It was clever of them. Really, they had been bright wizards in their time - cunning, intelligent, perhaps a bit mocking, with a tangy air of irony that laced their words. One spell left him as dry and sterile as grass in winter; years later, when his body had otherwise almost recovered, the next curse demanded his seed so that he might be reborn of himself. But not just any seed, oh, no. Fresh seed. Was it any wonder none of the original sorcerers still lived to tell their tales?

The tiny glass was sticky with cold against his fingers. One turn: one year. A few more lingering strands of his brittle hair fell away with the strain of the adulterated Time-Turner. The fatigue in his limbs dragged him down onto the brick edge of the hearth in the middle of the room. He looked around, pulling his cloak closer to his withered body. With his strength ebbed and his magic locked away in the hourglass resting against his chest, fear's silky, unfamiliar fingers tried to tickle the back of his neck.

Of the five beds, their green curtains fading to black in the darkness, four sat open and empty. The curtains were tied to the spindly posts at each corner. A faint orange glow thrown off by the hearth's coals left the serpents twining their way up each post visible by their shadows. The air was frigid. It felt very much like the milky grey light creeping around the blankets hanging over the windows.

With a faint smile, he closed his eyes and breathed in the dank air. Dungeon air, it was, familiar and tinged with the lake above. He remembered the squid peeking in at a curious cluster of boys. He'd seen more than one squid in his summers in the dormitory; nobody had ever believed him, but there were at least two. Had been anyway.

The air filled his bones and congealed there in sticky slush. Thirty years is a very, very long time, he realised, when one has had to travel so far to find it. What he was about to do struck no chord of memory; rather, he felt like he'd been trapped in a dream.

Perhaps that was what immortality was all about: a dream. Whether his own or the dreams of other men had yet to be reckoned. The reckoning lay in the fifth, shrouded bed. He was closer than any wizard had ever come before him: he could take a few steps and touch it; he could card his fingers through its - his - hair. His fingers skittered over his sorry scalp, and a few more strands fell to their death on the hearth.

His back seemed to blister with cold as he stood and moved away from the lingering coals. A few shiny baubles hung on the corners of the bed. Ah, yes, yes, it was the Christmas holidays. Visions of sugarplums did not find their way into the Slytherin dungeon, though. Nothing that fragile survived in the House of Serpents. Only stiff brandy and glass balls and a lone tree devoid of fairy lights had ever betrayed their seasonal cheer in his tenure as student. And presents, of course. He paused as it dawned on him that he couldn't remember a single one. He'd got them, but like everything else they had crumbled and faded with time.

Everything, that was, but him. He hadn't got this far simply to crumble and fade.

The curtain whispered as he drew it aside. White sheets and striped pyjamas lay like ghosts in the scant light. A pale hand was curled on the pillow next to a dark head. Across the palm sat a wand identical to the one in his pouch, if perhaps a bit less tarnished and worn. He took it, the wood sliding between fingers that closed around it even in sleep. The boy - the young man; he was sixteen, after all - jerked, and turned his head with a soft sound.

"Shh." He pushed the sweaty hair off the boy's - young man's - forehead. His fingers looked very long and drawn against human skin. "Shh. You'll have it back, my love." He smiled to himself. "My love," he said again, this time in delicate, hissing sounds that only they could understand.

The boy stirred beneath the heavy covers. He opened his eyes just as his wand vanished into a pouch. (Foresight had led to a bit of string tied around the handle of the other one there. After all, there was no sense in coming so far and risking everything for the silly matter of a wand.) The boy started, and thrust out his empty hand. "Stupe--"

He stopped, staring at his hand with puzzlement in the shadows of his face. "Give it back," he demanded.

"Not yet."

"Give it back right now."

"You'll have it back soon. This is only a dream." It had to be, didn't it? He never remembered his dreams; perhaps that was why he'd forgotten this, if it had ever happened. Of course, now that the young man was awake, there was a slight kink in his plans. The tiny bottle of sleeping potion clinked against the handles of the wands and the empty phial he'd brought, but it seemed a bit rude to use it now that he'd disturbed himself.

"Who are you?" the young man asked.

Ah, yes, there was a question. He sat on the edge of the bed - the young man scuttled backwards - and extended a hand. "I, Mister Riddle, am Lord Voldemort, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Coarse breathing took the place of words for several seconds. "How do you know that name?" came a voice that promised rather than threatened.

"I've already told you," Lord Voldemort said in snake-tongue. "This is a dream."

Another bout of silence, and it broke in a muttered, "Goddamn brandy."

Voldemort chuckled. He patted the young man, Riddle - no, Tom - on the head. "I imagine that has got something to do with it. Dear me, you're soaked to the skin!" He patted Tom's wet hair once more, then wiped his hand on the blankets. "How much did you have to drink?"

"Not much."

"Funny. I could have sworn you tried to finish the bottle." A hint of memory returned from its mental cask. "You shouldn't try to out-drink seventh-years. They've invariably got more practise."

A sneer wrinkled Tom's nose. "How?" he asked with sullen indignation.

"From trying to out-drink seventh-years, I'd wager. Here. You'll catch your death in these things." Voldemort frowned to himself as he reached out to undo the buttons on Tom's pyjamas. He remembered the hangover now, along with the scolding he'd received when he turned up at Christmas dinner. And the lone Slytherin seventh-year, of course, had been fine. One of the Blacks, it was. Benedictus? Benedictus.

Tom flinched as soon as Voldemort touched him. "How dare you touch me! What do you think you're doing?"

"Trying to make you more comfortable."

"It's not going to make me any more comfortable to get my kit off in front of a... a..."

Tom stopped. A pale shadow flickered through the air, and he felt the top of Voldemort's head. The curious touch moved down his nose (which had flattened into slits just as his seed had dried), over lids where only a few lashes still clung, across cheeks starting to turn to scale. His hand slid down Voldemort's shoulder and chest after resting a moment on the small disc of an ear. "What are you?"

Voldemort laid his hand over Tom's; Tom broke out in another layer of sweat as he did. "I'm whatever you want me to be," Voldemort said, hissing and spitting and smiling around his forking tongue.

"I don't fancy blokes," Tom said in a loud voice. "It's horrid, and I don't appreciate what you're doing. So you can stop touching me right now. I don't care if you're a dream. Or... or if you're talking like that."

"I beg to differ. You have your own taste for the masculine sort." Yes, the memory rose fast now, smooth, like water rushing towards rapids. "Or was that not Benedictus Black you failed to out-drink?" Some hysterical part of Lord Voldemort urged him to take Tom's wrist, slide it down, down, over bone and flesh and fabric, cup his fingers around the soft bulge they shared. Something - whether patience or decency - kept his hand in place, but he closed his fingers around Tom's. "You lost your bet."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can see inside your head, Tom. I know everything about you. And you didn't brush your teeth before bed."

"That's none of your business!"

"I don't think you like the taste all that much," Voldemort went on, squeezing their fingers, "but it goes better with brandy than toothpaste does."

Tom wrenched his hand away. He grabbed his head in both hands, and crumpled, a pale smudge against the blankets. "It's all a dream," he muttered. "It's all a dream. It's all a dream. Jesus Christ, get out of my fucking head!"

"Settle down." Voldemort tried to take Tom's wrist; Tom wrenched away. Before the young man could crawl out of bed, Voldemort grabbed him and yanked him forward so the warmth of his breath condensed on Voldemort's face. Tom still gripped his hair, and Voldemort's fingers tangled around both his wrists. The smell of Tom's mouth, brandy and terror and the sweet fetor of the Black line, hung thick in the air. "And don't say that name. It's not fitting."

"What are you going to do to me?" Tom asked. His voice was lined with coffin nails. The tip of his nose met the slight bump of Voldemort's. Voldemort grimaced. Had this really been him? This child?

He let go of one skinny wrist, and stroked the damp and matted hair along the centre of Tom's head. Even wet, it was softer and finer than an adult's ought to have been. Then, this was a boy, not a man. Fifth-years weren't yet men. Or was it sixth? No, Benedictus had been gone by sixth year.

Christmas Eve, fifth year. Tom hadn't even entered the Chamber yet. He wouldn't for a good twenty-four hours more. The diary in which he had stored his memories wouldn't come until morning. Yes, the diary. The orphanage matrons always were good about sending a fresh one for his Christmas present. Voldemort smiled to himself. Every orphan got a diary, and what a wondrous gift that could be indeed.

"I'll stop you," Tom said. An edge of panic was rising in his voice, but anger stormed just behind. "They'll never even find you."

"I'm sure they won't, whoever they are. It's not real, Tom. It's all a dream."

Tom tensed. In a slow, predatory voice, he said, "I've never had a dream like this before."

"But you don't remember your dreams."

"Yes, I do," Tom blurted.

"No, you don't. Just as I don't, my love."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not?"

"I'm not your love. You don't even know me! Whether you're a dream or not!"

"My pet. You're so young." A sliver of a smile strained Voldemort's face. He took the Time-Turner in hand. The pads of his palm froze to its surface. "Give me your hand."

"No."

"Give me your hand."

"I'll scream. Benedictus is only two rooms away."

"Give me," Voldemort said, his humour darkening, "your hand." Grabbing Tom's wrist, he jerked the boy's - the brat's - hand forward and pushed the Time-Turner into it. "You know what this is."

"Ow!" Tom let go, and shook his hand in the air. He huffed on it a couple of time. "You burned me!"

"Yes, it's very cold. What is it?"

"How should I know?"

"Stupid boy. You don't know a Time-Turner when you feel one?"

"Of course I do! Time-Turners aren't cold!"

"They are when a truly powerful wizard decides to bring them to their full potential."

Tom went silent for a moment. "What are you talking about?" he finally asked.

"A turn is an hour, correct?"

"That's what I've read."

"And what do you suppose happens when a turn is a year?"

Silence. The blankets twitched with Tom's legs. His trembling hand came to rest on Voldemort's cheek once more. Voldemort kept still as his younger self poked at the slits of his nostrils and the faint tension of his dwindling lips.

"You're ugly," Tom said when three of his fingers came to rest on Voldemort's mouth.

"Immortality has its price, my love."

Tom made a lippy sound. "Why should I believe you?"

"Who can you believe but yourself?"

"You're not me."

"But you shall become me. Listen to your elders, pet. Or me anyway." Voldemort let his own hand settle beneath Tom's chin. Tom swallowed, but didn't draw back. Voldemort smiled as he found a few coarse hairs beginning to sprout on smooth skin. "Perhaps I've come back too far."

"No." Tom grabbed his cloak. "No. If you're really me and you're really immortal, tell me how."

"I'm not immortal yet."

"But you just said--"

"I shall be immortal very soon. First, I need you to help me."

Tom swallowed again, harder. "What if I don't?"

"Then you'll die. Not now," Voldemort growled as a clammy glaze of sweat rose on Tom's skin. "But you shall indeed die. Someday." He pushed a loose, damp curl behind Tom's ear. "And neither of us wants to see that, do we?"

A thin shiver ran through Tom's skin. He leaned forward so Voldemort's hand slid around the side of his neck. "And what if," he hissed and spat into Voldemort's ear, "I decide to see if this really is a dream and try to break your neck? If you're telling the truth, you can't kill me for it. Otherwise you'll disappear."

"Clever." Voldemort wrinkled his nose. "Cleverness will get you into trouble."

"And out of it again."

"Careful, my love." The words oozed like venom from Voldemort's tongue. "I know every thought in your head. You're clever now, but imagine what you'll have learned in thirty years."

"I still don't believe you." Tom leaned closer until their chests nearly touched and Voldemort had to take him by the back of the neck. "If you know everything about me, what was I doing two nights ago?"

"Your prep."

"Apart from that."

Voldemort thought for a minute. A sweet, sharp memory, like honey mixed with alum, rose and tugged a smile into place. "Two nights ago. It snowed, and you and Rubeus Hagrid went for a walk because he wanted you to help him look for an injured quail he'd heard."

"Go on," Tom said.

"The quail was dead when he found it because something," Voldemort's smile widened, "had broken its neck. It was still warm, but he couldn't bring himself to believe that you might have done it."

"What else?" Tom asked. "What happened next?"

"You took him to an empty classroom and fucked him. Once he'd stopped sobbing anyway. He really was a terrible bore, and not a very nice fuck either. But you shan't have to worry about him much longer."

Tom cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

"You'll know when the time comes. He's got his uses, though. Was I correct?"

"Um, yes. Yes." Tom squirmed so his blankets tangled around his legs. "What's going to happen to Hagrid?"

"Nothing you won't want. Idiot half-breed. They shouldn't even be allowed in the place."

Tom flinched.

Voldemort felt it too. He looked around the small bed, his memory filling in what he couldn't see. It had been a pureblood's bed. Somebody had once even carved the words "Toujours Pur" in the headboard, and it had never been removed. One fist wadded a lump of woollen blanket until his knuckles cracked.

"But none is as pure as the Heir of Slytherin," Tom said. His voice barely carried in the silence.

"And none ever shall be. Even the purebloods--even the Malfoys will bow to us in time. And the Blacks as well."

"And Dumbledore."

"Yes." Voldemort closed his eyes. A sweet taste, sweeter than rain at the end of a drought, filled his mouth at the image of his old Transfigurations master on his knees and choking on his own blood. Too clever, the man was too clever by half; once more, Voldemort pushed back the fear that he ought to have killed him already.

"He never leaves me be," Tom said. "It's as if he thinks..."

"That you'll steal the world out from under him and purify it of its filth?"

Tom's eyes glittered with pale sparks. "Yes."

"We can."

"Yes."

"And we shall rule it forever."

"Oh, Salazar, yes!" Tom threw his head back. His breathing came fast and wet through his teeth. Voldemort could just make them out. Tom grabbed him by the cloak. "What do you need me to do?"

Voldemort paused. Before Tom could say anything else, though, he put a hand in the middle of the boy's chest, and pushed him back against the bed.

"Take off your clothes," Voldemort whispered. Something, some filament of memory, brushed the surface of his mind before getting tangled once more. For a moment, he wondered if he'd once dreamed the whole scene.

The rustle of thin cotton told him that Tom was doing as he was told. Voldemort reached into his pouch for the empty phial clinking against his wands. A few strokes of the fist, and it would all be over.

Instead, though, with phial in hand, he unhooked his cloak and let it fall along with his robe. Next to his younger self, his skin looked dead. He stared at his arm in the watery light from the edge of the window. His chest, his legs, everything he could see looked like marble. New scales were forming here and there, and the black hair that had once peppered his middle and sat thick at his groin now lingered in lonely curls. With a hand that looked like a spider's ghost, he felt his body from throat to sunken belly. This, this splendid creature in the watery light was now and would evermore be Lord Voldemort!

Tom finished squirming out of his pyjama trousers, and threw them on the floor. "Are you going to fuck me?"

"Yes," Voldemort breathed. His eyes were still fixed on his body.

"Why?"

"Because I can."

"Will it make us immortal?"

Voldemort crawled onto the bed. His muscles felt like a snake's as he knelt on all fours over himself. "No. Only me."

Tom lifted his chin, but rolled over and fished in his bedside table until he came up with a pot of Muggle petrolatum and handed it over. Voldemort wrinkled his nose. The glass pot was cool, not cold like the Time-Turner dangling from his neck, but its existence burned him.

"You expect me to cover myself with this filth?" he spat.

"You're not doing it dry. I don't care who you are."

Voldemort hissed, long and low, under his breath. Rearing back, he hurtled the jar across the room, where it shattered on an unseen wall. He caught Tom by the jaw, lifting him until their foreheads ground together.

"Never, ever, ever pollute your body with that slime again." Voldemort drew his nails down the middle of Tom's chest. Tiny flakes of skin and oil caught beneath them and made his fingers feel swollen.

"But it's all I've got! I haven't got any pocket money here! You know that!"

"You don't need money, you foolish boy. You. Are. A. Wizard. Remember that!"

Thrusting Tom back against the pillow, Voldemort dived and felt in his robes until he came up with Tom's wand. He shoved it into the brat's hand. "This is what a proper wizard uses. No potions, and no Muggle cack. You will survive by power alone."

"That's bollocks!"

The crack rang in Voldemort's ears before he realised he'd slapped Tom across the cheek. Tom lay frozen. His hand crept up to his face. Delicate fingertips traced the patch already turning dark. Voldemort sneered. Pathetic. Why had he come back? What had ever made him think the future of his world could lie in the tackle of a child too cowardly to--

The tip of Tom's wand left an odd, bubbling sensation where it ground into his chest. "Do that again, and I'll kill you."

Voldemort snorted. "Why wait?"

"Because if I do it now, I'll know exactly when I'm going to die. I don't especially want to die. Now get this over with, or I'll rip that Time-Turner off your fucking neck and smash it."

The words sank in, and Voldemort narrowed his eyes as cold joy filled his belly. "Oh, my love," he whispered. He took Tom's face in both hands, pushing back his hair from his forehead. "My beautiful one."

Tom frowned, but Voldemort dipped his head to touch their lips together. Tom's anger rose in the tremor of his skin. Voldemort glutted himself on it as if fury were treacle, tapping Tom's mouth as the boy fought, then fought back. Tom's chest strained outward every time he forced his tongue deeper into Voldemort's mouth. Voldemort let him for a minute, just long enough to give him the sense of power he craved. When a vicious elbow locked itself around the back of Voldemort's neck, though, he bit down.

"Ow!" Tom pulled back. He grabbed the Time-Turner. "You son of a--"

Voldemort pinched Tom's lips shut. "If you do that, I may as well kill you. I'll have no reason left not to."

They stared at each other. Tom's hand finally loosened from the hourglass with a soft rip. He pulled his lips free, and said, "This would be check then."

"So it would seem."

Tom's eyes flashed, then a wide, cruel smile shadowed his face. "Am I everything you remembered?"

Voldemort said nothing, only kissed Tom again. He reached down to knead life into his limp member. No, the boy wasn't everything he remembered. Then, no matter how hard he tried, Voldemort couldn't remember this happening at all.

"Are you all right?" Tom asked. He lifted his head enough to stare at Voldemort's working hand.

"Fine." The Time-Turner's chain was cutting a furrow in the back of his neck, and the cold had long since started creeping up the tiny links. It drew him forward. He caught himself, shook his head, and looked down at Tom. "I haven't got a great deal of time."

"Oh." Tom squirmed. "What's going to happen to me? Not... now. I mean what's going to turn me into... into you?"

Voldemort said nothing, only nudged Tom's wand hand until the boy aimed it at himself. There was a pause, and a chagrined, "I don't... I've always..."

"Pinguisere internus."

"Pinguisere internus," Tom repeated. A burst of yellow smoke settled over his body. He flinched, scrabbling halfway to the headboard. "Jesus Christ!"

"Stop that! What did I tell you? You're a wizard, boy!" Voldemort yanked Tom back into place, and pressed him down by his shoulders. "Do you understand what Muggles have done to us in that name?"

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"Anything!"

Tom's shoulders strained as he breathed too hard and too deep. The strain broke long enough for him to gulp. Voldemort loosened his fingers. He drew back, head bowed. "Once more, pet, if you'd be so kind. Pinguisere externus."

The yellow smoke - a bit thicker this time - settled over his cock and left a thin residue on part of his thighs. The residue made him squirm; it felt as though he hadn't bathed in weeks. Still, he got on all fours over Tom.

"Don't you need me on my front?" Tom asked.

"No." Voldemort pressed the tip of his finger to Tom's soft cock. "I don't much fancy scraping liquid out of the sheets." He rubbed the ring of scar tissue at the base of his younger self's glans, and almost smiled when the lump of flesh twitched.

"I thought you said this would..."

"Quiet, boy." Voldemort touched Tom's chest. The skin was pliable, smooth, damp, a little bit oily. It felt human; it felt like Tom Marvolo Riddle. He swallowed as his stomach turned. The body beneath him would rot and mingle with the dust. Indeed it would. He had felt it, or something that he imagined felt the same.

"But you said this would make you immortal."

"Oh, yes. Yes, it shall. But not here. Certainly not now. Now be quiet." Voldemort covered Tom's mouth with his hand, and used the other one to lift the boy's leg.

"Wait--" Tom said against Voldemort's palm.

Voldemort closed his eyes, and found his way inside. Tom went rigid; a choked sound broke in his throat. A second later, saliva bubbled around his mouth as he yelled into Voldemort's palm.

"Shh, my love, shh." Voldemort stroked Tom's cheek. Tom tried to push him off. The thin hands scrabbling at Voldemort's chest caught a few of the infant scales. Voldemort hissed as tiny clusters of nerves cried out. "Tom!"

Tom stopped. His belly jerked as air wheezed through his nose. He moved his head just enough to whimper between Voldemort's thumb and hand, "You're hurting me."

"You're hurting me."

Tom's trembling hands fell away from Voldemort's chest. A drop of blood tickled as it rolled down from one of the rent scales. Voldemort lay still. The weight of Tom's scrotum on his hairless flesh made him feel cold, and the dark, coarse hairs stung his skin. The bed shook along with them.

Taking Tom's cock in hand, Voldemort began to stroke blood into it. Tom spat a curse in Parseltongue. The piece of flesh, which felt like nothing so much as a dry-skinned slug, stirred and spread at the insistence of fingertips and palm. Tom's raspy breathing slowed, then sped up as sweat broke out beneath Voldemort's touch.

The Time-Turner's chain bit deeper into Voldemort's neck as he squeezed. The circumcision scar stretched taut, grating and digging just like the chain. Both strained, and in his head he thought he could hear their voices: the low, threatening growl of the hourglass as it dragged him towards the future, and the silken hiss of the scar, mingled with Tom's building murmur, luring him closer and closer to forever.

"Move," Tom said.

"What?"

"Move. You're not doing anything." He flexed against Voldemort's cock. Voldemort shuddered. Tom winced when he drew himself out then slithered back inside, but said nothing.

As Tom whimpered and panted and cringed, though, Voldemort couldn't help but notice a sensation on his skin and mind. It was as though a membrane had grown over him, separating him from the world. For a panicked moment, he fumbled for the Time-Turner. It showed no immediate signs of wrenching him back, although the glass trembled apart from his body. And, even though Tom hissed for more, where there should have been a tingle low in Voldemort's body there was only the cold, dusty numbness of a death shroud.

Panic dug its claws into his throat. He was dead. Dead! Already dead! His skin, his hair, the flesh withering on his bones, all dead! Or close enough that they might as well be. The thin line, the irony of being reborn of himself to live - live - forever, settled over him. Biting back a long, hysterical hiss, he thrust as hard as he could, trying to somehow tear through death. He only managed to make Tom cry out in pain.

"Forgive me, my love," Voldemort whispered. He went still again, except for his hands. One pleaded for the seed that would return him to himself; the other clutched Tom's jaw, squeezing, squeezing, tracing the shape of his molars through his stretched cheeks. Tom's mouth gaped, and the obscenities he choked would have sent any respectable adder into a death-roll.

Voldemort shivered, and a sickened feeling rose from his groin when the first hot rope splattered across his hand. Tom called to the snakes' gods. Voldemort found the boy's fist tangled in the straining sheets. He stroked it once, then finished groping for the crystal phial. The last spurt splashed into the bottom of the phial, and Tom's belly fluttered as Voldemort scraped away the rest of the cooling drops.

Voldemort was still rigid when he withdrew. Tom lay panting, naked and sprawled and reeking of serpents. The smell of brandy clung to reptilian musk. He turned his head to watch as Voldemort got dressed.

"What's next?" he asked.

Voldemort looked at him. He could just make out a hungry look on Tom's face. With a shudder, he realised what would happen if Tom knew the power that lay in his - their - future. His hand wrapped around the icy Time-Turner. No, no, that wouldn't do. There was too much to discover. He would be damned if he let Tom Riddle's pride go before his fall.

Stroking Tom's face once more, Voldemort whispered, "Thank you, my love."

"You're welcome." Tom leaned up on his elbows. He smiled. Something in his smile made Voldemort's skin go cold.

"I was wrong," Voldemort said, stepping back. "You are everything I remembered."

"I am?" Tom asked. His smile widened.

"Yes." Voldemort exchanged the phial for his wand. "I wish you weren't, because now I have to do this."

He didn't hear the spell, but he must have spoken it because the Time-Turner exploded in a shower of ice. His grip on the past fell away as his magical concentration shifted to the charm. Voldemort caught only a glimpse of Tom's Obliviated eyes as they glazed over.

He collapsed on an empty bed. Its curtains were tied to the corner posts. Grey light poured in through the naked windows, shifting and shimmering as it filtered through the lake.

The only sound was the rasp of his breathing. The rest of the beds sat empty, awaiting the end of Christmas holidays. On his cloak he could still smell the lingering ghost of Benedictus Black's brandy.

Voldemort dragged himself up, and crawled to the Invisibility Cloak he'd left next to the frigid fireplace. Fragments of the Time-Turner stuck out from his palm. He left them in the soot raked over the hearth.

Somehow, though he couldn't quite remember leaving the room or staggering through Hogwarts, he made his way back to the safety of the Chamber of Secrets. The phial was still warm - thirty years warm - when he took it from his pouch.

"I'm sorry, my pet," he whispered as he removed the cap. "But you understand. You're not worth my neck. I'm sure you'll do the same thing in my position."

He smiled to himself, and set to adjusting the issue at hand.

End.