Harry thinks Tom is not a man of war. He's looked into his reign and it is violent -- his policies are targeted and those riots he mentioned quelling do not always end without a body count -- but it's not war violent. His administration hates Muggles and Muggleborns, hates the poor, but refuses, adamantly, to do anything so egregious as a full on attack.

It's cowardly. It's entirely Slytherin, entirely Tom.

So when he slips out of the crowd, fury hidden in his eyes, he does so politely. He smiles and apologizes and excuses himself and it is weird, Harry thinks. That only Harry can see his blatant envy.

When he grabs Harry by his arm, the grip is outwardly normal -- loving, even -- but his fingers sink firmly into his skin. Tight and possessive and angry. Had he not just offered to let Harry hold his hand instead?

Harry is pulled into a hidden door and comes out onto the Malfoy's balcony. Tom releases his arm immediately -- keeping to his word after all, it seems -- and runs his hands down the length of his face. That is what happens when you do not release your anger, when you control it rather than letting it control you: It tires you. It tires Tom.

He leans his forearms against the railing, head down, breathing rough. Harry tucks his arms behind his back and leans against the door, whistling. He's set things in motion and now cannot undo them.

"You said you'd take me out if I was going to lose it," notes Harry. "Promised it, in fact. But it would appear you're the one who's going to lose it."

"What were you doing with him?" he grits out lowly.

"Draco?"

" Yes, " he says, pained. "What were you doing with Draco?"

Harry shrugs. "I was talking with him."

"And?"

"And," Harry tilts his head. "He offered to kiss me."

Tom grips the railing with white knuckles. "How dare he?"

Harry snorts. "Don't get your panties in a bunch, Tom. And, no, you can't crucio him, or whatever. I already punched him in your place. You can see the bruise yourself, if it'll satiate you."

For whatever reason, this seems to distress Tom more. "Why are you punishing me, Harry?"

"I'm not doing anything."

"You knew it would hurt me and you did it anyway and that, " says Tom, quietly, "must be some sort of punishment."

Harry's eyes narrow. "I am not owned, Tom. I am not off limits."

"I know," says Tom, sinking to his feet, wrapping his arms around his legs. "But can't a guy hope?"

Harry walks so he is beside him and lowers himself to the floor. "Did you mean it? When you said that earlier."

Tom looks at him. "When I said what?"

"That you would... hold my hand instead, if I wanted it."

Tom turns back to the view. "Of course I meant it."

"I don't understand you," whispers Harry.

"Not yet. I see no reason to be in such a rush. We have so much time together to look forward to. I... am on a continuous journey to understand you. Patience, my love, is a necessity."

"But," says Harry, (and it must hurt Tom to hear this. And Harry says it anyway), "I do not want to be here forever."

"I want you to."

And it matters more, of course, every time, what it is that Tom wants. Harry does want him to stay here and Tom wants him to stay here and so he'll be staying here.

It's not fair. "How can you listen to yourself," says Harry, "and not notice your own hypocrisy?"

"How can you?"

"I do not know what you're talking about."

"You do," says Tom. "Or, rather, you should. You hate me for hurting people unjustly, but you willingly and knowingly put Malfoy in danger."

"In my defense," says Harry, " you're the one endangeroing him."

"Shared effort, then."

Harry snorts. "Sure." He taps his finger against his bracelet and thinks again I do not understand you. Confine his magic, let him talk to whoever he wants during the party, then be angry at him for doing so. Tom, Harry realizes, is like him. Not in the sense that Harry is evil -- because Harry has morals; Harry will never be like Tom in the sense that he hurts or uses others for a cause so malicious -- but in the sense that Harry has spent his life at war with himself.

His love and his anger. The fact that he once almost killed his godfather and it's something they just do not talk about. The fact that Harry is okay with murder and not okay with letting other people know that. He is in constant turmoil.

Tom's at war with his want to give Harry freedom -- in the name of love... if Tom Ridddle can love, if you can call it that -- and his own possessive nature. Tom is trying. It can even be said he is trying his best. And Harry just... doesn't know to feel about that.

"I'm sorry," says Harry. "For almost kissing Draco."

"No, Harry," says Tom, sighing. "You have no reason to apologize. You are not off limits. I do not own you."

"But I don't like him. I don't like anyone like that -- and I don't believe I ever will -- and I didn't then. I," Harry says, shrugging, "did that to hurt you. To flaunt my ability to do not whatever I want, but whatever you don't. So. I'm sorry."

Tom goes quiet. "I appreciate it. I stand by what I said. Your time is yours to spend. And I am no dictator."

"You're pretty close," says Harry, cracking a grin, "in the political sense."

Tom huffs. "Maybe. But not in the personal sense."

"Am I special in that way, Tom?" Harry considers it further for a moment. "Was he?"

"Was who?"

"You know who." Harry chuckles at his wording, making Tom eye him oddly.

Tom does 'know who.' It was a farce to pretend he did not. "... The other Harry was, too. An exception."

"Did you love him?" (Those dreams he has feel like memories, feel real, and so does whatever he had with Tom Riddle.)

"I did," says Tom. "I believe he loved me. But it is -- was... not like I love you."

"Why are you not eager to have him home?" Harry cocks his head. It's something he's been wondering on and off since the start of this whole ordeal. "You love him. You've known him longer than you've known me. And he... he likes you. He's not so difficult to get along with."

Tom avoids the question. Harry is left to his own devices. "I have my reasons."

And he does. But that's not the question. Harry wants to know his reasons -- know the inner workings of the boy he cannot shake.

He does not say that. He will not be as presumptuous as to demand details without giving out his own. He wants to remain unknown to Tom and if Tom wants parts of him to remain unknown, too, then who is Harry to stop him?

He is no one. No one at all.

"Do we have to stay for the meals?" Harry asks. "Cause if I can pull out now, then, you know. That's preferable."

"Lunch, at least," Tom answered, comfortable with the topic change. (Comfortable and in acceptance that Harry needs it.) Harry groans. "It's common courtesy, Harry. And their food's good." You cannot order a party and a feast and then partake fully in neither.

Harry puffs out his cheeks. "I don't take to parties well." Nor does he take to these people well. "I've embarrassed myself every time I've attended one. And, you know. Five times make a pattern." He recalls stumbling over one of the twin's feet and then sitting out for the rest of the evening. He's not ashamed of his lacking performance... but that doesn't mean he likes people bringing it up.

"We can rest for a minute, if you want."

It's not perfect. It's not ideal. But it's Tom, trying his best, and Harry will take what he can get. "Yeah, Tom. I'd like that."

Tom silently holds out his hand for Harry to take and when Harry makes no move to return the gesture, he lowers it slowly. Kind. Patient. (Tom Riddle is at war with himself. It is the only war he allows.) "How are you settling in?" asks Tom.

Harry exhales deeply, ruffling his hair with his hand. Tom follows the movement with his eyes. "Roughly," he answers. "Though," he adds, "you already knew that."

"To some extent," Tom admits. "But even the best of spies cannot tell me your feelings."

"I thought I was a blatant person."

"You are," says Tom. "My spies are also not the most unbiased of people."

Severus is an obvious choice. Though the plural spies implies that it does not stop with him.

A castle worth of friends and foes and children, none of which trustworthy.

Harry hums.

"Would you like to tell me? How you are settling in. Because," Tom clears his throat. "I would like to listen."

What a fucking charmer, huh? And though Harry wants more than anything, for Tom to leave him the fucking alone -- for Tom to know nothing about him, for Tom to be nothing to him -- he also is fifthteen. He has been forced into a strange, new world where all his friends hate him and do not know him and where Sirius... bless his heart, does not know him, either. (Sirius never did.) He knows what he needs to know, what Harry wants him to know and the unfortunate part is that that's not everything.

It is not, he tells himself, because he likes Tom, or trusts Tom, because he does not. He is evil and a bully and a bitch and Harry is not and does not take well to those who are.

It is because he is young and lonely. It is because it's as good an option as any.

"I hurt Hermione," he says. "Or Hermione is hurt."

"Is she a student of yours?" It makes sense that Tom would not know her like Voldemort might -- she's just a kid. Just a thirteen year old kid.

Harry nods. "And she used to be my best friend. But... But something happened. To Ron -- another friend -- and I don't know what it is. And now she hates me. And I don't know what to do about it."

"Maybe," suggests Tom, "you could try asking her."

"I did," says Harry, he rubs his hands along the underside of his forearm, feeling the scars there. "She got... defensive at the slightest mention."

"So like you do," utters Tom.

"Shut up," snaps Harry, but there is no bite. "I do not want to ruin things between us with another attempt."

"Well," says Tom. "There can't be anything between you if you there isn't. Can there?"

"No," says Harry, quietly. "I'd guess not."

"Are you having fun teaching?"

Harry snorts, grinning, moving so he is lying on his back, his legs dangling between the railing, swinging over the ledge. "You could say that."

"I have heard there are certain subjects you have been more than passionate about."

"Like the arm wrestling."

"Yes. But I also hear rumors of a... what is it called? The James Style?"

"The James Formation," corrects Harry.

"Named after your father," notes Tom.

"Of course."

"Would you like to tell me about it? You enjoy it when you tell your students about it, too. Though," he tacks on, "I must inform you that such continued behaviour will force me into action. I can only allow so much before someone calls me to do something."

"Of course," Harry repeats bitterly. He's hesitant to tell Tom about the James Formation. It feels like something special, something that belongs all to Harry. He's spent years perfecting it,. Adjusting it. Putting it into practice. He named it after his father because he thinks (hopes, knows) his father would be proud. He tells it to other people like he is handing down a gift. (James and his Cloak.)

And, he thinks, a problem might arise in the future if he gives it to Tom so freely now. (if he wants to use it against Tom.)

But he's no coward, is a Gryffindor for a reason, and does like talking about it. So he tells him, "There are three main facets. Four, if the circumstance calls for it. I'm the Head. The Brawns, too, but that's not an official facet. That's just me. What I am."

"Official?" murmurs Tom. "You make it sound so professional, Harry."

"It is," says Harry. "To me. There's the Brain, the Head, and the Distraction. Sometimes, a Lookout."

"Only sometimes?"

"Often, the Distraction runs well enough. I am the Head. I sort through the people, organize the teams. Have the main plan and share it. And... Hermione is the Brain. She helps me. I am only a brilliant strategist when she is involved."

"Don't be so humble, Harry."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Oh, please, Tom. I'm not the sharpest crayon in the box. And that's alright. With her, I don't have to be. As the Head, I lead the frontal assault. Whatever is the main goal of the operation, I run, bestie at my side. The Distraction team -- which is larger or equal in size to mine, depending on what the situation calls for -- pushes their people toward in a different direction than where people are supposed to be looking. It is led, usually, by Neville." Harry groans. "Oh, God. Neville. But, er -- yeah. They distract. Pretty cool. And Ron is a lookout if we ever need a lookout."

Tom digests the information with a blank expression on his face. "What," he asks, "has got you so worked up over Neville?"

Harry frowns. "He's... hurt. I hurt him. My other half did. And I cannot undo it, what he's done. I look at him in class and he is huddled in on himself. Can barely stand to look me in the eyes. Apparently," Harry says, dryly, "I was a fan of corporal punishment. Me and Severus." (Two peas in a fucking pod.)

"I was under the impression you had no problems with violence." The same sentiment Severus echoed. Do these people not even slightly understand him?

"Not when there are people I have power over involved. I do not hurt children."

"Like the people that hurt you?" asks Tom. "Did they have power over you, the person who gave you that scar on your hand?"

"No one hurt me," Harry insists. "Because I was not hurt. I did not allow myself to be. Because that would be a loss."

"And you don't lose?"

Harry shrugs stiffly.

"It is okay," says Tom quietly, "to not be a winner every now and then. Everyone has their ups and downs. You are fifteen. You are scarcely the strongest person to exist."

"I am," Harry says. "I have no room to be weak."

"I can be strong for you, Harry. You do not have to fight alone."

"I'm not... Usually, I am not alone."

"You're not still," says Tom. Harry does not respond. Tom rises from the floor, sweeping the dust off his robes. He holds out a hand to Harry. "Come," he says. "It's nearly lunch. Are you hungry?"

"Always am," says Harry, taking his hand.

...

In Harry's world, Hermione Granger is a force of nature. Powerful, incessant, and impossible to avoid. She is always calm where Harry is always impulsive.

She likes to appear independent. And that's fair. Harry sees the appeal -- though he does not relate to it in the slightest. Despite her strong outward appearance... both her and Harry know that she's just as dependent as Harry is.

Harry being sorted into Gryffindor was a shock to no one but Harry. He'd thought himself a Hufflepuff.

In no conceivable way a Ravenclaw, sure, but even Slytherin was an option. He's not known for his self preservation skills -- that he can admit freely -- but is he not ambitious? Is he not determined, resourceful? The green would match his eyes and self.

Before then, he had had not much room for bravery. He took to Gryffindor well. He just did not understand the reason why.

Hermione suggested, in a small voice, one day that he was sorted into Gryffindor because he had to be. Hermione's only other option, when the Hat was Sorting her, was Ravenclaw. (She is the Brain, after all.)

So, she says, they were both put in Gryffindor so they could be together. Maybe it really is that simple. Wouldn't that be nice?

And Harry thought that Hermione does not show it like he does, but she needs him just as much as he needs her. She would be among people like her in Ravenclaw Tower. And that is the problem; that is why she was put with him instead.

The people she would get -- and does -- get along with best are nothing like her.

Harry loves her for their differences and loves her fiercely. (He loves her the most. His other friends are nice... but they are not Hermione.)

So Harry is wondering, in that time he allows himself to worry, how she is handling his disappearance. They are two peas in a pod and exist within a vacuum; one cannot live while the other survives.

He has no way of knowing if she is taking it as hard as he is, his replacement. (But, for some reason, from somewhere within his heart that is shared, he thinks it isn't well.)

...

A pro: The food is really good. He's never had anything melt in his mouth quite like this. The colors are so bright -- so vivid, so fresh -- and the quality, the price is both egregious and apparent. The rolls are hot and fresh, still steaming when Harry cuts on in half. They are topped with oats and come with seven separate different types of butter.

Harry loads his plate with mashed potatoes. They taste like and, surely are, made from actual potatoes -- none of that powders shit. An hour, at the very least, went into there.

A medium rare cut of Japanese Kobe Beef fills his plate, alongside lightly roasted hob shoots.

Harry's in heaven. Rich people have terrible taste but, man, they do not have it in food.

That's one of the one and only pros: This feast is to kill and die for.

Cons -- a much larger, much more comprehensive list -- includes the sitting arrangement. Tom's acting, for once in their life, like a civilized person. Keeping his hands to himself, being polite, offering to pass desirable trays of food down to him. The worst he does is spoon mashed potatoes into Harry's mouth like he's a toddler, but it's honestly tame when compared to everything else he's done so far.

No. Tom sitting near him is not the problem.

Bellatrix Lestrange is.

She sits right across from him, spooning feather light portions of food onto her plate, eating like a bird, laughing obnoxiously at everything Tom says.

Harry is fine with that. The flirting. If she wants Tom, she can fucking have him. And he's fine with her dieting that edges into disordered eating -- because it's none of his business, does not trigger or upset Harry, and he knows that telling a thin person to eat more is just as rude as they telling him to eat less.

Harry is fine with her flirting and her eating and whatever. It's not his business. Not even a problem.

But when he looks at her face, he sees remnants of the insane woman he tried to kill. The one that is responsible for him being here, the one that boasted, loudly, that she killed Sirius Black.

And he knows that the woman across from him didn't do it. In all likelihood, she's on good terms with the Sirius she knows. (Tom Riddle's men, through and through.) Harry does not know her. She is an imposter wearing the face of an inferior of the Lestrange insanity.

She makes tiny comments here and there. Gives his full plate looks here and there -- and she's in no way alone. Everyone around him takes turns on trying to embarrass him and they only fail because Harry is not easily embarrassed in general -- and is never embarrassed over what he eats.

He has worked hard to maintain his physique. Has worked hard to get to a point where he could actually stomach heavy amounts of food. Something so well earned is a medal of honor, a victory. Nothing less.

Commenting on his intake does not make her special. Nor does not warrant the unadulterated rage he feels toward her.

He grips his fork sternly in his hand. He chews his food in slow, drawn out bites. He tries to compose himself. It is a hard, hard thing to do.

"... and I'm just so sorry Severus could not join us today," Bellatrix is gushing to Tom, who listens with a civil (and fake ) look on his face.

[I killed Sirius Black!]

"Oh, it's quite alright," says Tom. "He has things to attend to at the castle. It couldn't be helped." A lie. Why does Harry think it is a lie?

Bellatrix shakes her head solemnly. "He's such a hard worker, he is."

[I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!]

"And what an excellent teacher is. I would want no one else to raise my children, if I ever did have them. Some are too lenient nowadays, that's what I'm saying. I am so glad he puts discipline back in the classroom." Harry is given the distinct impression of Aunt Marge, telling him he is glad they cane him nearly daily and is only sad it doesn't happen more often.

[I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!]

"I heard this one, " she looks at Harry, booping his nose once, "is going a different direct upon his appearance, isn't the right?"

Harry's mouth goes dry.

[I KILLED SIRIUS BLACK.]

"You've no idea," chokes out Harry. He grins and hopes it is charming. "I'm just getting started. Just wait and see."

"Teaching the students to defend themselves is, well," she giggles. "A bit much, wouldn't you say? Keeping violence out of the classroom is essential in raising domestic, independent adults."

"I don't disagree," he says.

But that's kind of my point, Bellatrix.

"Unfortunately," he glances at Tom, "I find that so do many others. My positon in the classroom is not guaranteed nor expected to be long lasting."

The things he can do in even just a week's time more, though. He's a natural leader and he's a fast teacher. It's alright. He does not have long but he has enough.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," says Belltrix. She sounds... genuine. Sirius would fucking freak.

I hate you, he thinks. [I killed Sirius Black.] "To be granted the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference, as the saying goes."

She preens. "That's lovely, really, lovely -- where did you hear it?"

"Muggle saying," he says.

Her face falls. And Harry feels a small vindictive joy to see it. Call something lovely, then figure out it originates from the very thing you despise. Classic bigot getting their ass handed to them -- deserved and righteous and wonderful all around.

And this is Bellatrix "I killed Sirius Black" Lestrange. Why should Harry care if she is upset, if Harry upset her? You cannot separate the chicken from the egg. Harry's found that everyone's counterparts (save his own, because he is no Death Eater loving monster) are different from who Harry knows, but not entirely so. It is like looking in a funhouse mirror.

She did not try to kill his godfather. She is not responsible for Harry's presence here. But she is a version of the woman who is -- so really, is his resentment that poorly deserved?

"Muggles aren't so... profound, normally," she says, wrapping a curl around her finger. "But even a broken clock is right twice a day."

"As the Muggle saying goes," says Harry. He does not break eye contact.

Her smile tightens. "Yes. So it goes. Their... standard, average body type is one flaw I can cite."

Tom can see the rage building in him. "How is Severus--"

Harry puts his hand up. "That's quite the statement to make," he says, not looking at Tom. "Considering that there are a large range of Muggles, of Muggles societies, each with different beauty standards."

"Most," she concedes. "I was referring to most."

"Most?" he asks. "Most what? Most European countries, most Asian, most African? Because I don't think, Bella, that your assumption is as on mark as you think it is."

She giggles, amused by his spark. "I can say Severus was right about one thing, then. You sure are passionate."

Harry spears another piece of chicken. He imagines it as her face. Tom's hand runs soothing circles on his knee and he breathes deeply.

Civility, he thinks coolly, is a ticking time bomb. He bites out, grimly, "You could say that."

...

Harry holds Tom's hand in his own tightly as they leave. If Tom is uncomfortable with the pressure, then he says nothing. He is likely happy Harry is touching him of his own accord at all. In Harry's other hand is his suitcase.

"I cannot believe, " Harry says, fuming, "that they would say that to me. Or I absolutely believe it's totally fucking in character of this place." And of Bellatrix fucking Lestrange. "You know I got bodyshamed by a thirteen year old the other day? Fucking hell."

"I heard," says Tom, lightly... regretfully.

They walk along the Malfoy's lawn, aiming to pass the anti-teleportation wards and make their way to the Ministry building.

"What have you heard about my father?" Tom akss, out of the blue.

Harry shrugs. "Some. I've heard more about you. I took my time doing my research. I think about the phrase Drco told me."

"Which is?"

"The sick, poor, and stupid. That's what you and your administration, your glorified oligarchy, aim to do, I've realized. Keep them sick. Keep them poor. Keep them stupid. It's written all over your policies."

"Hm," says Tom. It is not denial. "My father was different. He used to be President, too."

"Was he?"

"He was. He was a more... radical ruler than I. He was a man who experienced war in his childhood. It was all he'd known. It was what he was working toward causing himself."

"Before he died," says Harry.

"Yes. Before he died. Our terms, the decisions we make, are very different. There are particular parts, though," Tom grins bitterly. "That I figured old pal was onto something with. And for that... for that, I am sorry."

"What are you talking about?"

"He made the poor fat," says Tom, something distant in his inclination. Things begin to click together in Harry's head. "By making healthy food expensive and fattening food cheap, he created a generation of poor wizards who found it more affordable not to be thin. And the beauty standard... it's always been decided by one thing, Harry, all throughout history, and it is class. Rich people alway aim never to resemble the poor, and that's what this was. That's what this is. The rich now wanted to be thin and the middle class want to be rich. They fall prey to exactly what my father and I intended. The lower class is unhealthy and most for everyone else is, too, because my body type is only healthy obtainable when you have the time and money for doctors, for personal trainers, for nutritious food. Everyone is kept unhealthy. Everyone is kept weak. Subdued."

"You," Harry says, breathless, "are the reason people fucking hate my body. You are the reason I am disgusting here."

"Me and my father. Me and my policies and my administration and my people, yes. And, Harry," he says, pained, gripping Harry's hand so hard he cannot feel his fingers, " I am sorry. If I had known you were coming, if I had known that you would be here, I would have changed things the moment I feel into power."

"But you didn't," says Harry. "You didn't know and so you didn't change a fucking thing."

"I'm sorry," says Tom again. He's being genuine. But what worth is it, his regret, when he cannot undo what he's done? He wanted to subdue a society of wizards and he did it. And now the consequences are coming through.

Tom made this happen. Every comment about Harry's body, every bit of shaming, it all comes down to him. He is his father's son in the same way Harry is. You cannot escape your roots. Tom's tried and he's fucking failed.

"I did not want to rule over rubble," says Tom. "Not like my father did. But I never considered that ruling over anything else would be just as bad."

Harry's throat is dry. "Well," he says, blankly, "the best you could do is buy me clothes. To make up for it, you know." This will haunt him and the resentment already building up will be hard to scrub away... but Harry will use it to his advantage. He's always ready for battle. Always rising to the challenge -- whether he sets it himself or not.

"I already bought you clothes."

"Not the clothes I wanted, the kind I liked."

"Later," Tom decides. "I will buy you whatever you want."

Harry allows himself a small grin. "Alright, Tom."

They stop right outside Malfoy property. "Okay," says Tom. "Now let's go beat the shit out of each other." And then they disappear from the clearing with a pop, ready to do just that.