The devil doesn't sleep with just anyone.

Stanislaw Jerzy Lec

The Dream Eater

It was impossible not to notice that the whole place needed a thorough cleaning, though Ron assured him that the apartment was brand new.

"Are you sure it's the right address?" Harry said aloud, looking intently at the gloomy interior. He didn't like it here.

Dust hovered over the slovenly spread furniture - some of it was covered with white foil, some looked as if it was abandoned in hurry; a lonely cup must have been waiting for its owner for months, judging by the traces of dried paint on the table. The smell of solvent was still in the air... and something else Harry couldn't name. He wondered how anyone could paint in this room, when it was so dark in here, but after a while he realized that the darkness was only temporary - the sun suddenly came out from behind the clouds and illuminated the attic, clearly emphasizing the dirty window panes and stains on the floor.

"Cozy, isn't it?" Ron asked enthusiastically, gesturing the blank white walls. "It only needs some proper decorating..."

Harry was no longer listening. Even if the apartment was a den full of cockroaches, he wouldn't have a choice. He urgently needed a roof above his head after the (skład) of their former flat gradually fell apart - at first Ron and Hermione decided to rent an apartment on their own and at the end of semester Ginny and Luna followed their example. Harry ended up alone in an apartment way too big - and too expensive - even for five people. His classes were about to begin and his parents didn't want to give him peace, threatening he can always stay with Aunt Petunia and her terrible husband, Uncle Vernon, and Harry was sure he'd sooner eat a poisonous Amazonian frog than taste the Dursleys' diet cooking after a periodic examination stated - what a surprise - his only cousin was slightly overweight.

He looked at the disheveled room once again. It wasn't as bad as he thought. He would have to throw away the chair standing in the corner, it looked slightly rotten... If he moved the table closer to the window, he could use it for studying and eating... The small kitchen looked unused; if ants weren't living in it, it should be suitable for preparing exquisite student's dishes – something like pasta with tomato sauce... Well, at least the building was close to his department.

"There's also a bedroom," Harry was urged by his friend, pulling him by sleeve toward the other door. "The owner said that you can throw out unnecessary things, the previous tenant didn't clean it up."

Harry thought he heard a note of anxiety in Ron's voice, as if he was trying to hide something, but when he finally saw the room, he realized that the youngest of the Weasley brothers was simply afraid of his reaction to the chaos reigning in the bedroom.

The interior was much smaller and darker, probably because someone decided to decorate the only window with blood-red paint. A huge stain went up to bed, turning from blots into footprints. The bed itself would look quite ordinary, if not the red marks on the once white bed sheets. Harry felt an irrational fear, as if he was looking at some gruesome crime scene.

"What... what happened here?" He finally asked, taking a step toward the window and opening it with trembling hands. A breath of fresh air calmed him a bit and he was surprised to see a beautiful view above the surrounding houses.

"I only know what the owner said - the previous tenant moved out without a word... And all costs of cleaning will be deducted from rent next month." Ron kicked one of the single bed's legs, trying to hit the dried stains.

Avoiding the red marks, Harry went back to the bigger room. Once again he looked out the window, checked if the kitchen sink wasn't leaking, leafed through one of the books left behind on the laundry dryer for some reason and declared in the most enthusiastic tone he could manage:

"I'm moving in tomorrow."

...

A whole week passed before Harry actually moved in. Although the agreement was signed the next day – Harry had a chance to meet the somewhat haughty owner, Mr. Malfoy - cleaning the missing locator's mess took much more time than he initially thought. He could sight with relief now, lying on his new bedding; sleeping on a mattress in Ron and Hermione's studio was not only inconvenient, but also quite awkward. He did test their pateince for way too long.

Holding a cup of hot tea in his hands, Harry looked around the room. Well, it wasn't so bad. Just the contrary, the apartment seemed perhaps a little empty, but also a lot more homelike. It was enough to cover the parquet with a few bright floor mats - his mother was a handicrafts maniac - and the room didn't seem so bleak any longer. Perhaps it was also connected to the new bulb in the lamp under ceiling. The last thing to do was to scratch the paint remains from the table.

Harry regreted a bit that he had a chance to see his new bedroom in such a pitiful state before; if he did not, he'd never guess that it was a silent witness of some mysterious Dantesque scenes. The red spots disappeared; Mrs. Weasley advised Harry to remove them with turpentine. He hoped that the gruesome image won't haunt him before bedtime. The attic was so quiet that even he, a fan of horrors and ghost stories, could get scared.

Harry moved to the window and stood on a stool to get a better view. The sun was slowly sinking in the river, a single gull soaring over it every now and then. He sipped his tea and smiled to himself. He had never lived alone; it was quite exicitng in a way.

"Beautiful view, don't you think?" Someone said suddenly on the left and Harry got scared so much that he jumped, hitting the window frame with his head; the cup fell from his hands and rolled toward the gutter, spilling remnants of tea on its way down.

He looked around confused. For a moment he was sure that he had to mishear; there was no living soul nearby – why would he see someone on the roof in the first place? Then, Harry noticed a movement – a young man waving to him from a neighboring window, smiling apologetically.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he was saying now, pulling up on the window frame and streching his legs. "I'll give it back to you."

"What?" Harry didn't fully understand what the stranger had meant. After all the cup was lying in the gutter, way too far for anyone to be able to reach it.

Moments later he gave a strangled cry. The neighbour jumped out of the window in an instant and began to slide toward the edge of the roof as a child on a playground. Harry held his breath, fearing the worst. The chute was coming closer and closer, just like the edge and seven floors worth of flight. He closed his eyes... he didn't want to see what was about to happen.

The darkness was surprisingly quiet. He didn't hear any crumbling tiles or screams of passers-by. Maybe the crazy acrobat stopped on one of the balconies? How could he know if he decided to escape the terrible view?

"Can I get in?" Someone said close to his ear and this time Harry jumped so gustily he fell from the stool, landing on the hard floor.

In the window a silhouette loomed against the purple sky.

"Do you always start friendships so spectacularly?" Harry asked, getting up from the floor and massaging his bruised tailbone.

"Only if the stranger is interesting enough," the bizarre neighbor said and without waiting for a proper invitation, he slipped into the bedroom, pulling the lost cup towards Harry. "Besides, I'd have a debt if I destroyed your property and now you are the one to owe me."

"I think we should rather call it even. I didn't ask for a refund." Harry felt surprisingly well in this man's company. He was... entertaining.

"I only used the opportunity. You'll have to invite me for tea now. Tom Riddle," the mysterious acrobat introduced himself, reaching out to greet the new tenant.

"I'm Harry. Harry Potter," he smiled in response, thinking that the long hours of scraping the red paint paid off. It seemed that he had found the perfect apartment.

...

Harry couldn't sleep. He was tossing from side to side for hours now, trying to find a comfortable position, but as soon as he was able to finally relax his muscles, something in the walls began creaking and scraping; wind was moaning ominously in an airshaft he didn't notice before. Despite the extra blanket he felt cold, even though the day was warm.

Sleep well, Harry remembered Tom's farewell. They spent the rest of the evening together, talking mostly about Harry. It seemed quite nice then, but now Harry started wondering why Tom hadn't told him anything about himself. He only learned that Riddle lived in the attic of a neighbouring house for some time, as he put it. The first night in a new place is the most important, Tom added at parting and the promise of what could happen if Harry would let him stay hung in the air for some time. Finally Tom left the same way he came in uninvited - through the window. He claimed that it was faster and more convenient.

Something behind the wall knocked again. Harry pulled his headphones from under the pillow and turned on his nighttime playlist. Somewhere behind a quiet violin melody he could still hear the rather realistic sobs of wind.

...

He didn't have to look at himself in the mirror over the sink to know that he looked awful.

Harry didn't sleep well. He hardly slept at all. When he finally managed to fall into a restless sleep, nightmares he didn't even remember tormented him. Only a faint image of his own room bathed in blood-red paint emerged from the misty memories of last night.

A cup of steaming coffee brought him back to life. He shouldn't be so concerned about it. Sometimes he simply had sleeping problems. He couldn't find rest in his parents' new house, whichever room he decided to try. Probably he needed more time to get used to this place. If only the paint wouldn't... He could bet that only yesterday his bedroom was completely clean, but in the morning he found red imprints on the window frame. He had probably missed them during cleaning...

...

Returning from his classes, Harry met one of his neighbours, the elderly professor Slughorn, on the mezzanine. He knew the man from Hermione's faculty. Apparently Slughorn was a legend among chemists and Harry's best friend couldn't believe when he told her they were residents of the same building now. Hermione practically ordered Harry to somehow get her an invitation for the annual Christmas Ball held by Slughorn - the retired professor was gathering all the promising scientists there. Harry didn't know why would anyone not invite Hermione to this solemn event, when she was the best student in the country, but for some reason the girl too often mistrusted her own abilities.

"Hello," Harry said with a smile, trying to control the dangerously swaying shoping bag.

"Hello, dear boy." Slughorn bowed in an old-fashioned way. "Not yet finished with the cleaning?" He asked, peering curiously into a bag full of solvents.

"A small problem with the paint. The previous tenant was a painter from what I've heard and left some artistic mess behind," Harry said with a smile, trying to sound natural, though he tried almost all available means and the marks on his window still didn't want to disappear. It's was... bothering him to say the least. Harry wasn't sleeping well.

"Paint?" The professor smiled to himself, as if he heard something funny. "Is it red by any chance?"

"How did you know?" The boy asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

"We've tried to remove the bloody traces from stairs for weeks after Blaise... disappeared so suddenly," Slughorn ended somewhat uncertainly, looking away. Harry was too preoccupied with the news that the red paint was simply hard to remove to notice the strange tone. "I'll leave the rest of the mixture we've used to remove it at you door, if there's any left," the man added, quickly going into his apartment; they were already on the third floor.

"Thank you," Harry was only able to add, before Slughorn dissapeared from his sight.

The further way up the stairs seemed much less difficult than the previous few days. He wasn't crazy, the stains were simply difficult to remove. Harry began to imagine an incredible variety of things, watching the bloody fingerprints on the window frame. For a moment he thought Tom might left the traces, but the idea was quickly dismissed. The cup would have to get dirty too and it was still snow-white.

At the door Harry was greeted by a delicious smell. Sometimes he wondered what exactly Tom was doing all days, if he could afford to spend so many hours in Harry's kitchen. He knew so little about him.

"I hate it when you do it," Harry threw his warm coat on a hook in the wall and pointed to the set table. Small traces of paint were still visible in the corner; it wasn't as scary as the one in his bedroom, so Harry decided not to remove them. He liked the small tracks of the previous owner.

"If you really hated it so much, you'd close your windows more carefully," Tom laughed, stepping closer and embracing Harry tightly. His soft sweater smelled of cinnamon and rain.

Harry had no idea why he allowed it all. He's never been so... When others were starting relationships, quarreling and parting, he was standing somewhere beside it all, not really interested. He was surprised when his friends acted so stupid a few years earlier, when they were falling in love for the first time. He didn't understand why they were getting lower grades, screamed at their parents, got interested in poetry all of a sudden; they were gradually leaving only to return after some time - when they needed comfort or when the first flame of feelings had finally passed. Now he knew. When Tom was leaving in the evening - always through the bedroom window - Harry had the impression that the world lost a little color. Even his mother's confiture's didn't taste the same. He couldn't concentrate during lectures because everything reminded him about Tom. On Monday it was enough for Professor Binns to say Tom Devine for Harry to be seized by an uncontrollable giggle attack. Fortunately the lecturer was almost totally deaf and didn't notice that one of his students was showing symptoms of an early-stage of madness. Well, even if he noticed, Harry wouldn't care.

Many things stopped to interest him - at the beginning of the month it seemed to him that he will never miss a Thursday's dinner at the Weasleys, but in the very moment was sitting in the attic of an old house, not even thinking that he might feel better anywhere else.

...

"Will you stay for the night?" Harry asked two weeks later, credits rolling down the laptop screen. They finished the first season of Hannibal.

He slept peacefully only if Tom was next to him. Harry had no idea if it was his head trying to make Tom stay every night, or perhaps he still didn't feel safe enough in the apartment. It was enough for him that he could close his eyes, feeling that someone - Tom - was watching over him, however foolish it could sound.

"I can't." Tom looked at Harry apologetically, stroking his cheek. A few days ago Harry was afraid Tom could get sick - his hands were always terribly cold – but this time he felt a pleasant warmth. "Not tonight, Harry, I have something to do."

He felt a little hurt about Tom's rejection, even though he knew it was ridiculous to feel this way. Sometimes he was the one to refuse Tom.

"Sleep well," Tom said his goodbye, going toward the window and disappearing into the darkness of the night.

Harry knew he wouldn't sleep at all.

...

He woke up around three in the morning and scared out of his bed. In the dream something was chasing him, a ghost without a face, calling him in the dark, as if it had something to tell him.

But it wasn't a nightmare that woke him up. Something in the wall behind the bookcase was scraping terribly, as if someone was scratching the other side with long nails. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Why would he even think about something so irrational?

He turned on the light, but didn't feel any better. It was just the contrary - in a bright room the noise seemed even more real, no longer a nightmare. Something was there, probably a herd of rats. Though he would rather not meet them, he knew that only scaring the rodents might allow him a few hours of peace before dawn.

He put on a robe and found some tear gas in the kitchen - a memoir of the panic from the year before - a serial killer was prowling in the city and his mother insisted that he wore something to defend himself. Harry was never deluded that the gas would defend him against a madman, but maybe the rats weren't so hard to handle?

Moving the bookshelf was much more difficult than he thought; it was heavier than he had expected, although it wasn't carrying that many book. The scratching wouldn't stop - the animals didn't seem frightened at all and were getting louder with each passing second.

When Harry finally pulled the bookstand away, he froze motionless. In the white wall there was a door, small, as if it was leading to a locker similar to the one his uncle and aunt had under the stairs. The door was full of red fingerprints.

If he could only run away without looking back... But something held him in place with invisible bonds, crippling his moves. He almost stopped breathing, the fear taking his breath away. Why didn't he notice the door before? Why didn't anyone tell him about it?

Only after a while Harry noticed that the scratching stopped, as if the rats were finally scared away. The newly formed silence was even more frightening than the spooky noise.

In the end Harry regained power over his legs. He walked toward the door, watching it intently. He recognized the paint, the same he still didn't manage to remove from the window - Slughorn's mixture was standing idly in the kitchen. When Tom was staying for the night, Harry wasn't thinking about the bloody prints. What was behind the door apart from the herd of rats? Now that he had already made the effort to move the rack, he might as well check it out. Harry returned to the kitchen for a flashlight - another one of Lily Potter's gifts - and tried to open the low door. He expected that they would be closed, but the handle snapped lightly and without a groan.

The inside was even darker than his bedroom; the room had no windows. He leaned forward slightly and went inside; for once he had no reason to complain about his shortness. He turned the flashlight on the wall and saw the switch - after a moment a naked bulb shone under the ceiling.

It was some kind of a small closet. The former tenant realy had to be a painter - under all the walls Harry could see paintings of different sizes: portraits, still lifes, landscapes... Though he didn't know much about art, that Blaise guy really had talent. But why did he destroy his own work? Most of his pictures bore traces of the same paint, which was once such a problem for the building's residents.

Only one picture remained flawless - a stunning portrait on a lonely easel.

When he came closer, Harry understood why it seemed so familiar.

He recognized Tom's face.

...

Harry didn't know why he hasn't admitted to Tom that he found a hidden room. Initially he felt an incomprehensible, stupid jealousy. Blaise, the man of whom he knew nothing more than that he disappeared suddenly a few months earlier, had to know Tom a lot better than Harry did. He didn't have to look at the portrait long to notice how very different from the others it was. Other paintings were beautiful, this one was splendid. Tom looked so alive in it, although Harry couldn't imagine what means of persuasion Blaise had to use to persuade Tom to put on this ridiculous wreath. Maybe it was just the opposite - because he knew his own ways to persuade Tom to do some... things, he felt even more jealous.

But there was something else, a feeling hidden somewhere under the blind envy. Once again Harry began to wonder, just like the first day they've met, why Tom never talked about himself. He still didn't know much about Tom. One day he tried to question Slughorn whether he saw a neighbour visiting Blaise, but the retired professor looked at him like he was crazy and said that the painter lived alone and had no visitors. It took some time before Harry realized that Slughorn simply couldn't see Tom on the stairs - Riddle never used them.

Secrets began to torment him almost like the nightmares which haven't disappeared. He didn't find a single rat, but the scratching in his walls, although it was a little less noisy, wouldn't stop. One thing he couldn't understand was why he only heard it when he was alone at night. When Tom was with him, he had no dreams, neither good nor bad.

...

"Did you sleep well, Harry?" Hermione asked him one day, sitting next to him during the lunch break. Outside the canteen window the November rain mercilessly plunged the street in ever deeper pools of water. "You're not looking well lately."

"What do you mean?" He asked, looking up from his third cup of coffee that day. "I slept well..."

"You're terribly pale," the girl didn't want to give up just yet. "Maybe you can come for a dinner today? Ron's mum gave us three jars of broth."

"I already have plans," Harry said rather evasively. Tom promised to help him remove the stains from the window. He couldn't look at them without shivering.

For a moment it seemed that Hermione would say something else, but ultimately his friend shrugged. Deep inside Harry wished she insisted a bit more.

…

When he returned to the apartment, only darkness was there to greet him. Water started gathering under the half-open window in the bedroom. Tom didn't come.

Harry grabbed his phone and looked at the empty screen. He didn't have Tom's number. How was it possible that he was practically living with this man and he had no way to contact him? Again, Harry felt a sting of jealousy and disappointment. An unpleasant feeling that he was the one commited to this relationship more didn't want to leave him.

Something rustled in the wall, but Harry didn't even look that way. Instead, he grabbed his coat and ran out of the room, almost jostling Slughorn on the stairs.

He went out onto the sidewalk, not worrying about the lack of an umbrella. The rain was falling harder and harden, quickly flooding his glasses. Almost blindly Harry directed his steps towards the neighbouring building, planning what words of reproach he will use for Tom to regret treating him so badly. Maybe if he was able to think more clearly, he'd come to the conclusion that Riddle didn't commit any crime not showing up in his apartment, but like anyone in love for the first time Harry wasn't guided by reason, but the manic emotions that allowed him to ignore his friends and neglect studying for weeks.

He nearly bounced off the closed door, hitting it with such a flourish. He looked with astonishment at the yellow tape forming a warning cross above the treshold. Once again Harry tried to turn the doorknob. It didn't subside. On the wall he saw another sign: Warning! Building in danger of collapsing. After wrestling with the door for the third time he had to give up. There was no way to get it.

…

Tom was waiting for him the next day, as soon as he returned from the university. He apologized for so long and so convincingly, that in the end Harry stopped sulking, although some unresolved issues still wouldn't give him peace.

"Why did you say that you live next door?" He asked finally as they sat on the floor with a deck of cards. "The house is empty, I couldn't even get inside..."

"You've been there?" Something in Tom's eyes wasn't exactly of Harry's liking. He was glad he hadn't told Tom about the portrait.

"I tried to," the boy replied, as if he wanted to justify himself, though there was no reason for him to feel guilty. "You didn't come, so I started to worry, I ran out into the street and then it turned out that the house where you supposedly live is excluded from use," Harry ended in a more militant tone, the sound yesterday's anger still present.

An awkward silence fell in the room. For some reason, Harry felt stupid. Maybe he shouldn't bother Tom so much about it? He was acting just like Ron, when Hermione went on a date with Cormac McLaggen, and Harry couldn't explain to Ron that he had no right to be offended, because he and Hermione weren't even a couple back then. Whatever he felt for Tom, it made him behave irrationally.

"Harry..." Tom sighed, still looking at the cards, shuffling them mechanically. "I didn't want to talk about it, to bother you with my problems... I live in the attic, because I cannot afford anything else. My parents threw me out of the house, you can guess why." He gave Harry a meaningful look and Harry felt his heart ache in grief. He couldn't imagine such things were still happening... His parents supported him from the beginning, from the day he told them... "I found the spare room by accident, I usually enter the house through the back door. It's quite embarrassing, that's why I prefer coming to you the other way."

"You could..." Harry began hesitantly, taking Tom's face in his hands. "If you only want to... You could live here... with me."

Their eyes finally met. Harry felt tears slowly forming under his lashes. Tom's eyes flashed, something like a triumphant gratitude in them. Perhaps he was hoping for this invitation for a long time? Why haven't I guessed that he needs help? How long had he lived in this awful hovel? Harry couln't imagine the condition of the closed building... I was about to collapse! The tears finally flowed down Harry's face in violent streams, though he hadn't cried since uncle Sirius' death.

Harry felt Tom's warm lips on his cheeks and once again this evening he thought he was being ridiculous. He wasn't the one that had the right to cry.

"I'm sorry," he was barely able to force the words, wiping his face with his sleeve and hugging Tom. He felt like a child that understood the ruthlessness of the world for the first time. Suddenly he felt endlesly tired.

"Thank you," Tom said, stroking his hair.

"I love you," Harry added, closing his eyes, but he wasn't sure if the words really left his mouth. He didn't hear any answer.

…

When he woke up in his bed the next morning, memories of the previous night seemed vague. Struggling, he recalled Tom's explanations and his own proposal, but the rest seemed strangely unclear. He had to sleep shortly after he spectacularly burst into tears. Harry felt ashamed and for the first time in a long time he was glad Tom wasn't around to see the terrible blush on his face.

Tom was nowhere to be seen - not in the bedroom or the small kitchen. After a moment, Harry noticed a card on the refrigerator or rather one half of a card. The second was on the floor, all smeared with red paint. Harry felt a shiver. He wasn't thinking about the hidden room for at least two weeks, so absorbed with Tom... The memory of the portrait only worsened his mood. They had to talk about it sooner or later.

A shred card pinned with a magnet informed him that Tom won't come back until tomorrow afternoon. Harry didn't really like this perspective - it meant another lonely night full of scratching and cracks in the walls... Maybe he could invite Ron and Hermione? It was too long since they spent an evening together. Reluctantly he raised the stained part of the note – so red he nearly believed it was covered in blood - and was surprised to see that it contained only the signature. He could barely read it, because the red covered all the black and instead of Tom's name, the letters LV were visible. He had no idea what it meant. If Tom wanted to be funny, it didn't work. In the end Harry shrugged his shoulders and put the two halves in a drawer. He was going to ask about the strange message as soon as possible.

…

"It's beautiful," Ginny stated, crossing the threshold of the attic.

"The walls are probably full of Wrackspurts," Luna added, following her redhead girlfriend. Harry smiled faintly hearing the remark; he's almost forgotten what bizzare things interested Luna Lovegood.

He brewed tea and seated his guests on cushions and rugs he got from his mother; he didn't have five chairs for them to sit at the table. It was nice to see them again; over the past weeks he lived somewhere beyond the world, almost trapped in the sky-kingdom with his beggar-prince.

"Is someone else coming?" Hermione asked, seeing the additional cup. Harry realized with surprise that he almost instinctively prepared some more tea in Tom's favorite mug.

"That's why you're absent minded these days, isn't it?" Ginny joined the questioning, smiling mischievously. In the past Harry repeatedly swore that he would never fall in love. "Did you abandon the idea of becoming an eternal bachelor?"

"If you keep asking, he'll never tell you." Ron was already sitting on a cushion, biting into a piece of an apple pie Mrs. Weasley baked for them.

Harry looked at his friends hesitantly, as if sharing a secret about Tom was wrong in some way, even though he didn't know why it should be. They were all so interested and so visibly happy to see him that in the end he said, looking at the ceiling:

"I... I have someone. His name is Tom, Tom Riddle."

"I knew it!" Ron practically jumped off the floor, raising his hands in a gesture of triumph. "You all owe me a fiver!"

"A fiver?" Harry hoped his voice expresses sufficient amount of resentment. "You price my skills so lowly?"

"I was willing to bet twenty pounds on you, but no one wanted to take such bet." Ron shrugged, picking up his money from the girls. They didn't seem particularly disappointed with their loss. Just the contrary – Ron barely returned to his seat and Harry was already showered with new questions.

"How old is he?"

"What does he do?"

"What does he look like? Do you have any photos?"

"No, I don't..." Harry cut them off with disappointment, realizing he didn't know the answer to any of these questions. After a moment he remembered the portrait. "Follow me," he said a little merrier to his friends, disappearing behind the bedroom door.

Ron helped him move the bookcase and the door opened easily once again. Nobody commented on the somewhat macabre appearance of the small room nor asked why it was hidden behind the bookstand, though Hermione and Ginny exchanged meaningful glances.

The portrait seemed even more beautiful than the first time Harrys saw it. Perhaps it was so, because he already knew a part of Tom's story and didn't feel as betrayed as before? Maybe Blaise paid Tom for modeling? If he needed money so desperately, he would probably agree to wear that bizarre flower crown.

"He's very handsome..." Hermione said, glancing anxiously at Ron, who was also studying the painting.

"I think you wanted to unearthly handsome," Ginny corrected her, coming a little closer. "Luna, how do you like him?"

"The painter hardly liked him," the pensive girl said strongly and everyone looked at her, waiting for an explanation. It was true that sometimes she was stating such strange things, but Harry couldn't understand why would she think so about the portrait; he saw only the creator's worship in it. Seeing that she caught the attention, Luna added as if she was saying something obvious: "Don't you see his crown? White gerberas, narcissus, basil... Oh, and here," she pointed to the dark background, which Harry haven't noticed previously, "rhododendron. The painter created a tribute, even though he hated his model. He believed that he has no heart. This is not a portrait, it's a warning."

…

The next day Harry felt too weak to get out of his apartment. It seemed he caught a cold.

Luna's words killed the carefree atmosphere of last night. They drank tea, played some cards, laughed just as before, but Harry couldn't stop thinking about what the girl said. A warning? Why would anyone warn him? He knew that artists sometimes hid secret messages in their paintings, but he really couldn't see it in Tom's portrair. In the morning he pushed the bookcase away once again - this time it came to him with difficulty and every movement was painful – but he didn't see anything new. Tom was the same as always - beautiful and young, in no way betraying how miserable his fate was. Only at the bottom, right at the edge of the canvas Harry saw something next to the artist's autograph - two almost invisible letters. LV.

"We meet again," Harry sighed theatrically, but a cough attack interrupted his scene. He went back to bed, barely hiding the secret room. He hoped that Tom will be back soon.

…

He woke up in the middle if the night. He was shivering and felt cold sweat on his forehead and neck. Where did he catch it? He was wearing a cap from mid-October, his mother insisted on it... How could he be so terribly ill?

"Tom?" He asked faintly, seeing the light coming from the kitchen. He wasn't sure if he turned it off before he fell into his fitful sleep. His old nightmares took a form of tall boy with red paint on his palms.

"I'm here," he heard the answer and approaching footsteps. Before he could see Tom, Harry closed his eyes and once again fell asleep.

…

"I have no idea where did I catch it," Harry said in the morning, drinking the sweet tea Tom brought him. Although he tried to get up for his classes, the dizziness didn't let him go far – the bedroom door was his limit today.

"You need some rest." Tom sat down on the edge of the bed and kissed him lightly on the feverish forehead. "It's probably only common cold."

Harry hoped so. The vision of pneumonia or something worse wasn't that interesting. He put his oddly heavy head on the soft pillow and allowed to be wraped in a blanket. Maybe he really needed a short break from reality.

…

In the dream he was wandering in a maze full of flowers. Gerberas, narcissi, rhododendron... He knew them, although he didn't know why it was so important. The air was sweet, nauseating. And there was something else there... Basil?

…

"Harry, you missed three days of lectures and I'm starting to worry. What happened? If you don't answer the phone finally, I'll get into your apartment and make such a horrible scene that Professor Slughorn will certainly hear it! He'll form and awful opinion of me, awful. Can you hear me? My career depends on you, Harry!"

...

"Harry, this is an exaggeration in my opinion, but Hermione's really worried, so call me back when you have a moment. If... If something happened, you can count on us, okay?"

...

"Harry, they say you don't go to class anymore... What happened? Are you ill? We've heard that you're dating someone... Why didn't you tell us? We'd love to meet him, me and dad. Call me quickly!"

...

"Harry, that's too much, you know? And no, I'm not crying because of you, I'm simply slicing onions for dinner... But you know what I've learned about your Tom? Answer me and I'll tell you."

…

Someone was knocking on the door, but Harry thought it might as well be coming from the other end of the universe, so distant it seemed. He didn't come out of his bed for over a week. His condition was getting worse and although he was patiently drinking Tom's teas, he didn't feel any better. The previous evening he saw blood in the sink after an exceptionally harsh cought attack. He knew he should see a doctor, but he had no strength to get dressed, let alone leave the apartment. His phone went missing... He couldn't call for help.

Tom kept saying it was going to pass, but Harry hardly believed him. There was something disturbing about his condition worsening and Tom staying healthy, although they spent so much time together. Sometimes Harry suspected that Tom enjoyed his illness, the fact he couldn't leave the house, but the thought seemed completely ridiculous. Why would Tom want his pain?

"Harry!" A worried voice joined the knocking. It took him a while to recall that it belonged to Hermione. He wanted to say something, to call her, but had no power.

"Harry!" This time he heard Ron's voice. He pounded his fists on the door much more violently than the girl.

"I told you he wasn't here for almost a month." It seemed Slughorn joined the conversation. Harry wondered if he's already ruined Hermione's career...

Somehow he climbed out of bed, falling on the floor. He began to move awkwardly in the direction of the door, but every tiny movement made him nearly blind from pain.

"Hermione," he barely recognized his own hoarse whisper. There was no hope that those on the other side of the door heard him.

Soon enough the voices died away. Harry saw the world as if through fog, but there was certainly a single white envelope under his door.

He didn't know how he managed to cover the distance between the bedroom door and the enterance to his apartment. Harry had the impression he coughted his lungs out at least twice and saw another blood stain on his pajamas. What happened to him? He tried to move the handle, but it wouldn't give way. Where were the keys? His trembling hand reached for the envelope and pulled out a long letter written in Hermione's small writing, spilling a few pieces of black-and-white paper on the floor.

The first words danced before his eyes like faint shadows, but the longer he read, the clearer his vision became. Fear restored part of his senses.

...

Harry!

I have no idea what is happening to you and why you stopped talking to us so suddenly - you can be sure that when I'll finally get you, I'll make you regret it - but you should also know we worry about you terribly – me, Ron, Ginny, Luna... Even Malfoy asked where you are.

I tried to call you at least a hundred times until the phone stopped responding at all. I'm not sure if you'll read this letter... Ron says that you probably left the town... But you wouldn't leave without saying goodbye, right? When you stopped answering, I began to search for information about that Tom of yours; you know that the library calms me down. I know now how badly you had to feel when we were questioning you about your relationships so blatantly... Why did you lie to us? So that we would finally give you some peace? I don't want to believe you chose him on purpose - I suspect that you are were inspired by the portrait and somehow found out the model's name. Why didn't you check the rest? Tom died more than half a century ago, Harry... I don't know how Blaise could paint him so accurately, only a few photos of Tom survived and the portrait is extremely realistic... Anyway, I asked about Blaise around and it seems he disappeared suddenly at the end of the previous semester; no one saw him since then. I even managed to meet with his mother - she's going crazy, Blaise was her only child – but I didn't learn much. She stubbornly repeats that her son is dead, but the police has no evidence other than her testimony - she says that Blaise came to her in a dream...

Getting back to Tom... In the envelope you have these few photos I managed to dig out from the archive. There are also newspaper clippings, although I learned the most from Professor Dumbledore - he knew Riddle when the latter briefly attended the university. He was very surprised when I began to question him about this particular figure, but he didn't ask... He told me that Riddle came from a very wealthy family and that he was separated from his mother as a child; she was apparently crazy. His father didn't want her to ruin his opinion and locked her in a hospital outside the city. Tom was an outstanding student and easily got into university, but then his problems began - he met Mafoy's grandfather, Abraxas, and some time later Grandfather Malfoy saw them together in a rather ambiguous situation. You know what it meant beack then, they could end in prison. The Malfoys were eager to see Tom there, but they couldn't risk the life of their own son, so they forced the Riddles to swear that Tom will never again leave the house. And the Riddles agreed. Apparently his father was the most furious, although Tom's grandparents tried to defend him... Finally they arranged an attic room for him and he wasn't allowed to go outside the walls of the house, he couldn't even have any guests. Can you imagine? Once, when his family was having a dinner, he went to the dining room with a dagger and simply killed them all. When the police came to the house, they found only the three bodies. Tom disappeared and when he wasn't found for years, the city took over the tenement and began to rent the apartments, aside from the attic room of course - who would want to live there? Over time the house began to have a rather grim reputation, because things were disappearing or changing place and some residents went missing without a trace. I found a whole list, some names may seem familiar: Druella Rosier, Ignatius Prewett, Bella Lestrange, Severus Snape, Alphard and Regulus Black (the latter is your godfather's brother, did you know?). I don't believe in witchcraft or ghosts, but it's really suspicious, don't you think?

I hope you understand now why I'm so worried. I cannot forget Luna's words - I never listen carefully to her, but this time it got stuck in my head. I'm really scared.

If you're reading this, let me know where you are... if you're alive.

I hope that you are well,

Hermione

PS In one of the old newspapers I found another informaation about Tom - he left behind his weapon and after they removed all the blood, police discovered an inscription: "Lord Voldemort". I looked it up in some dictionaries and apparently it means more or less "theft of death." Quite a gruesome name, considering what he used the blade for.

…

He sat on the floor by the door for a long time. Only the sound of footsteps brought him back to reality. Unfortunately it wasn't coming from behind the door, but from inside of the apartment. Tom has returned.

Quickly, Harry shoved the letter and scraps of newspaper under the doormat, seeing the macabre photos of the crime scene from many years ago and an indistinct photograph of Tom, grinning innocently directly into the camera lens.

"What are you doing, Harry?" He almost jumped in fear hearing the question. He still felt terrible, but Hermione's letter and the terror it caused sobered him a little. Although his thoughts were still chaotic and meaningless, at least he could think again. Tom looked at him suspiciously. Harry prayed that he won't find the letter. "You weren't trying to get out, were you?"

"I was looking for my phone." The lie came out extremely smoothly. Harry almost believed it himself.

"Why would you? I'm giving you everything you could possibly need."

"I wanted to call my parents," he lied again, wondering how long he can pull it off. He was walking on thin ice. "They're probably worried, because I didn't call them for so long..."

"I've already informed them about your illness." Tom tried to cheat him, but this time Harry wasn't fooled that easily. He wasn't going to believe in any of his word. Whoever... Whatever Tom was, he didn't want Harry to recover or be in contact with someone from the outside world.

He had to play. He smiled as gratefully as he could and pulled up his hands, asking for help. Harry was sure that he had no chance to go back to bed on his own. Besides, as long as Tom was holding him, he couldn't find the letter.

When Harry felt Tom's soft hands on his shoulders, some of his fears began to recede. Maybe Hermione was wrong? He didn't even have time to look at the picture... And how would Blaise portray Tom, if he had been dead for so many years? No, the whole thing was ridiculous, even if it was coming from Hermione.

If Tom was really dead, how would he feel his heartbeat? Or see the first December snow in his hair?

Even if he was a murderer, nothing would have changed, the last clear thought appeared somewhere in Harry's head and disappeared as quickly as a candle's fire blown away by a gust of wind. Whatever his guardian was, it seemed Harry loved him helplessly.

…

Tom continued to disappear for days, but not much had changed - Harry didn't have the strength to get out of bed. He was raving. The room was smoothly passing into the maze from his dreams, where he was trying to catch the shadow with red fingertips. The sound of the opening window was waking him up, the smell of tea made him fall asleep. Sometimes he was thinking about Hermione and her letter and he was able to recover the remnants of consciousness. But he was too tired to turn his thoughts into action.

…

It was the middle of the night again. Something was scratching on the other side of the wall, this time clearer than ever. Apparently Tom wasn't home - it never happened with him around. Harry wasn't sure when was the last time he saw his guardian... He had the impression it was at least a few days ago... Was is the reason his thoughts seemed a little more his now? When Tom was around, Harry couldn't concentrate on anything else than him.

The scratching wasn't stoping, so insistent as if someone was trying to break through the wall. Harry didn't have the strength to be afraid. Almost lazily he rose to his elbows – noting with some surprise how bony he became - and looked toward the bookcase.

"Who's there?" He asked quietly, still staring into the darkness.

In response, the scratching stopped. Perhaps whatever was so desperately trying to disrupt his sleep, decided to finally detach. Harry would be really grateful.

He was about to go back to a more comfortable position when the scratching returned, though it sounded a bit different, more rhythmically.

"What the..." Harry paused, listening more closely to the series of repetitive sounds. This thing, whatever it was, tried to communicate with him.

Three short taps, then three long claw-like slides, then again three short and so on.

"S.O.S," he said, more to himself than to that something. The tapping sped erratically, as if it wanted to congratulate him, then there was silence again. "Who you are?" Harry asked cautiously, feeling the blood in his veins got slightly warmer, he didn't know whether from fear or hope.

A long series of taps and scratching began and it took him a moment to remember which sounds stood for which letter.

"Blaise." The name hung in the darkness for a moment full of uncertainty, then the tapping was back, creating a new word. "Run away," Harry understood, almost bursting into bitter laughter. "I cannot escape. The door is closed, I can't even call anyone..." The scratching interrupted him suddenly and he understood the word... "... fire? What fire? What do I do with it?"

But Blaise didn't answer and the a single word was still echoing in the walls. Harry felt worse again. He laid his head back on the pillow and fell asleep.

…

When he woke up in the morning to see bright rays of winter sun, the night conversation with the dead painter seemed at least unlikely. Morse code? He had to come up with it during another attack of fever...

Doubtfully he looked at the wall and held his breath. Right next to the bookshelf Harry saw red fingerprints, as if someone tried to push it out the way.

…

Tom didn't return that night or the next night and Harry was almost certain that the longer Tom was away, the better he felt. He managed to get out of bed, wash his face and even change into a fresh pair of pajamas. There was no blood in the sink this time. Perhaps the worst was over...

Although it was still difficult to believe that he really spoke to a ghost, Harry began to look for a source of fire. He could bet that a month ago he had an entire stock of matches in the cupboard above the sink, but now he there was not even a single one. Did Tom take them?

He checked the bathroom and the still unopened boxes, but he hasn't found neither matches nor flint there. It seemed more than weird, because he gaurded the latter like a real treasure; it was one of the few things Sirius left him.

Harry already lost hope when he thought about something. He jumped up from his chair almost triumphantly - almost, because his ribs hurt him after the sudden movement - remembering the lighter Ginny once hid in a pocket of his jacket. They used it to light the candles on Luna's birthday cake and he didn't use it since that time. Did lighters have an expiry date? He hoped not.

Barely digging the jacket from under a pile of sweaters with a wildly beating heart, he began the hectic search.

"Here you are," he sighted with relief, seeing the furiously pink lighter.

Harry was ready, even though he didn't know for what.

…

"Harry," a warm breath tickled his neck for a moment and turned into and even more enjoyable kiss. He smiled from the edge of sleep.

"You came back," he stated the obvious fact and freed his hand from the blanket in search of Tom's soft hair.

"And I won't leave you again," Tom said firmly, helping Harry get out from under the white quilt. How good it was to have him back. "We'll always be together."

…

"I think I recovered," Harry said, when some time later they lied together in the rumpled sheets.

He felt safe. When Tom was away, he could imagine that he was talking with spirits and saw marks on the walls, but now, when they were together again, he couldn't believe all these terrible things.

"Looks like it," Tom laughed, embracing him even tighter. "But maybe you should wait a little longer? Sometimes it only seems to us that we feel good."

"I'd like to see Hermione and Ron... and my parents," Harry began confidently, trying not to get distracted by the gentle kisses on his colarbone. If Tom cared about him, he shouldn't have anything against Harry seeing his friends. "You disappear for days and I can't even call my best friend?"

"I work," Tom replied evasively, as if he wanted Harry to feel remorse once again.

It didn't work this time.

"And what exactly are you doing? You never talk about it." Harry had the impression that a dangerous glimmer appeared in his lover's eyes.

"I visit some places, pick up some... things. You can say that I'm a collector in a way."

"A collector? Or maybe a kidnapper? Did you pick up Blaise?" Harry had no idea when and how this question popped up in his head and on his lips, but it was too late.

The pressure on his arms became more violent. He said too much and Tom was furious. He lost his chance for a peaceful solution.

"It hurts," Harry managed to moan, but it seemed that he opened his mouth unnecessarily.

"It should hurt." Though it seemed pleasant only a minute ago, Tom's voice turned into an inhuman hiss. "When did you start nosing around? Or was it your little friend that told you everything? Probably the latter, because you'd never guess on your own."

"Tom, stop it," Harry tried to somehow escape from the deadly embrace, but didn't have enough strenght to do so. "I l-love..."

"... love me?" Tom finished for him in an amused cold voice. "No one can love me. I am cursed and so are you."

Harry felt that these same hands which had brought him only pleasure and comfort for so long, moved to his throat. Was this the way he was going to die? Did Blaise die just like him, in the same bed?

"Stop, p-please..." Once again he felt tears flowing down his face. Why did it happen to him? What did he do to deserve it?

He couldn't recognize Tom's face. It no longer resembled the one he knew from the photos and portrait, as if he became an interely different person. Harry felt that he'll run out of air soon, but more than over their own destiny he wanted to cry over Tom's. Did he have the right to blame him? A few hours earlier he wanted nothing more than his return. Whoever he was, whatever he did, it still didn't matter. He wished they could meet elsewhere, in other circumstances and time.

He saw their first meeting as clearly as if he was watching a movie. He had to be really dying... Time did reverse. The teacup that I shattered did come together. How stupid it was to leave this world hearing Hannibal Lecter's voice in his head. His mug rumbled down the roof, the cold wind woke him up at night. The tea was waiting for him on the table, Tom complained that he was late again. Rain and cinnamon. Seven of hearts. The scent on his pillow.

"Stop it!" Tom shouted suddenly and the murderous noose around Harry's neck disappeared. "You can't... You can't think... I don't believe it..."

"Believe me," Harry whispered with a hint of challenge in his voice. His neck was burning, but he resisted the urge to message it. He needed both his hands now.

"There's no way..." Tom stared at him in disbelief. He was trembling and Harry still refused to believe that real murderers could tremble like this.

Although he would like to have the will to escape, he lost it a long time ago. He... he could only try to end it all.

Once again, he found Tom's mouth and desperately pulled him closer.

His second hand found the lighter. How was it possible that it didn't slip from under the pillow?

It seemed their last kiss would never end; perhaps that was just what Harry wanted – to stay out of time with the young cursed man from the distant past, eternally sharing the single bed in the attic. Probably he could forget about his parents and friends, about everything his old life was.

He felt the unbearably hot flames finally reaching his skin.

"You lied to me," Harry heard words of reproach once again and then everything disappeared.

…

"I wonder what lies in this coffin," Draco Malfoy asked, not expecting to hear an answer from Crabbe or Goyle.

His feet were cold and he forget to take gloves with him. Why couldn't Potter die in a warmer month? Of course Draco didn't have to come to the funeral, but how would it look like? After all they knew each other practically since elementary school; what's more, Potter decided to set himself on fire in his father's house... He had a feeling that Harry Potter died simply to get on his nerves.

"I've heard they only found some ashes," someone said behind Draco's back. A dark-haired stranger was watching him intently.

"And you're...?" Draco asked, trying to sound haughty enough.

"Tom," the boy replied, shaking his hand firmly. "Tom Riddle."