Okay, so this was a oneshot. But then some gorgeous comments made me happy and inspired (thank you xx) and so it's not anymore. Ugh.

This is basically all from Harry's perspective. Now that it's not a oneshot anymore, I realised there are some timeline issues and whatnot. So sorry about that. Just imagine that Harry learnt about Voldemort's past in fifth year. Or not. I just want to emphasise the Fluff tag. Not because it's not angsty, but because there are some things in this fic that don't make sense, that are just there for fluffiness' sake. I wrote this on a sick day. But anyway. I personally believe that pining can make up for just about anything.

Regardless, hope you enjoy it :)

CHAPTER 2: This is real

"Harry…" he heard from somewhere far away. "Harry…"

He mumbled something, trying to push the voice away. It was too loud, too annoying, too much like a garbage truck at seven in the morning. "Lemslip," he muttered, scrunching his eyes tighter at the voice. "Let me sleep."

"Harry! You need to wake up!" The soft, glimmer of a dream faded, and Harry looked up into Ginny's fair face, wondering how on earth she'd gotten into the Boys Dormitory.

"Ginny?"

"Harry!" Ginny's voice was relieved, and it was with surprise that Harry observed her red eyes, the sharp furrow on her forehead. "Something's wrong. It's awfully wrong, and no one is seeing it."

He sat up, blinking. "Wha-?" Harry grimaced at the crick in his neck, realized he was in some back corner of the library, and probably had a crease on his face from lying on a book. "What's wrong?" he asked, turning towards Ginny.

She looked around furtively, as if the library wasn't deserted on a Friday evening; Harry had been researching something about someone he couldn't quite remember, assumed it was important and due on Monday (he had Quidditch practice all weekend), and wondered why Ron's sister was in the library at all.

"He's here," she whispered. "Tom Riddle."

"Wha-?" Harry stared at her, dumbstruck.

Ginny cringed at his expression. "I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me! No one else has noticed, not even Dumbledore, and…" she trailed off, breathing hard. "He's here," she repeated adamantly. "I don't know how, I know you destroyed the diary, but it's him. Absolutely."

Harry blinked again, and suddenly wished that he were still asleep.

He was still wishing that at dinner ten minutes later, as he and Ginny gazed at the Slytherin table, gobsmacked at the presence of its latest addition.

"Oh, you've noticed him, then," Hermione said casually, buttering a small roll. "He arrived this morning apparently. Tom Gaunt, half-blood, and in sixth year. He had a private sorting and everything, at least, that's what I overheard in Ancient Runes today."

"And all the Slytherins adore him!" added Ron, swallowing a forkful of sausage. "I bet five galleons he's worse than Malfoy."

"Ron…" said Hermione disapprovingly. "You can't just assume that. Why, he could be perfectly pleasant."

"Look, just because he's a bit fit-"

"Ronald Weasley!"

Harry gaped at them, before glancing at Ginny. The redhead shrugged at him, as if saying 'Do you see what I have to deal with?'

"Right," he said slowly. "Tom Gaunt." Not Tom Riddle. Even if he looked like him, and was in bloody Slytherin, it couldn't be. Harry had killed him by destroying his diary four years ago with a basilisk fang; it didn't get much gorier than that, he thought to himself. "And Dumbledore's okay with this? What about… what about Hagrid?"

Hermione frowned at him as if he were being dim. "Why would Dumbledore care? I know you don't like the Slytherins, Harry, but you can't just barricade the castle and prevent them from attending. And Hagrid… What about Hagrid?" Her lips twisted as if she were utterly baffled by him.

"Nothing," he said, looking back at the handsome Slytherin. Riddle's figure was tall, and even from across the Great Hall, his dark eyes seemed to glitter. He was disgustingly attractive with that smug smirk on his face, and terrifyingly familiar.

That was when Ginny elbowed him, and he hissed in pain. "Why Harry," she said. "I'm quite full, what about you?" Getting the hint (as nearly the entire Gryffindor table did), Harry hurriedly gulped down his pumpkin juice and got up to follow her.

"It might not be him," he said hopefully, jogging a little to catch up with her. He assumed she was walking back to Gryffindor Tower. "I mean… Dumbledore let him in, and he knew Riddle at school."

Ginny shot him a disdainful look. "Of course it's him. Who else could look the spitting image of You-Know-Who at sixteen? And only we recognize him. It must be some horrible dark ritual that allowed him to pass unnoticed, even though you destroyed the diary. I bet he had to sacrifice a muggleborn virgin for it, too."

Harry rolled his eyes at her as they passed a thoroughly concerned ghost, who eyed them before floating away hastily at Ginny's words. "Look, we could always try Hagrid. Riddle got him expelled at school, even Hagrid will have to admit that Gaunt looks just like him."

Ginny sighed, slowing her pace slightly. "Yes, but what if he doesn't recognize him? Because Harry… That will definitely mean there's something up. How could anyone forget the image of a boy that grew up to be… to be that."

"Oh Merlin, you're right," he whispered in response, before shaking his head. "But please, let's just try Hagrid. And then… And then we'll talk about it."

"Alright," Ginny murmured, as they finally arrived at the Fat Lady's portrait. "Meet me here at ten tomorrow morning?"

"I've got Quidditch practice at seven," he replied. "So maybe make it eleven."

"See you then."

Harry returned to his dormitory, and dreamt of Tom Riddle from the diary. He saw his dark eyes, all knowing, and the way the light had shone through him, as if he were made of mist. As if he were made of vapor.

As if he did not exist at all.

"So something's up," Harry admitted as they walked back up to Hogwarts after visiting Hagrid. "Something's really up."

Ginny flattered him with a glare, before swiftly turning her head away.

"Okay," he tried again. "It's pretty bad. We're the only ones to realize that Voldemort, a younger version of him that is, is attending Hogwarts. Like, actually going to class and eating dinner, and sleeping in the Slytherin Dormitory…" He was silent for a moment. "Do you think he actually sleeps? Like does he need to? Maybe he stays awake all night, just staring at all the Slytherins and wondering what wrong. He must be awfully disappointed with them. His future Death-Eaters and all-"

"Oh God," said Ginny. "Oh God, You-Know-Who is at our school and I don't care what he thinks about the Slytherins. He could be gay for them. I don't care. Tom Riddle, is attending Hogwarts, going to class and eating dinner and he's probably going to murder us, especially if he realizes that we know about him and-" She turned around, shook her head, pulled at her hair, turned back the other way, rounded on Harry, yelled at him, yelled at the grass.

"We better not let him know that we know then," replied Harry moodily, a little offended at her outburst. It wasn't his fault that Voldemort was at the school, not-terrorizing the students.

"Yes," said Ginny faintly. "Yes, that's true."

"Maybe," said Harry, growing enthusiastic, "he'll let his guard down even and make some obvious mistake."

"What? Like sacrificing a virgin?" asked Ginny.

"A muggle-born one," corrected Harry. "And then we can flush him out."

"That's your plan?"

"Doesn't it sound like one?"

"Well, it certainly sounds like yours," Ginny replied.

Harry made an offended sound. They'd just walked past the great doors to Hogwarts when… "Did you say that Voldemort was gay?"

"Oh God."

They were in Potions class suffering under Severus Snape's bad attitude when it happened. Ron had been walking towards him, obviously about to sit down, when Riddle, acting as if he hadn't noticed at all, sat next to him. Next to Harry that was. Harry Potter.

"Hello," Voldemort said, turning towards him and gracing Harry with a smile. "I'm Tom. Tom Gaunt. Pleased to make your acquaintance." He offered his hand, and Harry stared at it for moment, for surely he was hallucinating. The fingers were long and slender, unfairly gorgeous, and how long had he been staring for?

"Hi," Harry said, taking Riddle's hand and shaking it. "I'm sorry… you look like someone I once knew. You gave me quite the scare." He had the sudden urge to laugh, but managed to swallow it back down, smiling instead. He wondered if he looked demented. Perhaps so, for Riddle only nodded, before turning away and focusing on the lesson, making notes every so often in his elegant style of calligraphy. Harry wondered whether to feel disappointed or not. Certainly he felt relieved, feeling his shoulders begin to lower, and his breaths come slower. Merlin, it was not everyday one conversed with a serial murderer. Harry breathed out a laugh, and tried to focus on the lesson. Snape was speaking about something absurdly technical today (like he did most days, Harry was sure) and he struggled to understand it, not having heard its introduction.

It was impossible to concentrate regardless. All he could focus on was the possibility that he was sitting next to Voldemort himself. Or at least an incarnation of him; he had little idea of anything at this point.

"-tter?"

He looked up to see Snape staring at him, and felt a cord of unease tighten within him.

"Mr Potter, I would appreciate if you would remain focused in my class. You may very well spend your extra hours gallivanting about the Quidditch pitch; perhaps that will get it out of your system." The last few words were almost spit out, each individually enunciated for greater effect. Harry gazed directly into Snape's bottomless eyes, before hastily dropping his eyes back to the table. The room was terribly silent.

"Fifteen points from Gryffindor for not paying attention."

Harry breathed in, and out, trying to regulate his suddenly fast heartbeat. He glanced from the corner of his eye at Riddle (or whoever he was), and was surprised at his expression – or the lack of it. He had expected the Slytherin to be pleased at Snape's targeting of him, but now he realized that it would be too obvious. The boy, man, weird snake-man thing was acting as harmless as possible. That explained his gorgeous appearance, an attempt at physical attraction in order to facilitate manipulation, Harry theorized. Yes, that explained it nicely.

And it's not like Harry need fear that, he thought further. Even if Tom Riddle (or whoever he was) was absurdly attractive, Harry knew who and what he was.

There was no need to worry at all, really.

The class went on. Snape made a few further goes at Harry's dignity (which was hardly present anyway, so there was no need to go at it, he thought) and Riddle remained quiet. Harry met Ron's eyes several times. The redhead was obviously confused as to why Riddle had sat in his seat. Harry habitually made shrugging motions whilst attempting to remain still and not attain Snape's ire. He failed. The class ended, and Harry bolted for the door. He'd only taken a few steps out of the doorway when a hand on his shoulder prevented him.

Harry turned around; it was none other than Tom Riddle (or whoever he was) of course, and he cursed. The boy's face was strange, almost as if he were concerned, or even, well… nervous. Which was ridiculous. Harry could see something contrived about it, something artificial, something, Harry supposed, that he had only noticed because he was looking for it.

"I'm so sorry about Professor Snape," Riddle said elegantly, an aura of vague sympathy surrounding him. "As a Slytherin, I feel almost… embarrassed." There was a small grimace and Riddle's eyes creased, as if expressing that embarrassment. "I'm new here, so I didn't realize how bad the house rivalry was. No wonder you were uncomfortable when I introduced myself before."

Ah yes, that's right. Voldemort had always been good at charming people. Harry remembered the conversations of the Diary, of him, remembered Ginny's pale face as she'd recounted his manipulation of her. His possession.

Obviously, Riddle wanted something from him. Just what, Harry couldn't say, he didn't know anything, but Voldemort didn't know that. He smiled back, uncertain, but hoped that the expression's weakness would communicate weariness instead of hesitation.

"That's quite alright," he said. He decided to elaborate, something really emotional as if he were actually trusting Riddle. "I'm used to it. He's always been like that; my dad was really cruel to him back at school…." Harry looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. Did he really have to tell Voldemort that? He looked around for something to finish the thought. "I can understand it."

Harry supposed he did understand it. Not that he wanted to, of course. It was far easier to hate Snape than to understand him.

(Far easier to hate Voldemort.)

(He pushed that thought away.)

"I see," Riddle replied, obviously wondering why Harry was such a whack-job. Harry wondered if it was actually a thing to embarrass yourself in front of Dark Lords; he certainly hadn't thought so yesterday, but now, here he was.

"Still," the Slytherin continued. Harry envied him for his obvious charisma: if only he naturally had a nose. "I doubt you got much done in that atmosphere. I can help you out if you want. I take very good Potions notes."

That was when it happened. The thing. Riddle turned slightly so the light hit his face in a strange way, and all Harry could see was cheekbones, cheekbones, Oh God, gorgeous cheekbones and how on earth could a serial murderer have eyelashes that long? He blinked, looking down, suddenly seriously afraid, and with a deep breath summoned the brightest smile he had.

"Really? That would be wonderful. Are you free after dinner? I'll meet you in the library.

Tom Riddle smiled softly back at him, the barest upturn of the lips before Harry turned away, knowing he had to get away. Far away. Where no one would ever find him. He was somewhat dimly aware of Riddle's face stapled onto the back of his eyelids as he walked.

Dammit.

"I'm seeing him," he told Ginny at dinner, placing a treacle tart on his plate.

"What?" she stared at Harry, aghast. Her hand, which held a spoon full of some greenish colored soup, hovered just below her mouth. The soup was dripping back into her bowl. "Did he ask you out?"

"What? No, I mean, well yes, technically he did, but not like that. We're looking at Potions stuff."

"Right," she said doubtfully, and spooned up some more soup.

"What's this about?" Ron asked, joining in the conversation.

"I think Harry's got a date," said Hermione, smirking slightly. She then subtly stole a buttered potato from Ron's plate.

"Really?"

"No!" said Harry at the same time as Ginny said "Yes!"

Ron blinked at him, before grinning. "Well that's great Harry. Who is he?"

"He?" Harry stared, before shaking his head and cutting into his treacle tart, now turning cool. "It doesn't matter. I don't have a date."

"Well, that's good," said Ginny primly. "I really hoped you'd have better taste than that. Him being… well… You-Know-Who."

"He's not a Slytherin, is he?" Ron asked, and yelped as Hermione elbowed him in the ribs.

"Well I think that's brilliant, Harry," the bushy-haired girl smiled at him.

Harry sighed, despairing.

He stood just outside the library, breathing in and breathing out. Was this the way his life would end? Studying with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named after dinner one evening?

Harry sincerely hoped not.

He glanced through the entryway, saw Tom Riddle sitting gracefully (how did one even do that, anyhow?) at one of the tables, and promptly took three steps back.

So in all likelihood Voldemort (or whoever this bloody was) would not kill him tonight. He was probably here with a subtle plan of subtle manipulation that would subtly cause Harry to do something unsubtly. Like reveal information he did not possess. Or… he couldn't think of anything else.

Well, Harry supposed. He was either very unimaginative or Voldemort was doomed to failure (He predicted it would either be the former, or both). Regardless, he pasted a wide smile onto his face, and tried to be his natural, charming self.

"Thank you so much for this," he said as he walked over, accepting a pile of notes Tom handed him. "I really appreciate it." Again, he smiled. Voldemort or Tom Riddle or whoever he was nodded in reply, looking down at the table. At the notes, Harry supposed.

"It's perfectly fine, I assure you," Riddle replied. Harry lamented the Dark Lord's elegance. He was so terribly envious. And then… "Now, I looked at your potion, I hope you don't mind, during class today, and I think you added too much flaxweed. That unbalances the potion, turning it into a solvent. At least, that would have occurred if your other measurements for the Salamander blood were correct. Three ounces, yes? Any less, and it would have-"

Harry listened in awe, watching as Riddle's eyes up slightly as he gestured and spoke. Goodness, it made sense now that the boy discovered the Chamber of Secrets at fifteen. He was a genius.

Harry felt a little insignificant for a moment, before he attempted to soak it all in. It was with something like astonishment that he realized that he could actually understand all of Riddle's words.

"Wow. You must be a potions genius. You'd give Hermione a run for her money, I bet," he exclaimed, inwardly cringing. By Salazar, he should have practiced in the mirror more.

"I do enjoy a good brewing, yes. But thank you for the compliment."

Harry internally groaned. Modesty and confidence. Who could refuse that?

Riddle continued, the evil bastard. "Still, Professor Snape shouldn't be treating you like that because of your father. You're your own person."

Harry felt his breath catch. Ah. He was being thoroughly manipulated. If he knew that being declared an individual was his weakness, he would have been more ready but…

Harry hadn't known. He felt defenseless. "It's… more than that," he confessed, closing his eyes and wondering what on earth he was doing. Who on earth he was talking to. "He was in love with my mum, but she chose my dad over him. The one man he hated most of all, the one woman whom he most adored…" He felt the ghost of the heartache in his chest and winced slightly, before looking up and meeting Riddle's eyes. They were dark and piercing and looked right back at Harry, as if knowing. "Whenever he looks at me, he sees that betrayal. I look just like him, you know, my dad. Except I have my mother's eyes. It must hurt every time he looks at me; no wonder he can't bear the sight of me." At the end of his tirade, he flushed, gazing at his potions text instead of bloody Voldemort, not believing what he had admitted.

"You are very aware," Riddle replied, and Harry looked up at him, meeting his eyes. They were a deep, dark gray he noticed, like storm clouds. "It is… difficult to look past your hatred for someone, and see what motivates them. To understand the one who burns you is… difficult."

Oh God. Oh Merlin. That sounded awfully familiar. That sounded like he was talking about them. He had to look away again, feeling unbalanced, as if someone had hit him on the back of head with a frying pan, but without the pain. He blinked, and looked back at Tom Riddle. He noticed then how solid the boy was, as solid Harry was, and he remembered his dream, and the way Tom Riddle had been made of vapor and mist.

This Tom Riddle wasn't made of mist. This wasn't the diary.

Then… It must be Voldemort.

Harry swallowed, before replying, as truthfully as he could. "You have a way with words, Tom. Really. I do appreciate you listening to me rant about my life."

Riddle didn't respond, just looked at him for a long moment. Harry felt his cheeks burn and ached to get away. "Tom?"

"I'll listen any time, Harry," said Riddle or Voldemort, or Tom, Harry supposed.

He smiled back.

"How did your date go?" Ginny asked as Harry walked back into the Gryffindor Corridor room. Harry blinked, blindsided by the sudden question. She must have been waiting in front of the entrance for him.

"Alright," he managed.

Ginny's eyes widened.

"No! I mean, yes, but it wasn't a date."

"I was worried for a moment there, Harry," Ginny released a breath. "I can't have Ron winning the bet against Hermione. That would just be wrong."

For a moment Harry just looked at her, before he looked behind her and saw Ron and Hermione sitting in front of the fireplace, listening to their exchange furiously. Hermione even had a small notepad.

"I don't believe this," he mumbled, knowing it was a lie.

"Look," said Ginny speaking more softly. "I've been thinking. It can't be him. Not the one from second year. Unless you were lying about what happened-"

"No!" objected Harry. "No, I did. I saw his expression when I stabbed the diary." He stopped at the sudden remembrance. "He was terrified."

"So it must be the real him," Ginny said. "The real You-Know-Who. He obviously is here for a reason, and as he hasn't terrorized the school just yet, it's probably for information."

"But we both know I don't know anything-"

"But he doesn't," Ginny emphasized. "So go along with it. Who knows what might happen? You could persuade him to the good side."

"Ginny…" Harry said helplessly.

The redhead wiggled her eyebrows, a small smirk on her lips. "I have some money riding on this, Harry. Don't let me down."

If at the beginning of September Harry had been told that he'd soon befriend the Dark Lord, he would've thought it tremendously funny. And he would've shipped the speaker off to St Mungo's because, well… Lord Voldemort was a murderer. Lord Voldemort was insane. Lord Voldemort was sitting across from at a library desk, smiling at him, and asking how his day was.

Harry wanted to cry.

Alright, perhaps not to that extent. It was more that he sometimes had the urge to laugh hysterically at random intervals (and had done so) at the thought that he was friends with Tom Riddle. And Harry actually liked the bastard.

Sometimes he amused himself with trying to see past the façade. When Tom was being particularly polite, especially to one of Harry's friends, Harry could detect flashes of disdain in his eyes, a general aura of artifice, as if he was saying 'You might think me harmless, but you know nothing. You are bugs.'

And sometimes, when the receiver of this look was someone Harry disliked (like Malfoy or Pansy Parkinson), or if it was a friend acting obtuse, it made him want to smile. It made him want to catch Tom's eye and speak to him, to say 'I know you.' To ask 'What do you want from me? Are you here to kill me? To hurt me? Then why haven't you done so?'

Of course Harry would never find the courage to actually do such a thing, even if he was in Gryffindor. Even if Tom had pushed his Potions grades up to Acceptable in a few weeks, even if Tom made him laugh and was nice to him, even if Harry never caught traces of disdain or artifice when Tom was talking to him, Tom was Lord Voldemort. Tom might very well kill him.

Tom might very well kill Harry's friends. That was a surefire way to hurt him.

That didn't stop all of Gryffindor from believing the two were destined for each other. Regardless of the fact that it was Lord freaking Voldemort. Ginny and Hermione often quizzed him after his study 'dates', with Ron listening amusedly in the background.

"Did you he laugh at your jokes?"

"Well, yes but-"

"Did he compliment you?"

"I mean, yes but-"

"Did he smile at you when you walked in? Did he crack jokes and look at your face yearningly to see if you found it funny? Did he-"

"Yes okay! Stop asking me, it's not like that!"

"So he did look at you yearningly."

"What? No!"

Hermione was particularly impressed with Tom's intellectual and academic prowess. She often asked Harry what he had learnt each study session and was surprised when he could almost quote the entire session back at her. Harry left some things out though; she might take them the wrong way. For example, Tom's subtle (but not to Harry) queries of Dumbledore, and if there was any hope of truly destroying 'The Dark Lord, the most powerful wizard in the world.'

At that Harry had laughed. He just knew that Tom wanted to know about the Order of the Phoenix and all their terrible plans to destroy him. If only the Chosen One actually knew them. Harry felt a vague sympathy for the Dark Lord then. But he liked irritating Tom too much to stop.

"Well I think Dumbledore's a fair bit more powerful than Voldemort. Don't take me wrong; he's great at being evil. But… we can't let him be too arrogant."

A vein, practically bursting in Tom's forehead.

What Harry had enjoyed a great deal was that one study session that Hermione and Ron had come along to. They'd never actually met Tom, a thought that Harry couldn't quite comprehend. Tom was everywhere it seemed to him; it was difficult not to run into him, not to see him and exchange smiles from across the Great Hall, or as they passed each other in the corridor. But regardless, Harry knew Tom wasn't looking forward to meeting Harry's friends. He had that disdainful air about him, and occasionally shot small glares at Hermione as if finding her existence particularly problematic. It helped that Ron left, Harry supposed, but it did mean that all of Tom's contempt converged on Hermione. Which wasn't great for Hermione.

She didn't seem aware of it, however, and was charmingly asking Tom to elaborate on important points, sometimes extending upon some magical theory herself. But it was like Tom hated her; he would shoot Hermione down, outsmart her at every turn, raise his eyebrows and then smirk at Harry. As if to say 'Look at me. I'm smarter than her. I'm more intelligent than her. Look at me.'

Harry thought it was all very inane, because Hermione was probably more than half Tom's age, and where was the virtue in that? He also thought it was very funny. Oh Tom, he thought, glancing at those elegant hands as they waved and gestured and proved Hermione wrong about something. You really are too much.

Harry was having a nightmare. Everything had ghost-like tinge to it, all shadows and mist, as if nothing was real. And then, he appeared. Tom. But it wasn't Tom, because his eyes were scarlet and his voice was high and mocking, and Harry was afraid.

"Who do you think are?" the shadowy figure loomed closer, hissing at him. "The Chosen One? The Savior? The Boy-Who-Lived? You know as well as I do that your titles mean nothing! You are weak."

Tom's eyes glared down at him as if Harry was a bug, and an ache started somewhere in his chest, something he'd only imagined before, something deep and sorrowful that made it hard to breathe.

He looked at Tom, and saw that the boy he knew had vanished, and there stood Voldemort, tall and pale and laughing. "Avada Kedavra!" He hissed.

Harry woke.

It was dark; he must have fallen asleep on the library desk again because his neck ached. A tall window stood beside him, and he looked through it, at the rolling Winter fog, the bruised, somber sky and oh God. The clouds were the colour of Tom's eyes, he realized, all dark and shot through with weak sunlight. Dreary. Dim.

Divine.

Harry cast a quick tempus and sighed. He'd missed dinner, and Tom would be arriving any moment.

He didn't want to see Tom. He'd been wearied down lately, his mind full of Dumbledore's lessons, those hauntingly tragic visions of a boy all alone, without anyone at all, and it made Harry remember smoke and mist and those words…

There are strange likenesses between us, after all.

Even you must have noticed.

Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles.

Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts…

…since the Great Slytherin himself.

But he waited anyway. Too aware of the aching in his chest.

Tom arrived soon enough; he was never late. As soon as he saw Harry, his face lit up in concern and his eyes narrowed. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Harry smiled weakly back, wondering how much of the worry was an act. "Oh, nothing too drastic, Tom," he said.

Tom sat down across from him, still frowning. "Are you sure?" he asked. "You know you can tell me anything. I'm your friend, Harry."

Well, he had to laugh at that. Surely Tom was laying it on a bit too thickly now. If he wasn't careful, Harry might assume that he was pretending. (That he was laughing).

He laughed again. "I know Tom. But really, I've just had a long day. I'm fine."

They worked with nary a word to each other, a thick silence seeming to drape over them. It was difficult to break, but Harry wanted to know suddenly. He didn't care what the consequences were. His chest was twisting with a sharp cord he imagined cutting into his lungs and his heart and curling into his ribs, pulling so that they would cave in. It ached.

"Do you want to go on a walk?" he asked. "I'm not too anxious to sleep yet."

"Now?" Tom said, appearing hopeful. "I'd be happy to, but my only worry is Filch."

Harry grinned, suddenly excited. Tonight he would find out everything. Anticipation curled in his gut. "Don't worry about that. I have just the thing. Let's return our books to our dormitory, and I'll meet you at the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "You know where the Slytherin Common Room is?"

Harry just smirked, refusing to answer. A sudden lightness had come over him (except for the aching) and he stood, suddenly desperate to begin. He bid Tom goodbye and raced up to the Gryffindor common room, only stopping to say hello to Ron before zooming back down to the Dungeon floor with his Invisibility Cloak. Tom was leaning against the wall beside the Slytherin Common Room entrance, his eyes closed. Harry stopped several meters away from the entrance, just watching. He gazed at the handsome face, the sharp cheekbones, the long eyelashes, the way Tom's hair curled over his ear and he wanted to touch it. He inhaled then, and shook his head. He walked closer and revealed himself.

Tom squeaked in surprise.

"Come on," Harry said, and grabbed his arm dragging him into the folds of the Invisibility Cloak. He looked away, squeezing his eyes shut. Dark Lords weren't supposed to squeak or blush. It was just… adorable.

He blinked, trying to distract himself.

Tom spoke. "This is a very good cloak," he murmured to Harry. Harry noticed the press of Tom's side then, and felt something settle inside of him. He felt calm.

"Yes I know," he said. "It was my dad's. A Potter heirloom this. Dumbledore gave it to me. My dad would've given it to me himself but… you know."

Harry wondered if he was being too obvious, but he'd ceased to care. He stopped and grabbed Tom's hands, wanting to caress each elegant finger. But he was distracted from that thought when he noticed how very cold Tom was.

"Merlin," he whispered, moving closer. "Your hands are freezing, Tom. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have dragged you out at this hour." Perhaps he should have waited for the day, should have done this in front of a fireplace full of greedy flames. He looked into Tom's eyes, wondering, and became memorized by them; those dark eyes, veined with sunlight, or maybe moonlight, all silvery and misty and beautiful.

Tom took a step back from him, looking down.

"Tom?"

"Harry," Tom said, seeming to hesitate. It was the first time Harry had seen such indecision on him, and it looked… it looked real. "What do you… what do you think about him?"

"About whom?"

"Him. He Who Must Not Be Named."

Harry froze, suddenly desperate. Why was Tom asking now? And what would Harry say? This had been about finding out what Tom thought, not Harry but… Maybe he should just tell the truth. Just forget the consequences. He turned away and stared unseeingly at the castle wall, closing his eyes and remembering. Remembering the not-Tom of his dreams, the way the shadows had seemed to gulp and lick at him like tongues of flame, greedy and gluttonous. He was afraid of that.

"Why do you ask?"

"You must despise him, surely."

He told the truth, bracing himself. "You know… I really should. I do in a way. I hate how much pain he's caused. How many families have been ruined for the selfish desires of just one man. But… you know, I was raised by muggles, right? Just like him. And just like him, I didn't receive any love or care. The Dursleys hated magic. They tried to stamp it out of me. And I can remember, staring at the cobwebs on the ceiling of my little cupboard, hating them, and wishing they would all just disappear, so that they couldn't call me a freak anymore. And I think about Voldemort, who was once just a kid too, abused my muggles for being amazing, for having magic, and I can't hate him. I really can't."

Harry turned back to look at him, at Tom, who stood frozen and smiled. He smiled as widely as he could, trying to tell him. "I just… I just want to go save that young Tom Riddle from the world. It's just as evil, it seems to me."

"Tom… Riddle?"

Harry grinned at him, feeling a lovely lightness pass through him. He was finally sharing everything. "That's Voldemort's real name, you know. He made an anagram of it, Tom Marvalo Riddle, as a teenager. He told me himself when I was in second year."

Tom actually gaped at him, with his mouth open and his eyes wide. "He told you himself?"

"Not Voldemort," Harry replied, softly. He remembered shadowed mist and vapor, and Ginny's pale figure, lying on the Chamber floor. "A shadow of himself. The memory of Tom Riddle, trapped in a diary for fifty years." Harry paused for a moment. "You know," he said, stepping closer to Tom. He seemed to be frozen solid, more still than the statues of Hogwarts' corridors. "The name Marvalo comes from his mother's brother, from the Gaunt family. Descendants of Slytherin actually, but all gone mad. So I have to ask, Tom." He paused, gazing at Tom's shocked face, suddenly feeling anger pool in the pit of his stomach. "Did you really think that was subtle enough? I mean Tom Gaunt? Seriously? You must have thought it was hilarious. I had a few laughs myself, after the shock wore off." He wasn't smiling now.

"You know," Tom murmured, his dark eyes appearing bright and vulnerable. Harry didn't want to look; he looked anyway. "The whole time, you knew."

"I recognized you, Tom Riddle," Harry said, smiling a little at the memories, not feeling happy at all. "Dumbledore didn't. McGonagall didn't, but I did. So did Ginny actually."

"The Weasley's sister?" asked Tom, gaping at him.

"Yep. The diary possessed her before I destroyed it. She knew it very well. Much better than I did. I'm sure you cast some wicked spell so that no one could recognize you. But we never actually knew you so…" he shrugged, pretending to be casual. "What I don't understand is why. I assumed you wanted Order secrets or whatnot, but you should know by now that I know nothing." He wanted to know so badly.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I didn't understand," Harry said helplessly. So utterly confused. "I still don't. You could just kill me. You've had plenty of chances. And… you've been so kind to me. Really. I know it was all just acting but…" he grimaced at the thought, feeling that ache appear again like his lungs were threatening to tear apart. "I've never actually been able to talk to someone. I mean, my friends listen to me because they care about the emotional health of the Boy Who Lived. But you're the Dark Lord. You don't care. But I'm sure you actually understand a lot of what I say to you. But maybe that's just acting too." Harry breathed deeply, looking at Tom right in the eye. Preparing to give it all up. "It's your turn now. Kill me if you want. Answer my questions. I honestly don't mind. Just don't… Don't hurt anyone."

"I won't kill you," Tom said, and Harry felt his knees weaken, like he would veritably collapse with relief. "I swear it. But… I can't answer your questions."

Harry nodded, too relieved to be disappointed. Tom didn't want to kill him. That had to mean something, right? "I should go," he said, preparing to give up for now. "I'll walk you back so Mrs Norris doesn't catch you." Though he supposed absently that Tom hardly needed supervision; he was the bloody Dark Lord after all.

But Harry didn't want to give up the feeling of Tom's side pressing against his. He didn't want to say goodnight just yet, even if he couldn't ask more questions.

When they arrived they arrived too soon. Harry regretted leaving so soon, but glancing at Tom's pale face, still shocked and vulnerable, he couldn't convince himself to stay. Surely, Tom wanted to be alone. He bid him goodnight and left, both fearing and hoping for morning.

"Did something happen on your date last night?" asked Hermione, raising an eyebrow at Harry at the breakfast table.

Harry sighed, too tired to correct her. "Why?"

"Your beau seems slightly moody," Ginny chimed in, widening her eyes at him in an 'I wonder why?' expression.

Harry turned so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash. It was with surprise that he observed that his friends were right. Tom sat by himself with seemingly nothing on his plate, just gazing downwards. A bolt of adrenaline shot through him like lightning and he was walking to the other side of the Great Hall hardly conscious of standing.

"Tom!" he called, watching with concern as the teen started.

"Harry?" Tom said, gazing at him. His eyes were wide, almost shocked, and Harry felt his throat tighten at the vulnerable expression. He didn't care if it was acting, dammit. He was worried.

Tom stood and walked over to him, hardly glancing at his obviously disgruntled housemates. He met Harry's eyes briefly, before looking away and merely gestured to the Great Hall's entrance. Harry followed, having difficulty controlling the urge to touch him, to grab his wrist and ask him what his thoughts were, to have their breaths mingle, to brush Tom's hair with his fingers. He barely looked away from him, only centered on that closed expression. The pale face. Guarded.

They came to a stop outside an unused classroom and Harry finally broke the silence. "Tom," he said, feeling relief pool in his stomach when those eyes turned to meet his. "Tom, how are you?"

"What?" Eyes widened, shock? But why was it strange that Harry would ask, that he would worry? He wondered if he'd done something wrong, had bungled it all up spectacularly. Had last night been a mistake?

"I imagine you were rather shocked last night," he tried, trying not to fidget. "I was really worried about you, you know."

"Do you even remember who I am?" Tom asked seriously, his storm eyes intent on Harry's face. His chest ached again, a sharp tug of the cord and he wondered how his lungs had space to breathe.

"Yes, I know," he said, looking away. "I know. But…" Harry looked up, ignoring the ache, trying to just… to just tell him. "You're my friend. Even if it was all a lie. Even if you dream about murdering me in my sleep. I can't… I can't just give that up, you know?"

Tom should surely know by now.

"I won't kill you."

Again, that sweet, sickening relief.

"And it wasn't."

Harry looked up, confused.

"It wasn't a lie."

Harry wondered if it was possible for his ribs to break from a blooming heart. Because that's what it felt like. "I'm very glad to hear it."

If at the beginning of September Harry had been told that he'd soon fall in love with the Dark Lord, he would've cried for laughter. Because Lord Voldemort was a murderer. Lord Voldemort was insane. Lord Voldemort was pressed against his side, a shy smile creeping across his face and Harry wanted to kiss him.

Harry wanted to cry.

He hadn't meant to fall in love with the Dark Lord. He'd been happy with gooey friendship, a free Potions tutor, interesting conversation and a tiny, minuscule, infinitesimal crush. Like an atom's worth of crush maybe. Or a photon. He'd never understood much of Hermione's science books.

But that was beside the point. It was one thing to know that Tom Riddle was the most perfect specimen in the universe. That wasn't something that could be debated. No, no, Harry was fully aware of those moonlit lake eyes, the cheekbones, the hair, the height, the broad lines of Tom's chest against his Hogwarts robes, Merlin, the shoulders, and possibly the most lickable (because that was a word) adam's apple in the world.

It was another thing to see Tom's shy smile, or his 'You are all bugs' expression, and to melt into a pile of goo on the floor.

So yes. Harry was in trouble. Harry was in love. With Tom. And he had absolutely no idea what to do.

"Sorry," said Tom, shifting away so that they weren't pressed together so tightly. They were in Transfigurations class, practicing a charm Harry had forgotten in Tom's proximity, and Tom's cheeks had turned the faintest bit pink.

It was… Harry knew he was going to die. The Dark Lord would murder him after all.

"That's alright," he said emphatically, trying to communicate just how alright it was.

Tom nodded at him, and for a moment Harry thought he understood, before he realized that the tall Slytherin had gone back to paying attention to Professor McGonagall. Harry wilted, feeling disappointment churn in his gut like a blender. It was pointless. What would his arch nemesis want with him? He wasn't talented or powerful or even that handsome. He wasn't anything compared to Tom.

Harry remembered that dream suddenly, the one where Tom's eyes had been scarlet and his face cruel. Who do you think are? he thought to himself, remembering. The Chosen One? The Savior?

The Boy-Who-Lived?

You are weak.

Tom had gone missing. They'd regularly agreed to meet after breakfast to walk to class together, hands touching every so often if Harry was extremely lucky, but today, Tom wasn't at breakfast. Harry watched the Slytherin table all morning, eyes narrowed in concern.

"Is everything alright, Harry?" Hermione asked him. Her worried tone caught Ginny's attention. The redhead shifted, eyeing Harry speculatively, before moving closer to sit beside him.

"Trouble in paradise?" she asked brightly, her eyes betraying her seriousness.

Harry sighed. His friends knew him too well not to notice his pining. All of Gryffindor house had bets on when he and Tom would 'get together'. Only Harry knew that it futile. Not even Ginny seemed to realize.

"He's not at breakfast," said Harry, eyes drifting back to where Tom normally sat.

"Harry," said Ginny. "You should go talk to him."

Harry looked at her, before glancing at Hermione. Her forehead was furrowed as she listening, obviously knowing there was something she was unaware of.

"It's…" he shook his head. "Ginny, you know this. He couldn't possibly-"

"If you don't go find him and confess," butted in Ron, who Harry only then realized was listening in too, "I'll quit being Keeper."

Harry gaped at him, before Ginny laughed and he gaped at her.

"I agree," she said, smiling. "Merlin, I agree with my brother. I know what you think, Harry." She looked up at him. "But you're wrong."

Harry hesitated only for a moment, before standing and walking out of the Great Hall. He was tempted to go to his dormitory and use the Marauder's Map but… grimacing, his heart thudding, he walked to the same empty classroom they'd been before, the same one where Tom had said it wasn't all a lie.

He was right. Tom was standing at the window, and even when it obvious that he knew Harry was there, he didn't turn. For a moment, Harry was struck and couldn't speak. It happened sometimes. He looked at Tom and couldn't move for how gorgeous the boy looked. It made something in him crumble like burnt pastry, falling apart and it hurt. It took him a moment to speak.

"Tom? You weren't at breakfast."

But there was no immediate reply, and concern rose him. "Tom?"

He walked closer, worrying, hesitating as he invaded Tom's space, but too worried to care. He moved so that he could see Tom's face, all cold and stiff like ice. "Tell me what's wrong?" Harry murmured to him, and Tom closed his eyes. "Tom?"

At last he responded. "I am very angry." The reply was slow but stilted, as if it took great effort to even say that much.

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion. "At whom?"

Tom laughed but it was empty, as empty as his expressionless face. "Only myself."

Harry couldn't move for Tom's eyes were on his now, his warm breath on his face, and it felt like something was shattering, like it was breaking and then…

Tom kissed him.

Elegant fingers were brushing through his hair, caressing his scalp like it was priceless. Warm lips parted his own and Harry imagined that he really had died, perhaps this was a dream, or paradise, but his lungs ached from lack of air and could this be real? Those gorgeous hands came to rest on his shoulders, and Tom pulled back to look at him. Harry gazed back, eyes impossibly wide, caught in those glittering grey eyes. And Tom was kissing him again, Harry was all heat and fire and then it was over.

"I'm sorry," Tom gasped, and Harry noted that his pupils were blown, his cheeks flushed, his chest heaving, gasping. "Forgive me. Please," Tom said, obviously desperate and backing away now, horrified. Ashamed. "You were just so close I…" Eyes closing.

Harry released a rattling breath, and inhaled again, so terribly hopeful it hurt. "Tom," he said, feeling unreal. "Tom, do you care for me?" he asked incredulously. But something inside of him was blooming, something warm and terrifying but oh so gorgeous.

Tom took a deep breath. It struck Harry in the chest like an arrow. "How can you not know? Can't you see how I… how I… crave your attention? Your… your touch? You… how can you not know?"

Oh God, thought Harry. This is really happening. To me. This is happening to me. He stepped forward, and brought his hand up to Tom's forehead, caressing the hair falling across it. He smiled at how soft it was. "I can't believe this is real," he whispered, unable to stop himself from grinning. He could see Tom's own incredulous face, and thought it wonderful. "I never imagined," he whispered, "that you would feel the same as me."

"What?"

Why, thought Harry, is the Dark Lord so phenomenally cute? Was it just him? Surely no one else could think otherwise. He gazed at Tom's awestruck face, thinking that no one would think otherwise. Not if Harry could help it.

Tom was all his.

He smiled again, answering. "You're the Dark Lord. He Who Must Not Be Named. How could… How could you ever actually… feel the same? It was impossible, I thought. You were probably dreaming about killing me whereas I…" He didn't think he wanted to admit just yet to some of those dreams.

Tom, some indefinable expression in his eyes, lifted his hand up to Harry's cheeks. "Never," he said.

Harry had to laugh again. "Oh God, Hermione is going to be so pissed."

"Hmm?" Something dangerous in Tom's tone.

"Not like that! She bet on Christmas Eve, see?"

Understanding dawned on Tom's face before he smirked wickedly. "Harry, how long have you been wanting to kiss me for?"

Harry flushed. "Not before you tell me!"

Tom leaned closer so his breath brushed across Harry's cheek and he shivered. "Since you smiled at me," Tom whispered, and Harry melted right then and there.

"Bollocks," he muttered, and pulled Tom in for another kiss.