Chapter: 24

A/n: I loved this chapter. Sigh… I don’t know why, because it wasn’t action packed but because I love the dialogue between Voldemort and Harry… It’s so true… at least to me.

Even if this chapter is mostly centered around Voldemort…we get to see his change of perspective on many things. Like Harry, he grows up and matures in this story. Whoever said you have to be young to grow up? About Narcissa’s death; I did it for a reason, not just because it would give Harry pain. Her death is important for Harry, his family, and for Voldemort. She’s impacted many people with her death… as you all will read in future chapters. Well, mostly this chapter.

LAST NOTE: I would have loved to respond to all of your reviews, but I figured you’d rather have another chapter, huh? As for Voldemort crying last chapter, it was because of Harry’s Seer magic. Not on his own will. I just wanted to clear that up…

Chapter Twenty Four: Suppressed By All My Childish Fears

“Where is he?” he demanded, hurrying into the room. He eyed the empty bed. “When did she pass away?” Lucius stood stiffly on the other side of the room, looking out the window. The man’s pale blonde hair was limp, falling to the middle of his shoulders. “Lucius.” He hissed into the silence.

“Last night, a bit before midnight, My Lord.” The sun was rising. “The funeral is in a few hours. Perhaps you can look for him there.”

Voldemort stood still; eyeing his servant’s turned back. The vision he had, it must have been delayed. Narcissa Malfoy was gone and with her, her two sons, leaving only her grieving husband. And grieving, he was. He didn’t need his Match here to see the stark grief Lucius held. “Or maybe…” Lucius drowned on. “He may be in his room. You can look there.” The words were bland, no emotion.

Voldemort paused in the doorway, debating on what he should respond with. Scolding for not treating him with respect? Or worse, a condolence? He sneered, turning his heel and walking away. He didn’t deal well with emotions. Why sympathize for someone whom didn’t serve him as a valuable asset? Narcissa Malfoy was a strong woman, one that he used to get through to Harrison, but she wasn’t worth his grief.

Vaguely, he remembered the direction of Harrison’s room. If he hadn’t remembered, he used the muffled music as guidance. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the smell of lilacs growing closer. So the boy was here. Surprising… He had tried to find him last night when he heard about Malfoy’s disease and he had been unsuccessful. Either the boy was so lost and broken that he didn’t want to run any longer, or perhaps, he wanted to be found.

His footsteps were silent, not that it mattered. The room directly down the hall was open, spilling out both the rising sunlight and the music he had heard from downstairs. He eyed the blonde child sitting outside the open door. Lucius’ brat looked up, his face crested with tears. “And why aren’t you inside with your brother?” Voldemort murmured, standing at his full height before the sitting blonde.

Draco frowned, looking down in both respect and submission. “His emotions are haywire…as is his magic. I can’t be around him now, My Lord.”

The Dark Lord looked inside Harrison’s room. A bed lay upon a slightly raised platform, looking messy, but that was the only thing disorganized about the room. The floors were a white marble, the walls were a deep navy and the furniture looked a deep oak. He eyed the clothes strewn all over the floor. It was a set of Hogwarts robes. The Slytherin tie lay innocently on the bedpost, fluttering lightly from the wide open bay window.

Against the wall, a record player stood, its needle spilling out an elegant, classical tune. Crimson eyes drank in the rotating disk as the song ended. He sensed the magic around the table, and with a ghostly hand, the needle went back on track, playing the same song once again- if not a louder. He remembered it from the night before. The one Harrison and his mother had danced to before she collapsed in his arms.

Lips thinning, he looked back down at the blonde boy. He eyed the tears, feeling his stomach revolt. It was pathetic…and what was even worse- was his Match was probably worse off. Could he go in there and handle the raw emotion? Or would he be a weak fool and turn away?

Snapping his cloak around him, he glided through the door. He eyed the open window, stepping closer to the fluttering curtains. Thin and long fingers curled around the window sill as he looked out. As he suspected, his Match was on the roof.

For a moment, he felt his chest constrict in both pleasure and… something unknown to him. With an obsessive stare, he studied Harrison. Never before had he seen such a beautiful and corrupt sight. The boy was broken, yet he thought him beautiful. It was wrong of him, he knew, even with his twisted morals, that seeing a broken beauty such as Harrison wasn’t right. But he was beautiful.

The boy was in nothing but a tight black shirt and muggle jeans. His bare feet were curled against the roof, looking frightfully cold and pink. The sun danced across his pale face, highlighting the strict and stunning lines of his cheekbones and jaw. The random loose black curls had grown out slightly, falling into his eyes and around his face in a dark halo. There weren’t any lyrics to the song playing on the record, but the sinful lips parted and sang the words.

And Voldemort knew he’d never heard anything more angelic before in his life.

He ducked back into the room, calming both himself and his racing heart. His heart didn’t race for anything but gore and murder. It was impossible that a tiny, petite little boy could cause such an affect on him.

His hands were shaking as he ran them through his long hair. Harrison Malfoy was stunning, he knew that. Everyone knew as such. But it shouldn’t cause such a reaction. He shouldn’t think of something as angelic. His eyes rose and caught sight of the blonde brat looking inside the room in a curious sort of manner. Voldemort lifted his lip in a sneer. The boy paled significantly and hurriedly peeked back around the corner, out of sight.

Growling lowly, he gathered both himself and his Legilimency shield, and climbed out of the window.

The boy was humming gently now and Voldemort caught sight of a brandy bottle. Harrison gave a noise, sounding halfway as a sob and a laugh and took a gulp out of the bottle. “Drinking your sorrows away never helps, little one.”

Harry gave a grunt, already seemingly aware of his presence before he appeared. “I figure, if I can numb myself with enough time before-,” he cut himself off and shrugged. “I just need a little buzz, if you know what I mean.” The boy was clearly drunk.

“You look horrible,” he lied.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, kid.” Harrison motioned with the bottle, thrusting it in Voldemort’s face. “You want a sip?”

Voldemort sneered as he took in the drunken boy with narrowed eyes. Taking the bottle from the outstretched hand, he took a swig, making sure to caress the outer ridge with his tongue to taste the essence of his sweet. His throat burned as it went down, but he was well used to it with his many years of drinking. Giving Harrison a long glance, he took the bottle by the neck and threw it down, off the roof.

“I think you’ve had enough. You’re underage, anyway.” Harry gave a moan, looking over the roof at the smashed bottle of brandy.

“You bastard,” Harry spat. He wiped his mouth with his arm, causing Voldemort to give him a grimace of disgust.

“I’ve been called much worse.” He sat down next to his Match, looking out into the rising sun. How…precious. “Would you like to talk?” He murmured uncertainly. He sounded pathetic.

“Talk, talk, talk…” Harrison slurred back, holding out his hands and squinting at them as if he trouble seeing them straight. “I feel like shit,” he gave a hiccup. Voldemort gave a hiss of displeasure and stood up, intent to leave. The boy had his comfort blanket in the arms of liquor. He wasted much needed work time for nothing.

Just as he took a step to the open window, a hand clutched his robes, holding him back. He looked down and locked eyes with somber green. “I apologize,” Harrison breathed. “I’m not really drunk. I just feel better if I put my efforts into something away from her.” The boy sat back against the slanted roof, leaning on his elbows. “I’m sure you have no idea what I’m feeling, do you?”

He thought back to the dream, remembering the feeling of intense loss. “I think I have a pretty good idea,” he drawled, sitting back down gracefully. He knew what was coming up next in their discussion. Had he thought sixteen years ago that he would be comforting someone over the loss of their mother; he would have made at least a dozen more Horcruxes. “You loved her,” he shuddered inwardly. “She was the only solid figure in your life.”

Harrison bowed his head, his lips deepening into a frown. “She was the only one I could trust,” Brilliant green eyes lured him in. “She was the only one I could turn to because I knew she wouldn’t stab me in the back if I opened up to her. I could be vulnerable around her and she would still be proud of me.” Harry scoffed, looking away. “You wouldn’t know what that feels like, Tom.”

He sneered at the name but remained quiet on that aspect. “Look at you,” he started; motioning toward Harry’s devastated face expression. “You’re pathetically lost and in pain. Why would you put yourself through that? It’s better to keep your distance, it’s better not to get attached to anyone, because they’re going to leave you eventually.”

Harrison took a deep breath and leaned forward. Voldemort eyed the ribs and spine poking through the shirt in displeasure.

“You know, Tom… I was thinking the exact same thing.” He whispered. “But I’ve been sitting on this roof, realizing how wrong that is.”

Voldemort frowned, raising his eyebrows. “Oh really? And why is that?” He asked curiously. And for the first time, in a long time, he listened. Perhaps this little devil child was getting to him, but nonetheless, he decided to give the boy a benefit of the doubt.

“It’s fun to play games,” Harrison started. “It’s exciting and thrilling to be deceitful and Slytherin. Playing with your enemies is exhilarating… and knowing you have to look over your shoulder is exciting at times as well.” The boy frowned, looking over at him. “But you know what’s even better?”

Pursing his lips, Voldemort cocked his head. “What?”

“Knowing that you have a safe zone from that game we call life.” Harrison’s face crumbled, looking as if he were going to cry. “Coming home to that one person and putting your game on pause…there is nothing better than that, Tom. Being with that trusted zone you call your loved one is the best part of life. You know you can turn your back and be vulnerable around them without feeling the sharp pain of a knife in your spine…”

Voldemort frowned as he watched the boy rub his palms against his face. “She was everything to me, you know….” He snorted, looking up from his hands at the sky. “And I’m babbling around you of all people, the emotionless statue.”

He contemplated on the boy’s words, realizing that it made sense. “Trust like that is hard to come by,” he continued the conversation to where the boy left off.

“It is,” Harrison nodded. “Especially when you place your trust in someone’s hands and they decide to hurt you as you turn your back.” Harrison gave him a pointed stare and stood up.

Ah, yes, the ritual involving his brother. Voldemort gave a soft sigh watching as the boy made his way back to the window. No matter how hard he tried to be apologetic about the ritual, he couldn’t be. It was in the past and he learned from his mistake. If he had a chance to do it again, he probably wouldn’t, not when he knew how much family meant to his Match. But he would never admit that out loud. He only hoped he could some how show the boy he could place his trust in him again. With actions…

“You really are trying, aren’t you?” Harrison’s voice snapped him out of his contemplating. He looked over lazily and raised an eyebrow.

“You have no idea.” Voldemort drawled, smirking.

Harry’s mouth twisted into a smile, a smile that looked far away. “I wrote you a letter, you know. With your gift. A part of me wants to rewrite the letter again and rethink my plans… but…” Harrison trailed off, looking out on the Malfoy grounds. “But I can’t handle these emotions right now. I’m far too vulnerable at the moment. My plan needs to be followed through.” Green eyes looked back at him and Voldemort frowned. What was the boy thinking?

“I want to thank you, Tom, for coming to me. But I think its time for you to go back to your hideout and gather your gift.”

With that, the boy dipped off the roof and back into the room.

Voldemort stared out into the rising sunrise, contemplating the many things his Match said. When he thought he knew it all, new issues just kept…sprouting up, changing his perspective of things, even if he struggled against it.

--SSC--

“My Lord,” a Death Eater outside his home drop to his knees. “There was a messenger here for you; he claims he has something from a Harrison Malfoy.” The man shuddered as Voldemort placed a hand on his head.

“And where did you send this messenger?”

“In your throne room, My Lord. He’s waiting for you there.” Just like Harrison promised. Voldemort patted the head and swept off, curiosity licking at his stomach. Narcissa Malfoy’s funeral was beginning and he had no desire to attend. He’d already tried his hand at comforting the boy, and it appeared as if Harrison would need something far more than he could give him.

Slamming the doors open, he strolled in, glancing at the hunched over figure near his throne. A lipless smile crossed his lips as he sat down, crossing his legs. The figure looked up at him and then back down. A Death Eater? “Who are you?” Voldemort murmured softly.

“I am here in the name of Harrison Malfoy,” the boy was nervous, he could hear it in the way his voice shook. The figure raised a brown box, tied together with a green ribbon. Disappointed, Voldemort leaned forward and snatched the box from the boy. What kind of gift could fit in here that his Match claimed was better than Harrison himself? There was nothing.

Giving the shivering messenger a disgusted look, he pulled at the ribbon, watching as the silky emerald material fell to the ground. He breathed deeply as he opened the lid, looking inside. There was a cream envelope on top of the tissue paper. On the envelope, Harrison’s elegant writing splashed his name in gold. He took the letter first, hearing the boy at his feet give a rather loud intake of air. It was a rather thick letter, one he wasn’t looking forward to.

With a sharp nail, he broke the Malfoy crest and pulled out the letter.

Tom Riddle,

I hope this letter got to you alright. Believe it or not, I was a little hesitant to write this. Actually, I was more hesitant to send it with the delivery man than to write it. I’ve had this letter revised and redrafted for over a good few months now. This is the only way I can bring my message across to you without going off into an argument. You may even find it surprising that I’m actually writing to you, considering I’ve been avoiding you ever since that night of the Sadistic Ritual. But there are a few things I need to say to you and what better way to get my point across without your infuriating interruptions?

You see, Tom, as much as you’d like to deny it- or forget it- I have Seen your past, present, and future. I, almost as much as yourself, know who you are, what makes you…well, you. There is nothing to hide from me. I see all your imperfections and I see all of your perfections.

You’re a powerful wizard. I don’t really know how powerful yet, because I haven’t seen your full potential, but everyday I find myself longing to be around you, to taste and feel your magic. Odd, isn’t it? How I crave to be around your magic when mine and yours are an exact replica? And you’re handsome in every way. And you’re brilliantly smart when it comes to logical and magical theory.

Though your imperfections are what drives me away. Countless of times, I’ve asked you, pleaded with you to see me as your equal. It has almost been a year now and I still feel belittled by you. You have yet to apologize to me about my brother’s near death experience and for lying to me so entirely. I am a Seer, Tom. You are a cold shell. We don’t merge well…

We were never meant to be in a romantic relationship. If you could even call it that. You’ve slept with countless of men and women before me, I’m sure you can get by without me. That’s all you wanted from me, wasn’t it? Think of it as a positive for both of us. I, can no longer stomach your lies and betrayal, and you, you my dear Dark Lord, don’t have to change yourself and your nonexistent emotions.

You want to know the difference between us? I never go back on my word. Remember that night, during my birthday, you asked me a favor? You said you wanted Longbottom. You said I should try anything in my power to get him. Alive. How little do you know that I hate that boy with a passion. But you should have known that. After all, he was both my hero and tormentor as a child. He denied me the only thing I ever wanted. Friendship. And just because of my surname, he rejected me.

A surname even my bloody father is ashamed of me carrying.

The only reason I am writing you this letter is because I told the messenger boy that once you pick up the item within this box, you will become weakened. You want to know who the delivery boy is, Tom? It’s a young hero you’ve been salivating after. Neville Longbottom believed me when I told him by touching the item inside, it would destroy you. After which, he expects to kill you. Becoming the little hero the world has placed him as.

I hardly think he’d be powerful enough to even create green sparks from the end of his wand.

Honestly, I was thinking of truly hurting you. I wanted to kill you after I saw the burns on my brother’s skin that would never heal. I wanted to hurt you after you betrayed my trust. Instead, I am giving you a gift and a farewell. After my mother’s death, all I can seem to think about is leaving… I’ve gotten my revenge with the people that I’ve longed to get back at.

The boy is holding the Gryffindor sword under his robes and there is also another item within this box that I think you’d be interested in. Dumbledore was keeping it in his office.

I wish you good luck in the war. I’ve done my part. I’ve given you your fragmented soul; Neville Longbottom.

You have him now, to do what you please. I hardly see reason why I should stick around you, now that you have him in your possession… I want nothing better to do but kill him. Sadly, he carries your soul. And at the moment, I can’t stand to see another death.

Now, after you read this, I am to disappear and become what every Seer should be.

Neutral. I don’t know if I’ll survive where I’m going, but to me, at the moment, nothing really matters anymore.

Parting ways like this, you and I won’t have to struggle with this so called…relationship. It’s better for both of us, Tom. You won’t have to be pressured with trying to feel one goddamn emotion. And I, I will be free to spread my wings.

With a heavy heart,
Harrison Regulus Malfoy

Ps. Good luck with the werewolves...

Voldemort breathed deeply, feeling… feeling…

Hissing, he looked up at the boy. He watched as Longbottom shifted uncomfortably. “Did I say you could be in here, fool?” The boy shuddered, inching backward in a crawl. Voldemort pushed away the pathetic feelings of loss and sadness and replaced it with rage. “No, stay right there.” Longbottom froze, half lying on the floor, half on his hands and knees.

With his magic, he slammed the doors shut, giving them privacy. Turning away from Longbottom, he moved the tissue paper, clutching the letter in one hand. The first thing he saw was his Guant ring. The stone was cracked, showing Voldemort that it was destroyed. He didn’t dwell on that long when he caught sight of the next object.

He took the locket out, holding up the glittering Horcrux. The emeralds taunted him, reminding him of the symbolism… the boy was through with him, he no longer wanted to hold his soul close and protect him. His jaw tensed and his hand tightened into a fist, crushing the locket in his grasp. He breathed in deeply, shutting his eyes. That foolish boy… running when things were tough. He frowned, realizing what the boy intended to do. Voldemort snapped his eyes open, hissing in rage.

That stupid boy was going to the assassins.

Voldemort stood up, throwing the locket across the room in fury. Harrison, his Match…

“My Lord,” Voldemort had his wand out, pointing it at the Death Eater who dared entered without so much as a knock. “There…there is another delivery from Malfoy, My Lord.” Crimson eyes landed on the body that dropped to the floor. It was wrapped up in a blanket with a Malfoy crest on it.

“Leave me,” Voldemort grounded out, barely able to form words. Longbottom stood up, intent on leaving as well. “Not you, messenger boy.” Longbottom dived back on the floor, trembling. Once the door shut, Voldemort motioned his hand toward the body. “Unravel that blanket, now.” In sick glee, he watched Longbottom crawl over to his other gift from his Match.

“Hurry,” Longbottom whimpered as he started to unravel the sheet.

As the sheet pulled completely away from the body, Voldemort started chuckling, pleased. The face of Albus Dumbledore looked blankly up at the ceiling. A stab wound to his chest crusted over with dry blood, looking about the same width of what the Gryffindor sword would be. “Clever, sweet, clever,” Voldemort murmured. He was amused and would enjoy hearing how Harrison had succeeded in the old man’s death.

Longbottom turned away, lifting the mask and throwing up. “How did you like that, boy?” Voldemort questioned, smirking. “Unraveling your old fool’s dead body.”

“How…” Longbottom cried, turning to look at him. What a pathetic looking boy. “Harry said-,”

“It’s Harrison,” Voldemort spat out, walking closer to the boy. Longbottom stumbled backward, groping for something in his robes. He pulled out a golden spoon, clutching at it. Voldemort paused, cocking his head to the side, considering. “A portkey? Let me see… Harrison gave it to you, no?” He cackled, highly amused.

Longbottom shook, dropping the useless portkey. “He said- he said…” his eyes went to the locket across the room and then to the Dark Lord.

“One thing, foolish boy, is to never underestimate.” Voldemort leered as he came closer, reaching out to grab the boy’s jaw. “Harrison is more than just a pretty face.” Crimson eyes narrowed at his own words, realizing the meaning behind them. He cleared his throat, forcing his attention away from his vulnerable and weak thoughts. “You were manipulated, child. How does that feel? He lied, he used you,” he said in glee, watching the boy shake. “Tell me,” Voldemort mockingly caressed the sweaty face. “Did you taint him? Did you touch what rightfully belongs to me?”

Longbottom gave a yell, pulling out the sword of Gryffindor. His eyes were narrowed in determination, a damned Gryffindor. Voldemort was prepared for the strike and chuckled as he easily broke Longbottom’s wrist. The sword fell uselessly to the ground. “Tell me, Longbottom, did you touch him? Did you kiss him?”

He twisted the wrist around completely, closing his eyes in pleasure as he heard a crack. “Is that how he manipulated you?” He forced himself into the boy’s mind, seeing the flashes of the conversation of the night before. He could feel the influence of Harrison’s Seer powers and the power of seduction. He watched as Longbottom latched himself so disgustingly at Harrison, only to have Harrison to pull away.

Voldemort hissed in loathing, throwing Longbottom to the floor. “I would love to play with you more, Longbottom, but I’m afraid I need a part of you as an apology for my mate.” Longbottom gave a whimper. “Oh, you didn’t know?” Voldemort grabbed the sword, ignoring the burning on his hand. “Harrison Malfoy is my mate, and he has requested your death…” he leaned forward, breathing in the boy’s face. “And I can only oblige, can’t I?”

“No!” Longbottom screamed and squirmed as the point of the sword touched his forehead. “No!”

“No worries, Neville, I won’t kill you now. So… untactful to do it in a hurry, I just need… a piece…” and he sliced around the scar.

He laughed in glee as blood seeped forth. With precise movements, he cut a square around the lightning bolt scar, enjoying the screams. Harrison left him. It was unforgivable… he’d get his Match back; he’d stop the boy from leaving. If not, he’d hunt after the assassins until he gained possession of him once again. They would never be romantically involved like a couple of saps. No, there would be angst, there would be blood spilt. But Voldemort was willing to cooperate with Harrison if the boy agreed to cooperate with him.

If the boy wanted him to be his damn ‘safe zone’, as he called his mother, than he’d try.

“Ah, there we go,” he crouched down and received the piece of skin from the bloody mess. Longbottom whimpered on the ground, sending snot and tears all of the floor. “What do you think, Neville?” Voldemort asked, shaking the flesh. “Should I clean it for him, or leave it a mess?”

Longbottom whimpered through his tears, curling up in a ball. Saliva poured from his mouth as he spluttered incoherently. “Yes, I think that exactly.” He cleaned the flesh, easily revealing the lighting bolt scar.

“All for you, love.” Crimson eyes glittered.

--SSC--

“Where is he?” Voldemort spat, taking Lucius around the collar and hauling the body in the air. The blonde looked frightened, his eyes wide.

“He was stayed after near Narcissa’s grave-,” the Dark Lord threw him down, all but running toward the funeral procession. People who didn’t know him, didn’t look twice, but there were a few smart wizards and witches who gasped and backed out of his way. He didn’t care at the moment that he looked like an idiot, revealing himself out in public. The stupid boy was to blame… he’d punish the brat later on.

He gracefully weaved through the headstones, his robes flying behind him. Up ahead, he saw Harrison standing solo near a large marble headstone. In his hand, a beautifully crafted dagger was clutched in his hand.

“Harrison-,” he started, but stopped as he witnessed crimson blood dripping down the blade and onto the ground.

He was too late.

The beautiful boy whirled around; looking all but shocked he was there. And then those green eyes saddened. “You came for me.” He sounded confused, lost, unable to understand why he was here. The boy covered it up with a smirk. “Like a romantic love story. I would have never known you would act in such a way, Tom.”

“You stupid fool,” Voldemort hissed, seething. “When I get my hands on you, it won’t be so romantic.” They stood, facing each other. They both knew that nothing could be done; Harrison had already completed the ritual. “You’re running from me, you gave up so pathetically… that’s not you. You would have stayed and fought like the stubborn bastard you are.” Harry gave a smile, looking at the gathering wind.

“I didn’t so much as run from you as I did my emotions,” Harry said softly. “I am a wreck right now; no one can be around me…not with her dead.”

“Then you should have asked Pythia Zabini for help, child.” Voldemort scolded. “You think becoming an assassin will cure you? You’ll die if you try to be a Seer and assassin at the same time.”

“Those are chances I’m willing to take.” Harry replied back. His robes and hair swayed harshly in the wind. They both knew it was close.

“You’re becoming an assassin for the wrong reasons, Harrison.” Voldemort took a step closer. “You have to do this for yourself. Just because you’re angry at both your father and I, it does not make it right that you should be something to show us. You’ve already set yourself up to fail by doing so.” He thought he should try to warn the boy, to make Harrison see his weakness and exploit it.

“And why do you think I’m becoming an assassin just to show you? I want to prove to myself that I can do this, that I can win this challenge. I want to become a better fighter; I can’t allow a death to ruin me like it is. I need time away from all this.” Voldemort stopped inches away. “And just because you came to me today, doesn’t mean I’ll submit to you. My letter stands true.”

Voldemort’s fingers shot out and grabbed the boy’s jaw. “I wasn’t counting on it.” He caressed the Seer mark with his thumb, staring into his Match’s eyes. “You’d better come back to me whole, love. Or Merlin help me, I’ll destroy everyone who had a hand in turning you.”

Shadows covered Harrison. “I sent a letter to the werewolves,” Harrison spoke up, hardly able to hear himself over the wind. “They agreed on joining you until I get back, regrettably.”

“And I thought you were neutral.”

Harrison gave a sad smile. “There are many things that I need to figure out for myself, Tom. My letter still stands true…” he repeated again. Silly boy, he was only saying it out loud to try to convince himself. Harrison wasn’t planning on him arriving here, today, after his scheme. And Voldemort was pleased to know that he threw Harrison off his one way mind track. The boy needed to know who he was dealing with. Harrison wasn’t the only one with tricks up his sleeve.

He leaned down and crushed his lips against Harrison’s. It wasn’t gentle, not sweet like Zabini’s caresses were. His teeth scraped against Harrison’s, enjoying the small body in his arms. His stomach burned with pleasure and desire… it was so pathetic…

“I’ll come back,” Harrison whispered, pulling away. “And when I do, we’ll straighten out our professional relationship together.” And with that, the boy was drowned in shadows, warping and disappearing in the darkness, being pulled away with the wind.

Voldemort gave a scream of rage, knowing it was fruitless to try to get him back. Crimson eyes burned in fury, staring after the dying wind. He’d get the boy back. And he’d win this small battle between Harrison and him… he’d win it all.

--SSC--

Harry moaned as his body hit cold floor. The dagger in his hand clattered to the floor, slick with his blood. His head hurt, not just because of the impact, but because Voldemort had to screw him up. The man actually showed up in the graveyard and the man had actually comforted him on the roof of his house after his mother died… that wasn’t supposed to happen…

He opened his eyes, blinking in the darkness. There was all but a small light in the middle of the room.

His body shivered with the cold. “Harrison Malfoy…” a voice murmured deeply, if not amused. “It took you long enough to join us.” Harry frowned. They couldn’t know his name, could they? He struggled to stand, squinting as a man stepped forward in the light.

Green eyes widened. “But…but…” he stumbled over his own words, the first time in ages. “Regulus?”