How to Prevent a War

Riddle Manor

The bag over Tom's head was taken off and he blinked a few times against the sudden bright light of the room. He was in a lavish dining room in some kind of mansion. His hands bound to the armrests of the dining chair he was seated on. He was seated at the head of the table, with Voldemort sitting across from him and a large meal between the two of them.

"Where's Harry?" Tom asked immediately.

He was fairly certain that Voldemort hadn't killed him, but it was still a possibility. After all, Voldemort had no doubt other Horcruxes than only Harry. At least the Diary, though that one would no longer be of use, as Tom hadn't made it.

The man stopped eating for a moment to look at him before looking back down at his plate filled with chicken, boiled potatoes and apple sauce.

"Eat," Voldemort said instead of answering.
"I interrupted your adorable dinner date before you could, after all."

Tom narrowed his eyes and curled his bound hands into fists. Was this man serious? His hands were tied to the rests of the seat and Harry was nowhere to be found! Even if he was physically capable of eating, how could he without knowing what happened to his boyfriend?

"Where is Harry," he repeated through gritted teeth.

With a sigh, Voldemort put down his knife and fork and gave Tom a piercing stare.

"He's upstairs in one of the rooms, still unconscious," he said.
"You won't see him again anytime soon, but he's alive. Now eat."

"Rather hard with bound hands," Tom sneered.

Voldemort laughed and brandished his wand, the same one that Tom had held right before the man had disarmed him and cast a Full-Body Bind Curse on him back at the restaurant. The same one he had used to disarm him. It was odd to see it like that, worn by decades of use and glinting menacingly in his older self's hands. With a little swipe, his hands were freed and Tom slowly lifted them to take the cutlery in hand, his eyes never leaving Voldemort's face.

He carefully cut a piece of the chicken breast and took a bite. Voldemort smiled at him like a father would to a stubborn child that finally gave in and started eating again as well. Tom wanted to kill him.

"Why am I here?" he asked.
"In fact, where is here anyway?"

"We're in Little Hangleton," Voldemort replied.
"And this is Riddle Manor."

Tom's eyes widened and he dropped his knife with a clatter. Voldemort smirked.

"Imagine my shock when I came here and found our father still very much alive," the man said.
"You were meant to have killed him last summer after all, but as I arrived here, he was still alive."

"I never had a reason to kill him," Tom replied scowling.

Voldemort chuckled and laced his long spidery fingers under his chin as he kept looking at Tom. Tom hated the way his older self smirked so smug and self-assured. He wanted to smash the infuriating expression off his face.

"I suppose neither had I the first time around. Not at first," Voldemort murmured.
"When I found out that my father was still alive, I was so very excited. I thought perhaps he doesn't know I exist. Perhaps he never knew mother was with child, or he thought I had died with her. I didn't even care that he was a dirty muggle."

Something heavy and uncomfortable rested in his chest at those words. It was different than the discomfort he felt whenever the older version of himself was nearby. This was dread. Horror perhaps even. He didn't like it. He wanted to tell Voldemort to shut up, but something told him he was supposed to hear this, so he stayed quiet.