A/N: So I finally got off my lazy ass to produce this for you guys. I want to thank you so much for inspiring and supporting me; I am terrible at responding to people, but know that I read and treasure every review.

Also - the italic parts in the beginning are deliberately confusing. You're not supposed to get them, yet. Know that I am not needlessly vilifying the Dursleys (and that's all I can say without spoilers).

Sorry for the wait, and thanks for reading!

His world is shattered with a scream.

The boy curls into himself instinctively at the awful sound, his starved frame trembling with terror and the pain of his injuries. He can take no more, no more, and despite himself he sobs, waiting in agony for the creak of the stairs beneath the fat man's feet.

He tears at his stiff, blood-caked hair, weeping brokenly as the screaming stops - only to start up again, shrill and terrible, like nothing he has ever heard before. The boy shudders at the sound, his nails digging into his scalp, his whimpers quieting into bated breath while he waits. The creaking doesn't come. Someone above is wailing, shredding the silence that has reigned for so long outside the fat man's fury, and as he listens the hairs on his nape stand up. He knows well what it is to plead, to beg, and the boy hears it now, interspersed with the shrieks.

Then there is a roar, familiar and paralyzing, but abjectly different from what normally strikes fear into his soul. There is agony in the sound, of an intensity he understands intimately, and it rings unendingly in his ears.

His heart thudding madly, the boy releases a labored breath and shifts to his knees, biting back a hiss at the spike of pain that follows.

Something is happening. He doesn't have a name for the electric feeling sparking in his sternum, but it makes his hands shake, his mouth part, his neck crane towards the ceiling in open-mouthed rapture. The roar goes on and on and on, filling his ears, his chest, all that he is.

The fat man is suffering, and it is - a most wonderful sound.

The knowledge settles low in his gut, warm and solid. He recognizes the emotion with detached awe. Happiness. How long it has been since the boy has known that - and never so strongly. Always it has been a fleeting thing, snatched sparingly before this darkness became his dwelling.

It bubbles within him now, strange but golden - and destined to wither, of course. As the roar stops abruptly, he wishes he could bottle the feeling, keep it tucked close to his heart for when the fat man inevitably comes to vent his rage.

He thinks of that phantom, who was so gentle to him, whispering to the boy such impossible things.

i am you and you are me

He clutches his chest. Above, a stair creaks.

The happiness dies.

A whimper escaping him, the boy drags himself to the furthest corner from the door. It won't do any good, not if the fat man is as angry as he sounded, but fear trumps reason, and he curls into as tight a ball as his injuries will allow, shaking violently.

The last time, when the phantom left, was the worst punishment he has ever received. He fell unconscious at one point, awakening later with a swollen face (typical), a throbbing torso (also typical), and that awful metallic taste in his mouth (another few teeth gone), blood matting the hair on the whole left side of his head, where the fat man swung savagely (not typical).

He has still not recovered, and at the thought of the fat man's fists connecting again he bursts again into tears. The creaking increases - not the fat man's usual stomp - and the boy bites his lip hard enough to tear skin, trying and failing to suppress his terror. He will not survive such brutality a second time.

"Please," he moans, as the light under the door flickers. Please.

He hears a whisper, feels the same electric sensation from before. The lock clicks.

The boy buries his face in his knees with a loud sob as the door swings open, light spilling into the darkness. He can feel the weight of the fat man's stare, waiting for him to move obediently into his reach, but the boy is frozen. He has learned well that this only makes it worse for him, incites the fat man's fury, but he can't move - or breathe, or think - beneath his fright.

His mouth is moving apart from himself, a litany of breathless, gasping "no's," - because this is it, the darkness he will fall into after this will be forever - and he hears amidst his pleas a ragged breath that isn't his.

"Harry."

That word again, that voice - both tickling some nameless space within him. He is struck with the sudden urge to look up, but his fear is a frigid, seizing thing; his trembling becomes violent as footsteps near him, light and whisper-soft.

He hears that ragged breath again, like the fat man is struggling to breathe, and it is far too close -

A low moan escapes him as a cool hand grips his shoulder. It is - wet. Sticky. Something sharp and metallic fills his nose, along with an underlying earthy sweetness that prickles at the back of his mind. He, too, is struggling too breathe, now, and forgets how to entirely when another hand presses gingerly against the lump on his head.

His whimper almost drowns out the choked sound above him, fingers digging painfully into his shoulder.

"Harry."

It's not the fat man, he realizes dimly. This is not the fat man's voice or touch or scent - his eyes stream tears and his mouth spills pleas...but there is something blooming in his chest under the other's hand, warm and golden - like happiness, but deeper, a burst of completeness and yearning and exaltation rooting at the core of himself -

i am you and you are me

The boy looks up.

An angel kneels before him, breathtakingly beautiful and horribly infuriated, it's pale features twisted in rage as its silvery eyes rove his form. The boy's mouth falls open at the sight of the creature, it's perfection accentuated by the splotches of red on its face and hands, which drip, drip, drip as the angel touches his cheek.

He is broken and ugly before it - it must not touch him, else it will be stained - and he moves to pull away at the same time that glow within him spikes. The angel is beautiful, and angry, but the boy...

For the first time in his shadowed existence, the boy is not afraid.

The angel's hands become abruptly like the fat man's, forcing him closer instead of away.

"No," he says desperately, shoving at the arms that wind tightly around him, until his nose is buried in the angel's silken hair, it's own face buried in his neck. "You can't, you can't..."

You'll be stained, he wants to wail, but the glow has become a roar tearing wonderfully at his insides, light filling his entire being. He is warm, and - and safe, and he is a horrible little beast like the fat man says, because he knows this is wrong but he doesn't want to move. He is whole. He is not afraid. He is -

"Harry," the angel moans, and the boy becomes aware of a wetness where it's face presses into his neck. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry..."

He doesn't understand why the angel is apologizing, when it should be him, he is the selfish one, but he can't seem to work his mouth at all, too caught up in this strange thing blooming within him, too fierce to be so tame a word as happiness. He would gladly stay like this forever.

Though of course, all good things end.

Soon he will wake up, and there will be only darkness and pain. But for now he allows himself to revel in the angel's sweet scent, in its fervent words and the tender brush of its fingers against the boy's bruised flesh.

"It's alright," it says tremulously. There is something wild in its eyes. "We're together now, and no one will ever hurt you again, I promise."

It takes the boy's face in its dripping hands, it's face twisting in a way that makes him still.

"I promise," it whispers again, thumbs brushing away his tears, and smearing that other wetness in its place. "I'll kill anyone who tries. I'll keep you safe, safe..."

It reaches for a strange stick left forgotten on the floor, and points it at his head, its eyes shining feverishly. They lock with his.

"I keep my promises," it tells him, and the boy remembers with a jolt that harsh whisper in his ear, eons ago, phantom hands clinging to him as his heart raged along with the fat man's approaching roars.

"He'll pay."

Oh.

"You're..."

His voice is a strange, croaking thing, ugly in comparison to the angel's - the boy's - soft voice.

"Shh..."

He turns his attention back to the lump, and murmurs something unintelligible. The boy is distracted from the glow that spills forth from the stick, soothing the pain, by the silhouette that fills the doorway.

He grips the other boy's shoulder, uncaring now if this is a dream or not, because the man is very tall, with long white hair and flowing robes and white ringed eyes. His skin is devoid of color as he looks at them.

Their eyes lock, and the old man steps forward, stooping in the doorway.

Energy crackles potently around him. He is powerful. And angry.

"You went too far," he says quietly.

The words are soft, but backed with steel, and the boy recoils at the shadow in the man's face. He, too, carries a stick, though his is longer, more ornate-looking. The boy looks at it, and swallows. He is afraid, again.

His fear has returned so strongly that he almost doesn't register the disappearance of the throbbing in his head, which has plagued him for a small eternity. The other boy leans back, studying him intently, as though the man looming a few feet away does not exist at all.

"Is that better?"

The boy's mouth parts. No sound comes out. His eyes dart between his...his...protector...and the man.

He is afraid.

"Don't be," the other soothes, again reading his mind. He cups the back of the boy's head, and though that wild light has dimmed, it is still very present in his stare, in the way his fingers twine in the boy's matted hair. "I told you - I'll keep you - "

"Tom."

The word is icy, cutting. The other boy - Tom...? - falls silent, his eyes narrowing. At last he turns to the old man, and it as though another person sits before him, his angel's face hardening into something less than holy.

That strange energy swells, crackling in the air between them. Tom...Tom is ice - wind - and the man is like those deafening claps the boy sometimes hears from beyond the darkness, a rumbling force that rattles him to his very bones.

The man says softly, gravely: "You went too far."

Tom's hands spasm around him. He looks back at the boy for a moment, and then detaches himself, rising to face the man.

"Harry," he murmurs, holding out his hand. Enthralled, the boy accepts it immediately, though it is a struggle to stand. His legs are not used to supporting him, and they ache with unhealed bruises.

He has to lean into Tom to stay upright.

"Do you really think so, old man?" he sneers, while the boy marvels at how much taller he is. He revels in the arm wrapping around him, the fingers digging into his side, and looks up at the man in time to see his startlingly-blue eyes roving him with growing horror.

He shrinks from the man's shocked stare, his legs wobbling.

"They got what they deserved," Tom spits, his face twisting again. "I only regret that I can't bring them back, so I could do it again."

The man's stick slips from his long fingers. "Harry," he says, as though the fat man's fist has driven the breath from his lungs. As though something vital within him has been broken. His shoulders slump, the rumbling energy from before simmering to something markedly less potent. The man stares, his eyes taking on a strange sheen. He looks unfathomably ancient. "Oh, Harry..."

That word again. The boy looks between them, his shoulders hunched. After a moment, he grips Tom's sleeve uncertainly and croaks, "Is that...Is that my name?"

The man begins to weep.

Harry Potter, after a near-lifetime of brushing with death (and perhaps worse things), has learned to trust his instincts. He may lack the ingenuity and brawn of his...of his comrades, but he prides himself on his innate ability to anticipate trouble.

And trouble is brewing.

It has been almost three months since the lake incident, and not a day has passed since then that Harry isn't on edge. His unease is a rock in his gut, an acrid taste on the tip of his tongue that silences him, sometimes, during dinner or one of his and Tom's weekly outings. He'll open his mouth, during a movie or play, but then those little bells housed in his skull will ring, ring, ring, and the hairs on the back of his neck will prick up - and Tom will ask what's wrong, his eyes so wide and shining, like that very first day...

At first he attributes it to the lingering mystery of what really happened in August (Tom is arrogant, not stupid, not suicidal), the suspicion of an outside force a hard knot in his chest. But the days pass, and peace reigns, summer cooling to Autumn before Harry finally pinpoints the true source of his quiet agitation.

Tom.

They've grown - used to each other, in the passing months. Tom is proud, haughty, a scarily brilliant liar, and so far from a morning person that his irritability deserves its own classification. He is more charitable when left to wake on his own, and so Harry has given up on that particular routine. He is obsessively impeccable, yet has a tendency to leave the bathroom with toothpaste smeared on a corner of his mouth. He flushed an interesting shade of red the one time Harry pointed it out, an action he would come to regret later when Tom was brisk with him the rest of the day. The boy hates being called out in any way, shape, or form, whatever the intention, and Harry surmises he's going to have to do something about his charge's extreme sensitivity at some point, but hey. Baby steps.

Right now, he has bigger concerns.

Tom is proud, haughty, a scarily brilliant liar - and strange.

On the surface, things seem to have improved: Tom actually talks to him, now, and about the most random things, fairy tales and the trouble stirring in Germany (Harry barely managed a straight face on the subject), the Roman Empire and human nature and the origins of Coca-Cola (he hates the drink with a passion Harry thinks might actually be on par with his counterpart's loathing of muggles).

Tom is thoughtful in these moments, actually listens to what he says, and it is during these exchanges, late into the night in their respective armchairs, soaking in the warmth of the hearth with hot cocoa or tea, that Harry is struck again by how intelligent he is, this scrawny child with too-big eyes. He often feels as though he is holding a conversation with someone much older, and more than once they've engaged in heated debates about the natural inclination of human beings, whether they are at heart liars or honest, good or evil. Tom is a staunchly cynical little boy, and it is in such instants, when he sneers at Harry's insistence that yes, most people are good in the end, that Harry is reminded of his purpose.

He doubts he can completely fix the damage of Tom's upbringing, but he hopes to shine some light in that darkness the boy carries, nonetheless. And he thinks he's making some progress: there have been no attempts on his life as of late (though really it's only a matter of time), and Tom seems to have dropped the cordial, sickly sweet act he adopted in the beginning, which Harry is honestly grateful for. For the most part, he is his typical grumpy self.

But sometimes, he is disturbing.

The first instance was just after the lake incident, which Harry brushed off at the time as Tom needing comfort after such a traumatic experience. Atypical behavior, he supposed, is one of the after effects of near-death experiences. He soothed the boy as best he could, fully expecting another attempt on his life once Tom regained himself (it was his fault, after all), but it has yet to come.

The boy's plotting, he's sure of it, but it's different from before: frequently, now, he'll feel a prickling on the back of his neck, and look up to see Tom staring at him, his eyes stormy and unfathomable and deeply discomfiting, for reasons Harry struggles to discern. He knew the boy was scheming before, when murderous intent lurked in the curve of every smile, but Tom doesn't smile anymore.

He stares, and stares, and clings, padding to Harry with whisper-soft steps, cool fingers tugging on his sleeve or skittering up his arms or twining in his own in a painfully tight grip. He never offers a word of explanation, during these moments, and Harry, guided by some unseen force, has never dared to speak, his instincts flaring when Tom crawls into his lap without a sound, or wraps his arms around Harry's neck and sighs into his throat, the bond swelling warmly between them.

It's another form of manipulation, it has to be, and each time sets Harry further on edge. Tom is working toward something, and it is clear he is bent on its fruition.

So when Harry wakes up one night to find his charge standing in the doorway to his bedroom, his eyes large and strange in his pale face, he understands there's about to be problems.

He sits up slowly, red flags waving brilliantly in the murkiness of his sleep-addled mind, and groans,

"What."

Despite his grogginess (for once, there were no nightmares), his hand clenches tight around the wand under his pillow, and tension hardens the lines of his body when Tom doesn't immediately respond. Harry looks at his expression and understands the boy is in one of those moods, again. He very nearly sighs. A dreamless sleep is a rare luxury for him these days, his nights filled often with the resurgence of horrible memories, and he can't help but mourn its loss as he sits up further, his other hand raking through wild hair.

"Tom."

"I can't sleep," Tom says, his voice small.

He stares, unblinking, at Harry, who understands belatedly what it is he wants. No, he almost blurts, his brows furrowing incredulously. However...comfortable...they've grown around each other, Harry still doesn't trust the boy. Not completely. Certainly not enough to allow him into his bed, where he sleeps.

But Tom's feet shuffle restlessly outside the wards, his arms wrapped around himself, and he looks so very small, though he is almost eleven years old.

Harry allows his head to loll back to the ceiling for a moment, his chest sinking in a sigh. He should be awed, and he is - but only at Tom's audacity. If he wakes up with hands around his throat, or magic whipping at him with dark intent, it's going to set them back tremendously. Plotting or no, they've been getting along so well...

Baby steps, Harry reminds himself.

If I can't trust him, how can he ever trust me?

The question rattles him. He's taken Tom to plays and movies and restaurants and games, done his best to give the boy what he wants without overtly spoiling him - but what effort has he put into building trust, really, when he can't even give it himself?

With that in mind, Harry clutches his wand and surreptitiously lowers the wards. He tucks it discreetly back under his pillows, and murmurs, "Come on, then."

Tom straightens, his mouth parting wordlessly for a moment. He takes a hesitant step forward, and, when met with no resistance, walks until he is just before the bed. It's too dark to tell for certain, but Harry thinks his hands are trembling.

Repressing another sigh, he reaches over to peel the covers back. Tom doesn't move.

"I don't bite," Harry says, in a wry attempt to cover his impatience. Is the boy having the second thoughts?

Tom's throat works for a moment, and then he climbs up onto the bed. He is definitely shaking. His earlier alarm subsiding, Harry lays back down, only to grunt in surprise when Tom presses close, melding himself to Harry's side, skinny arms wrapping around his middle.

It is an intensely conscious effort to relax in the boy's grip. Trust, he reminds himself, and after a moment he moves his arm from under Tom to wrap around him, in turn. Tom shudders, his cheek pressing into Harry's collarbone, the soft waves of his hair tickling Harry's chin.

"Nightmare?" Harry asks, his insides still simmering with what he hopes is well-masked shock. Tom is clutching at him in a way that makes him wonder for the first time if the other's not acting. But he has to be, why else -

"You spelled the door," Tom whispers, without answering. There is a note in his voice that sends Harry's instincts flaring, again. It takes him a moment to understand that Tom means the wards.

"Yes," he says slowly, struck with the abject sense that he must tread carefully.

Tom's nails dig into his skin, reinforcing his wariness.

"Why?" he demands.

I thought you might try to kill me in my sleep wouldn't go over well, so Harry says,

"I'm very cautious. Your room is warded, too. To keep you safe."

Harry wonders at the relief he feels when Tom seems to accept the answer.

"Oh," he mumbles, relaxing, leading the other male to wonder what would have happened if he told the (whole) truth. Harry can feel the boy's heart pounding from where it's pressed to his side. He must be thinking of the lake incident.

Patting his back, the words fall without thought from his lips, "I'll always keep you safe."

A strange, choked sound escapes Tom at the assurance, and he presses closer, if possible. His heart, instead of calming, thunders against Harry's ribs. Harry's hand raises tentatively to his hair.

"Tom? Are you alright?"

"I'm sorry," the boy says, so softly Harry almost doesn't catch it, and then he's sure he hasn't heard right. He stills.

"I...I was going to kill you, before," Tom whispers tremulously. "You lied to me, and it - it hurt, and I wanted to kill you so much it was all I could think about; ending you, making it as painful as possible...I hated you."

Harry's skin is tearing under the force of Tom's nails, but he hardly feels it, his mouth hanging open as he stares down at the boy's head. He's admitting - ?

"But then - but then I fell into the water, and I was dying, and it was horrible - and - and cold - and there was something - "

He chokes for a moment. "Something - "

"Tom." Harry sits up, cupping the back of his head. Tom's grip is a steel vice.

"I don't remember," the boy mumbles, shaking his head. "I don't..."

"It's alright," Harry soothes, his own breathing labored. He hugs Tom close, his eyes round. He doesn't know what brought this on, but Tom is actually talking about what happened, admitting his intentions, apologizing, and Harry has no idea what's going on anymore, but his fingers curl in Tom's hair while he murmurs reassurances, because clearly the boy was more affected than he realized.

He wants to grip the younger male's shoulders and demand what he means by 'something,' because that alone is enough to send alarm bells ringing in his ears, his gut curling in grim suspicion, but Tom is distressed and in need of him.

"I was going to die," he breathes against Harry's throat, his shoulders shaking. Perhaps he's just now coming to terms with the fact. "But you saved me..."

"Of course," Harry tells him, softly. "I would never let anything happen to you, you have to know that, Tom."

Tom pulls away at last, his face twisting.

"Why?" he rasps, his face splotched with red. "Why are you doing all this?"

"What are you -?"

"This," he waves his hand sharply about them. "Taking me from the orphanage, pretending you were my father, acting like - like yoabout me - "

Harry has no idea where this is coming from. He pulls back, incredulous.

"I do care about you," he says fiercely, startling himself with the truth of his words. He does care.

"You're..."

He takes a deep breath.

"We're very similar, you and I. I was alone, growing up, too; I know what it's like. No one seems to understand - or care, and the world feels empty, because there's no one to share it with. But I want to show you...how wonderful life can really be. That love is so much more freeing than hate."

He pulls Tom close, again, and the boy goes limply, his mouth open. "I'm doing this because I want you to be happy, Tom," he whispers. "I'm only sorry I couldn't come for you sooner."

Tom clutches at him like he's drowning, again, and says nothing. His trembles are answer enough.

Tom Riddle has no word for the knot in his chest when he looks at Harry Potter.

It's growing by the day, tighter and tighter in his chest, the man's words ringing endlessly in the depths of his mind -

"I want you to be happy, Tom."

No one has ever wished for his happiness, before.

The words leave him breathless when he curls into Harry's side at night, replaying them over and over while he listens to the other male's heartbeat. It is strong and steady, and often Tom closes his eyes, imagining that heart cradled wetly in his hands. His and only his.

He - covets his guardian as he never has anything else, pocket watches or playing cards or the tears of other children. Never have his trinkets, or his enemies' despair, made his hands tremble with such yearning - indeed, they pale in comparison to the white grin of the older wizard, the soft tones of his voice when he is sleepy or exasperated or soothing Tom's late-night restlessness, his arms strong around him.

Harry has nightmares, too, though he does not like to talk about them; nonetheless, Tom is there, privately relishing the opportunity to card his fingers through Harry's hair when he wakes, gasping, his eyes wide and unfocused and sometimes wet.

He is always distant afterwards - Tom has learned to wait until the tremors fade from his body before he moves close again, when Harry is nearly asleep. He buries his fingers in the other's black hair, marvels at the scars that mar his flesh in the most curious places, wonders how the other would react if he were to press his lips to the raised flesh. He is tempted, sorely tempted, but Harry's possible reaction keeps him still.

The days pass, and he memorizes the groggy rumble of his guardian in the mornings, how he shuffles from the room with his hair sticking every which way, a sigh on his lips. He bites his lip when he's thinking and taps his chin when he's stuck on something, his green eyes glazing in thought. He is not as jumpy and restless as he was, but he still starts violently sometimes when Tom approaches him too quietly, his wand whipping out like an extension of himself, and there are moments when his face sinks into something worse than sadness, when he stares out the window or writes in that journal of his, his fingers white-knuckled around his pen.

Tom studies the other male until he knows his smile as well his own - knows his steps, and his sighs, the crack of his bones when he stretches and the and set of his jaw when he loses his temper. Once, Tom relished his outbursts, the cracks in his composure; in a way, it still fascinates him, Harry's anger, but he does his best to avoid it, now. He doesn't want Harry to be angry with him. Tom much prefers his happiness, his brief chuckles and especially his laughter - a bubbling, hard-won sound that is often startled out of him. It never fails to light Tom's insides.

The knot grows bigger in these moments, his tongue dry with wordless things, and he wants only to press closer...

But Harry is keeping him out.

There are things he doesn't know, things Harry won't share with him, and Tom can't help but feel a barrier stands between them, still. He wants, more than anything, to close the gap, and yet...

Every time he breaches the subject of Harry's past, the older male shuts down. It is the fastest way to break his composure, Tom has learned, and while he might once have relished the information, tucked it away for later use, it only perplexes him, now.

Harry Potter saved his life. He does not want his death, anymore, but to know him as intimately as he seems to know Tom. And no one - no one has ever really known him, before. Harry, though...Harry has seen his beneath his guises, faced the ugly thing in all its glory. And he has not turned away.

He wants Tom's happiness.

And Tom is happy. The knowledge leaves him breathless, sometimes - but he is. Harry will read to him, voice soft in his ear, his chest vibrating against his back, and Tom will lean against him, wondering silently how he could have ever thought to deprive himself of this.

For Harry is euphoria and bliss and home rolled into one, the first one to see him as he is and stay with him regardless, and Tom has no word for the warmth curling in his gut when Harry looks at him. But it makes his legs wobble.

The days pass, and the knot grows, and for a time, all is well. Tom is content. Harry is his.

Then Matilda Mathews moves to Godric's Hollow.

A/N: I don't even know. I meant to include more stuff, but I kind of burned myself out. Really wanted to get this out to you guys.

Thanks so much for your support, and happy summer!