Devils Dance, hearts wander. (Breath: 15)

‘Return to me.’ Voldemort had said.

Harry was rooted to the spot—there was so much blood—unable to process anything but the memory. His arm was on fire where Wormtail had cut him, and his vision swam just as it had that night. He couldn’t move.

Lockhart was another matter. He leaned in, about to wrap his hands around Harry’s throat when Tom’s curse hit him in the chest. He began to cry, “My heart!” while at the same time, another noise started. It was a strange, scraping sound. It tittered on the edge of awareness, and stirred the quiet attention of anyone present.

scratch, scratch. scrrrrr…

The Hog’s Head began to stir. As witches and wizards realized that it wasn’t an irate professor chastising two wayward students, they acted according to their character. Some leaned in to watch. Some leapt to their feet, fleeing before the ill luck could affect them. Then the whole lot of them saw the twitch of Lockhart’s skin, the tapping of fingers that grew too long.

“Expecto Patronum!” someone said—and a huge goat cantered out into the bar. The same someone started hissing a message at it, “—away fast. The students—” before something louder whirred.

The way Lockhart stumbled was like the Beast. It was as though that bloated thing and this shivering, furious man were two sides of the same coin.

Harry knew he had to act, but he couldn’t. The memories wouldn’t fade, but if he stayed locked there in that night, Lockhart could…

Watched Lord Voldemort rise again—

(let it drown. please, let it drown.)

Harry had thought he’d witness nothing more horrible than Lord Voldemort be given corporal form, but then a shadowy figure had edged into Harry’s sight, clothing tattered. His memory wavered like ripples on a pond.

Harry couldn’t tell if he was mixing the memories, or if it had happened again. The cauldron. Harry’s own blood—but then there was a boy, not the hideous snake man. And the boy was taken, tied, and bled at the monster’s bidding.

Tom’s mouth had moved. He had been a sacrifice, returned to Lord Voldemort at his rebirth, shackled to flesh and given voice, only to lose it again. His expression was one of pure loathing, and a single line of spittle dripped into the blood. Harry watched it fall.

Harry’s attention snapped back to the present. He no longer felt so detached, and started to breathe in the moment—he felt like he had before the Graveyard, almost. Harry lurched out of his chair, bringing his wand to hand. He thought briefly, ‘the good brand is a wand, and to strike down his foes is to Obliviate them.’ Lockhart had said. If he wasn’t a Death Eater (and Harry was sure of this), was he cursed? Imperiused? Or was it a different sort of coercion?

Tom stood languidly, watching Lockhart with feigned disinterest. He used his wand to create a glowing frame of light and cast it toward the professor. The frame of light widened above Lockhart’s head, and Lockhart froze, watching the ring of light.

“Do you seek to bind one of the fair-folk? To strip me of—” Lockhart said.

“You’re no fairy. Hardly a wizard at all. And no one’s stripping you of anything.” Tom interrupted. “Tell me. Speak; Lord Voldemort knows when you lie…so. Why is it that you told Harry of the cup?”

Lockhart shook his head and something creaked where his heart should have been.

Harry looked from Tom to Lockhart. “You mean Merlin’s advice to Child Roland? Do not drink anything offered.” Harry felt his brow furrow in confusion. No one had anything to drink.

Tom ignored him.

Lockhart grimaced and threw his arms out in a windmilling motion. “Wind which loves me, knows my true self, tear down these walls and crush them!”

Harry resisted the urge to look where Lockhart gestured, and felt the air against his skin with uncomfortable sensitivity, but no wind answered Lockhart’s call. He was relieved. Fair-folk were notoriously hard to banish.

Tom’s face twisted into a mask, his own feelings only betrayed by his ragged breathing.

Harry pulled his wand from his pocket and brandished it. “Stupefy!” His aim was true, but Lockhart still swerved out of range—half-tripped, really. Unnerving. That kind of luck usually belonged to Harry, not his enemies.

“Harry!” Hermione shouted.

Harry turned. By now Ron and Hermione had miraculously found them (perhaps they guessed Harry would be in the building others ran from). They flew into the pub, wands ready.

Harry felt like he could follow Lockhart’s every move—and see the grain of Lockhart’s wand, or even count the number of teeth shown as he raged. Harry sucked in his breath, waiting for the right moment.

Lockhart fell again as Harry rolled out of the way, and Harry timed his stunner with Tom and Ron. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Hermione scanning the room, casting some variation on Protego. Then he glanced back at the professor.

“Got you.” He said, smiling grimly. This time, Lockhart was hit.

“Has he been Imperiused?” Hermione asked, her voice unnaturally high. She wrung her hands even as her impressive shield-spell glimmered.

The barkeep was back, blocking Lockhart from view. He was taller than Harry expected, and somehow familiar with piercing blue eyes. Funny, how he hadn’t recognized those eyes…. “Students should return to Hogwarts immediately and explain what they saw to their professors. Now. Get out of my bar.”

“Dumbledore?” Harry asked, incredulous.

“He’s right you know. We should head back.” Hermione hesitated.

Another voice jumbled Harry’s concentration: “Harry Potter! To the castle this instant!” Professor McGonagall shouted as she put her hands on the door. She had barely caught her breath.

Ignoring the interruption, Tom glanced at the barkeep as he slid next to Harry. “Aberforth Dumbledore. I’ve checked the body. There’s a faint pulse, but something else is in the chest-cavity.”

Hermione shrieked, her hands flying over her mouth. She looked horrified. “He hasn’t a heart?”

“The Warlock’s Hairy Heart? Has he got nothing in there?” Ron choked.-+

“The Fairy have taken it.” Harry supplied. “He doesn’t know where it’s gone. He wanted us to find it for him…in return for a memory he took.”

Tom jabbed Harry sharply. “You don’t want that memory.”

“You do.” Harry retorted, but Tom was ignoring him.

Hermione dashed across the room, but Aberforth (not Dumbledore, Harry had to remind himself) blocked the man from inspection.

Nearby, Professor McGonagall took one look at Lockhart and shook her head. “You all have some explaining to do. Professor Snape and Hagrid will meet you on the path; go back immediately.”

Harry and Tom looked from McGonagall to the barkeep in quiet contemplation. Hermione was also resisting the demand to get back to school—she was entirely too concerned over the Puppet Lockhart. It probably wasn’t healthy to form attachments…

Ron took a deep breath. “Sir, maybe we should wait for one of those professors. We were all witnesses and—”

Hermione shook her head, watchful of their Head of House. “No, it’s no use for us to stay. We can see ourselves back; the path is well protected.” She shot a look at Tom, her expression too complicated to interpret.

Harry didn’t particularly care either way.

Professor McGonagall was talking to Aberforth, gesticulating toward Lockhart. She gave them one final look, casting a glance at the door before returning her attention back to the adults even as Tom pushed Harry out of direct sight.

Tom's hands brushed against Harry's arm. Harry assumed he would let go, or pull his arm to the door, but Tom... Tom took Harry's arm, and began to examine it. "How did this happen? I didn't see..." Tom traced the abrasion.

Harry winced and tried to pull away.

Tom smiled, and kept his grip firm.

"It looks like it's just a cut... shall I Episkey it for you?" Tom said huskily.

Harry blinked and tried to smile, but he was too distracted. The clear focus that he'd experienced in the fight was leaving him, and only a dull feeling of lost clarity remained— he could have done anything, interpreted any move.

Except, apparently, Tom Riddle, who was looking at him as though he wanted a kiss.

“It's fine... Madam Pomfrey will see to it," Harry awkwardly stole a glance in Hermione and Ron's direction.

"And look at that.... is this singed?" Tom fingered the edges of Harry's robe.

"Err... no. Well, it might be. But not from today. Are you all right?" Harry tentatively grasped Tom's hands, and began to tug at them. At last, Tom let go.

"Just bruises..." Tom touched a tear on his sleeve. "I got pushed against the table."
"His attacks weren't really all that effective, I suppose." And still, Tom drank in the sight of Harry.

Harry wondered if that meant anything. It could mean that Lockhart and Tom were on the same side, couldn't it? Or that Lockhart thought so. Well, maybe Lockhart hadn't really been on anyone's side... he could have been coerced. He seemed like a coercible person, really...

"Hermione and I are both fine." Ron said crossly. "Thanks for asking."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, I know. I saw you come in. And you know just as many jinxes and curses as I do, so I knew you'd be fine."

Hermione pushed past all of them, looking agitated. "We need to get back to Hogwarts, and quickly."

“We’re going!” Ron scowled, throwing a glance at Tom.

Tom didn't change his pace though. He kept close to Harry, and as they headed toward the village boundaries, he started up again. "Don't assume that you're safe, Harry. Just because he wanted you alive before doesn't mean that he needs you alive any longer. Take all precautions."

Ron bristled. "Harry knows that. And we'll all be together!"

"Wait." Tom said, guiding Harry off the path.

“Harry.” Hermione said. She watched distrustfully, but she didn’t say anything more than that—a quiet plea to go on.

"You're bleeding— just at the forehead." He stared, fascinated at the droplet of blood before reaching out and wiping it away. His hands were soft, his expression not quite something Harry could read. Gentle. Possessive? Alluring...Maybe all of those.

Tom traced the outline of Harry's scar with a fingertip. Harry flinched as his nail scraped the sensitive tissue.

"Stop it! You prat, that hurts!"

Tom laughed, his voice all low and purry. "Your scar... does it often bleed? It looked red that other day..." Again, his fingers reached to touch, but Harry stepped back.

"I told you, that hurts. Leave it alone..." Harry paused, considering. "You seem... strangely happy, Tom Riddle." Harry frowned.

Tom laughed again, and pulled Harry closer.

Harry resisted the urge to step in closer only barely. He cocked his head and imagined he could still feel that kiss.

Harry let himself go, touching Tom’s cheek, his hair, then mimicking the slow and darting massage. When Tom moved his kiss farther down, Harry let him. His senses prickled.

“You…are enjoying yourself aren’t you? About to fall asleep.” Tom taunted. Harry liked the sound, but not the implication. Sure enough, Tom pinched next, making Harry’s skin red.

“Quit.” Harry disentangled their arms, leaned in and nibbled at Tom’s neck. Right there, where the shoulder met…

“I can barely feel that.” Tom complained. “You’re just getting me wet.”

Harry experimented.

“Uh, Harry? McGonagall is looking your way.” Ron said under his breath.

Harry ignored him, too curious about Tom. "Does violence excite you? That's um...interesting. I mean, fascinating." Harry was surprised to find that he actually meant that, and began to frown.

Tom smiled wickedly.

"I didn't mean that," He lied, mortified.

"Hormones," Hermione grumbled. "You’d probably find anything attractive at this point. But enough about that! Keep up your pace!"


Next part, Tom Riddle, away again