let me go, hold me close

A constriction in his chest.

Tom? Lord Voldemort? Tom?

His brain at a standstill.

Lord Voldemort?

Or Tom?

If Tom, then which Tom?

Diary? Ring? Locket?

Or maybe Diadem? Cup? 

Nagini?

That Scar? 

(Harry's Tom?)

No, Lord Voldemort!

Yes.

Definitely Lord Voldemort!

(Definitely?)

He occludes these thoughts behind seemingly weakened walls once more. It doesn't matter, he tells himself again, as he has over and over through the night. 

He knows who he is, seventy years and more of endless solitude had nothing on a mere eighteen years here. 

(An unforgettable seven)

(Those green eyes still swim behind closed eyelids, unrelenting)

Does he truly, as images of that boy (Harry) claw through him, feeling like physical blows. As the knowledge of Harry Potter his husband pulls him apart inside. His worst enemy that he couldn't kill to the very end!

And now he'd forced Lord Voldemort here after limbo that—

No!

Not there!

This won't do at all!

He needs some sort of distraction! 

Something. Anything! 

Cup of tea?

Yes!

The muggle way, he decides, he wants to feel more present. More in control! Rid of this unknown nonsense, currently spinning him out of that perfect discipline he had so carefully built up!

His shiny cream (wedding) shoes leave half printed crimson stains on the floor of Riddle House, remnants of what was once one-half of his flesh and blood, as he makes his way to the kitchen.

The half he had gotten to savour killing a second time, although enjoying the sweetness in this encore was impossible, melodic as their screams had been. 

The Riddles were the least of his worries.

Harry—

(Those eyes as they stared at him in horror)

No! He cares not!

Lord Voldemort cared for no one, and none cared for him in turn. All according to design, he had realised his old foolishness many decades ago, still at Hogwarts, the first time around. 

He finds his way to that huge wrought iron stove, still crystal clear in memory from his first time around, when he had finally found Little Hangleton. He had made this same cup of tea the last time, and yet, he is certain it wouldn't be as satisfactory this time around.

No room in his brain from the intrusions of that boy for any enjoyment.

He flicks a spark off his index finger as his other hand turns the knob underneath, the contraption roaring to life in an unnatural blue green. He picks up the kettle beside, a quick cleaning charm and aguamenti later it is situated on the metal prongs.

He watches the water boil absent-mindedly as his attention still attempted to run headfirst into those Forbidden areas.

He cared not how things were!

He cared not about seven years!

He would not let it best him this way!

He was a master of self control and discipline!

He was—

The whistle breaks him out of his thoughts and he reaches to open the cupboard to the side he knew held tea and sugar. He hates that he did like the same tea his filthy Muggle father liked—

It matters not!

Nothing matters, he has to cast all these thoughts out of his head and focus instead on understanding his new reality. 

(This Tom, that Merlin-damned part of him, had bound Him to Harry Potter with Salazar's ritual. Once more a connection between them, and this time even though he knew he was helpless. What an idiot child.)

(He himself was one too, for not fully researching it in his own time)

No, that wouldn't do! This was not a fault of Lord Voldemort. This was solely an error of a different version of him, and all he had to do was take responsibility, fix this problem and get things right this time. 

(And he really had to kill the boy properly this time, no more mistakes)

(No, he cannot)

(He has to!)

No!

Yes!

Not this again!

Damn that boy!

In every universe!

He really needs to focus. First on his tea, then on the rest of his plans. 

'Tom' was an idiot child that thought about Harry so much, he hadn't even considered his future much, apart from wooing Lord Voldemort's sworn enemy and entrapping Him into this ridiculous situation, ofcourse!

He conjures up a tray with a cup, pouring that boiling water over the bag. A couple spoons of sugar and he's walking back to the couch he'd been brooding on through the entirety of night. 

Sets his cup on the coffee table, studying the three lifeless bodies on the ground before him. It was starting to smell, in the heat of a waning summer, the cloying notes of iron and rust permeating his every breath. 

Grassy? Cleaning charms alone wouldn't fully remove all traces, and while he hadn't felt his Magic this strong ever before, he couldn't concentrate fully, to ensure the job would be to his satisfaction.

What did it matter, this was his elf!

"Grassy"

"Master Tom"

He cannot stand to hear that infernal name again!

He thought himself fully rid of any reminder of those traces after Dumbledore, free of those unpleasant yet immutable truths of his birth!

He was Lord Voldemort, not Tom!

He cannot help it, he has the elf under a Crucio before any other thought exists, a reflex at a perceived slight!

The screams make him feel nothing, the elf's 'Tom' wasn't the true cause of his rage, no! That honor lay solely with That Boy! No!

"You will hereby refer to me as Lord Voldemort and nothing else. Do you understand, elf?" It throws itself at his feet in a pitiful manner, in an apologetic prostration, and yet, his attention for it has already long passed. "Clean that up and fetch breakfast." An absent gesture at Them, as he considers his next course of action. 

First things first. Break the Unbreakable. 

(This thought stings)

Secondly, kill the boy good and right this time!

(This makes his chest hurt in that way again)

Why! No! 

He would accomplish his goals!

Starting with breaking that bond, one that would definitely not allow him to harm that boy until he did, in any way! Any way! Why!

This version of him had gone mad as a literal eleven year old, seriously!

How dare he hinder Lord Voldemort in such a way! How dare he fall so far from who he was at his essence! How dare he enjoy and crave that b......

No!

He would find a way to rid himself of this part of him. 

He still hasn't made his mind up about the parts of his Horcruxes that also attempted to lay claim within.

Perhaps them too.

He definitely had enough melancholy within to last a lifetime. An immortal lifetime. Perhaps he would devise a way to send them off with, to their respective receptacles, when he recreated every last one of his Horcruxes once more. 

Except the snake, obviously.

And the boy—

No!

He will not pay any attention to that part of him at all. He cannot. He will not!

(He has all the memories of what the boy had seen his entire life. 

All that that scar on his forehead had seen before.

And then what happened in this new life.

He hadn't felt how Harry had felt, ofcourse. Or heard Harry's thoughts about it. 

He only knew how He felt about it)

And he—

No!

Not this!

Never this!

His attention is drawn back to the now cooled cup of tea before him, and there's a a strange, unknown thrum of amusement at that observation, then alarm. Was he laughing at his inability to control himself?

What had happened to Him!

He needed answers!

A library!

(Back to Stone House then?)

Never! That is not happening!

But he had only browsed half their combined personal library, what if—

Absolutely not!

But Harry—

NO!

Tea! He needs tea!

It is mildly disgusting as it always was when reheated, but every sip kept him in the present, in the moment of that sour-bitterness of burnt tannins, that coating of sweetness as it enveloped the sides of his mouth in the aftertaste.

It is almost overwhelming, how dry his mouth feels after each sip, how his tongue slits into the grooves between his teeth to erase the edge. How pleasurable even this disgusting mess one could barely even call tea anymore was. 

How would his breakfast taste?

He hadn't tasted anything in many years. Decades. If you wanted to count how long the solitude each piece of his soul felt, millenia. 

A huff of air leaves him. 

He cannot stand this inability to discipline his mind and yet, he cannot stop every thought leading into a forbidden one.

As if Lord Voldemort could be forbid from anything, but this was what he wanted for himself! And he couldn't achieve it!

No!

He would regain his previous skills as Occlumency, he would discard these newfound memories back to where they newly belonged once he recreated his Horcruxes, and he would make sure to Kill Harry Potter this time before creating a single one. So the boy would keep his filthy (beautiful, intertwined with his) hands to himself!

No!

He was Lord Voldemort, and nothing would best him. Not even himself!

He just had to see those green eyes again and kis— No! Kill! Kill the boy! He had to kill the boy and ensure his eternal reign in this new world. This time he would be unstoppable.

Unfortunately, things really didn't go to plan. In the least!

That elf with its stupid name and it's stupid eyes and it's stupid presence around him three times a day like clockwork with those stupid eyes.......he was going to kill it! 

(And acquire another how?)

Aaagghh!!

A feature of his emergence here, now he talked to himself as various shards of soul and none listened to Him, the person in control!

Lord Voldemort (Tom)

No!

(Things hadn't changed)

Well, things hadn't changed. He had no more knowledge of their situation now than he did three weeks ago, and as frustrating as that was, more frustrating infact was that he missed the boy!

And in three weeks he had even accepted it Himself, seperate from Them.

He had scoured through every single public resource for any knowledge of ancient marital bonds, and he had found absolutely nothing except a pounding in his head. This body needed sleep he didn't have time for!

What he had found was this, even if he intended to do so he couldn't create a Horcrux now, as his Soul had been bound in that ritual. From his own understanding of the meager information he had gained, his and Harry's souls now resided with a web around them, and would thus be reborn together for eternity. Or until Lord Voldemort tore apart this web and secured his eternity in the way he sought for himself. And killed Harry Potter.

(No)

Yes! And he wouldn't go mad this time!

(Wasn't he already?)

No!

Something had to give but the only give seemed to be his sanity. In a new, unexpected, absolutely horrendous, unending way. 

That there was no solution to any of his problems was bad enough without the name for all these problems being Harry Potter. All of them! Some things never changed. 

(His obsession for Harry never waned either, did it)

These strays did love to catch him offguard.

A sigh as he closes his newest read, the most dry and boring text on runes for bonding potions. There were only three that he remembered from Tom's memories and they were the three at the start of the book. Love, trust and family.

If only he could go down to the Chamber right now but he couldn't apparate through Salazar's wards and he had already graduated from Hogwarts, so going back in through the castle wards was impossible (And Dumbledore) No, Dumbledore was no match for him alone, not anymore. However, all of Hogwarts, once again—

No! 

Not this!

He's slowly losing his mind. 

Small steaming trays filled with food appear around him, the aroma causing his stomach to make a gurgling. He sighs inwardly in irritation once more, at the recurrence of these once eliminated physical, mental, and emotional demands. 

Still, he cannot help himself as he pulls his soup closer. A small bowl with laces of egg, shreds of chicken and herbs, all floating in that clear yellow toned broth. Had he ever simply sat and enjoyed soup?

No! He had much more important things to do than enjoy soup!

Like what? Glamor himself to another public Magical library in Africa or Asia that offered him an ocean of worthless knowledge. Bools he had already read once, a re-read would only refresh ingrained knowledge, not provide any new information. This world was also about forty years too late in gaining knowledge Lord Voldemort already had from another. 

A pity he hadn't found much in reading after he had resurrected himself from the aftermath of his first attempt at killing that boy—

That Boy! That boy—

The root of all his problems!

The sole cause of his downturn!

He was obsessed, he was in denial, he had accepted and knew how it would end—

He should eat his lunch. 

It is perfectly savoury and salty, just the right temperature. The chicken is shredded just so that he feels it's texture without it getting stuck between his teeth. The laces of egg are soft pillows in the hot soup. 

Just how Tom liked it. Not Him.

No! This was how He liked it now. And He was Himself! Lord Voldemort! This was His soup now! His elf! His life! 

His world!

(His world was Harry)

No!

The rest of it is delicious too, things he had never had, that tasted as if they were curated to every last of his tastebuds. Tom had certainly spent some time trying out a variety of foods.

He pushes his now empty plate to the edge of the table and picks up his book again. It flips open to the last page he'd been on and continues to skim along. Perhaps there would be one more interesting sentence, one worth the time he'd spent reading it. 

There isn't. The sky starts to darken outside as he's reaching the very end and a steaming cup of tea appears beside him, a second before the thought even forms. 

No, he really couldn't kill the elf, eyes or not, not with how well Tom had picked. Disappointing, and yet, needs must. 

(What was more disappointing was Harry—)

No!

He picks up his tea, those soothing earthy notes attempting some sort of barrier. He just had to buy more books, find even more obscure shops, even rarer collections.

(The Black Library)

No!

Where ever he went, there he was!

Each day had brought him one step closer to the truth. He had no chance of attempting to fix this alone, and he had run out of tests and rituals to run on solely himself. 

If nothing else, he is sure he had conducted every test he knew existed. And they amounted to nothing. For the rest, he would need access to Harry Potter.

Willing access.

An impossibility.

And yet, he could not harm the boy under any circumstances.

If only—

What if—

No!

And also, even if he accepted to do so, would Harry even accept? Even if He was willing, it was impossible Harry would be willing.

(What was Harry up to now?)

It doesn't matter. Damn that boy!

Neither mattered, he would break this damn bond without involving that creature that had invaded his every waking thought! This problem Tom had brewed with careful precision, and then left Him to deal with the aftermath of.

Married.

He's thought about that word before too, but he doesn't know what to make if it. The concept of marriage had been incomprehensible from the very beginning. He disliked people from his very core, and they did not know how cure themselves of being bothersome. He had attempted their company at times and had only felt a growing disgust that ended with the termination of his actions. 

Sharing body fluids with someone was disgusting (He missed kissing Harry so much) 

Harry was—

Something. 

A predicament he could not resolve.

A whole rose bush with thorns in his path he couldn't uproot.

A now predictable persistent annoyance!

(A rose bush, really?) 

A deep sigh!

He has never felt so out of control while being so fully present. The return to sanity had only resulted in insanity of another kind.

Perhaps it was the bond? 

If he got rid of it, at least it would eliminate that hypothetical, or maybe even take care of the problem altogether, a much happier outcome.

(Was it?)

He had to get rid of the bond!

And next, these voices in his head that kept distracting him from his goals.

He needed to do whatever he had to, as he had always done. 

He had triumphed once before and he would claim victory over this Harry Potter and rise once more. Unstoppable.

(So he's really going to do it?)

Another inward sigh, those were becoming quite common. 

Yes, he would. He would put in the effort and gain willing access to Harry Potter after he had the boy's trust. He would study the bond further and hopefully break it. Soon. Nothing was Unbreakable! It was all Magic! No Un anything, he was Lord Voldemort, he would find a way.

Then, he would Kill the boy!

And after.....

Well, this was a new world. They would know a very different Lord Voldemort. 

One no prophecy could save them from, their boy savior already existed here, with a certain destiny. 

The thought lifts him up as much as it stings, this plot to kill future Harry. 

It doesn't matter, he would fulfill this destiny he had found himself gifted with.

He would have everything he ever wanted and more. He would work to will his every desire into reality, and he very much so wished to be free of these chains. What was a few lies and deception in the grand scheme of conquest. 

Thus begin his efforts into this newest desire. One he had finally come around to acknowledging, and now working on. 

(What desire? Harry?)

No! To be rid of the bond!

There was nothing more to this!

Nothing at all, indeed! 

(Indeed)

(At least he'd see Harry again)