Oh gosh, how long has it been? Over a month? And all you get is my second shortest chapter yet. I am very sorry for the amount of time it takes me to update. If I'm honest, I haven't been into Harry Potter that much recently. I'm a bit of a fandom whore – all over Death Note and The Hunger Games right now. But never fear! I am a HP nerd at heart and I am not going to abandon this fic. Promise.

**IMPORTANT** I have my AS level exams coming up, and in order to get the grades I want I actually need to focus and study. So this will be the last update before the summer. Guess you could call it a hiatus. I am very sorry but that is the way it is. Thank you for your patience. **END**

Anyway, please review. Hope you like this chapter. Best wishes.

Chapter 12 – Confrontation

He could smell something strong and vile. It filled his nostrils and stung the back of his throat. There was something unnatural and foul about it that made him want to gag. But his throat felt constricted and his tongue swollen and heavy. His limbs were weighed down too, and a large pressure pushed against his torso. He became more and more aware of it every time he took a breath. His lungs fought to expand. When he sucked air in through his nostrils and mouth it became viscous and tangy.

It grew worse. The weight on his chest increased. It crushed him. Cold. Unyielding. Painful. He tried to push against it. He struggled, attempting to rock to the side, escape it. His eyes, which before had felt heavy and like they'd been sealed shut, opened a fraction. White light entered his brain. Piercing. Blinding.

He's coming round someone sedate his lungs need to careful just administer the curse was stop it sedate him.

It was wrong. The words made no sense. There was too much noise. It hurt.

The weight was lifted from him suddenly. Freezing air rushed into his nose, his mouth, his throat. It seeped into his lungs and brain. Numbing him. His eyes slid shut. The darkness was welcome.

...

Tom woke to the sound of clanking metal and wheels rolling over hard floor. He opened his eyes. White ceiling. White wall. Blue curtains on a metal rail.

He was lying on a bed under light, slightly stiff sheets. Some kind of thick bands crossed his wrists, chest and thighs, stopping him from moving. A dry, metallic taste filled his mouth, but it was tolerable.

"Tom?" A low, familiar voice cut across the air.

He turned his head to the side, the sudden movement making him dizzy, blurring his vision momentarily. Quirrell was sitting on a chair several feet away.

"Tom?" he repeated, looking cautious, "Are you awake?"

He opened his mouth and tried to answer, but as his lips formed the words no sound came out other than a grating murmur.

Quirrell moved closer, dragging the chair with him.

"Where am I?" he managed to say eventually, though his voice was hoarse and it sounded more like 'whurr'mm ah?'

"St Mungo's," Quirrell answered.

Tom nodded. That figured.

"What ha..." he struggled to say the words, "What happened?"

"We were in Diagon Alley," Quirrell said quietly, frowning down at his interlocked hands, "I guess you remember that. And there was a... uh, riot, of sorts. A group of dark wizards they say. Came and attacked everyone. You got hit by a curse and..."

He trailed off. Tom looked at him, noticing now the dark circles under his eyes and a long scratch across his jaw, as though he'd been cut there in the past few days.

"You've been here for a few days," he added, "It's the 4th of January."

"Have you been here the whole time?" Tom asked, his voice stronger now.

"Don't flatter yourself," Quirrell said with a hollow laugh, "I arrived a few hours ago. Was here for a while on the 2nd. No visitors were allowed on the first day. Vanessa and Elona came up yesterday. They said you were unconscious the whole time."

He nodded a little. It made sense. He could remember being in Diagon Alley. He could remember all the cloaked wizards approaching and the panic of the crowd. But that was it. Everything following was blank.

"And, uh, why... why am I strapped down?" he asked rather hesitantly.

"Well... on the second day, while the Healers were attending to you," Quirrell spoke quietly, and Tom had to strain to hear him, "You kept... trying to attack them..."

He trailed off, looking away, his forehead creased by a slight frown.

Tom stared at him blankly, then felt his stomach drop suddenly.

"Did I h-h-hurt anyone?" he croaked.

The vile taste in his mouth grew with every second that Quirrell did not answer.

"Not seriously," he finally said, "The sedative charms were taking effect. But you used quite a bit of non-verbal magic. Wandless too. It just kind of... exploded out of you. But everyone is okay, no lasting damage done," he added hastily.

Tom sank back into the pillows, eyes closed. Well that was it then. Everything he'd fought hard to keep locked inside was out in the open. He had strived to repress it all, to stop anything like this ever happening. But he'd lost control. He had attacked people. Now they'd all know him for what he was.

"Tom?" Hesitant fingers reached out and pressed against his shoulder.

Shocked at the sudden contact, his eyes snapped open.

Quirrell flinched visibly, quickly withdrawing his hand. He tried to cover the movement up by going to scratch his neck, but Tom had seen, and they both knew.

He looked away, staring up at the ceiling.

So now even the one person he'd grown to consider his true friend was scared of him. Quirinus Quirrell, who had come to him all those months ago in the Leaky Cauldron, helped him start up his life and then stuck by him afterwards, including him, talking with him, laughing with him, not leaving after the incident with Bellatrix Black. And he had ruined it.

That is what they'd all think of him now – Quirrell and the Brights, Frankie too. He was dangerous. He was unstable. Someone to be careful around. Someone who was not to be trusted. Someone who had to be physically restrained in a hospital so he couldn't hurt people.

He was vaguely aware that several people were talking nearby, but who they were and whether they were talking to him he could not say. Unable to tear his eyes from the empty white of the ceiling, he felt the nausea spread from the pits of his stomach into his throat and brain. A dull throbbing had started up just behind his eyes and in his chest. He could feel his pulse drumming in his ears.

What have I done?

...

"Riddle, for God's sake, will you just speak to me!"

Icy blue eyes met dark ones.

Silence.

Quirrell let out an exasperated groan.

"Are you incapable of speech now? Is that it?"

"Not at all," Tom said, his voice low and still slightly hoarse.

"Then why are you refusing to talk?"

Pause.

"I am not refusing to talk. I just have nothing to say."

Silence. Again.

A young Healer walked in and seemed to double-take at the cold atmosphere in the room. She nodded at the two young men, picked up the files she had come for, and left somewhat hastily. As her lime green robes swished round the doorpost, Quirrell turned his eyes back to the bed.

Several minutes passed before he realised, not for the first time, that staring would not induce any kind of response.

"You know what?" he snapped, getting to his feet, "I give up. You have been here a week, Tom. A week. And I know you're still recuperating, but you really need to get a grip! There were a lot of victims in that attack. A lot of them are worse off than you. Some people died, Tom. And whatever effect that curse – that whole event – had on you, you really need to just get on with it!"

Tom just looked at him. His expression appeared disinterested. Blank. Cold.

"Vanessa says you're in shock," Quirrell continued vehemently, "I say that's bullshit. Frankie says you're sulking. I'd say that's a hell of a lot closer to the truth. Something happened. You reacted badly to it. Fair enough. But sitting there in silence, shutting everyone out, that's not going to help you.

"Because you need help, Tom. I see it when I look at your face. There is something eating away at you. You are distant most of the time. Sometimes you space out for several minutes. Sometimes you look like you're about to freak out for no apparent reason. And you know what? I haven't said anything. Because I figured one day you might trust me enough to explain that you witnessed some horrible event as a child or something. I guess you think you're above that."

"I don't want your pity," Tom said coldly.

"You think I'm doing this out of pity?" he retorted fiercely, "Is that it? Well, I'm sorry to inform you that you are very much mistaken. Did you think I was here because I felt sorry for you? Poor Tom Riddle, got hit by a nasty curse and is recovering in St Mungo's, let's go shower him with comfort and sympathy. Wow, Tom, that's pretty narcissistic. You know, maybe I'm here because I was genuinely worried about you. Maybe I'm here because I considered you my friend."

Quirrell took a step backwards, shaking his head. "But seeing as you're superior to that, I guess I'll be going. I hope something gives you a kick up the arse and you realise that you've got to sort this out. Goodness knows I've tried. Maybe I'll see you around."

And he left.

Tom stared after him, jaw clenched. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Hard.

If he thought his walls were crumbling before, they were definitely falling to pieces around him now. Everything he'd done – his whole facade – had never even worked in the first place. If Quirrell had known the whole time that there was something wrong with him, then it was almost certain that other people had. He had thought that he'd exercised some control over himself, but he had failed. He couldn't do this. Why had he even tried in the first place? Voldemort was too dominant, too-

But no. Was it really about that? Was it?

'Did you think I was here because I felt sorry for you?' Those words brought back memories of something else that had been uttered months ago. 'That's really why I've been talking to him... I just feel sorry for him.' Was that a lie? One of them had to be.

'Maybe I'm here because I considered you my friend.' Considered. Past tense.

He'd really fucked it up now, hadn't he?

Tom sunk back on the pillows, turning onto his side, facing the wall. The emptiness of it did not help to numb him like it had done before.

He reached up to rub his eyes, and felt wetness. Tears clung to his eyelashes and pooled at the corners of his eyes. His vision blurred.

He hurt. Everything hurt. His head. His stomach. His lungs felt like they were constricted. His chest. His heart hurt.

That's funny, a voice whispered, somewhere at the back of his conscious mind, I would have thought you didn't have one.