AN: My dear readers, I am so, so sorry. It's a strange thing, how writing even a small author's note can seem impossible under certain circumstances, and for a long time it did. But for some strange reason, it doesn't this morning. So here I am.

Here's the deal; I have about five chapters of material written - I have all this time, I just couldn't bring myself to post them - which I am going to try to post over the next few weeks; I feel these chapters constitute the end of an arc in the story, and it doesn't feel right to never let them see the light of day. I can't make any promises as to what 'a few' means; I've been extremely busy with work lately and I can't exactly afford to take significant amounts of time away from it. Anyway, after finally posting most of the material that has been sitting around collecting dust, I will be putting this story on an indefinite hiatus; I can't say I will never return to it, but you can, for all intents and purposes, consider it abandoned. I know I promised I would never abandon this story - and I truly believed that at the time. But things have changed massively in my life, and I know that ending this project is the right thing to do. For those of you who don't care, this author's note ends here; for those of you who want to hear a bit more of my reasoning behind this, I've taken some time to explain myself below.

1. When I started this story, I was recovering from an abusive relationship, and was desperate for an outlet; I was ashamed and angry with myself for 'letting' it happen, and too proud to really discuss the details with my close friends or family. I couldn't even bring myself to explain how I felt; how incredibly weak and pathetic I felt and how I didn't think I would ever be ok again. So I started writing. I wouldn't call Harry a self insert, because he has characteristics and makes decisions that I never would, but he did act as an effigy of sorts for some time; a character to skewer with little needles of narrative abuse in my place. Other characters were stand-ins for myself at certain points as well. The point I'm trying to make is that just as Tom was a constant fixture in Harry's head for most of this story, my trauma was also a constant fixture in mine, and this story was a way to work through it without burdening the people around me or embarrassing myself too badly.

I think I have a much healthier outlook on life now; I've discovered coping mechanisms that work well for me and have managed to find some semblance of contentment in how I'm living my life, and the truth is...I don't need this story anymore. In fact, it is a bit difficult to force myself into the headspaces of toxic characters which were stand-ins for parts of my past that I've let go of. I know this sounds selfish, because it is...but it's the right decision, for me, and I stand by it.

2. My work has really taken off in the last six months, and I've made some serious headway on it, and I feel more dedicated to my project than ever. Unfortunately, it requires a lot of creative energy; and the rare moments when I take a break and have some energy to spare, I've been spending it on original work. Between my research, the short stories and poetry I've been writing, and the music gigs I've been doing, I haven't had the energy or even the desire to continue writing this. I am fairly certain that even if I forced myself to continue writing this, the writing would come out rather lackluster, and it wouldn't be the conclusion to the story which you, my readers, deserve. I had a rather grand and lengthy vision of how the rest of this would go, and even some snippets already written, but I feel I can't do it justice any longer.

3. This one is that last straw that broke the camel's back, when I was trying to post in the spring. I broke up with my partner around the time I was trying to get back into posting; I tried to do it in a way that I thought was fair and respectful, but that's not how it was taken. Let's just say that everything that could have went wrong, did. You might wonder how this impacts my ability to write this story, but it actually does in two ways:

a. The person in question knew about this story, and read it. They might be reading this as of me posting it, I don't know. Either way, I didn't want to remind them of another platform they could continue to contact me on. If you are reading this right now, my ex-partner, please do not contact me or, god forbid, dox me. Any escalation of the situation as it now stands will result in taking legal action. That's how done I am with this situation.

b. Since this story has been so personal for me in the past, I couldn't handle the thought of my ex-partner having access to my personal feelings after all that had happened, which dissuaded me from posting for a long time. As of now, I feel distanced enough from both the break up and this story to post.

4. Finally, and most fucked-up-edly, I realized that I was making a habit of searching out harsh/deliberately unkind reviews or messages on this platform and others when I was in bad emotional spaces in order to hurt myself further. In other words, I was using the small exceptions to the positive feedback I usually get from this story to digitally self harm. A big part of my growing as a person over the last few months has been putting an end to my vitriolic self-disgust, and I don't want to risk this becoming a habit again.

And that's about it. Please enjoy this chapter, if you can, and I'll update the rest whenever possible with my schedule.


Chapter 25: Horace Slughorn

"If I may ask, sir, why are we, er, ambushing Mr. Slughorn on Christmas night?"

Harry and Professor Dumbledore had just apparated into an empty street in what looked like a small muggle village. Snow peppered the ground and was falling lightly from the dark, cloudy sky overhead, and a few windows still glowed with a yellow light, which, along with the sounds of muffled chatter and laughter, indicated that for some, their Christmas merrymaking had continued long past sundown.

Harry was still….a little miffed at the Headmaster for denying him the opportunity to attend the Order meeting, and had to keep reminding himself that he knew the real reason that he wasn't allowed to attend. Professor Dumbledore didn't think him incapable, or not mature enough; no, he didn't trust him. Professor Dumbledore knew too much, and knew better than to assume that Harry was completely trustworthy. But that was ok - he didn't completely trust Professor Dumbledore either; both of them knew each other too well, and had spent too much time together to truly trust one another. They were both holding secret cards up their sleeves, and neither of them knew how many cards the other had.

"Well, Harry," Professor Dumbledore began as he stepped forward, continuing along the street, "I was hoping that we might catch him in a more agreeable state than we might at another time. Besides -" He produced a large bottle seemingly out of nowhere "- I should like to deliver my Christmas gift for him on time."

By that time they came to a halt in front of a rather large but completely darkened house, surrounded by what looked like it was once a vivacious garden, now covered by a blanket of snow. There was a driveway, but no car was parked in it.

Harry frowned slightly. "Isn't this a...muggle's house, sir?"

Professor Dumbledore glanced down at him. "What makes you say that, m'boy?"

"There's a driveway, with faint wheel imprints in the snow. Not many witches and wizards own muggle vehicles."

"A keen observation," Professor Dumbledore commented, "And your deduction is correct. This is a muggle's domicile. I believe they are in Barcelona, if the information I have collected is correct."

"Then - why are we here?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Horace, quite reasonably, has come to believe that Voldemort will try to either recruit or murder him, and has taken to a life in hiding, where he travels from empty muggle domicile to empty muggle domicile. It has taken me some time to track him down, but I believe I have the correct address."

"How did you find him?" Harry asked quietly as they opened the front gate and made their way toward the front door.

"Perhaps another time, Harry. The tale is thrilling and I do wish to do it justice."

Harry's lips twitched a little as Professor Dumbledore knocked on the front door twice. Silence followed, but if the Headmaster was surprised by this he didn't let on. He just knocked once more after a couple of minutes passed. Still, no one answered, and Harry was starting to wonder if they actually had come to the wrong address. Instead of turning back, though, Professor Dumbledore drew his wand and asked Harry to do the same, before saying, "Alohomora."

The lock clicked open, and the professor gingerly reached for the handle, pulling it open.

"Lumos."

The house was dark, and silent. No shoes or coats were present in the entrance hall, and no decorations ornamented the shelves or corners.

Undaunted, Professor Dumbledore entered the house, signaling for Harry to close the door after him. He slowly wandered into the sitting room, casting his eyes about it carefully, before he suddenly swooped down, poking the seat of an overstuffed armchair with his wand, which, to Harry's surprise, unceremoniously shouted, "Ouch!"

The armchair seemed to fall apart before their eyes, before reassembling as an enormously fat, bald, elderly man with a massive silver moustache, who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Professor Dumbledore with a sour look on his face.

"Merry Christmas, Horace," Professor Dumbledore said cheerfully.

"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," the man who was, presumably, Mr. Slughorn grumbled, "It hurt." He straightened the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over his lilac silk pajamas. "What gave me away?"

"The colour of your jacket doesn't match the rest of the interior decor," Professor Dumbledore responded.

Mr. Slughorn looked from his own ensemble to the walls and furniture around them, which were a light baby-blue. "I suppose you're right. Something to keep in mind for next time - "

As he was examining the room around him, his eyes suddenly caught on to Harry's presence.

"Oho," he said, before his large round eyes flew to Harry's forehead. "Oho!"

"This," Professor Dumbledore began, gesturing toward Harry, "Is Harry Black, formerly known as Harry Potter. Harry, this is the old friend and colleague of mine that I was telling you about, Horace Slughorn."

"A pleasure, sir," Harry said quietly, but was, with the exception of a nod, promptly ignored.

Mr. Slughorn turned back to stare at Professor Dumbledore shrewdly. "So that's how you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well, the answer's no, Albus."

Harry felt an unpleasant degree of confusion blossom in his brain, as Tom's annoyed mutterings grew louder in the back of his mind.

Just as Mr. Slughorn was about to turn away, the Headmaster produced the large bottle he had shown Harry earlier. "I suppose we can have a drink at least? For old time's sake?"

Mr. Slughorn hesitated.

"It's Polish. A special Christmas brew."

Mr. Slughorn sighed, before relenting, a little grudgingly, "Alright then, one drink."

The Headmaster smiled genially at him as he left the room, before directing Harry toward a chair which, besides the colour, resembled the one Mr. Slughorn was impersonating moments ago, and lighting the fireplace with a sweep of his wand.

Mr. Slughorn returned with three glasses, thrusting one into Professor Dumbledore's hand and one into Harry's, before sitting down beside - but as far as possible from - Dumbledore on the sofa which matched Harry's chair.

The Headmaster pointed his wand at the bottle, causing the cork to fly out, before he reached over to pour generous servings into Slughorn's, Harry's, and his own glass.

"Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?" Professor Dumbledore asked pleasantly.

"Not well," Mr. Slughorn said at once. "Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can't move like I used to. Old age. Fatigue."

Tom snorted. He has not aged well.

"Well, your transfiguration skills certainly haven't suffered," Professor Dumbledore commented.

"Yes, well," Slughorn said, somewhat irritably, but seemingly unable to entirely resist the flattery. "The fact remains that I'm an old man, Albus. A tired old man who's earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts."

"You're not yet as old as I am, Horace."

"Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself," Slughorn said bluntly, his large, round eyes flickering down to Dumbledore's withered right hand. "Reactions not what they were, I see."

"You're quite right," Professor Dumbledore said graciously. "And I shall be retiring soon - this will be my last year at Hogwarts."

Slughorn's eyes widened. "Really? Why?" he demanded, giving the first indication Harry had seen that he cared for Dumbledore at all.

"It shall be my last year, anywhere, Horace," Professor Dumbledore said softly, considering his withered hand for a moment.

Slughorn's mouth dropped open, and with slightly shaking hands, he lifted his glass to his mouth to take a rather large sip - more of a gulp, really.

At the same time, Harry did the same to hide the grimace on his lips - which came as a result of both Dumbledore's quiet declaration and Tom's gleeful reaction to it. The liqueur was spiced and warm, but did little to warm his spirits.

"So," Professor Dumbledore went on, "All these precautions against intruders, Horace - I sensed your wards on the way in - are they for the Death Eaters' benefit, or mine?"

"D-death Eaters?" Slughorn asked incredulously.

"I know you know, just as I know, that they are once again at large."

"Yes, well, what would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer like me?"

"I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion and torture."

"You forgot murder, sir," Harry put in.

"Oh, yes, of course, thank you Harry - murder as well," Professor Dumbledore agreed. "Are you really telling me they haven't come recruiting yet?"

"It was one of the first things they tried to do," Slughorn muttered, "You know, after…" He glanced uneasily at Harry. "Not that I've given them the chance. I've been on the move since June - never stay in one place more than a week. Move from empty muggle house to empty muggle house - it's been very pleasant here in particular, I'll be sorry to leave. It's quite easy once you know how, one simple freezing charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneakoscopes and make sure the neighbours don't spot you bringing in the piano."

Harry was quite impressed that Slughorn knew what a burglar alarm was, but he decided not to voice it, lest he seem condescending.

"Ingenious," Professor Dumbledore said, seemingly quite sincerely. "But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts -"

"If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus!"

"If I may, sir," Harry decided to step in, "The Weasley twins will be graduating in a term, and I doubt Neville Longbottom will have the OWL scores to continue to NEWT potions."

Both Professor Dumbledore and Slughorn turned to look at him.

"Er, yes, I suppose you wouldn't know - those Gryffindors in particular are known by some of the other Slytherins as 'Professor Snape's bane'."

"Oh! That's right! You're in my house, aren't you," Slughorn said to Harry, looking delighted for a split second, before turning to Dumbledore and saying flatly, "Not that it matters."

Professor Dumbledore did not respond, but rather stood up quite suddenly.

"Are you leaving?" Slughorn asked hopefully.

"Unfortunately not, Horace. I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom."

"Oh," Slughorn muttered disappointedly. "Second on the left down the hall."

Once Professor Dumbledore left, the room fell into silence, and both Slughorn and Harry sipped their mead while politely averting their eyes.

"Don't think I don't know why he's brought you," Slughorn said rather abruptly after about a minute had passed.

Harry only smiled politely. "Yes, I believe you've already made that clear," he said.

Slughorn seemed rather alarmed by the response, but only showed it for a second. "Oh, did I?"

"You did."

"Hmpf." He paused. "You look very much like your father."

"So I've been told."

"Except for your eyes. You've got your mother's eyes."

"Yes, those - those I remember."

Slughorn's eyes widened, and his face softened a bit. "Yes, well...you shouldn't have favourites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House - very cheeky answers I used to get back.

"She was muggleborn, of course. Couldn't believe it when I found out, Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good."

"It so happens that the two best students in my year at Hogwarts right now were muggle-raised," Harry said evenly.

"Funny how that happens sometimes, isn't it?" Slughorn mused.

"I personally don't like to think that who raised me has anything to do with my success in the magical world, so no, not really," Harry said a little stiffly.

Slughorn looked at him in surprise. "You musn't think I'm prejudiced!" he exclaimed, "No, no, no! Haven't I just said your mother was one of my all-time favourite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too - now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course - another muggleborn, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings on at Gringotts!"

He bounced up and down a little, smiling in satisfaction, before pointing at the many glittering picture frames on the cabinet beside the hearth.

"All ex-students, all signed. You'll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he's always interested to hear my take on the day's news. And Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes - a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkiss, who gave him his first job! And at the back - you'll see her if you just crane your neck - that's Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies...people are always astonished to hear I'm on first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!"

Slughorn seemed to have cheered himself up a great deal, so Harry made an effort to smile.

"Yes, I can see how that would be very advantageous."

"Isn't it though?"

Harry nodded, and made sure it was avidly. "Having a contact at the Daily Prophet is especially helpful, I find."

Slughorn's eyebrows rose. "Oh, you have one as well, then?" he said, sounding impressed.

"I'm on good terms with Miranda Thistlebaum, one of their up-and-coming reporters. She's been helpful when I've...needed certain things to be known."

"Like You-Know-Who's return?" Slughorn said critically.

"As far as I'm concerned, that is known. I don't particularly care that my name is being dragged through the mud in the Prophet."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Well," Harry said with a small smile, "Voldemort -"

Here, Slughorn shuddered heavily, bringing Tom some satisfaction.

"- won't keep his return silent for long. And when he decides the time is right...well, I imagine everyone will be quite sorry about everything they've said about me, then. And if I had to choose between guilt and gratitude…"

"Hmpf! I can certainly see why you were sorted into my House, Harry. May I call you Harry?"

"Of course sir -"

At that moment, Professor Dumbledore reentered the room.

"Oh, there you are, Albus," he said. "You've been a very long time. Upset stomach?"

"No, I was merely reading the muggle magazines. I do love knitting patterns." He paused and looked between Harry and Slughorn for a moment. "Well, Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace's hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave."

"Of course, sir."

Slughorn, however, seemed taken aback. "You're leaving?"

"Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one."

Harry partly for the fun of it, made a show of nodding solemnly, which caused Dumbledore's eyes to twinkle a little.

"Lost…?"

"Well, I'm sorry you don't want the job, Horace," Professor Dumbledore said, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. "Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Just know, you will be always welcome to visit, should you wish to."

"Yes...we...very gracious...as I say…"

"Goodbye, then, and Merry Christmas."

Harry smiled. "I hope we meet again, Mr. Slughorn. I very much enjoyed our conversation."

He was laying it on a bit thick, but it looked like they were in the endgame now.

They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them, though. "Alright, alright, I'll do it!"

They both turn to see Slughorn standing breathless right behind them.

"You will come out of retirement?" the Headmaster clarified.

"Yes, yes," Slughorn said impatiently, "I must be mad, but yes."

"Wonderful," Professor Dumbledore said, beaming, "Then, Horace, we shall see you at the beginning of January."

"Yes, I daresay you will."

As they set off down the snow-covered path, Slughorn's voice floated after them, "I'll want a pay raise, Dumbledore!"

Professor Dumbledore chuckled as they shut the front gate behind them, before whispering to Harry, "Well done, m'boy, well done."

Harry smiled a little. "It was some of my better work, I think."

Professor Dumbledore looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "Somehow I doubt that. Did you like him?"

"I liked him well enough."

"Well, as long as you do not despise him, I will not feel too bad about forcing you into his company."

"Indeed you should not, sir."

"Very good. Now, if you will grasp my arm."

Harry did so, and a moment later they appeared in front of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, where Harry let go of Dumbledore's arm.

"I must apologize, Harry, for more or less booting you out of the Order meeting earlier. I think you can guess my reasons though."

Harry stared at the Headmaster for a long moment, before he said slowly, "Perhaps."

Professor Dumbledore smiled grimly. "Everyone has a role to play in the upcoming war, my boy; you, I, the Order of the Phoenix...we all have our own roles. Mine is almost over, of course...but rest assured, I will do everything in my power to make sure that you have received everything you need to fulfill your destiny before my end."

Harry let out a breath in a puff of white steam in the cold air. "I...believe you will, sir."

"Very good - very good indeed. Well, Harry, thank you very much for your assistance, and I wish you a good night."

"You as well, sir," Harry said, stepping away. "See you in January."

"Indeed. And Harry?"

"Yes sir?"

"Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, sir."


"Mission accomplished?"

Harry looked up at his bed in surprise. Theo was sitting there, the book Harry had given him for Christmas propped up against a pillow and a mug of steaming hot liquid in his hands.

"Yeah," Harry said, removing his coat, "It actually was."

"And did he say anything regarding the Order meeting that we were so unceremoniously ejected from?"

Harry chuckled and sat down at the foot of his bed. "Not really. He assured me that I would know everything I need to know...before, you know. But that's it."

Theo nodded slowly. "So...he thinks that knowing about Voldemort's past will be enough for you to defeat him?" he asked incredulously.

"I...I don't think so. We've exhausted all of the memories he intended to show me already, and we still have five or six meetings left. I think...it's likely that there are some things that he wants to teach me that go beyond simply viewing memories of Voldemort."

"I hope so - otherwise what's the point? It's just a waste of time you could spend training."

Harry frowned. "...waste of time…?"

"Well, you already have some of his memories, don't you?"

Harry's eyes widened.

"Remember? You told Hermione and I that on...that night you got some of his memories, when, you know…"

Harry nodded slowly, trying very hard to disguise his relief.

Your lies are catching up with you, Harry, Tom drawled in his head.

"Right, I forgot I told you that," Harry said faintly, suddenly recalling several conversations he'd forgotten he'd had - in the Room of Requirement with Hermione and Theo….that one conversation in that empty classroom with Theo in which they discussed what he was signing up for. "But no, it's not a complete waste of time - I don't have all his memories...and Dumbledore's shown me some things I didn't know before."

That's right, dig deeper, Tom said wryly.

"You know, I've always wondered...but I suppose I always thought it...improper to pry...but what memories do you have? How much do you actually know about Voldemort?"

Harry's lips parted slightly in surprise. He didn't know why he felt so shocked; he should have anticipated a question like this by now. He and Theo had become much closer, after all. Perhaps he was simply shocked that the other boy had the….audacity, the boldness to pose a question like this. To not just say that he knew there was more to the story - to actually ask for the story itself.

"I - I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked, I -"

"No, it's alright," Harry said quietly. He was silent for a moment, caught up in the question - how much did he know? Almost everything….he had the entire life of another inside his head, he knew every similarity, and every difference, and the comparison was always in the back of his head. And as he contemplated this, the words just started to spill out. "I just...yeah, I….I know a lot. I know he was an orphan, like me….he grew up in an orphanage in London, that he was almost universally disliked before Hogwarts - like me - before he learned to hide. I know that...like me...people liked him at Hogwarts. I know that he was a genius, charming, charismatic...and I know that I'm….well, that doesn't not describe me and sometimes I wonder...I wonder if we're so….different….but I know he always knew he would conquer all his fears before he even knew how to fear...and I guess that's how we're so very different. I'm afraid. Of so much. And sometimes I don't want to stop being afraid."

Theo was frowning. "I don't understand. You're...ok with being afraid?"

"I...maybe, a little. Remus once hypothesized that my boggart was a dementor because what I fear most is fear itself, but I think he doesn't understand….I don't think he quite understands what dementors are, what they do."

Theo quirked an eyebrow. "And you do?"

"Perhaps I do...I just think that...no, I know that it's not just fear they feed off of - it's despair. It's not the dread of something that will or might happen. It's that horrible, heavy feeling that consumes you when something has gone very, very wrong and there's nothing you can do to change it. Dementors are grief, and despair, and the part of you that wants to just lie down and let all the bad things just wash over you, and swallow you whole as you rot. Dementors are...not the spirit of fear - they're the death of spirit."

Theo was looking at him in amazement. "I...I think I understand. But then - what is it that is your greatest fear?"

"I think...it's the part of me that...that wants to lie down and rot in the ground. The part of of me that's weak. The part of me...that is nothing like Voldemort." His eyes were closed when he said those last words, knowing that he couldn't admit it while seeing the tangible reality around him. And when he opened his eyes again, he saw Theo's staring at him widely, glistening in the soft light.

"Do you really hate yourself that much?" the other boy whispered.

"...what?" Harry breathed.

"Do you hate yourself so much that you think that the part of you that isn't an evil, manipulative monster is the weak part of you? That there's nothing worthwhile about you other than the fire you plan to fight the fire with?"

"That's not what I said -"

"It's what you meant."

"It -"

Harry froze. He couldn't say what he wanted to say. He couldn't say that Tom wasn't evil. He couldn't say that he wasn't just some one-dimensional villain. He couldn't say that his best friend, his adoptive father, wasn't a monster. He couldn't say any of that. All he could say was….

"It's not what I meant, I just - I'm tired. I'm rambling. I'm not thinking straight."

Theo smiled softly - though Harry thought it might have been the saddest smile he had ever seen - at him, and they stared at each other for a long moment, before Theo snapped his book shut and placed his hand on Harry's shoulder. "You should sleep, then."

Slowly, he removed himself from the bed, and walked quietly toward the door.

"I probably should," Harry said hollowly.

"Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight, Theo."

As soon as the door closed, Harry released a deep breath he hadn't realized he had been holding in. Closing his eyes, his hands found the tie around his neck, which he began to tug at - Sirius had insisted he was overdressed when they left for the Weasleys, but truth be told, after years of wearing rags, he rather liked overdressing.

Years of wearing rags.

The image of a small, underfed boy with messy hair and bruises on his face floated into his mind. The boy seemed to drown in the greyish, faded t-shirt he was wearing and the ripped, overstretched jeans that pooled around his legs, held in place by a cheap belt.

'This is your natural state,' said a voice in his head that wasn't Tom's.

"Maybe it's everyone's natural state," he replied bitterly without a thought.

What?

Harry was startled out of his reverie by Tom's piercing voice. He pulled the tie away from his body and walked over to his wardrobe, hanging it inside.

"Nothing, just...thinking."

Tom was silent for a moment. You do a lot of that, don't you, Harry? he said quietly, but not softly. More than I give you credit for.

Harry unbuttoned his waistcoat. "I've done a lot of things I'll never get any credit for."

And all the same you have done those things to your credit. For one day your deeds will accumulate into a great destiny, the likes of which no one has ever seen before.

"And if I don't make it that far?" He hung his waistcoat in the wardrobe.

What do you mean?

"I don't know, I'm tired."

It's late, you should sleep if you want to be functional tomorrow.

"No, not like that. I'm tired of…."

You're tired of what?

"I...I don't know. But I'm tired. I feel….thin," Harry said hoarsely as he unbuttoned his shit, before a small smile curled on his lips. "Sort of stretched...like butter scraped over too much bread."

Tolkien? Tom said, unimpressed. Can you not use your own words to express yourself?

"Why, when someone already said it so well?" he said with a shrug, shedding his shirt and replacing it with a thin white t-shirt.

Tom fell silent, but only for a moment. Perhaps it is these lessons with Dumbledore. It's no wonder you feel spread thin - not many can serve two masters.

Harry felt a jolt of anger run through his body, and he looked up at the mirror that hung on his wall, staring unflinchingly at the scarlet eyes looking back at him. "I don't serve anyone, Tom."

No, of course not. I misspoke. You are manipulating Dumbledore, winning his trust and gaining knowledge, just as he attempts to manipulate you. And you and I….we are partners, in this. We fail together, we seize victory together.

Harry looked away from the mirror and turned towards his bed. "Yeah...yeah, that's right."

Slowly, he slid under the plush green duvet on his bed and rolled over on his side. "Good night, Tom."

Good night, Harry.