The world started again in the hospital, where a ginger-haired boy stood at the foot of a bed, shifting from foot to foot and holding a little jar in his hand.

Harry couldn't muster the strength to tell him to go away. His mind was bogged down with thoughts of Voldemort, of Tom, of the two distant entities that he refused to consider one. What on earth was he going to do with this revelation that had destroyed his world and tore it inside out? He couldn't think of his parents without thinking about the Dark Lord, the murderer, his soulmate. He couldn't sit there and read the Daily Prophet without thinking, somehow, that it was all his fault. Suddenly everything rotated around that one, final, fact; it curled there like a dreadful black hole in the center of an expanding universe. Everything came back to this. Lord Voldemort was his soulmate.

People always turned to Harry when 'Dark' things happened: when the Basilisk was let loose, when Sirius escaped, when Quirrell made pain spike up his scar. How was he supposed to be The-Boy-Who-Lived when it was because he was the Dark Lord's soulmate? How was he supposed to look Neville in the eye, knowing he was the reason Neville's parents lay unthinking in St. Mungo's?

"Harry," the boy at the foot of his bed said again, and Harry suddenly realised he'd left Ron there for far too long. "Uh– if you're not feeling well right now I can come back later, but–"

"No, no," Harry said; it'd be good if he could take his mind off Tom for an instant. "Talk." He hoped he didn't sound pushy and commanding. Mostly, he thought he sounded weary.

"Well, um, basically I'm just really really sorry," it came out in rush, like he'd been bottling it up for too long, "and I thought you wouldn't be, y'know– well– I thought you wouldn't just want to hear me saying sorry, so I went looking for Rita Skeeter because she was being a huge bloody bat to you, and–" he held up the jar, where a curious little beetle was buzzing around in indignation, "I guess I caught her."

Harry leaned forwards, more interested than he'd otherwise have been. "How?"

Ron seemed to beam because his frien— Harry, was proud of him. "I basically found her and threatened her until she transformed and tried to get away, and I caught her like that. I kind of– you know all those books you leave around all the time about Animagi? I sort of got the idea from your books."

"You've been reading my books?" Harry asked quietly.

"No! I've been taking more out of the library because I wanted to get better. Like, in class. Like how you and Hermione are. And–" Ron cut off and continued as if he hadn't mentioned that last 'and'. "But yeah. Basically I guess I'm– or at least I'll try not to be... a right old prat to you anymore. I guess, I mean, your life really isn't that good either, Harry. You should see yourself now. I don't think I actually want that anymore."

No lies.

Harry looked closely at him, and now that Ron was talking and had shed a bit of his nervousness, he saw that there was this smile that kept creeping onto that freckled face. Maybe it was because Harry couldn't get his mind off bloody soulmates, but— "Did you find your soulmate?"

A myriad of emotions flickered through Ron's eyes, vanishing as quick as they came. "Yeah," he said, and then his smile returned, unhidden. "And I wouldn't give her up for the world." His happiness was brimming with love.

Wasn't happiness blinding? Hermione, now Ron. Soon it would be everybody. What a perfect world, where each and every wizard and witch was matched with someone equally as perfect. Except Harry. What exactly was he going to do? He knew he'd buckle under the weight of this great secret eventually. He couldn't live with and through the Light everyday, lying to them, knowing, in the pit of his heart, that it was all his fault.

Merlin, he knew it was all just a great– great– travesty. He watched Ron keep talking with a odd sort of detachment while his mind tried again and again to accept the new truth. Some sort of fate had paired Tom with Harry, the unborn Harry, and it had come to be a whole, vicious, cycle.

Ron left the room, taking the jar with him and promising to give it to Hermione to hold, while Harry lay there lost in his thoughts. Was Harry supposed to try to turn Voldemort to the Light? Like hell that would happen. Was Harry supposed to use this against Voldemort? Was Voldemort beyond redemption? Was he already so, so, broken that Harry's duty, now, as his soulmate, was to end him? Harry didn't want to kill anyone again, but if he had to… if Voldemort had ended too many lives already… Harry would do what he had to do. He would do what he could do. Would killing himself kill Voldemort? He wasn't sure it would, because Voldemort had already lived as a half for so many years and still survived. But could he manipulate the bond; use it to try bring Tom back, or use it to get close to Voldemort and then tear his soul apart.

The truth was that Harry didn't know. He would do whichever one, ultimately, was easier, and in the meantime bear a mountain of a burden.

Hermione came to visit him, later, and he asked her if she'd heard about the incident in the graveyard. Hadn't Ministry workers been there? Wasn't news out about Voldemort's return?

No, apparently.

Dumbledore told him even later, in his warm light-filled office, that they were members of the "Order of the Phoenix" — a group that had been central to resisting Voldemort at the start; the end; and now, the return. Their goal was to mitigate Voldemort's damage, apparently. To keep him contained, like a fireplace did a wildfire. Harry supposed they had done well enough this time. But couldn't they testify that to the whole world? They were trusted and respected people. Why wouldn't they announce to the Prophet that Voldemort had returned?

"Fear can rule men, Harry. They are driven into irrationality by it; Cornelius, especially. He clutches onto his love for his office and refutes all that defies it. No Pensieve nor word will convince him of Voldemort's return. He must see it and recognise the danger with his own eyes, and before then... we'd best not make enemies we could do without."

After the Headmaster told him that they'd attempt to pass the word around, in whispers and rumours, Harry let it go. Yeah, Voldemort was back, but some dark fearful part of Harry was grateful the world didn't know. No one would talk about Voldemort. Harry could try to ignore it.

"Harry— your mother also left you a powerful enchantment in her blood. Returning to your relative's home renews it, and it will prevent Voldemort from touching you while he means harm. But Voldemort did not rise to power without great cunning, and so a number of the Order will still be watching over you over the summer."

Nodding and promising to keep that in mind, he wandered back to the Quidditch fields he'd quit and saw the Gryffindor team flying around, laughing, Ginny in their midst. Ron was probably off fraternising with his soulmate. Hermione, Harry knew, was with Malfoy, drawing up terms to constrain Rita with. Harry'd refused to take part in the proceedings. He couldn't deal with that right now. He just needed time to think.

The Astronomy tower was always empty — not the corridors where soul couples liked to sneak into the nooks and crannies, but certainly the blustering, cold, battlements. The whole of Hogwarts was on view from there, and Harry couldn't help but think how pitifully less it meant to him, now. Would he even live to graduate?

Voldemort stirred at the back of his head. The man'd been feeling irritated all day. Harry didn't even have to guess what about.

"... power…"

"... powerless…"

"... power…"

"... powerless…"

"Ignore it. Later." in cursedly beautiful black script.

Harry wondered if Voldemort would ever stop obsessing over power and the lack of it when it came to having a soulmate. Throughout the days, it went like this: Voldemort would feel irritated at Harry's existence and his inability to prevent it, try to quell his irritance and redirect his anger towards his minions, but have bubble back up roil in perpetual anger.

The door to the top of the Astronomy tower flew open behind him, and there was a high giggle and then an "oops!". A pair of fifth-year students saw Harry standing there and quickly retreated, laughing with each other and apologising. Everyone was happy.

Everyone around him seemed to be happy. Even though Voldemort was back and even though Harry's life had fallen apart.

Harry watched them go wordlessly. Then he gripped for that nebulous feeling of anger in his head, and gripped hard. He hated this. He hated it all. So Voldemort had to take his parents and his future, too?

And if he got a warm wave in return, like the reassuring squeeze of a hand, followed a deep-seated feeling of shame, disgust, weakness, then, well... Harry would jerk back in shock and then laugh one of those self-deprecating, hating, laughs. He'd laugh at how tragic his life was. Here was his arch nemesis, a mass murderer, unwittingly trying to comfort him. Was Harry supposed to feel disgusted in return? Shocked? Or, Gods forbid, comforted?

Mostly he just felt helpless to be played as the Gods wanted him, and felt the residue of Voldemort's distaste.

"Stop." his hands read, "Stop. Stop. I hate you."

So Harry sat there, watching over his school and home, trying to pretend nothing was happening at all. Not in the corridors, where he pointedly avoided Neville, where he felt like he'd throw up if he heard people talking about anything involving the Dark, where people were just so blindingly happy, where people could act like the world hadn't changed at all. No. Nothing was happening. Nothing at all.

—

He knew it'd happened the night before, lying in bed in the Dursley's home, because euphoria had surged up in his head and his hands were flooded with ink.

"On today's news," Harry heard the television say. "A group of terrorists bombed the streets of London. Witnesses claim that fireworks were set off by arsonists. Although there has been extensive property damage, there are no reports of wounded or killed."

Of course not, Harry thought with a sickening dread. Muggles wouldn't be picking up the magical dead.

—

Dudley appeared surprised as he tried to get a rise out of Harry. The summer was searing hot, a heat wave rolling over the household, sending Vernon sweating in front of the television and the kitchen into sweltering heights. Harry had been advised to stay inside the house for his safety, but staying inside was a recipe for disaster, with the irritable Dursleys and little to do except for listen to news reports for any hint of Voldemort. He was itching to be out and about, with his friend's evasive messages (they were at a safehouse too, apparently, and it made him feel so stupidly alone; they wouldn't tell him what actually happened with that 'terrorist attack') and all these emotions boiling in his head.

To be fair, though, he probably had a better radar about what Voldemort was doing than they did. It was the loneliness that got to him, but that happened year after year, didn't it? Nothing new. Except– no Tom this time.

He could feel people watching him when he left. It didn't really matter, either way. So what if a bored 'Order' member saw Harry sitting outside the house and staring into apparently nothing? His hands were wrapped, as usual. While he itched to take off the wrappings and watch Voldemort think, it seemed to be a self-destructive activity, because then he'd feel miserable and angry and then Voldemort would involuntarily comfort him and then feel disgusted and Harry would feel conflicted and—

It was a vicious spiral. He just tried to ignore it. It wasn't as though he could do anything here.

"Hey, freak!" Dudley yelled again. One of the fat wads beside him bent down to pick up stones. "Aren't you listening?!"

A rock bounced off his arm. Harry was sitting on a swing set. Not swinging, just sitting. And apparently Dudley had no better amusement.

"Are you deaf now too?" his cousin sneered. His friends cracked their knuckles threateningly. "Useless."

No, Harry wasn't. He was so useful he resulted in the creation of a Dark Lord and killed hundreds and thousands.

Dudley stomped up to him, stomp stomp stomp — Harry watched him come — and then a meaty hand shot out to grab Harry's glasses. Harry's own hand came up in a blur to stop him. The glasses weren't to be touched.

Normally, at this point, the Order member on watch came in, disguised, to intervene. But that didn't seem to be happening today. Were they just getting a kick out of seeing Harry get bullied?

"You really want to do this, Dudley?" Harry challenged the pig-like face that was a little too close to his. "I think you're forgetting what I can do to make your life hell."

A crow cawed, loudly, and Dudley jumped and paled. What beautifully dramatic timing. Harry wondered if the Order member was there after all. "Hey Dudley!" one of his lackeys called. "Why don't we go hit Jono instead? He'll do our homework and give us food and stuff. This isn't fun!"

There were a few chimed "yeahs". Dudley ignored them.

"Oh yeah?" the fat boy sneered in Harry's face. "You think you can?"

"Wouldn't take much. I'd just take away your snickers bars."

"You're not allowed." the boy said, face starting to grow red.

"You know what I am allowed to do? Magic," he hissed, watching beady eyes narrow, "in self defense."

"No you're not. Mummy says you can't."

Harry glanced over Dudley's towering form. Dudley's gang members were nowhere to be seen.

"Well she's delusional. What would you know? Look at you. You're so desperate to prove that you're better than me because you're not sure you're better, Dudders."

The thing about being fat was that you had greater momentum. So even if Harry's hand came up to stop the fist that came, it wasn't enough. Like trying to stop a rock with a piece of paper. His glasses went scattering across the bark of the swing set and Harry had to cling onto the chain to stay seated.

"Who's better now?!"

Where was the member of the elusive bloody 'Order'?

Who cared. Harry was feeling vindictive. He wanted to both dish out hurt and feel hurt. This was normal. This was like last year's summer, and the year before that, and the year before.

"Come on!" Harry laughed. "You're so pathetic that even your friends've run away! Do you know how sad this really is? Does this make you feel powerful? Does it?!"

He suddenly had the eerie feeling that one of those sentences he'd just yelled had appear on Voldemort's skeletal white hand.

"I bet it bloody does," Harry continued uncaringly, watching the rage build in that scrunching face, "so keep pretending you're actually worth anything–"

He let go of the chain at the same moment Dudley lunged. They rolled across the bark of the swings, Harry scrabbling for his wand, his cousin furious, his meaty hands beating over and over again. Dudley was a weight on him, dragging him down, kicking and swinging.

His wand freed itself and he pointed it at Dudley's nose.

"Don't move." he warned. Dudley sneered, but the punches were held there midair.

"This isn't self-defense." his cousin replied. "You can't use that out of home."

"Don't push me," Harry said, half because he could see the hesitation in Dudley's eyes. Slowly, he felt Voldemort rise in the back of his mind like a wraith in an arctic wind. The feeling swept up through him in a trail of cold fingers and reminded him of a dark sun that stole light.

His cousin stiffened and Harry's grip on his wand steadied. "It's not me." Dudley said. "You're the one who's weak."

"Yeah. Nice joke. Grow a pair of eyes. Who's scared right now?" Harry said, backing away and stooping at one point to scoop up his glasses. Dudley drifted after them, the two locked in a standstill. Balls to Dudley.

He stepped out of the playground and was still backing away, holding Dudley at wandpoint when the other boy sneered, "Yeah? Then who's Tom?"

No. Violent jerk. "What?" He sounded confused, disarmed, and immediately regretted saying anything at all when he saw his cousin's eyes light up.

"Tom." He put on a high-pitched mocking voice. "No, Tom! in the middle of the night like a baby."

Suddenly, Dudley was right there, smirking widely. And he slammed his fist into the Harry. They went down onto the concrete, snarling and fighting with no sort of finesse at all.

"You have no bloody right to talk about—" my soulmate, my killer, a dead boy, "—him like that." Harry snarled. Dudley didn't know about Tom, didn't know anything, it wasn't fair that Harry was so goddamn angry, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to tell him cousin that Tom— that Tom was important. That Tom couldn't be joked about.

There was a difference between fighting fist-to-fist and sending a spell towards somebody. There was something primal about fighting there in the street. Every scratch was a victory, and every hit he landed ran through him and set his blood to boil even though Harry wasn't usually one to want that fiery brawler-rage in his veins.

Dudley caught his jaw with a fist but when Harry went down and rolled back up, hands clenched, anticipating the next swing, Dudley hesitated, looking pale, and... stepped away.

Then Harry realised the fire driving him was going cold.

"What are you doing?" The boy's voice started to become shrill. "Stop it!"

Was Voldemort—? Harry felt it too, filling him up with inky-black icewater. "I'm not," he gritted, but he went unheard when Dudley began to shout.

"Stop it!" the boy yelled, clamping his hands to his ears. He hunched over. "Stop!"

A voice faded in, radio static. His heaving breath gave way to shivers. Radio knob turned— the static became clear. It was screaming, familiar. "Not Harry!"

Dementors.

It slunk into his mind, a deep bone-rattling dread, the sort of dread when you're alone at the bottom of the stairs and anything could be in the dark. Irrational, primal. Fear gripped him in claws and he was so terrified he couldn't breathe and the world started to grow dark from the corners. Dementors. Here, here, where the muggles— where was the Order member, how—?

He made a strangled noise, the beginning of what would be a feeble Patronus, but it was drowned out by what rushed into his lungs like icy black lakewater. Somewhere, he'd fallen to the ground, wand clattering to the concrete by him. His mother was screaming. Voldemort was telling her to stand aside, the silly girl. She better stand aside. She begged, Harry's just a boy, he's just a little boy, you can't kill him, he's—

Avada Kedavra. Dead. Harry was in a tunnel, a dark deep tunnel filled with fears, and the only thing the light showed was that scene, playing over and over again in the distance.

Someone was pounding from inside his head, a whirlwind of razor-sharp anger, glinting with knife-edge panic. Voldemort can't produce a patronus. Frustration. But Harry couldn't tell if that was Vo— Tom's, or, if it was his own fear that oozed over everything else.

Harry hadn't even realised it was all dark now, and that through the darkness and the slow-slinking wind, a rotted hand was trailing up his neck. It slid up his chin; flaked, gouged skin rough and dragging against his own. It cupped his cheek and he heard a long dry rattle — death-rattle — like cut up esophagus and lungs, where the ribs shook with how thin they were and the skin shivered with each long breath.

Plague.

Dementor's Kiss. A kiss that would kill. A lot like Voldemort, Harry thought. A lot like Tom. The images in his head shifted to the graveyard, where it'd hurt like hellfire and his world was ruined the instant he realised who his soulmate was.

Tom in his head surged, and something like black smoke began to build in Harry's hands. Harry didn't see it. Only felt the stones in the graveyard again, the deep crushing fear and pain he'd felt when their bond had broken. Fear. He never wanted to feel like that again. So lost and alone…

The smoke curled into the shape of a snake. A snake and a skull, and it dripped with twisted magic.

The Dementor stopped. The tunnel vanished, but the feel of dripping sewers, corpses, split-open swollen mothers, the dust and decay of a graveyard, remained in his mind. Harry could see grey-loose dead skin and a formless hood in front of him, but his heart was beating in his throat as though it was half-way gone alongside his soul and Voldemort was roaring in his head. There was a smoky sigil in his hands.

A crooked peeling finger touched his face again. Emotions leapt into his head: apologies, grovelling, mistakes, no, fealty.

Voldemort trembled like a tightly coiled storm of anger.

The Dementor drew away and the darkness coiled around it in a cowl. Harry felt like he'd woken from a nightmare, its lingering touch still clinging. Dudley whimpered somewhere. It, slowly, dissipated with the wind. Harry tried to stand and fell, cursing when his knees hit the concrete.

Tom was on him in an instant. Worry. Anger. More anger. Disguised worry.

How had Dementors been there? And moreover, why had they stopped drawing out Harry's soul, stopped pulling it out like a gutting fish hook and hauling Voldemort after him-

Oh.

That was probably why. He looked down at his hands, where the smoke snake disappeared into a wisp.

Had Voldemort ordered this? If the Dementor — (thinking about it reminded him of its smell. His stomach lurched) — if it refused to hurt Voldemort, then it was probably under Voldemort's control. Fuck. What if Voldemort deduced that the same Dementors he'd ordered had targeted his soulmate, then? No. No, Harry would feel it if Voldemort realised. The Dark Lord was too mad to be that logical.

He attempted to stand again, this time with more success. His feet were unsteady on the street as his mind attempted to reboot. Okay. Damage control. Any Muggle could've been looking out their window. Actually, they would've felt the Dementor's icy touch too and fallen. He looked back at his bandaged hands, felt a familiar anger pulsing in his head, and picked at one of the wrappings where it was coming loose. There was a glimpse of a word, "-diot.", then the anger morphed into its usual deprecation. Voldemort was angry at his soulmate. Angry at himself. Angry at the world for being so chained. A little dash of hate. But for whom?

Harry shook his head. Nothing he could do. He was starting to wonder if there was anything he could do. Voldemort was known for being close-minded. Maybe when he got back to Hogwarts he could look for rituals that'd strengthen the bond so they could communicate more efficiently. But then Voldemort might discover it was Harry. The Boy-Who-Lived.

Those scrambled thoughts weren't for now. He couldn't just stand there on the street.

He padded over to the boy who was shaking, heaving Dudley up. Dudders was bloody heavy. And Harry would have so much explaining to do. Gods. What a disaster.

He looked around again, at the innocently empty street, and then dragged his cousin back to his home.

—

Petunia screamed as soon as he stepped foot over threshold. "Dudders!" she cried, rushing forwards and sounding faint. "Oh, Dudders!" But her voice morphed into a screech as she caught sight of Harry. "What did you do?!"

"Nothing," he panted. "Nothing. Just saved him from something coming to hurt me."

"What did you say?" Vernon appeared like a thunderclap over Petunia's shoulder, face contorted with anger.

"I said–" Harry began, but he knew it'd be no use. Dudley was just starting to stir, Petunia was white-faced and pale-eyed, and his uncle was a tick away from erupting.

"Get out!" Harry shrunk away, dropping his cousin. "You dare bring danger to my son? Look at all that we've done for you, and you'd- you'd dare hurt him-" His words were cut off by the door slamming behind Harry as he turned and sprinted out of the house.

It was degrading, crawling through the grass (not that anyone could see), but he did it anyway, tucking his legs in front of him as he listened to Dudley whimper through the open window. He'd just slip in sometime when Vernon fell asleep at the television and Petunia was busy in the kitchen. And forget about having dinner tonight.

—

It was unpleasant, the Dursley's yelling ringing in his ears with the baking heat and Harry sitting in his room with his head in his hands. He evidently wasn't quite as good at sneaking as he thought. Not without the cloak.

Voldemort was feeling prickly, a swelling ball of unease and uncertainty. Voldemort. Tom. What was he going to do? Just hope that somehow Voldemort grew fond of his soulmate and realised he shouldn't rise to power again? Harry snorted. Yeah. That was happening real soon.

He unwrapped the bandages. They were stifling and sweaty and just generally disgusting. The Dudleys didn't want to waste 'good resources' by replacing them regularly. The hands were empty. Harry had the nagging suspicion Voldemort's pale skeleton-white hands read "Hot". Maybe "Dementor".

Instead, he focused his mind on that snake-like face and its bloody eyes, only to realise he really didn't know what to say. Um, he thought instead. He felt like an idiot, heat that wasn't from the weather rising in his cheeks.

There was a bloated pause where Harry wondered if the words had turned up at all. Then Voldemort's uncertainty snapped into a clear cut knife of knowing.

For an instant Harry's stomach dropped. Had he been found out?

"A tool." Voldemort traced out on Harry's hand with his elegant sloped writing. "Tools are created to be used. Yet, as an owner, one must also maintain the condition of the tool." Another pause. "Weapon. At most pitiful, decoration." The wizard radiated a sort of smugness. Content. Finally, he'd settled on an acceptable definition of the issue that'd been plaguing him.

Harry internally bristled, his sharp tang of relief quickly obscured. As if someone would willingly take the Avada Kedavra a few times for a bloody tool. Voldemort was just conveniently overlooking a few key facts. Harry was not a 'weapon' to be used, not by the media, not by the Wizarding World, and Voldemort was delusional for thinking so.

His soulmate's content slowed to contain flickers of boiling anger.

Harry wanted to reply with someone like "except you can throw away a tool you don't like", but it might've prompted Voldemort into actually trying to throw Harry out. Again. Though — he thought about the scroll lying at the bottom of his trunk — Voldemort had done it once. Probably accidentally, or maybe he was weak enough to not want to kill himself again soon.

His eyes roamed the ceiling where the white was growing over slightly yellow. Voldemort had been angry about getting a soulmate again, yes, but he'd probably stop feeling that fury because he'd deluded himself into thinking of a soulmate as a tool to be used. Harry felt a sudden hopelessness. How was he supposed to save Tom, defeat Voldemort, if Voldemort didn't even… open himself up to Harry?

That sounded absolutely, despicably, idealistic. As if the greatest mass murderer would give a heart to heart with anybody. As if he could love anybody. Anytime Harry got Voldemort's sympathy or concern it was like a gut reflex. Like wincing to a sharp burn. It didn't mean anything.

Voldemort's smugness seemed louder, and Harry was, suddenly, swamped by a familiar anger. His own. He didn't know anything of what was going on. Not what his friends were doing. Not why Dementors were on the muggle street. Not how he was supposed to do any-bloody-thing and stop Voldemort. His soulmate.

There was a loud, firm tap at the window. Harry looked up to see a familiar bird clutching an elaborate letter with ink patterns down the edges and an intricate seal. A Ministry bird. Did they have an explanation for the Dementors? He crossed the room to open the window, letting the owl in to peck at the food he always left out for the messenger birds. It swooped over and gave a grateful hoot.

Harry was frozen at the window. The letter was open in his hands.

Mr Potter. [...] Questioning. [...] Please arrange for transport to a suitable venue, as the Ministry of Magic understands that you may not be comfortable meeting in a muggle environment. [...] Witness to A-grade Dark Arts performed on the street of Little Whinging—

His gut curled with dread. His mind filled with images of being locked up in Azkaban. They'd realise it was him. That it was Voldemort's magic. And then everyone would know. Everybody. Voldemort would know. People would call for Harry to be killed. They would use Harry and kill Tom. In fact, all that needed to happen was for word to get out that Harry had been attacked by Dementors. Then Voldemort would definitely be suspicious, and he'd match up the dates, and then he'd know-!

Another owl swooped in, dropping a plain envelope onto his lap. He tore it open, desperate for answers. What the hell, what the hell, he thought. This couldn't be happening. Please be a letter of rescindation.

We're coming to get you. Don't worry. Lupin wrote. Pack your things. You can't stay there any longer.

Fat lot of goddamn explanation that was. Harry ripped it apart, feeling the paper shred in his hands. The room was too small. Something expanded in his chest: panic that he thought he'd left behind on the street. He needed- something, anything. To feel less like a bird stuck in a cage, heart fluttering against his ribs. Dementors. Voldemort. The threat of being found out. Having to find some way to lie to the Ministry. Why the hell was all this going on? He felt Tom in the back of his head run a soothing hand over his turbulent emotions. "Shh, little bird. Little gun in the hand." rolled over his fingers.

Fuck off. he thought back.

He needed to hide his hands again before the Order came. The Order that hadn't been there when it was supposed to.

The bandages he'd tossed to one side were not an option. He threw open one of his drawers and dug in for one of his old shirts, tore it into strips. Wrangled it around his hand and tied it into a knot, then began throwing his belongings into random piles. Needed this, needed that, did not need any of these letters filled with platitudes... The owls gave him baleful hoots and then fluttered off, out the windows. When was the Order even coming? He paused midst the chaos he'd made of his room. Maybe not even today.

Well. Not as though anyone'd tell him. He continued packing.

—

"We're coming to get you" meant three days, apparently. Three days of Harry sitting on edge, feeling Voldemort sooth him like one would pet a cat, tearing up old shirts because the Dursleys refused to offer him wraps because he wasn't supposed to be outside, and feeling incredibly hungry.

"We're going out." Petunia said, opening the door and eyeing his room suspiciously. He'd stuffed everything under the bed. "Don't do anything stupid—"

"Petunia!" came his Uncle's voice from downstairs.

"—and don't leave the house." she finished in a rush, then the door slammed shut and Harry jumped to his feet. He was certain this was when the Order was going to come. And come they did, in the middle of the night, tripping over sofas and all kinds of shit. Harry was dozing in the living room when he heard them arrive.

"Ack!" He heard someone swear. "What— what on earth even is this thing?"

"Hey!" Harry yelled back into the dark house and felt the Order members lapse into silence. The lights flooded the rooms and Harry could've slumped with relief. There they were. Familiar faces. It felt like he'd be going home, getting answers, leaving this hellhole. Noise washed over him and, before he knew it, Remus was ordering people around the house to pick up whatever belongings of Harry were still locked away. Harry got up to help them, but a firm hand landed on his shoulder.

"Potter." It was Mad-eye Moody. The real one, this time, though Harry probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference anyway. "A moment, here." His mad eye seemed to be following someone's progress through the house as the other stared at Harry. "Look, before we get underway and you're dragged off by all your little friends, a few words of caution." He seemed to lean closer. "Do not mention Dementors to any of your friends. Don't mention them in the hearing. Stick to ignorance. You don't know anything that happened; we're taking you out because it clearly isn't safe anymore."

No wonder people were so tight-lipped in the Order! Harry opened his mouth to protest when Moody fixed him with a particularly sharp glare. With both eyes. "Word gets back to You-Know-Who and he'll know it's Harry Potter." the man growled.

Someone might as well have taken the floor out from under him. "What–" he spluttered. Moody– Moody knew? He couldn't think of how that sentence would've made sense in any other way.

"Look, Potter." Moody was staring again. "Innermost members of the Order know. We were lucky Crouch never got it out of me and that we don't have it down on paper." When he saw Harry's expression, he scowled. "What, you think we don't know what we're fighting for?"

"No," Harry managed. It was just that– How could these people know and not look at Harry like he was some sort of monster? It was inconceivable to Harry. The identity of his soulmate was his dark, dirty secret... and other people knew and didn't spit on him for it.

Moody just blew air between his teeth and moved away. "Come on!" he barked to the rest of the house, where Lupin was emerging with Hedwig on his arms. "Get a move on!"

—

The first thing that happened in Grimmauld place was that Harry was ushered away. Moody, Lupin, Sirius, Snape and a few other unrecognisable faces were sitting in chairs or pacing around the room while the doors were warded to high hell. Instructions for the hearing: plead ignorance. He didn't know anything. They wouldn't be able to trace that the magic had been produced through him, because it would have the signature of his soulmate: who the Ministry didn't have in their database.

"Wait. Wait wait wait wait," Harry said, and every eye turned to him. Their gazes were heavy and he couldn't help but shift in unease. This was probably why he didn't start demanding answers right at the start. "How did you know there were actually Dementors? Don't you want to actually know—"

"Mrs Figg is one of ours. She saw the Dementors." Moody cut in. "And we know pretty well what happened. Dementors come, you can't make a Patronus, and You-Know-Who steps in to command them away. That right, Potter?"

"Well– yes, it is right. But how do you know Voldemort didn't order the Dementors in the first place?"

At this, Lupin replied. "It wasn't him. He would send more than Dementors, and besides, he hasn't figured out it's you yet, has he?" The man was smiling slightly, as if hopeful. Harry tried not to look at him. "The person who did send them is a wild card, though."

Lupin knew all this time and he hadn't told Harry. Wouldn't it have been nice to know that there were other people out there? That Harry didn't have to sit with the secret alone? He knew he was being petulant in cold-shouldering Lupin and Sirius; of course they couldn't have written it down, or said it aloud unless they were in an absolute secure place like this, but even a hint would've meant the world.

"We'll get you an antidote for Veritaserum beforehand." Moody continued. "And don't step on any toes. You haven't given Fudge any real reason for him to hate you yet. Don't. He's just calling in all magic users in the area for witness accounts."

"Okay." Harry said. "But can I ask how you all know who my soulmate is?"

He saw Sirius glance up at Lupin and slide his hand across the table not-very-surreptitiously to take his soulmate's hand. Snape, who looked bored with the entire ordeal, didn't even display any change in expression. A lady who Harry didn't know thinned her lips. Moody just regarded him.

"There's a prophecy–" Sirius began.

"Sirius." Moody snapped in the same instant Snape said steely, without moving: "Black."

"Come on. Harry's been kept in the dark for too–" Lupin squeezed in warning and his godfather shut up, but it was enough. Harry knew why Sirius had said it. It's because he felt guilty, of course, and Harry felt a little guilty too, for prompting Sirius to spill beans like this.

Still, a prophecy, huh? He owed Sirius one.

The chair scraped against the floor in a horrible screech as Harry stood, and once again each eye turned to him. "Ok, great, okay," he stumbled over his words. "Brief– debrief done, right? You don't need me anymore?" No one stopped him, so he headed to the door with a horrid awkwardness hanging around him. "And– thanks, I guess." He heard Snape snort.

But Harry left the room anyway and Mrs Weasley was outside cleaning what looked a little like a shelf. Or maybe it was a shoe rack. She gestured for him to go upstairs, "They're all waiting for you, Harry. Don't worry, we've moved all your trunks up too." and he did, pausing at some points to admire the elf heads mounted on the walls and the dark, dreary atmosphere that clung to the place like a dying cloud.

Admire. Yeah right. He kept his eyes on the floor and hurried right by, so intent on not looking up that he nearly missed the door. He was here. Had to fight not to grin.

"Harry!"

And also a, "Hey, Harry," from Ron.

There was only a blur of brown before Hermione was clinging to him and dragging him into the room. "Oh my god, you're finally here! Can you believe it? We were so worried after we heard there'd been someone performing Dark Arts, and A-grade, can you believe? That's the sort that Death Eaters use, and they'd been right outside your house! You should've heard Mrs Weasley tear them out after–"

"Hermione, Hermione." Harry smiled, extracting himself. "Hi, Ron." he called to the corner of the room, where Ron was trying to arrange bits and pieces of something on his bed. "What's that?"

"Sirius gave me something and, uh. Fred and George broke it. Reparo isn't working so I have to try to fix it like a muggle."

"Harry, here." Hermione shoved something into his hands, and it was a newspaper clipping. Harry started. He'd almost forgotten about the 'terrorist' attack that he was sure Voldemort had orchestrated. "We know you've been dying to hear, so we saved this for you. It's utter trash, it is! We don't know what really..."

He tuned her out as he focused on the words on the page.

Albus Dumbledore throws accusations around the Wizengamot in display of crumbling perception

Last night, in light of a recent, harmless 'attack' involving nothing more than a bar fight, aging Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, raised the suggestion that You-Know-Who's supporters were behind the miniscule brawl.

"It's terrifying," one Ministry worker attests, "that a man so delusional is teaching our children."

It certainly calls to question the integrity of the once-famed wizard who was considered the most powerful magic practitioner in Britain; when surveying the extent to which Dumbledore has fallen in recent years, there coalesces a rather disturbing image indeed: formed through the activities he recklessly permits across the grounds of his Wizarding school.

Harry put the newspaper aside. He already knew what the rest of it would look like. "Do they mention me, too?" Hermione was watching him closely, as if afraid he'd blow up.

"Yeah." Ron said from the bed. "All the stunts they've let you 'get away with' show Dumbledore's crackpot aging, 'pparently."

"Well." He stretched. "They can't possibly get much on me. I'm prepared to be good this year." It was true; he wasn't going to run out and try to stop Voldemort's raids or something. That'd reveal him and do nothing. Harry was planning to... 'work from home'. The Prophet wouldn't get more dirty shit. Let them slander all they wanted on things they'd already slandered. He had bigger fish to fry.

Harry flipped open his trunk and was in the process of emptying everything out when something caught his eye. "Is that– a Slytherin symbol?"

Hermione and Ron simultaneously donned guilty expressions.

"Sirius gave you a Slytherin heirloom?" He crossed the room to get a closer look, and there it was, undeniably the Slytherin snake in all its hissing glory, etched on one of the metal bits Ron was trying to clip back together.

"I– my uh, they– They figured out my soulmate was a Slytherin."

The slander had barely fazed him, but now Harry's legs were threatening to give out. "What?" Ron?

His friend's smile was practically dreamy. "Yeah. Can you believe it? Probably the best Slytherin chick out of the lot. She's, like,–"

"You know what," Harry said hurriedly, "I don't want to know who it is yet, oh gods, I'll never get that image out of my head if you tell me now and it'll ruin all my exams–" and then he remembered, with a snap of guilt, who the other half of his soul was, and his clicked his mouth shut abruptly.

Blissfully unaware, Hermione and Ron just laughed and spent the rest of the day tormenting Harry as to who the Slytherin lady could be.

They never even asked him why his hands were always wrapped. They knew better, by now.

—

Although in the days leading up to the 'witness's account' Harry's guts felt like they were roiling around in his stomach and Voldemort kept smoothing out his emotions as though he were petting an angered cat, the actual incident started out fairly uneventful.

Mr Weasley took him to the Ministry of Magic, he didn't have the stomach to properly appreciate all the fountains and the glistening floors, the paper planes floating around and the magic whirling in the air, and then he sat in a small room with a bored employee who gave him Veritaserum and then asked questions. It was a private interrogation with an interrogator who clearly didn't believe the Boy-Who-Lived (slandered as he may have been), weedy fifth-year, could've cast incredible dark magic. Because that was what they were really looking for, wasn't it? The person who'd cast the spell. If there were any actual witnesses, they would've independently contacted the Ministry and offered everything they'd known out of fear.

Just a slow waste of time. Time, unspooling from their hands and dripping away down the drains.

Harry had it all well-rehearsed. He'd been muttering it to sleep until Ron had thrown so many pillows at him that the redhead didn't have any left to actually sleep on. "No. I wasn't there. I was fighting my fat cousin at home because he was trying to sate some sort of superiority complex." It was always best to mix some truth in.

The employee made some sort of mark on a piece of paper in front of him. They were separated by a piece of enchanted glass, surrounded by white walls, and probably overseen by some sort of recording device. "Are you, to the best of your knowledge, aware of any magic users that may have been present during or before the event occurred?"

The door creaked open just as Harry was about to answer.

"Excuse me." the employee said in his same disgruntled, monotone voice. "Please remain outside for the duration of this–"

"I am authorised," came a smug voice. Harry turned to see a squat woman in a horrendous pink outfit, fitted with heels that looked like they could destroy an innocent man's foot with a well-placed step. "Senior Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge. Now, if you would please, I have a few questions for Mr Potter here." She flashed him a wide, anticipatory smile.

The employee seemed happy enough to give way to the Umbridge lady, and Harry could feel dread pooling in him, starting from his toes, crawling through his veins as the employee moved away and fussed with some latches to let himself out from behind the glass.

Harry's hands weren't wrapped, for appearances, and so he was most definitely two seconds away bursting into a full sweat when the words "always panicking..." appeared on his hands. "noisy."

Help me, he begged back. Shit, shit shit. Help.

Here he was, trying to get help from Voldemort from the Ministry. It would be funny if Harry wasn't about to get pinned like a fly by this distinctly toad-looking woman. Speaking of, why hadn't Umbridge taken a seat yet? The employee had left. She was just–

He jumped when something wrapped around his chest. "What–?"

"Sit still." she said sickeningly sweetly, a threat dripping around her words.

"Hey, what– no way." He tried to twist around and level her with an indignant stare. "I'm pretty sure no matter what sort of fancy title you have, you're not allowed to tie people up."

"Oh, I'm not tying you up, Mr Potter. I'm setting up a polygraph."

A polygraph.

A–

He hadn't been panicking before. He was panicking now. His previous fears came crashing back in. She was going to find out he was lying, and she was going to dig out the fact that he'd 'used' the dark magic, and he'd be grilled until the truth came out about Dementors, and the public would inevitably hear, and with the public, so would Voldemort.

She strapped two metal plates to his fingers and tied them, all the while glancing back to hold his eyes and smile. Then she looked down, eyes lingering on Voldemort's fucking thoughts.

Help me help me help me holy shit.

"Now, let's get started, shall we?" She stepped away and slid into place behind the glass, pulling out a large rectangular contraption with all sorts of knobs, hooked up to the few cuffs and sensors wrapped around his chest, arms, and fingers. The polygraph.

Could he squirm away? Get it to somehow malfunction?

The machine turned on and little needles began drawing coloured lines on a paper that was churned out of the polygraph.

Where was Voldemort when you needed him?

"Mr Potter. Have you ever committed a crime?"

"Yes." he blurted. He was supposed to be under Veritaserum, after all. "Uh huh. Heaps." The familiar presence stirred at the back of his mind and he threw himself at it. Help me, Gods, help, Tom!

Her smile widened. "Have you ever lied to get out of trouble?"

Oh, fuck you, lady. "Yep." he said again. "You wouldn't believe." He hoped his blood pressure and readings were already so wild they'd throw her off. Tom, in the meantime, sluggishly reached forwards and Harry welcomed him with desperation.

"Did you take the antidote for Veritaserum before this questioning?"

Oh no way.

Tom slipped in, a knife coming home, his presence warm in Harry's mind. Calm fell over him with all the suddenness of night.

"No." Harry said.

Her smile faltered and Harry, somewhere far detached from his body, crowed.

"Have you ever stolen anything from someone that you knew was important to them?"

"No." Harry said.

"Were you the one who cast Dark magic in Little Whinging?"

"No." Harry lied seamlessly. Tom wasn't controlling him; nothing like that. It was just– with Tom there, Harry felt peaceful and whole. He had been a lake in in turmoil, but when Tom arrived and sat by the edge, dipped a foot in, the waters spun and came to a gentle stop in equilibrium. He wasn't stupid. He knew how a polygraph worked. Breathe in, out. Steady pace. His body wouldn't give him away because his wasn't not stressed.

Her hand slammed down onto the table and she pressed her face right up to the glass. "You're lying."

"No." Harry said, without any change in intonation, and the tightening around her eyes confirmed her bluff.

"Were you there during the incident in Little Whinging?"

"No." Harry said.

Umbridge stared at him, seeming to tremble. She ripped out the cords of the polygraph and Harry could only watch in distant alarm. The latches slammed open again and then she was on his side, leaning right over him with her bulging eyes staring directly into his. "I'm going to keep you here." she hissed. "I'm going to keep you here until that antidote wears out, and I'm going to rip a confession–"

Harry was tired of doors banging open.

"Harry." That was Mr Weasley, and by gods was Harry glad, because he didn't think he'd be able to squirm his way out if Umbridge really imprisoned him. "Your time's up, and you're–"

"Heh-hem. Senior Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge–"

"– designated to leave." Mr Weasley actually appeared to be grinding his teeth as he glared at the woman in pink. "If you want to keep him longer, you'll have to apply for that through 27 different legal channels. Now, Harry. Get that contraption off of you and we'll get going." Never had he imagined Mr Weasley would look at a muggle invention with such loathing.

Harry was only too glad to leave. As the door closed behind him, Tom uncoiled from his mind and slipped away, but not without an automatic last, lingering touch that seemed to say don't worry, anxious gun-in-hand. Silent weapon.

Then Harry's mind was quiet and all he wanted to do was sleep.

a/n edit: that Order scene because I used the word "order" a lot

hey, thank you all for you patience! this was a bit of a longer one to make up for my absence. wanted to pull it further to the get to the more tom/voldemort-oriented scenes, but seriously, i dont want chapter lengths to have too huge a disparity. and once i start writing tom i won't want to end the scene anywhere.

also wtf so many grammatical errors in my past chapters and stories involving dialogue. hell. i'd edit them all but the docs are gone now, and i don't want to scroll through the huge master documents and recutting and re-editing. if any of you were screaming when you read something like "She said.", it's ok now, whew, the worst is over.

so what have i been doing? ? a lot of things, but you probably dont want to hear my excuses and you probably hear them all the time so nvm lol

can't promise anything soon in the coming weeks & months! sorry ;~;