks down again. Tom has come home. 

Harry feels his stare like it's a physical thing piercing him on the spot. The comparison to an unruly fly comes to mind once again. He didn't manage to look closely but he thinks he noticed dark circles under Tom's eyes. His appearance doesn't seem to be as perfect as in their first meeting. Tom forwent his signature green cloak, the blouse is half-undone. Harry peeks again momentarily. The wizard's hands shake a little, the one with the black ring appears to be hurt, too. Seems like his day was shitty as well, Harry thinks with sympathy. 

"We have guests", says Tom at last. Harry doesn't think he has taken his eyes off him even for a second this whole time. 

"Yes, master!" chirps Hermione from Harry's left. "He's a wizard, too! Even Voldemort listens to him". 

Harry's suddenly very thankful for her being a buffer between them at this moment. Even if she doesn't tell her master a truth. 

Tom hums and stalks nearer. 

"Is that so?" Harry thinks the question isn't addressed to Hermione but isn't in the rush to answer himself.

He suddenly understands why the rumors portray the man as wicked and cruel. His mere presence feels like a sharp sword at the already bleeding throat right now. 

"Voldemort, you are being so obedient", Tom remarks, once it becomes obvious Harry won't answer the question not addressed to him specifically. 

"Your pets are pests", comes a reluctant response from the hearth. 

Tom chuckles and nudges Harry out of the way lightly taking the pan from him as well. 

"Let me. And please take a seat. You too Hermione. But please, fetch some plates and glasses first". 

Hermione practically runs to the black closets to execute her master's orders, while Harry sits down at the table and waits for the inevitable. And breakfast. 

When everything is ready and they thank both the cook and the fire for providing them with food, Tom looks at Harry again without blinking. He can be creepy like a snake, Harry can't help but wonder. 

"So, the guest", Tom doesn't really ask but Hermione already hurries to answer. 

"He came to us at night, Voldemort let him in. Harry says he's our new worker". 

Tom hums again. 

"I didn't know we needed one". 

Because you don't, Harry thinks bitterly and again takes in the sterile dining room. His first plan was to cook and clean but who knew the rumored womanizer is able to do both. 

Harry coughs and draws attention to himself. 

"I'm actually Harry Potter's grandpa. The man you helped yesterday. He sent me to be your personal jeweler as a gesture of gratitude". 

Harry wonders if his eyes trick him or if Tom really turns amused. 

"Why, how thoughtful of him. It just so happens that I like collecting precious things". 

Harry stares at him blankly. He doesn't think this warrants for any answer, really. 

"It's curious you have the same names, though", Tom remarks again and this time, it's clear his waits for Harry to response. 

"Oh, we name all boys James or Harries in the family", Harry lies though his teeth and doesn't change in the face, even though he knows how ridiculous it sounds. "You know, the Potter quirk. I'm Harry the 42th by the way. Well met".

"Well met indeed, Harry". 

Tom reaches out for a handshake and Harry answers in kind. Upon contact though, something falls out of Harry's sleeve and he smells burned wood. At the table's surface he notices a scorched strange symbol of a falling star and a poorly drawn heart. 

"You who fell from the sky, oh heartless man, your heart shall belong to me", Tom reads the message out loud, unimpressed. "It seems Bellatrix is not above playing dirty", his eyes harden and turn to Harry. He suddenly thinks of the black space behind the magic door. "Why do you have this?" 

Harry tries to explain once again that Tom's ex-girlfriend is out there for Tom's heart and Harry's eyes (not necessarily in that order) but finds his mouth for the second time numb and his throat constricted with unsaid words. He struggles to speak. 

"Ah, she cursed you", Tom guesses correctly and turns to Voldemort for a second, deep in thought.  "How though?" 

He puts his hand on the scorched wood and slowly removes the witch's message from the table. Good, the symbol was atrocious, Harry thinks. This small heart in particular was a crime.

"I'm not sure", he answers and gathers every courage he possesses. "But something might've happened between us, and she might be a little bit angry with me now. I don't think it's a good idea to be out there in the open waiting for her to strike me. She... wronged me though, as you might've noticed", this much, he's able to tell without fighting for air. "And for that, I want to make her pay". 

"I certainly like this idea", Tom says and stands suddenly, ready to head out. He has barely touched his food, Harry notices and furrows his brows in worry while Tom feeds his breakfast to Voldemort with practiced precision.

"I trust you both to clean after yourselves when you are done. I have something important to do", Tom waves his hand, and his green cloak emerges on his shoulders. The unkept blouse becomes more even and fresh. Magic can be useful, Harry supposes. "Harry, we'll discuss your tasks when I'm home. Before that, just don't touch anything".

With that, he steps into the darkness behind the door and completely disappears from view. Harry compares the action to being eaten alive. 

Chapter Text

After their first meeting with Tom after Harry's curse taking place, nothing drastically changed in Harry's routine. Sure, he is now living with a walking talking skeleton, fire demon (?) and an Eton boy turned wizard but he still makes jewelry, he still creates beauty and grace with his callous hands. And yeah, normality is out of question in this household, but it's not like Harry really expected Tom to work a normal 9 to 5. Or pay taxes, to be honest. At this point, Harry is quite sure that the wizard changes addresses and names only to further aggravate the King by not paying him a knut. 

Harry should be perhaps more concerned with how unconcerned he is with tax evasion but it's not like he is as innocent as he once has been. His whole personality now - his own grandpa, really? Harry doesn't even know if grandpas exist or if they are an abstract concept invented by people like the Dursleys to torment poor orphans like Harry - is but a fluke and honestly falls in the same category as tax evasion. His master is certainly searching the whole kingdom for him at this very moment in order to either bury him or sue his old ass for property damage.

He shivers suddenly. It was definitely a good idea to hide in Tom's home. Now that he thinks about it, he has not one but two furious women after him and he's not sure if it's better to lose his eyeballs or to pay Ms. Bones back fully with interest. Without eyes he might be able to lead a fulfilling if limited life. If Ms. Bones finds him, it'll hardly be a life after she is done with him.

Harry shakes his head and focuses on the task at hand. When Tom is not on his mysterious escapades, he pesters Harry with gem stones that lie around in his room and, according to him, require Harry's immediate expertise. After examining the gem stones, Harry can't say if he is frustrated, exasperated or honestly impressed with Tom and his collection. Perhaps all of the above in equal measure. 

The wizard has already shown him black opals, a tanzanite and a few red beryls. The downside is here that he once again is faced with damned diamonds and Tom's main obsession, emeralds. If the former Harry can stand just out of professional tolerance, the latter are for sure becoming the bane of his existence, with how often Riddle compares his eyes to these gems. After another such comparison Harry was ready to throw the damn things out of the window into the Wasteland if not for Tom's quick reaction and hasty retreat to his room. He thinks the wizard even tried to verbally comfort the stones like one would do to their children. What a creep. 

Harry fears what Riddle's room looks like though. Primarily because it's Tom's room and Harry is not sure it's free of any eldritch horrors known and unknown to humankind. But also because he suspects the place to be simply swallowed by shiny garbage Tom seems to be fond of. After all, everything in the world is balanced. Should a living room be as sterile as a forensic doctor's cabinet, the master bedroom just must be a complete and utter chaos.

For the past two weeks, it has been his routine - examining the stones, coming up with different designs of jewelry and tolerating Tom's occasional presence. Save for one particular conversation that Harry still doesn't know what to think of and that made itself home in Harry's head like a worm in a rotten apple. 

They are sitting in Harry's new cabinet. Harry is focused on his task, and Tom is focused on Harry. As usual. His room is yet bare save for his tools but he has every intention to spite the host and bring as much junk as possible. Thankfully, his work alone provides enough of that and additionally swallows up any space he finds himself in. 

Harry takes his eyes off another sparkly diamond (he lost count, honestly) and looks at lightless black eyes of Tom Riddle. 

"So," the man in front of him starts, "your verdict?"

Harry sighs and straightens his back, popping a few knots here and there. Sometimes he honestly forgets he's cursed and old, his movements feel as light as a feather. But after such tasks at the desk he feels his magically added years gnaws his bones and help gravity push him lower to the ground. 

"It's not a fake if you're asking me that."

Tom slightly chuckles and isn't that an aggravating sound. He often does that. Harry doesn't understand why. It's not like he's ever joked with Riddle. 

"I thought you had figured out why I ask, my dear," he says. Harry squints his eyes and is slowly getting ready to leap across the table, his age be damned. He feels quite froggy today. "Do you like them?" 

He inhales and then slowly exhales. Riddle is his ticket to the happy retirement, he reminds himself. He can't just bite his head off. 

"Riddle-" 

"Tom, darling." 

"Riddle," Harry emphasizes and touches the bridge of his nose. "It's a real diamond but that's all there is to it. I think I don't even need to be a jeweler to notice that much. I won't know what you are expecting from me if you keep playing a game of hints, omissions and no straight answers. Which expertise do you need here exactly?"

The wizard turns away from him and looks outside the window, the epitome of suspense. Harry looks outside as well. Otherwise, he'll for sure strangle the impossible man.

The sky is in unrest, thick clouds are being chased by the western wind like a fox by blood-thirsty hounds. The summer is nearing its end and drags the warm weather away with it. 

Riddle silently takes it all in, his profile facing Harry. Harry slowly and reluctantly starts to observe the man instead of the scenery, his gaze caught on on the sharp features. He doesn't want to admit it ever, even in his head, but whatever God is responsible for sculpting Tom's face is worth their worship for this creation only. Two little moles in the corner of the wizard's left eye though are nothing but pure sin. 

Harry quickly adverts his eyes after he realises he's been staring for quite a while. Tom doesn't seem to notice, thankfully.

"The diamond has a lot of properties," finally says Riddle. A few more minutes of silence, and Harry would be ready to punch the answers out of him. This measured stillness has simply been a drama for drama's sake, Harry is sure. "Among those is indestructibility. For the project I'm not willing to share the details on yet, I need it. I need to make one thing unbreakable."

Now, it's evidently Harry's turn to speak, but he finds himself unable to. He tries to hold it in, he really does, but at last he snorts and then fully laughs when he notices Tom's bewildered expression. It suits him more than this staged importance and class. 

"I'm sorry, really, but I thought you of all people would know that this is only smoke and mirrors. Haven't you ever asked yourself why kings don't make their armors and weapons out of diamonds? It shatters upon impact. It's hard but brittle. Expensive but ultimately worthless. We even have a saying, among people who work with gems: if you want to offend a jeweler, gift them a diamond."

"Oh," Tom says, eloquently. "Good to know. What would you suggest, then?"

"Depends on the size of the thing you wand to preserve," with no upcoming answer, Harry sighs and starts to take notes in his notebook. He finds the inkless quills Tom provided him quite comfortable, although he's never seen something like that in his life. "Look, it will be expensive either way, I'm not gonna lie. I've heard there is something called iridium, honestly it can protect almost anything you want from the outside force. The problem is, it's rarer than gold and I'm not really an expert on metals to advice on its whereabouts. I'm a jeweler, Riddle. If you want this sort of expertise, please hire a smith."

Tom hums and very likely looks at Harry, he feels a point on his head where Riddle tries to make a hole with his gaze and crawl inside like spider. His gaze feels heavier than anything he's ever experienced in his life and contrasts drastically to Tom's usual frivolous behavior. 

Not able to take any more pressure from the other's intensity, Harry sharply looks at the man in front of him. Despite being caught, Riddle doesn't show any embarrassment - because he's utterly shameless - and only grins playfully. So unlike Harry's crisis a few minutes earlier, it's not fair. 

"Why would I need anyone if I have you?" he asks lightly and Harry stares blankly at his easy lying smile and black eyes of a waiting vulture. 

After such remarks he can't help but sometimes wonder if Tom is just generally stupid in anything that doesn't concern magic of if it's his plot to drive Harry up the wall. Harry is always ready to suspect foul play where Riddle is concerned, especially since his words contrast with his recent behavior. So naturally, the only thing he can do is to keep his distance before Riddle either proves himself harmless or harmful. 

***

In his free time Harry explores the castle. Not really willingly but rather because he doesn't have any other choice. Tom's collection only does this much to keep him busy with work and he can't really go outside to find another trouble or the Witch of the Waste herself (which in the context is the same thing as trouble). All of this results in the rest of his day looking at him with the emptiness of the abyss known to all people without hobbies and not enough work. 

Harry sighs. He wants to do something useful, he's constantly agitated and on edge because right now he's certainly alive only due to his timely self-preservation instinct. Sure, it doesn't work for him every time, but sometimes even he hears its urgent ringing in the middle of another trouble he finds himself in. 

Right now, Harry would love nothing more than to track Bellatrix down and get rid of her and her strange eye-fetishes, but Tom's either busy with his mysterious work or simply comes up with ridiculous excuses each time Harry brings up the Witch of the Waste. Such as needing to walk out his clothes, do you understand Harry, how important that is to be one with your outfit? Or something like that. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd think the wizard is simply afraid of a confrontation with the aggressive woman. 

Harry furrows his brows, trying to turn another doorknob. Perhaps he doesn't know any better. 

Before one breath and another, he opens the door and instantly closes it, not even breaking a sweat after two weeks of living here. Tom is, it seems, an expert in space magic, considering the fact that both entrance door leads to four different places and the fact that certain rooms in the castle itself are spelled and not always look like something you expect to find in the house with only limitely high ceilings. The space beyond the door he's tried to open just now looks like a living breathing maze. Harry is fond of riddles (except for one) but he doesn't want to try his abysmal luck with the thing that can eat him alive from the mere looks of it. 

Behind the door next to the last one he sees a surprisingly normal bathroom. He steps further into the room and looks around, nevertheless anxious. Shelves full of beauty products, tooth brushes, peach curtains, pristine marble floor - he doesn't see any cerber or giant snake ready to attack him. Harry is for some reason disappointed.

Then, something catches light and Harry immediately locks in like a bird of prey. He steps closer to the sink. There, lies a locket. Upon inspecting its emerald color and an engraved letter S, Harry can't help but think he's seen it somewhere but he can't recall the details. It must be suffocating, he thinks, wonderingly touching the glinting chain. But his memories are escaping him and appear unclear, like he's trying to look at the reflection in disturbed waters. He runs his fingers over the rough surface and feels that the lock doesn't work quite right. He can't close the locket but doesn't see anything inside either. Is it broken? 

"Oh Harry!" exclaims Hermione suddenly. 

She stands in her gloomy glory at the entrance and keeps her hands on her white hipbones, an image of a grotesque teacher. Some children are definitely born to grow into obnoxious adults, Harry decides in that moment. Still, the effect is stark. He himself feels like a child again, caught by Vernon doing something the man deems nefarious. Harry gulps and out of pure habit puts the locket into his pocket. 

Apparently, Hermione is tired of waiting for his response because she quickly grabs his hand with her very bony fingers and drugs him after her. 

"I've been looking for you! I need your help by sorting through my magic books."

"But I'm not a wizard," Harry weakly protests. 

"You are for sure just undercover."

Harry can't find it in himself to further object and just comes along with her plans. He'll look at the strange locket when he's alone. He thinks he is able to fix it. 

Chapter Text

It's later in the night when Harry is alone again, his hands almost trembling in anticipation and craftsman's greed. It's not that his time with Hermione was lacking or that he's not fond of the peculiar girl, but he's always been one-mined and obsessive to the point of mania, once something caught his curiosity. Sure, the book rearrangement sounds fun (for someone else), but not when the mysterious locket burns him through his pocket and calls to him like a deadly siren. It was torture not to examine it on the spot.

In the end, he has spent over 3 hours helping Hermione rearrange her collection. The girl didn't joke when she told him she needed help. The bookshelves cover the entirety of the walls in the girl's room, books lie on her wooden working table, and Harry is pretty sure he's seen one book in the lamp. He decided not to ask questions and just follow the instructions of the bossy girl. Some artistic choices are better left uncriticized. 

Before, the books were standing in the alphabet order. Nothing wrong with that, but Hermione admitted she felt rather adventurous and that dictated her decision for a change in her surroundings. The books still don't let anyone to see the colors of the walls but they are now sorted by genres, mostly ranging from one complicated science to another. With an exception of one romance novel of one G. Lockhart. 

"It's not a love story, Harry!" insisted Hermione, her white bones blushing in frustrated agitation. "It's a research! Mr. Lockhart writes about his experience of surviving in a vampire castle. Who knows when such knowledge comes in handy."

Yeah, who knows when a dream of getting bitten and sucked by a vampire comes in handy, Harry doesn't say but thinks rather loudly apparently, because the girl smacks him on the arm with all her might. 

He honestly fears the day she decides to rearrange the bookshelves by languages or countries of origin. It will take even more time to sort through a mountain-size collection with an even bigger number of ridiculous romance novels. 

On his way out Harry slips a seal against evil spirits into the Lockhart's book. Sure, Hermione said she didn't need any help with passing away but he is not the one to pass the opportunity. And although the collection is big, Harry's gut feeling tells him that Hermione will open this particular book sooner than the rest. 

Now that he thinks about it, the whole house screams collection addiction - Tom with his shiny rubbish, Hermione with books, Voldemort with wood logs, neatly gathered and dried by the hearth. Something like that certainly should have a name but Harry for the live of him can't think of anything fitting*. It certainly is in the medical field of studies. 

Of course, he is the only normal person in this house. He is not obsessed with any color and rather tends to create chaos, not to sort through objects that ordinary people don't pay any mind to. He is honestly impressed Tom spends so much time at his working place without organizing everything he has in sight or going even madder than he already is. Point for patience. 

Harry sighs as he takes a seat at his working table. The green locket is glinting in the candlelight and still calls to him. He can't really describe want it sounds and feels like I his body. Maybe slight hissing in his ear and progressing numbness in the hand that touched it before? He checked his hand earlier in the evening, he wasn't bleeding, his hand was not inflated. But still, Harry feels like he has been willingly poisoned. He finds it scary but honestly fascinating, like a self-made looming doom or vertigo from climbing a mountain alone. 

Never in his life has Harry sensed something like that, despite being by no means a stranger to magical artifacts nor to dangerous situations. He has been exposed to the first a handful of times, especially recently, with the raging war and cracking magic in the air. And danger tends to hunt and haunt Harry's bloodline, so he's basically immune to any fear. Those were nevertheless different, he didn't feel any connection to the artifacts, they didn't pull on the ghostly leash around his throat and didn't make him choke on his own desire. The artifacts, although addicting, didn't make him crave to call something his. He wants to call the locket his. 

Harry takes it in the hand again, carefully touching its surface. This time, he senses the moment the magic penetrates his hands like an arrow but doesn't drop it. He burned, scratched and peeled off his skin numerous times. Slight pain from his line of work is a given. 

So, he takes his tools and tends to the jewelry like a doctor to their patients, precise, quick and without unnecessary pain. It is not like it should even take long. Only the lock needs fixing, after all. Slight soldering should do just fine. 

There is a certain gape that doesn't allow the silver locket to properly close, probably due to the constant wearing and playing with it. Some hands have for sure been greedy and giddy. Not that Harry is in any position to judge, with his own arms breaking out in excited tremor from just looking at the thing.  

Harry takes on his gloves with an effort and clears his throat. The stone in the center needs some processing, first. Spreading the heat protection lotion, Harry tries not to think how he basically strokes the ingraved letter S that is covered in scales. He is obsessed but he doesn't want to come off as creepy. Moreover, not to the old locket of all things. 

He then turns the heater on and takes his small burner. The first touch of flames is uneventful, and Harry is disappointed, once again. In this house, he fully expects the locket to start screaming at him and showing him his most sacred and shameful desires in order to scare him off. But in the end, silver stays silver in his hands, and Harry is nothing if not devoted to his work, despite the numbness in his hand. 

After a minute, he is done with the lock. It closes and opens again without any trouble. A shame that the owner didn't put any photo in it. The locket is basically made for such a memorial. Or for something else, like lock of hair or a - he shudders - tooth. Romance trends in his time are sure strange and invasive. 

"What are you doing," asks Tom's voice from the door. The lack of both question mark and a pet name should be concerning but Harry is too startled to take notice. 

Harry almost has a stroke, his hands holding his chest in the sudden fright. He is old and fragile, you can't go around and scare such things. They tend to die. 

Harry turns and indends to scold Riddle for the invasion but comes short. Riddle stands right behind him, his breath rustling Harry's white hair. A step back is not possible, behind him is only a window and a red couch, so all Harry is left is to do is to stand his ground against the tall man. Nothing unusual so far. 

"I'm working Riddle. If you have something important to say, just do it already. Otherwise the workshop is closed," Harry hisses and squints his eyes. 

Something doesn't feel right with Tom. He looks pale and sick. More so than usual. Harry swears the wizard's eyes glow red in the candlelight and the dense air, corroded by the smoke from his burner. 

Tom tilts his head and looks at him unblinkingly, almost as if sizing him up for a bite. Not that he usually looks at Harry normally, but now it's outright predatory. 

"You are not afraid," he remarks and turns to appraise the room, not waiting for an answer but mercifully giving Harry a little breather. "The room is messy." 

Harry furrows his brows. What is wrong with him? 

"Duh, you've already told me this on multiple occasions. It's not like I'm going to keep order here, just because it disturbs your perfectionist feelings." 

Tom is looking at him once again. He doesn't show any emotions, but Harry thinks the man is surprised. 

"And yet you are still alive." 

Harry grits his teeth. 

"Is that a threat? If so, make my death quick. I have two women hunting my ass for sport and taxes. Everything you'll come up with pales in comparison." 

Tom suddenly chuckles, the emotion so normal for him Harry relaxes a little. He somehow got used to the wizard showing off his dimples instead of dead eyes and for whatever reason, not to feeling a phantom fangs near his neck. 

"You didn't answer my question though," Riddle is in his face again, looking at him with amusement and arrogance in equal measure, the asshole. "What are you doing here?" 

"Fighting for my life as of now," retorts Harry and slightly pushes at Tom's chest to make him move, the other not yielding in the least. "Tone down the intensity, will you? I've just fixed your locket. It couldn't close with such a weak lock." 

"You have fixed my locket." 

"If you repeat after me one more time, I swear to god-" 

Riddle is even closer now, extremely so, he is holding Harry's collar and slightly lifts him up to Riddle's eye level. Harry feels the other's breath, and he should really be more concerned about this lack of personal space than he is right now. 

"My, ain't you feisty," Tom chuckles again, and the knot in Harry' s throat looses up a little. "Who told you it needed fixing?" 

Harry rolls up his eyes and guesses he can simply relax, it's not like Riddle plans to let him go any time soon. He can as well make the asshole hold his entire weight. 

"If you forgot, I'm your jeweler, it's basically my job description - to fix your sparkly shit." 

Tom smiles unpleasantly but puts Harry down, not letting go of his collar though. The jeweler entartains the idea of leaning back abruptly and making the wizard fall with him just out of spite. It would be funny at least. 

"My dear, but jewelers don't covet what they fix, now do they?" 

Shit. 

"Look, my bad," Harry starts, leans back nonetheless and lifts his hands in placating gesture. "I won't deny, the locket called to me and well, it is beautiful, but it's yours. I'm not planning on stealing from you when I'm basically a freeloader in your house. I have a lot of principles and no death wish." 

Tom's smile is almost fond, this time. He suddenly lets Harry go, and the jeweler catches himself just in time. The fucker really doesn't know, how fragile old bodies are. 

Once more, Riddle is standing before him, his hands reaching out to his throat. Harry expects violence and so, doesn't try to struggle against Riddle, doesn't care in the slightest. He will simply fight back, once the blow comes. Wouldn't really be the first time he bears the beating from the owner of the house he stays in, this honor belongs to his uncle. What he doesn't expect though is the feeling of the locket's chain and the clicking sound of the lock he has just fixed. He lifts his eyes and meets Riddle's now obviously red ones. 

"Call me beautiful more often, my jeweler," he has the audacity to wink at Harry before literally getting sucked into the damn locket. 

Into the locket. 

Harry stands now alone in the middle of his working place, the magic potent and thick in the air, the smoke from his tools not entirely gone as well. He attempts to take off the now offensive jewelry but the thing just won't come off, no matter how hard he tugs at it. Is it what they call karma, Harry thinks and tries not to wail in despair or rip off his whole hair in frustration. 

"How the fuck is that my life," Harry asks no one in particular. 

The locket stays silent and continues to coquettishly glint in the candlelight. The worst part of it is that Harry can only blame himself, this time. 

And that now Tom - the real, original (?) Tom - is going to skin him alive. 

Chapter Text

Without pausing even for a moment, Harry tiptoes around the kitchen, before he hears his legs crack loudly. He thinks that now is the best time to calm the fuck down. It's been two hours since the Locket Incident. He's been pacing in the kitchen this whole time, fruitlessly tugging at the chain and trying to take the locket off. At some point, the thing must have been fed up with him and burned his fingers. He's not sure what exactly Tom from the locket is but one thing is certain - he is an asshole. 

Harry scratches at his chest slightly and sets off again. Logically, it's not like Tom is really going to kill him. At least, not while the locket is stuck to his chest like a damn vice. He might damage the chain while severing Harry's head otherwise. 

Voldemort cackles in the hearth, apparently finding Harry's desperation amusing enough to be the highlight of his day. 

"Just lay on the ground and wait for the inevitable. It'll pass," he jokes and then eats on the birch log. Harry hopes he chokes and stops being sentient. Is it too much to ask? 

Still, Harry ignores his provocations. He stops his pacing, puts his hands on the sterile kitchen counter, and resolutely looks at the wall before him. Why has he even been panicking, actually? Tom has been nothing but a cordial creep with him. For some reason, Harry's opinion of him seems to be of great importance to the wizard. Sure, he broke the rule and touched something he's not supposed to but it was in the bathroom. Who hides special dangerous trinkets in the bathroom which is accessible to Hermione of all people? She is a child, however queer. 

Yeah, Harry thinks with sudden indignation, fuck Tom. He doesn't think of the children safety at all. Harry puffs his chest and is ready to give Tom as much as he gets. He'll stand his ground. 

"What have you done this time," it isn't even voiced as a question, there are none pet names, a stark reminiscence of the locket. Oh no, Harry thinks, fuck him instead, his inner fire dimming instantly. He won't stand his ground. In fact, could his ground please swallow him instead? 

He chances to look back. Riddle stands in the doorway to the kitchen, his mere presence somehow swallowing the vastness of the room and making it impossible to concentrate on anything rather than on him and his unamused murderous aura. Harry thinks hysterically that the thing might as well be a physical cloud of doom and gloom, how melodramatic. 

He is really not the best at fearing dangerous people, is he. 

"I had one rule," starts Tom in his seldomly serious tone, unknowingly repeating what Harry himself thought just a few moments ago. 

"Yeah, and I tend to break the rules. Honestly, you made my task quite simple when you voiced only one."

Riddle furrows his brows and doesn't even try to look like he usually does - composed, with neatly calculated pleasant emotions on his face, merry bells in his voice and charming dimples. Nothing is neat about him now. Neither his uncontrolled grimace of anger nor his rough voice with a slight confusing accent resemble anything what he displayed before. He looks truly unhinged, like at the day of Harry's arrival at the castle. He is like a dirty gem, Harry thinks all of a sudden. The most interesting of the gemstones to work with, in his opinion. 

Riddle doesn't hear Harry's silent praises to his declining mental state and digs his fingers into his hair - whether in frustration or desperation is as good a question as any. 

"Do you have any idea what you could have done to me?" he asks Harry. 

Prolonged pause is Harry's cue that it hasn't, in fact, been a rhetorical question. 

"No?" he says tentatively and turns his whole body to the wizard. The unknown is better left attended, he decides. "If you haven't notice, I literally know nothing here. Which, fair. I mean, we've known each other for a few weeks - it's not like you must tell me everything you do or plan on doing. But you are a cryptic asshole, still. You don't want to talk honestly about the real threat of the Witch of the Waste, you dissappear for days and then pester me with sparkly shit I really have little interest in beyond my job. I don't know what I'm really supposed to do here besides dying of boredom or an old age. So no, Riddle, I don't have any idea what I could have done to you."

The wizard looks at him for a moment, his eyes dark and blank, but doesn't say anything. The whole house shakes suddenly, the shadows grow larger, the starlight is swallowed completely in dark goo, coming off in waves from Tom. It looks like the graveyard mud, poisonous, pulsating and deadly. Voldemort hides his light. The only thing that indicates he is still here is his obnoxious hissing laughter in the furnice. 

Harry thinks he hears a woman's cry from one of the shadows, when it flows near his face. Harry doesn't think that the grimace of forever frozen horror is just his imagination, neither is the mouth that looks like a whirlpool with far too many teeth in the middle of its face. He really shouldn't have looked too close.

From the sound and feeling of it, the thing tries to suck every ounce of his happiness and hopes from him, to harvest what Harry has been growing inside himself despite his miserable life and violent environment. He clings to everything he is and might be and closes both his nose and mouth, not letting anything escape him, then takes a tentative step back. He finds his legs stuck in the black goo as well. 

"I don't think you'll like what you see, Harry, if you know more," rumbles Riddle from within the shadows, his eyes still looking at him and drinking in his struggle to free himself, scratching at the shadows that creep far too close not to feel the sheer grave cold of them. 

Harry tires of this game pretty quickly though. He reaches for the knives at the counter and slashes at the goo that confines him. It screeches and tries to catch him again but he's always been a quick runner. Harry jumps and runs toward the staircase, slashing left and right, before the knives gets stuck in the goo as well. The exit from the castle is currently blocked by Tom himself, his only option to flee is the second floor. 

He skips over several steps, fast and determined. He can escape, he always does. But when he passes over one of the limited portraits in the hall, the painted hand suddenly seizes his shoulder and pulls him hard, mercilessly slamming him into the wall. 

Harry groans and touches his head. He doesn't feel blood, yet. But something tells him it's only a matter of time. The hand doesn't attempt to strangle him either but its blunt fingernails claw at his throat and promise violence as well. He breaths and breaths and doesn't understand how to calm the damn wizard down without being maimed in the process.

Then suddenly he focuses on the hand that keeps on holding him, his eyes zeroing in on the black ring on its middle finger. He sees red, abruptly and hot, and all-consuming. He knows with boiling clarity that it's not a mere living painting that tries to scare him. 

Quid pro quo, you asshole. 

Harry grabs the offensive hand and pulls with all his might and anger, and sheer hurt. He wishes Tom stopped. 

When the shell-shocked wizard falls through the canvas down on the floor, Harry is instantly on him and ready to hit and kick, and bite if necessary. This stops the shadowy figures from chasing him. In fact, Harry thinks it stops the time itself, with their forms frozen in their haunt and the whole house being so quiet it seems lifeless. 

Harry looks down. Riddle still is looking pissed but doesn't attempt to either free his hand from Harry's far from gentle grip nor to throw him off himself. 

"It might be a surprise for you, Tom," he starts saying, his breath is short and quick, like that of a hunted prey. He is anything but at the moment. "But I don't like you as you are right now." 

Riddle lifts his left brow, as if saying no shit. 

Harry suddenly reddens and drops his hand quick like it's made of the same graveyard mud it created earlier. 

"I meant your whole fucking persona before!" Harry pulls at his hair in agitation. "That shit is creepy! I'm always on the eggshells because I don't even understand what you mean half of the time. It's not normal to constantly complement someone and show off dimples like some sort of an advertisement!" 

What is he even saying? 

The wizard seems to be thinking the same, judging by the growing confusion on his face. 

"Hell," he breaths out, feeling the adrenaline still coursing though him like violent magma, "I might even like you better as an eldritch horror. This way, I'm at least sure of what you want." 

To kill him, to be precise. That, he knows how to deal with. 

"You are hard to please and even harder to understand, Harry," Riddles tells him quietly, resolutely and very tiredly. 

The wizard turns his head away from him and presses his cheek to the cold floor. He sighs heavily and closes his eyes for a moment or two then. Harry is not sure if someone like Riddle knows how to pray but at the moment, he must be praying for patience. 

"You could have killed me," Tom says at last and looks him in the eye, not apparently the one to hide away when he bears his weaknesses. "It is a piece of my soul, and you put it on fire. I felt every second of your burner on its lock." 

That, Harry doesn't know what to think of. He says as much and apologetically touches the locket on his chest. The thing warms up at the contact. 

"If it's so important, what has it been doing in our bathroom, then?" he asks grumpily and reluctantly. 

"Unfortunately, it does that sometimes," Riddle scrunches his nose in apparent distaste. 

Right, Harry thinks, because it's normal for soul pieces to prefer bathrooms as their hiding - or hunting - spots. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says at last and looks at Riddle like he's eaten a lemon. "In my defence, I really only wanted to fix the lock, nothing else, although the thing is enchanting. It hasn't beeen a part of the plan to be stuck with your soul in my possession." 

The wizard grins unruly, some knowledge hidden in the corner of his mouth like a future trouble. Harry thinks it's not fair that Riddle still looks this good after being literally flipped over someone's shoulder and lying pathetically on the ground. 

"Has it ever?" he asks Harry almost gently and tucks Harry's hair behind his ear. 

In turn, Harry is only confused. 

Before he can ask though, the door to his right opens. To his horror, he sees the skeleton in pink pajamas and thinks, not for the first time this evening, shit. 

Hermione is looking at them in turn, unimpressed. She rubs at her eye sockets and holds a ginger toy cat in her right hand. 

She yawns. 

"If you want to have sex, do it in your rooms," she tells them bossily. Harry immediately stands up and feels like his face is on fire. Before he even can say anything, Hermione, sleepy and not interested in his explanations, turns to the still frozen shadows on the staircase. She shoos at the them when she tries to pass by. "Go away, I need to go to the bathroom." 

She comes down the stairs and disappears from the view. Harry really wants for the ground to crack and eat him alive. 

Riddle clears his throat, and Harry looks at him apprehensively, not expecting anything good after Hermione's comment. 

The wizard smirks at him wildly and without restraint, a farcry from the candid smiles he showed him before. Harry almost misses them at the moment. Those were easy to ignore. 

"I think we should follow her advice," he pauses deliberately, "and go to bed." 

Harry is on the other side of his bedroom door before Riddle manages to embarass him any further. The cackling that resembles Voldemort's laughter follows him into his dreams. 

***

In the next morning, he wakes up to the sudden sound of annoyed screeching and hooting in his ears. He immediately jumps from his bed and readies himself for another horror to come his way. 

Instead, he finds an owl on his bedframe. A snowy owl with yellow eyes so smart and beautiful that Harry chokes in immediate affection, his vision suddenly blurry. He gingerly reaches for her feathers and feels that she is real and alive. The owl nips at his fingers but otherwise doesn't stop him from touching her.

He names her Hedwig for no reason rather than that it's the first and only name he can think of. 

If it's Tom's way of apologizing for his childish tantrums, Harry is sport for running away from other shadows from his nightmares. If it's a gift, Harry promises he won't throw it away.