a]n: I said earlier, last chapter, that you would be getting a more detailed version of their… lay in from Tom’s perspective. I lied. No detailed smut. I’m a horrible, horrible person, I know.

Thanks to those of you who read and reviewed last chapter ;)

Chapter Twenty

The boy was completely out of it.

Tom stared down at the sleeping form of his Gem, wondering what the hell had just happened. It was of no argument that the child needed comfort and lured it out from Tom the only way he knew how. Sex.

A week earlier, Harry had warned Tom not to push him in their physical relationship. And who broke that warning? The very same one who issued it. Somewhere, deep inside Tom, knew Harry still might have not been ready for this next step in their relationship. The boy had been in a mental breakdown. He had been vulnerable and weak. And Tom had felt no guilt taking advantage of that. He could be labeled as a bastard for taking advantage, yes, but he wanted this more than he could possibly admit to himself.

And it had been…

There really was no word to describe what had happened.

Tom blinked at Harry’s face before turning on his back and staring up at the ceiling. His body shook of small tremors and he was thankful Harry was unconscious. His legs, his chest, his stomach, even his hands were shaking. His eyes were wide and dilated with the after affects of the burning lust and passion. Not even the battle today had worn him out this much. This…

Tom swallowed thickly, rising from his position on the bed and quietly walking to the bathroom. His fingers splayed the soft fabric of cotton before he wrapped his lower half in the towel.

As he approached the sink, his hands laid upon the cool countertop as he leaned forward toward the mirror. The man looking back at him looked far from a Dark Lord. Instead, he appeared lost, confused, and exhausted. It wasn’t a surprise, not after his encounter with Harry. No one had ever made him feel like that in bed. Tom may have been on top, the more experienced, but he certainly felt as if Harry was the one taking advantage tonight.

The boy’s fingers were clumsy, bringing a sense of innocence to their rather heated exchange. But with each touch, Tom felt Harry’s magic shock the length of his body. It had been erotic, a painful passion that Tom could barely handle. He had released his climax inside Harry much quicker and more violent than he intended to. It was as if he were a virgin a second time. Nothing could have prepared him for the interaction.

It was if he had been making love to power and magic itself.

“Troubles?”

Tom’s crimson eyes slit as he eyed the portrait which appeared on the bathroom wall. “Must you snoop all the time?” Salazar Slytherin’s portrait was magically able to move itself around, no matter where it was. It was both useful and an utter annoyance on Tom’s part. “The bathroom, in my opinion, is a rather private place for a pompous portrait like yourself.”

Salazar’s green eyes mocked Tom from where he sat. With an exaggerated look at the bedroom where Harry was sleeping, the old Founder looked back at Tom. “I came to you earlier tonight to ask you about the battle, but I had come at a bad time- it appeared. Now is as good as any. You aren’t… preoccupied.” A sly smile spread across Salazar’s face.

Ignoring the jab, Tom straightened from the mirror, keeping his eyes on Salazar through the reflection. Seeing the green eyes of Salazar reminded Tom vividly of Harry’s wonder-like stare as he thrust into him.

“It went smoothly. There were casualties, but not nearly as much as the Light.” His lips quirked as he remembered. “Harry brought a large advantage to our side. A very devastating blow to the Light. Our army is recovering at the lair. The reporters should be getting their story ready for tomorrow’s paper.” He paused. “We may need to strike the Ministry a bit earlier than expected. Once the story comes out to the public I don’t want the Ministry to come up with an ultimatum.”

Salazar gave a pleased hum, his eyes tracing over the sweaty and scratched form of Tom. “It appears as if you received your own win.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. He turned away from the mirror and caught Salazar’s eye. “That is none of your concern,” he hissed.

The man’s eyebrows heightened. “Despite the sickeningly sweet glow around you, you seem tentative. What could be uncertain about bonding with a Magus?”

Tom hissed again, turning away from Salazar. Clenching his jaw, he wondered when he grew an emotional attachment to his ancestor. “It’s complicated,” he started softly, studying his fingers just briefly before turning back to Salazar. “I feel different with Harry. He’s not like the others I’ve slept with. I feel for him like he’s my son.” Salazar’s eyebrows hitched up further, near his hairline. Before he could speak, Tom continued. “However, I hold sexual feelings for him.” Tom smirked, his eyes coming alive. “Tonight didn’t quell those feelings. In fact, they only heightened them.”

For a moment, Salazar studied Tom silently before his mouth twitched. “My boy, it appears as if you have finally discovered love.”

Tom flinched backwards, a disgusted grimace on his mouth. “Love?” He drawled. “I do not love, I’m incapable of love. I was conceived in an act of coercion, rather than love. My mother used a love potion to lure my Muggle father.” He slowed down his breathing, unable to think more on his parents.

“That may be true, Tom, but there is always an exception. And it wouldn’t be a surprise if a Magus was the one to prove you wrong.” Salazar cocked his head to the side, eyeing Tom. “You care for the boy, almost as strong as the bond between father and son. Yet you harbor lust and primitive urges for him. This one time, Tom, you may accept love. Harry will not be a weakness. He’s a Magus.”

Tom remained silent.

“Think on it, boy. Congratulations on the win, I’m sure you will snag the final battle.” With that, the portrait disappeared, leaving a silent a brooding Tom.

--CBS--

He groaned.

He felt sore.

Harry turned his face and buried it in the pillow next to him. He was well aware of the warm body next to him, and quite frankly, he was surprised that Tom had stayed long enough to be here when Harry got up. He half expected the man to disappear right after they… had sex.

Heat flushed across his cheeks and neck as he remembered what happened last night. It was still a haze, but he remembered the way Tom held him securely and possessively. He remembered Tom searching his body for the most sensitive spots and he remembered the seductive Parseltongue words as they were hissed in his ear. And he also remembered the pleasure that had accompanied the pain of being entered the first time.

A chuckle danced near his ear as the body next to him inched closer, almost suffocating him. “I know you’re awake. You’ve slept long enough.”

Harry cracked his eyes open, eyeing Tom. The man didn’t look closed off like Harry would expect him to be. Instead, Tom looked like his usual self, if not more smug. And that was saying something.

“Do you regret it?” Tom asked casually. His crimson eyes were like that of freshly spilt blood as they traced over Harry’s face.

The younger wizard sat up, the covers pooling around his naked waist. Lifting his chin, he met the eyes head on. “I regret it as much as you do, Tom,” he murmured truthfully. The fact of the matter was he didn’t regret last night at all. Tom was his anchor. And Harry had wanted to be as close to the man as possible.

Looking at the Dark Lord now, Harry realized he still wanted to be close.

“Good,” Voldemort purred. “I look forward to our next encounter.” Harry’s eyes widened as Voldemort turned away, grabbing something from the bedside table. “I want you to eat. You’ve been using a lot of energy in the battles and in training.”

“Breakfast in bed,” Harry smiled brightly at Tom, oddly not feeling shy and self-conscious around the man after their interactions last night. “You’re too sweet.”

Crimson eyes narrowed. “Don’t get use to it, Potter.”

Glancing down at the tray, he bypassed the large glass of milk and the plateful of sausage and pancakes, favoring the thick stack of papers. Green eyes widened and he looked up at Tom in surprise. “Is this… is this it?” Tom’s eyebrows heightened and a smirk played his lips. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. Harry’s left hand quickly reached for the stack of parchments, unfolding the first.

It was the Prophet and on the first page, Harry’s eyes traced over the moving picture of himself. His body started to shake from his overwhelming emotions as he watched the thin prisoner boy launch himself in his arms. The emotion spreading across the boy’s face was that of pure gratitude, the haunting shadows disappearing for just those few seconds in Harry’s arms.

He didn’t even need to read the article as he launched himself at Tom. The glass of milk spilt, staining the bed and their bodies. “You did it,” Harry whispered breathlessly, his lips touching Tom’s jaw a bit hesitantly, yet his exuberance gave him enough confidence.

Tom made a noise in his chest, rivaling that of a purr. His fingers, long and cold, grasped Harry’s chin. “We did it, My Gem.” Lacing Harry’s earlier hesitation, Tom confidently kissed the younger wizard.

Between them, the spilt milk heated.

They hardly noticed.

--CBS--

The morning at Hogwarts brought together the tired and exhausted students. Only two things should have been on their minds, more sleep and more food. A few selected students should even be dreading Potions with Professor Snape this morning, yet there wasn’t one complaint.

The Great Hall was silent of dishes clashing and chatty students. Instead, a certain gloom and dimness hovered around the school. Every student held a wizarding paper in their hands, ranging from the Prophet to the less popular subscription of Excelsior. Even if none of the students had subscribed to wizarding news, they woke up with more than a dozen of papers at their feet this morning, each paper containing the same story.

It told them of their familiar professor’s story and revelation about the Ministry. The horrors they read about the Ministry’s and Unspeakable’s experiments were all confirmed with the photographs inside the pages. The pages of the Prophet and Excelsior spoke of Tom Riddle as a rising Dark Lord whose ideals promised equality between Dark and Light and the end of a corrupted government. It also told them of the joint leader to Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort.

“Harry Potter?”

Whispers broke through the school. Groups were crowded in crooks of the corridors while others stood dumfounded in the middle of the corridors, their fingers white with the tension from clutching the prophets.

There were mixed opinions about the articles. The minority didn’t believe the article’s content, choosing to throw away the papers and continue on to breakfast. But the majority was in horrified disbelief. A few students couldn’t handle the graphic photos of the prisoners and broke down in tears, their chests swimming with anxiety and pity.

The more, levelheaded students, strut around school, their chests out. It wasn’t a surprise to note most of them were Slytherins, all led by none other than Draco Malfoy. Oddly enough, they stayed silent in their taunts, realizing that their taunting and mocking would not sit well at this time. Their fathers and mothers had spent years under agathering army in order to become strong enough to take down the corrupted government. They knew their Lord had committed both time and power in order to get them where they were now. A few taunts could shatter their reputation; it could ruin the Dark Lord’s plans at a balanced and unified wizarding world. Instead, the Slytherins grouped together, whispering in excitement for their changed government.

Another group, somewhere between the two extremes, was hidden in the darker corners of Hogwarts. Their eyes traced over the photograph of Harry Potter embracing a prisoner. “Do you believe it?” The red-head asked softly, his eyes tracing his best mate he hadn’t seen in months. “A Dark Lord, ‘Mione. Can he really want what’s best for all of us?” His voice held no abhorrence, instead, he sounded lost, tentative.

Brown eyes glanced up at the red-head, her own expression twisted in uncertainty. “I don’t think the Dark Lord could do any more harm than the Ministry already has, Ron. Harry wouldn’t support someone if it wasn’t for the best.” The young woman paused, her breath wavering. “But they haven’t won yet. They have another battle ahead of them in order to gain complete control of the Ministry. Gaining support of the people won’t do anything until they have the Ministry in their hands.”

Another red-head, a younger girl, gave a shuddering sigh, her worried eyes on the several copies of the Prophet at their feet.

“Don’t worry, Ginny, Harry can handle himself.”

They wrapped their arms around each other, hidden away from the rest of the students.

One thing wasn’t arguable amongst the students.

Headmaster Dumbledore was conveniently absent from the school.

--CBS--

Harry frowned as he paced the length of the cave-like room. His strides were slow, measured, as he looked over the prisoners being tended to. Most of them were resting, their bodies needing nutrients and sleep. But he became unsettled when he saw more than a few white sheets draped over bodies.

“Mr. Potter,” a voice called softly from the entrance to the room.

Turning, he eyed the Head Healer, Cormac, the very same man who had tended both his hand and concussion. Throwing one last look at the patients, Harry headed out of the sick room. The hide-out for the Dark side was located in a cave, settled in the mountains. It had two chambers to it, the largest reserved for the ill and wounded. It was cut off into two sections, one for magical creatures and one for the humans. It helped separate the two, just in case one creature was too far gone in his animal side.

The other chamber, near the main entrance, was mainly for the Death Eaters to rest, eat, and mingle.

Once he left the sick room, he eyed the Dark army. They were reading over the newspapers, their glee painfully obvious even to Harry. Lord Voldemort was making his way over, his attention zeroing in on Harry’s lost expression.

Tom had been the one to suggest for Harry to search more in depth for Remus Lupin at the lair.

“You seem to be looking for someone,” Cormac, an old man, yet muscular in his own right, dipped his head low to level with Harry’s. “Perhaps I can help you?”

Harry’s lips thinned and his eyes dimmed. “Remus Lupin,” his voice croaked. “He’s a Lycan, a werewolf.” He paused, continuing just as Voldemort came to a stop next to him. “Have you seen him? Heard anything?”

He could have asked the other werewolves there. However, Harry had noticed their sick eyes and their fevered pallor. Even if Harry had asked, he wouldn’t know if he received the right answer to their questions. They seemed lost, even in their own mind.

Cormac didn’t look too reassuring and Harry’s stomach dropped as a result. “I haven’t seen hide of him.” The man shook his head as a negative. “There weren’t many Lycans stable enough to speak their names.” The man’s eyes turned to the Dark Lord. “Most of the patients, I’m afraid, will suffer from permanent mental issues. Insanity and withdraws to their own mind. It’s common for a victim to relapse like that.”

“It’s to be expected,” Tom reassured the fretting Healer. “Years in the labs could easily scar one’s mind.”

Harry kept his eyes on Cormac, noting the tight jaw and dark eyes. It must be difficult, for a Healer to see this much suffering. “There’s more, isn’t there?” Harry whispered softly, bringing the attention of both men on him. Usually, Cormac was a hard man with no expression. When he had fixed Harry’s gruesome hand, he had shown no pity, not emotion. But now, he looked tormented.

Cormac sighed, his weary face crumbling. He ran a hand through his white hair in weariness. “There will be more casualties than survivors. Despite my wide-raged knowledge with the body, I am unable to detect the poisons and the spells the Unspeakables have used on their victims. Some patients are even in pain as we speak. I am unable to do anything about it.” The man paused, his face grave. “We may have to coup de grâce, euthanasia, or as others like to call it, physician-assisted suicide.”

Harry swallowed his vomit, looking away from the two grown men and at the wall of the cave. The overwhelming emotion of despair crawled back inside him, rendering him weak and ashamed. Why did he always feel as if he needed to save everyone? Why was it always his fault that people died?

“I will give you permission to do so, use your best judgment.” Voldemort responded, his voice cold, perhaps not revealing his real emotions of sorrow.

“No,” Harry growled lowly.

He turned to look at the two wizards who had turned their attention back on him. Voldemort’s lips thinned disapprovingly at his outward disobedience. “Do you wish them to suffer, child?” Tom whispered just as lowly, his crimson eyes narrowing. “The debate of mercy-killing has long been debated. What is ethical? Allowing your patient to suffer in extreme pain? Or killing them in order to stop their pain?”

“I will make sure it is quick and painless,” Cormac concluded, adding his own reassurance.

“No,” Harry shook his head, unable to bow to Tom’s opinion. “You can get in touch with their families. Their families have the right to know their loved one was alive all this time. And the patient has a right to see their family before they die. If the victim is conscious enough of the decision, let them chose their fate. If not, let the family decide what’s best.”

Cormac turned to Voldemort. “My Lord?” he asked in question.

Harry stared Voldemort down, not backing from his word. The taller wizard sighed softly, turning a hard expression on Cormac. “You heard the child, Cormac.”

“Yes, My Lord,” the Head Healer bowed at the waist before turning and entering the sick chamber once again.

“Thank you,” Harry muttered, his body tense, waiting for the man’s disproval at Harry’s outspoken rebuttal. Instead, Voldemort smiled thinly, reaching out to brush his index finger down Harry’s cheek.

“It must be painful to discover your werewolf is not here. But I hope you aren’t just fighting this war for your deceased parents and their friends. I hope you are fighting for your own reasons, because, only then, will you succeed.”

Harry curled his fingers around Voldemort’s hand, keeping the man’s hand in position on his cheek. “Originally, I admit, I was fighting for my parents’ and Sirius’ memory. But after seeing the bleak and barren devastation of the prisoners and the prejudice against the Dark wizards, my reasons have changed. I want to help as much as I can.”

Tom smiled, truly. “It’s hard to imagine you as that disobedient and lazy student I taught for five years. You’ve grown up considerably, Harry and you’ve matured significantly. You’re parents would be proud.”

Harry grinned. “I’d like to think so, Tom.”

Surprisingly, Tom leaned forward, in front of his army, and brushed his lips across Harry’s temple. Muffled laughs and jeers were heard from the army at their display of affection. Harry was sure his face was brilliant red and he kept his face near Tom’s neck to recover his regular color. “Let them see you belong to me,” Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue in Harry’s ear.

He shuddered as Tom pulled away, turning toward his army. “Prepare yourselves,” Tom raised his voice, catching the attention of every Death Eater. “We may have had our victory yesterday, but today is a new day. We must strike our last blow, soon, while the Ministry is vulnerable. Tomorrow at dawn will be our last attack. You have the remainder of tonight to gather your strength.”

The Dark Lord paused, but Harry and the rest knew there was more. Green eyes searched Tom’s face, noting how expressionless the man appeared. The Dark Lord had multiple masks. He was a decent leader who tolerated no disobedience. He was harsh and he was unmovable. No one would think of defying the Dark Lord because of the man’s power and viciousness.

“Last battle, although successful, was wretched. Many of you slacked and dragged your feet during the battle. Need I remind you what we’re fighting for?” Tom raised his eyebrows mockingly, gesturing heatedly to the sick chamber. “Just look inside that room and refresh your memory. The Ministry needs to crumble and rise again. Each of you will be apart of that new empire if you give it your all. There is no half-arse, and I will not accept laziness. If I see you slacking off in battle tomorrow, I will kill you myself. We have waited years for this moment not to waste it on your indolence.”

The Death Eater’s paled, swallowing and looking ill. Others raised their chin, looking upon Voldemort with reverence and admiration.

Harry remained silent, even if he wanted to argue with the man’s promised words.

“If you slack, you are not a benefit in my army. You bring both me and our cause down, you are a liability. I will not allow it.” Voldemort all but eyed each Death Eater in the chamber. “So prepare yourselves.” He barked his order before turning to Harry and catching him around the waist.

Harry allowed himself to be pulled away from the army, feeling as if Voldemort’s speech had encouraged them to fight harder. They were high off their win; their overconfidence might cause them tomorrow. Trust Tom to shatter their high and bring them back down to earth.

“I hope tomorrow is our last battle for this war,” Tom began as soon as they were under the cover of shadows and away from the Death Eaters’ hearing rage. The Dark Lord took Harry’s right hand, his fingers gently massaging the gloved hand. “Is it any better?”

“I can’t feel your fingers,” Harry drawled lightly, his eyes dancing across Tom’s skillful fingers. It was true. He no longer had any twinges of pain or numbness. It was just… paralyzed. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t even begun to try to heal it. I haven’t had much time. Perhaps… when the war is over I’ll have more time.”

Tom’s eyes averted from his hand to his face. There were unspoken words between them, almost as if they realized this was their last conversation before the unknown outcome of the war tomorrow morning.

“We got lucky yesterday,” Harry started out. “Not only did the reporters successfully hand out hundreds of articles to the people about the corrupted Ministry, but He wasn’t there.” Tom dropped his hand, an expression of antagonism washing over him. Before the man could speak scathing words, Harry reached forward, placing his fingers over the man’s lips. “Please, I don’t want to fight with you. Not tonight.”

“You’re just as good as him, why are you so afraid?”

“He’s got decades on me, that’s why. We’re both immortal,” Harry whispered.

“What does being immortal have to do with anything, Harry?”

Harry looked down, fighting internally for the right words. “I’m afraid of being immortal, Tom. He’s the only one that can kill me… I… don’t know,” he trailed off, his thoughts mingled. A part of him realized that if he killed the blond Magus, he would lose his only chance of dying. No one would ever be powerful enough to kill Harry. Tomorrow was his chance of passing away peacefully, a chance at avoiding the bleak and lonely eternity.

An angry hiss sounded. The shadows around Harry darkened considerably and Tom’s crimson eyes seemed to brighten. Harry fought to keep his stance when all he wanted to do was step back at the man’s sinister expression. “Are you telling me that you’re suicidal tendencies have not left you? You’re saying you’d rather let the Magus kill you than to see all the hard work you put toward this war play out? Are you that afraid of being immortal?”

“I never said I was suicidal,” Harry growled lightly. “I never said I wanted him to kill me.”

“No, but you were clearly implying it.” Tom’s lips were curved upward in disgust as he looked down his nose at Harry. “Pray tell me, how your logic is fair to me.” Green eyes narrowed in confusion. “Do you really think I will allow you to kill yourself so easily? I want you by my side after the war, child.”

Harry remained silent. The idea of staying with Tom was appealing. But could he truly see himself getting more attached to the man while Tom grew older, and eventually died?

“I’m immortal as well, my Gem. We have longer than eternity to be together and finish this conversation. Tomorrow, you will kill the Magus. The day after, we will speak of when to end our lives.” Tom hissed in Parseltongue, startling Harry from his musings. “But I can guarantee you; I’m not ready to leave this world yet and I’m not ready for you to leave this world.”

Harry had known there was something different about Tom. How the man never aged, how he seemed to be frozen in his late twenties and early thirties. It made sense now, but… how?

“How?” He voiced his thoughts, wanting to know how Tom was immortal. However, he couldn’t stop the smile from stretching his lips. It was pure delight to hear those words being hissed from Tom.

Somehow, living forever didn’t seem as lonely as before.

“That is for me to tell you at a later date, Harry.” Tom reached forward, his fingertips just barely brushing across the skin on Harry’s neck. “But I am eager to exist forever with you. Perhaps one decade we can become friendly enemies. The very idea of battling against you arouses me.” The man leaned closer, his breath ghosting across Harry’s stunned face. “And, perhaps, another decade we can spend in bed. If it’s anything like last night, I am eager to try new things.”

Cold lips claimed Harry’s neck in a kiss.

Shuddering in pleasure at the reassurance Tom gave him; Harry wrapped his arms around the man’s thin shoulders, causing the man to bow foward. With a newfound confidence, Harry kissed the man fiercely, enjoying the feeling as Tom’s tongue entered his mouth.

An eternity of this would never get old.

a]n: A bit of fluff. Next chapter should be the last chapter. It depends on how long I make the battle. It may be two chapters long or one. No matter how long the battle is, there will be an epilogue.