AN: I know this chapter is quite slow, but it's necessary groundwork for a lot of later development. I hope you don't hate it, and the next chapter should be with you within a week. Please review! :)

Chapter 27

It had been a somewhat unremarkable day for Lord Voldemort. He had spent the majority of the morning on the eastern front, talking tactics with a few of his closest lieutenants. Bellatrix was amongst them, as was Verona Selwyn, and the witches were discussing when best to utilise the innovative new potion crafted by one Hermione Black. Voldemort couldn't say he had particularly noticed the child before now. He had accepted when Bella had come to him requesting the bright, powerful mudblood be inducted into House Black; he'd given her the Dark Mark upon her graduation along with a score of other promising seventeen year olds from across the world. Beyond that, however, she'd been just another face in the crowd of sycophants. He knew that she was a close friend of one Harry Potter, but refused to accepted that he had noted this. Still, when the witch had come to him several days ago and presented the tool with which to take the east; the very place the rebels had made their stronghold, Hermione Black became a witch to be remembered. It helped that her Mother was thrilled.

The afternoon had been spent in Britain. There were several pressing issues that needed to be dealt with. Most of the process of government - the bureaucracy and ceremony of it all – was dealt with by an endless hierarchy of underlings. However, there were matters that required his oversight. He signed off on legislation, met with heads of state, and organised the new taxation schema for the Americas. As a young man, he had often thought of running the world. Sometimes he wondered, if he'd known it would be more mathematics than domination, whether he would have bothered.

The evening he spent back at his manor. Hermione Black was not the only one who was experimenting with new magic, and though the girl was a prodigy, Voldemort had been inventing new branches of magic since he was barely out of the orphanage.

It was growing late when the wards alerted him to a presence at the edge of his wards. Voldemort thought little of it; it was doubtless some muggle wandering past, who would be warned away by the strength of the wards. If it were a wizard, they might beat the aversion spells, only to be incinerated by the rather nastier layer of wards at the barrier. Anyone of import knew not to stray here uninvited. It was with no little concern then that he felt, moments later, the wards warn him that the stranger had entered the property.

Voldemort apparrated into the garden without hesitation, wand drawn, expecting an ambush. Lord Voldemort did not fear insurgents; they were a thorn in his side, causing trouble in their evasion, but he was the better of a hundred wizards put together. More. He planned to slaughter whomever dare cross the threshold. It was with poorly concealed surprise that he found himself face to face with the all too casual figure of Harry Potter.

When Harry Potter had gone missing some two years prior, Voldemort had assumed he had run away. He had been somewhat disappointed in the boy, not to know how easily he could be tracked down, especially wearing his horcrux around his throat. When he'd been informed that another of his horcruxes was with him – specifically the diary, imbued with magic more powerful and parasitic than any of his other failsafes – he had been concerned. The diary contained not only a shard of his soul, but the soul and essence of his teenage self. If it were not too dangerous to the delicate web of magic that housed his soul, he would have removed this essence long ago. It was dangerous; having the potential to gain form without the primary, himself, to guide it. It was also somewhat cruel to this shadow of his childhood self; it would spend eternity there if Voldemort were never to die. His concern was twofold. The diary had the potential to kill Harry; it had been designed to steal magic and energy from whomever it latched onto. Voldemort had pretty much been instructed by fate, and by his own intuition at that, not to let this young man die. At least not yet, not before he reached his potential. His secondary concern had been that were the diary to gain form, he may potentially face a coup from his younger self. Voldemort wasn't concerned he would lose; he was far wiser, more powerful and better connected than Tom Riddle had been. However, he might be enough of a challenge to force Voldemort to destroy him, thus destroying a piece of his own soul.

So Voldemort had looked. He had utilised his considerable, unrivalled magical knowledge to scry for the location of the diary and Potter. Alas, after two years, nothing had come up. For months, the boy had dominated his thoughts. He'd expected something to happen; likely a dead Harry Potter and a reanimated teenage Dark Lord to contend with. After so long with nothing, Voldemort had been forced to give up. Either Harry Potter was dead, or lost to the ether. It had been some time since the boy had entered his thoughts. He had tried not to let the mystery of his disappearance bother him, or let that he had missed the diary's disappearance from the Chamber go unnoticed.

Standing now, in the grounds of his manor, Voldemort felt almost like he was seeing a ghost. Except it was far more remarkable than that; one saw ghosts everyday. Harry Potter, he had assumed, was lost. Dead or trapped, unable to be found. Yet here he stood, casually regarding him as if this were a normal meeting.

The boy had changed too. Masking his surprise with a neutral expression, Voldemort cast the garden into light; activating several orbs with a single click of his fingers. Indeed, he had changed. The boy remained unmoving and unspeaking, as though he were in the presence of a dangerous predator, and indeed he was. Voldemort simply regarded him. He had changed quite a bit, in fact. The terrified boy that had cried about being sent away from his friends almost three years ago had been replaced by a young man. He had grown; at least eight inches or so. Though he was still shorter than Voldemort, he no longer dwarfed Potter with his height. The boyish face, though recognisable, had hardened around the jawline, and there was stubble there. His messy hair appeared more groomed, he was no longer an awkward youth still getting used to growing limbs, but had filled out, his new girth indicating strength. There might still have been a trace of childishness in his face, but it was somewhat negated by his eyes. There was where the most had changed. He had seen those eyes full of fear, confusion and awe. They had always been as open as any other child; as readable, simple. Now, however, they were calm. Amused, perhaps. Most importantly, the penetrating green irises were lined by a perceptible ring of red.

"Hello, my Lord," the boy spoke, flashing him a smile full of mirth. "It's been a while."

"Indeed," he responded. Perhaps one would assume he'd be angry at the boy's insolence, at his absconding, and perhaps he was. Yet his curiosity was overpowering. "The last time I saw you, I was telling you to remain at Durmstrang or face my wrath. I assume you've come here for the latter?"

He had said the word calmly, matter-of-factly, but any fool could have picked up on the threat. Still, the boy merely laughed softly, as though he had said something particularly witty.

"Ah yes," said Potter. "I've come to be a lamb for your slaughter, my Lord. Shall we go inside? I need to discuss my future with you. I find myself without a single AMGS to my name, and a two year absence on my CV."

A curriculum vitae was a muggle term. It was as though the boy were trying to irk him. Voldemort quirked an eyebrow, in disbelief at the sheer cheek. What exactly had the boy been doing to take the fear – and sense – from him?

"Potter, give me one reason not to kill you for disobeying me," Voldemort said, his voice low and dangerous. Profoundly serious. He gave up the pretence of civility; he wanted to see the boy fear him. He couldn't believe that whatever he had been doing these years made him think he was safe to goad Lord Voldemort.

A satisfying flash of something like uncertainty passed the boy's expression, though just for a moment. "My Lord. I think we both know death is not something I fear quite so much these days."

The boy had said this meaningfully, and a suspicion that had formed the moment he had seen the redness in those eyes were confirmed. Voldemort's gaze hardened. He had the sudden absurd thought that this was perhaps how Dumbledore had felt, when he'd watched Tom Riddle become Lord Voldemort. He cast the thought aside. Dumbledore had been full of misplaced pity; Voldemort felt only a mix of anger and interest.

"Horcruxes," Voldemort spoke a word he hadn't said aloud since he was a boy of sixteen, "do not protect you from pain, Potter. Would you like me to demonstrate exactly how many things are worse than death?"

Another satisfying flash in those eyes; this time it was unmistakeably fear.

"No, my Lord," he said, nodding his head deferentially. "One reason not to do so, is that I will prove most useful to you. I am not without skill."

"I have skilled wands, Potter, and less renegade ones at that," he said, his tone and expression still even.

"None like me," said Potter with that damnable grin once more, and then almost as an after thought, "my Lord."

"And where have you been, that you think yourself so irreplaceable?" Voldemort asked. Although what he really wanted to say was 'how on earth did you get away from my diary, and how did a boy who once snivelled over one dead witch come to make a horcrux?'

Potter seemed to hesitate, as though he hadn't expected the question. "With you, my Lord."

The making of a horcrux had not been without difficulty for Harry. When he'd first posited the idea, Tom had outright dismissed him. He seemed to doubt Harry was capable, which was rather offensive given Harry had grown at least as talented with dark magic as the young Dark Lord in their years together. After some pressing, Tom had admitted it was not his competence he doubted, but his ability to do what was necessary to make one. Harry had already known he was required to kill; he hadn't realised quite how complex and personal a kill it must be.

Tom hadn't believed Harry was willing to kill at all, in fact. Not the boy who had spent months grieving the death of Jennifer Simmons, blaming himself for an accident that could have been avoided if he'd been more attentive in his lessons. If he'd asked the right questions. Still, much had changed since Harry was sixteen.

Firstly, and Harry couldn't deny this no matter how much he wanted to, two years of constant contact with Tom Riddle had effected him. Although Tom had not yet become the man who would bring the world to heel, he was still ruthless. Some might think a young Voldemort to be bloodthirsty and sadistic, and there was certainly an element of the latter to him when provoked. However, it was more that he was perfectly pragmatic. Unaffected by the emotions of others in the pursuit of his goals. If he had to torture a pair of bullies to improve his life at the orphanage, he would do so. If he had to kill a man to ensure his immortality; he wouldn't blink. He confessed once, that there were times he'd made mistakes. The death of a girl by the name of Myrtle Warren had been an accident, and though the girl had been famously irritating, Tom had cursed his carelessness. Not only did it open him up to suspicion, but it wasteful. Tom did not waste lives, did not waste pain; all were tools to him, and tools were not to be used carelessly. That's not to say Tom was without emotion. Tom had come as close to loving Harry as he suspected the young man was capable of; the loyalty and protectiveness towards him was clear and tangible. However, if Tom had to steal to provide for Harry, he would do so without a second thought. If he had to bring him to his knees with pain in a duel to teach him to protect himself, he did so without guilt. Tom was complex.

Harry would never be like Tom. Even if he wanted to be. Emotions were an inconvenience to Tom, to be utilised if possible and dealt with if not. They were the life blood of Harry. He loved his friends; he hated those who hurt them. He had passion in all things, and though the years had taught him to stem those passions somewhat, they were still a part of him. Yet, the presence of the logical Riddle had forced him to make choices more rationally. He could still feel, he still held onto his convictions with a vicelike grip, but he could also pull back from them. See the world with perspective.

Immortality then, or at least the promise of a backup were he ever to be killed, had become more important to his convictions than his aversion to murder. Harry had a lot of time to think in the diary, to consider what he wanted from life, and the more he argued with Tom the more his opposition to much of the world he lived in was cemented. Tom was clever, eloquent, and very well-read. Unintentionally perhaps, he'd taught Harry much about the wrongs of the old order that his older self had knocked down. He knew that the wizarding world could not have continued as it had then. However, the more they debated, the more he was convinced that it could not continue as it was now either. Older muggleborns were treated as second-class citizens, despite having the same magical abilities as other witches and wizards. Squibs were cast away from their families. There was no semblance of consensus-based decision making. Lord Voldemort was the beginning and end of the law, and he with his Death Eaters could act with impunity. It pained Harry to think of it. Bellatrix Lestrange was like family to him; Lucius Malfoy was practically his godfather. Yet the Death Eaters as an organisation was as unaccountable and nepotistic as their fallen predecessors.

Some intellectual battles Tom had, of course, won. When Harry had suggested that Tom's belief system was very similar to muggle racism, even fascism, Tom had laughed this off.

"That's very insulting to other races, don't you think? I wonder what your friend Zabini would say?" Tom had said. Harry had been confused, and a little irritated. He'd rather thought he'd made a good point. At his look, Tom had continued. "Racism is a modern construct based on idiotic muggle misconceptions about genetics; especially fascism. The idea being that some races are inherently superior to others based on spurious metrics almost always developed by white colonisers. The Wizarding species, however, is objectively superior."

Before Harry could interrupt, Tom had continued. "We can turn stones into cats and make it sing with a few words and a flick of a wand," he'd said, deadpan. "It's no difference in culture or education, or even genetics in the muggle sense of the word. We are simply better; more. To compare the relationship between a wizard and muggle to that of a white muggle and a black muggle is to suggest that races really are superior to each other, and that we just ought to be nicer about it," Tom had scoffed. "Soppy nonsense. Fascism is illogical, inefficient and ineffectual. To equate having less melanin in your skin or having been born into this piece of land or that religion to having magic is utterly absurd."

Harry had opened and closed his mouth several times, before finally asserting. "Still, white muggles were cruel to other races because they perceived them to be inferior. You're doing the same thing."

"For one thing," Tom had drawled, irritated. "White muggles didn't perceive them to be inferior. They wanted land and resources, and painting those they wished to dominate and eliminate as savages, destroying their history and convincing the populations they encountered that the west was best loved by a God that had just been forcibly thrust upon them was a way to obtain that. Racism isn't merely a perception, it is a construction" Tom paused, looking at Harry as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Secondly, the fundamental difference being that there is no tangible, important difference between races. Racism, sexism, whatever else the muggles invent to dominate one another is always as ridiculous as it is insidious. Magic, however. Magic really is might."

They had stopped arguing shortly thereafter. Harry saw his point, understood it better than he ever had, but he wasn't entirely in agreement. As was the usual way of their debates. Still, the wrongness of the system they lived in had stuck with him. The desire to change things; the idea that he was as capable of doing so as anyone else, had stuck. If he were planning to change the order of the world around him, then Harry needed some insurance. A horcrux was not merely for some part of him to remain with Tom; that was just the most important part.

If he were to kill though, then it had to be someone who deserved it. Harry liked to think that all human life had value; the idea of killing someone even made him feel slightly ill. Deciding who could possibly deserve to die made him quite uncomfortable, as though he were playing god. A wrathful god at that. Harry had no enemies; no one that had wronged him enough to warrant such retaliation. The worst sorts of criminals were immediately executed, so they were out too. He thought long and hard on who it could be, who he was willing to sacrifice for this purpose.

"What about Michael?" Tom had even suggested, earning a poisonous glare from Harry.

In the end, Harry had spent a couple of days absently wandering the muggle world. He searched for a target, a victim, but no matter how low, or cruel or miserable a person he came across, he couldn't bring himself to think that it would be better they were dead. Not until he'd come across… Well, it didn't matter now. What was done, was done. Harry Potter had a horcrux, and it was only with mild disgust that he looked back on how he'd come to make it.

The days since had been very odd for Harry. For the first day afterwards, the pain had been so immense that he'd been confined to his bed with chills. He'd cried out in pain and misery, the feeling akin to his skull being ripped in two while Tom nursed him, unusually gentle and patient. Once that had passed, he had awoken to the strange sight of a second version of himself, softly conversing with Tom in their usual armchairs. It had sent a chill through him; as if he were in a place he didn't belong anymore, but very recently had. He imagined it was how Hogwarts alumni felt visiting the school. Familiar and foreign, all at once. He had gathered his things shortly afterwards, as arranged.

"You'll move as soon as I'm gone?" Harry had confirmed. "Just in case he looks for you… us?"

Tom had nodded, watching him with carefully guarded eyes. "You will be safe out there. You will remember everything I've taught you. Don't let your emotions get the better of you, Potter."

It was the closest Tom Riddle would come to 'I love you'. He embraced him, even as Tom stiffly accepted the display.

"I'm jealous of him," Harry whispered to Tom, out of earshot of this other version of himself who was pointedly ignoring them and reading by the fire. Harry knew, it being him, that this was an attempt at giving them a private goodbye.

"And soon enough, he of you," Tom said gravely. "Go, Potter. Shake the world."

And so Harry had gone. He'd spent a few days getting his bearings. He'd purchased new clothes with money Tom had stolen for him; he'd had a haircut. He'd spent most of his time becoming acquainted with this new feeling, of having a horcrux. It was exceedingly strange. Some parts of him felt more muted; some emotions more distant. Other parts of him seemed more vivid than ever; more focused. Although he could not know what his horcrux was doing or saying, he could sense it in some ways. He sensed there was a piece of him elsewhere. If he concentrated enough, he could almost feel the warmth his horcrux was feeling now, doubtlessly curled up in bed with the young Dark Lord. He adjusted quickly; forcing himself to focus only on the future.

It was with no small trepidation that he'd presented himself to the Dark Lord. One way or another, he would find himself before this man. Better to do it on his own terms.

The question had thrown Harry off somewhat. It wasn't that he hadn't expected to be questioned on his whereabouts these last years. Tom and he had surmised that Voldemort would likely know his disappearance had something to do with the diary, but the precise nature of what had happened was probably a mystery even to him. Still, the whole conversation thus far had thrown him off kilter. No matter how many times he'd rehearsed it in his head, this still wasn't following any of the scenarios he'd envisioned.

One thing which was throwing him off, something he had somehow not expected, were the similarities between Tom and Voldemort. Of course he knew they were the same person; they resembled each other strongly. Voldemort looked a decade or two older; he had shorter hair, a sharper jaw line and was taller. His eyes were far darker in colour, a deep red if one looked closely. Yet there was still a strong resemblance that somehow Harry had forgotten. His mannerisms too, had familiarity. The way his eyes narrowed; the way he held himself. The last time Harry had been in Voldemort's company he had not known Tom well enough to read the small idiosyncrasies that they shared. He was thrown off then to realise that Voldemort, though cold and imperious, undoubtedly threatening, was also clearly curious. Even stranger then were the differences. To see someone share so many things with the boy he'd spent years with, yet also have sharp differences. Voldemort oozed intimidation that Tom could only aspire to. Tom was powerful, but the air seemed to crackle around this man with raw power and undoubted mastery of the Dark Arts. Voldemort held himself as though he were utterly sure of himself in a way that Tom never had. Suddenly, the sharp surety of being far older, cleverer and more powerful than he had been two years ago left Harry. He struggled to get a grip of his own confidence.

"With my horcrux, you mean?" Voldemort asked, the look of sharp curiosity belied by the ominous threat clear in his voice. "So you were taken prisoner?"

Harry paused for a moment, taking a moment to steady himself. He was not as foolhardy as he once was, not as quick to rush his words. "No, my Lord. Tom and I-" Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Your horcrux and I spent the last years together by mutual consent."

Voldemort paused. No surprise crossed over his features, but a slight tightening of his shoulders suggested he hadn't expected that. "Spent the last years doing what exactly?" The words were crisp, calculated.

Harry's prepared answer seemed to stop on his tongue as he suddenly realised the strangeness of the situation. Harry had done many things in his time with Tom. He had learned old magick, dark magic and all manner of things. They had shared memories, thoughts and debated. Harry had learned to be calmer, more calculated and diplomatic. Yet all he was suddenly very aware of was he had also spent the last two years fucking a teenage piece of this man's soul. He felt heat rise in his cheeks, and he cleared his throat to distract from the unwitting reaction. "We were friends, my Lord."

Harry's attempt to cover up his discomfort did not appear to have convinced the Dark Lord. His whole body had become very tense, as though he were a predator preparing to strike. His eyes had narrowed and his jaw clenched in a manner Harry recognised as the sort of furious rage that proceeded Tom when he was caught unprepared, a thing he could never accept.

"Friends?" Voldemort said finally, his voice low and dangerous. There was so much weight given to that word, and the man spat it as though it were acid. He knew, Harry realised. With burgeoning horror he realised he must at least suspect the nature of their relationship.

"We were friends," Harry said, straightening himself and looking the man in the eye. He would not be so easily cowed. There was no use flinching away from this now. "Tom taught me a great many things in our time together. I found the diary in the Chamber, and upon realising he could not consume me due to the presence of your other horcrux," Harry gestured to his chest, "he began to attempt to garner information about the present world. Over time, we developed a mutual respect."

Voldemort's penetrating gaze did not abate, and Harry continued. "He began to tutor me. He prepared me for the IDC. After, at Durmstrang, I allowed the death of Jennifer Simmons to break me. I was unwell. Tom suggested I come and live with him to recuperate, and I did, and here I am."

He held Voldemort's glare steadily, hoping to convey a lack of fear. Voldemort closed the space between them and stared down at Harry, albeit not as far down as he once had. "Through your own recklessness, you have gained knowledge of me that no other shares. Bad enough that you're a Parselmouth, and bad enough that you seem to have a talent for flouting my laws, but this is unacceptable. I ask you again, Harry Potter. Tell me why I should not kill you; or better yet, keep you locked away in agony for all eternity, so you may not access this ill-made horcrux of yours."

The words had been delivered without threat. That was what made them so intimidating. Harry knew exactly how ruthless Tom could be, and Tom was merely the dilute shadow of Voldemort's childhood self. In that moment, Harry knew that Voldemort would indeed lock him away for all time were his answer not satisfactory. He did not have the cunning to lie successfully to Lord Voldemort. He doubted anyone did. What was left to him then, was the truth.

"My Lord, my relationship with Tom Riddle was that of respect, loyalty and... love. The relationship was mutual," Harry said, his voice flat and determined. He continued before Voldemort could interrupt. "I made a horcrux, in part, to leave some part of me with him for all time. It resides in the diary now. You know yourself, you know the young man you were. Do you think he would have bid me to come to you, to offer my talents in the building of your world, were I not worthy? I know that you and your sixteen year old self are completely different men. Yet I am telling you that with time I will only grow more powerful, and I am putting myself at your disposal. Use me."

He said the last sentence strongly, almost angrily, as though frustrated with his lack of ability to make the older man understand. Voldemort's expression had passed from distaste to bemusement and back into impassivity. For a long moment, they merely regarded one another. The moment seemed to stretch on too long, heavy with the weight of Voldemort's consideration. Finally, the man spoke.

"You will join the Death Eaters," Voldemort said finally, and Harry released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "You will tell no one of where or with whom you have been. You will be obedient to your superiors and you will be outstanding in your contribution to this cause."

Voldemort's expression was stiff now, as though he couldn't wait to be away from this conversation.

"Yes, my Lord," Harry said gravely. Subserviently.

"Fail me in any of those, Potter, and I will dispose of you in the manner you deserve for your flagrant indiscipline," Voldemort almost growled the last part, and Harry nodded, casting his eyes down. "And you would do well to remember at all times that Tom and I are indeed two different men, and the nature of your relationship with him is of no concern to me. You will be a Death Eater to me, and a useful one, and that is the extent of our interaction. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord," Harry said again, quickly. He ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach, in part because he did not understand it.

Voldemort touched his wrist, activating what Harry realised was a modified version of the highly complex mosmordre charm. "Bellatrix will be along to collect you momentarily. I believe she'll want to have a word with you."

Please review! Also, quick question, did anyone get that the last chapter title was a song reference? I swear naming these chapters is the thing I struggle with most haha