Author's Note: So, the violence gets...fairly graphic in this chapter, towards the end. This is the one instance of it, but it is very gross and I just wanted to give a proper warning. If anyone thinks I should raise the rating, just let me know. Enjoy.

3.

The room fell silent, and Tom lifted his head up from his hands, brows knitted in confusion. The screaming and the pounding and the wheezing had all been replaced by a high pitched ringing that engulfed him. His head felt full, like his skull had been stuffed with cotton and swathed in a blanket. Had he finally gone deaf?

His eyes fell on Myrtle, who was sitting up and staring beyond him, her wine colored lips clamped shut, veins visible beneath her translucent skin. Her eyes were focused on something just above him, an intensity to them that was typically absent. He followed her line of sight, just as the door shoved into his back, the brass knob wiggling with the movement.

He thought he heard someone speak, but the words were too distant, too muffled. He shuffled away from the door, pulling himself up along the wall as Harry Potter tentatively stepped into the room.

He looked at Tom, eyes widening from behind the wire-rimmed glasses as they flicked over his bruised chest, his skin a canvas to his own abuse, painted with ugly blues and purples and a sickly yellow. He opened his mouth, silent words on deaf ears, as if he were shouting from too great a distance, over the thunder of a storm.

What was he doing here? Had he gotten bored in heaven- Poor Savior Potter, was he having a bit of an identity crisis with no one to fight? No one to save? He had been certain that their previous interaction would be the last one ever between them- it felt as if it had been forever ago, several lifetimes stretched apart in the space between then and now. He wanted nothing to do with Dumbledore's Golden Boy; no figment Hell could create would be so torturous.

Unless, he was a figment himself. The uncertainty of it, the way he was beginning to question the very things before him, was enough to make him swallow thickly, the sound echoing in his mind.

Tom grimaced, settling a hand over an ear and pressing into it, the pressure creating a slight pop! But it did no use, and Harry cocked his head at him, nose crinkling. Understanding seem to flood the younger wizard, he took a step forward, slowly raising a hand, the palm forward as if to show he had no ill intent.

He met the proffered hand with narrowed, suspicious eyes, but said nothing as Harry moved closer, letting his hand come to rest on the side of Tom's head, cupping his ear. It was wonderfully warm, and he knew for certain then that Harry had to be real. No warmth- no comfort- would be given to him in Hell, not even in the form of one of its cruel puppets. Something enveloped him- the familiar tingle of magic as it prickled the air around him, static making his hair stand on end.

The ringing within the caverns of his skull diminished, the fullness in his head receding with it. The hand pulled away from him, and he would never admit to how his chest seared with the absence, the air around him feeling even colder than before, stinging his cheek.

"Can you hear now?" Harry asked.

Slowly, Tom nodded, pursing his lips. What was he here for? And why had the ghosts of his past decided to become quiet with his presence? Turning away from the other boy, he scanned around the small room.

The apparitions were there, in the places they had settled into without hesitation. But they were stilled, frozen in time. Even the locket ceased its rhythmic movements, the pendant eerily unmoving. His father stood on the sunken mattress, black shoes barely visible as they disappeared into it, and his fist was raised at nearly eye level, poised to smack against the wall but never moving those final inches.

Why? Why was there suddenly some semblance of calm? A respite from the torment?

"Tom?"

He turned back to his visitor, blinking in thinly veiled surprise. He licked his lips, parting them as he said, "You...don't see them, do you?" He hated to ask it. It sounded so pathetic, so deranged. So helpless. But he needed to know- he needed to have some understanding of the mechanics of this place. Everything had rules to abide by, and he needed to know what rules hindered and bound him before he could find a way around them.

Harry frowned, looking around the small space before saying, "Er...them?"

He hadn't been surprised. They were his demons, and his alone.

Tom flourished a hand in the air, gesturing towards the desk; the slim, leather bound diary atop the plain surface. "You've met Myrtle, I'm sure. But allow me to introduce you to my father," he started, cutting his hand between them to gesture to where Tom Riddle Senior stood, his back to them. "Bertha Jorkins is in the wall, but that information is a bit superfluous, seeing as how you can't see her anyway."

The confusion- and mild concern, if Tom were being honest- seemed to shift within Harry's eyes, sharpening with his words. "And Hepzibah Smith?" he asked, quirking a brow so that it disappeared in the strands of ebony hair hanging over his forehead.

Tom shrugged. "I haven't found her yet. And hopefully never will. They're all a nuisance," he said, causing Harry to scoff, a look of indignation on his face.

"I'm sure they'd all consider you to be a tad bit more than a nuisance," he snapped wryly, sounding incredulous, as if surprised by the nonchalant manner in which Tom regarded the ghosts of those he killed.

Tom did not respond, folding his arms over his bare and mottled chest as he let his back rest against the wall before sliding down to the floor. Harry looked uncomfortable, crossing the room to sit upon the bed before coming to a halt, frowning at the mysterious dip in the mattress. He considered it for only a moment before turning around, sitting on the floor himself, resting against the metal frame opposite Tom.

"Do you want me to heal you?" Harry asked after an awkward stretch of silence.

Tom's gaze hardened. "No." He wasn't so certain if he'd be able to resist leaning into the heat of skin against his own frigid flesh, welcoming it, wanting it to fill him and consume him. He had already suffered enough humiliation at the hands of the spirits, he certainly did not need himself to be caught basking under Potter's touch.

Harry seemed nonplussed by the curt response, shrugging his shoulders as if ambivalent.

"What are you doing here, exactly? Tired of heaven already?" Tom sneered, fingers curling into his bicep. Though, if he were being honest, there was something not unlike relief unfurling within him, like a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he could stretch his spine, bones cracking. Perhaps it was because the others had become- mercifully- silent with his intrusion, or perhaps it was because there was something calming about having a person- a real, flesh and blood or as close to it when you were dead – person standing before you. Someone who could interact with you, who looked at you, met your gaze instead of staring beyond with cataracts and filmy eyes, listless stares. Or perhaps it was because he could speak and have words- coherent words strung together into a sentence- spoken back towards him.

He had never considered himself a person who succumbed to loneliness, who needed to have friends or family to surround him. And yet, the loneliness of hell, wrapped within a crude illusion of company, bore down on him in a way he had never experienced.

Harry tore his eyes away from Tom, becoming suddenly fascinated by his cuticles. "Well...I...I think I heard you. Begging to be freed...it was you, right?"

Tom clenched his jaw. "I wasn't begging. And I wasn't talking to you."

His face scrunched in confusion. "Than who were you talking to?"

He said nothing in reply, his lips pursed and fingertips thrumming on the cold skin of his upper arm. But the Gryffindor was more prudent than he had given him credit for, as he scoffed after a moment of Tom's silence, eyebrows raising high. "You were trying to trick Death into letting you out, weren't you?" He paused, as if giving Tom the opportunity to deny or confirm the accusations. But his lips remained clamped tightly shut, and Harry sighed, adding, "He's a bit more shrewd than Slughorn, you know. You can't exactly sweet talk your way out of this one."

"A troll is more shrewd than Slughorn."

Harry blinked owlishly at him, as if surprised by the quip. But then his lips twitched into a small smile, a short burst of laughter just barely quieted as it died somewhere in the back of his throat. "For once, we agree."

Tom closed his eyes, resting his head back against the wall. It was the closest he had felt to peace, though by a large margin it was anything but peaceful. He was still frozen, a chill settled into his bones that made them stiff and ache, his skin practically numb. And the thirst that made his throat burn, brittle with want and the hunger that made his stomach coil had yet to abate.

But it was quiet, the absence of sound almost more disruptive at this point. He could hear blood thrumming in his head, his breath as his lungs expanded and deflated. And the air! The smell of the rotting corpse within the walls had entirely dissipated, and the air was crisp and clean and burned his nostrils with the cold, made his chest feel constricted. It was all so uncomfortable, but in a wonderful way.

His eyes continued to ache, that sleep that had evaded him for the small portion of eternity seeming closer than it ever had. His muscles melted against the wall he was propped against, limp and heavy, and he realized that Harry didn't technically answer his question. But he couldn't find the strength to pick himself back up and demand an answer, he was simply too exhausted from keeping himself awake for fear of hands that might wrap around his neck, of wheezing lungs and pounding fists. He thought about how he hoped Potter didn't plan to leave for some time, wanting to prolong the quiet and the thin semblance of sanity that followed with the younger wizard's presence. He might have examined the strange thoughts further- did he actually welcome the visitor?- but he fell asleep before he could.

-xXx-

He awoke to his shoulder being gently prodded, blearily blinking his eyes to remove the last few traces of slumber from them. Potter was standing before him, bent at the waist so that he was eye level with Tom. He wasn't unsure of how long he had slept for- it was so soundless and dreamless that for a moment he wondered if he had actually slept or if he had fallen unconscious- but it was long enough that the frozen touch of Death seemed to wrap its fingers around Harry.

His skin was pale, except for a blossom of pink on the apples of his cheeks and on the tip of his slim nose. His lips were a deep shade of red, a blue tinge to them that made them appear violet. They were parted, a cloud forming between them with each exhalation, his breath freezing into crystals that hung in the air. He had conjured a cloak for himself, thick wool wrapped quite snug around his broad shoulders, but it seemed to do little to keep out the biting chill surrounding them, as he shivered beneath the layers.

"S-sorry to wake y-you, but I think I might know w-why your here," he said, his words chattering over trembling teeth. Tom twisted his head to the side, brows knitting. Although the cold had settled within him, becoming him, he supposed that it would have more devastating effects on someone not meant for this world. Potter was warmth and light and there was no place for that here.

"Perhaps you have forgotten, but I surely have not," he started, a cutting edge to his words, speaking as if he was talking to particular petulant and ignorant child. "This is Hell, and though I was not a very pious man in life, it is my understanding that Hell is reserved for sinners."

Potter shook his head, the motion made even more erratic by the trembles that shook him, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. Raising a hand to shove them back into its proper place, he said, "That can't be true. Everyone's a sinner, really, when you think of it. And besides, I've seen people in...well, I suppose it's Heaven. But I've seen people there who others might argue as being more suited for Hell. So why are they there, but you're here?"

He could argue, he knew, that perhaps he had been different. That Death and the Gods themselves carved out a special place for him, for Lord Voldemort. But he said nothing, stretching his long legs out before him as they ached in protest after having sat cross-legged for so long.

Potter stepped aside, hesitating before settling down on the floor to the right of Tom. He sat less than a foot away from Myrtle, the girl curled under the desk with her knees pressed into her chest, arms locked around them.

"I w-was thinking of the story of the T-three Brothers and the Deathly Hallows," Harry chattered, and Tom looked to him, tearing his eyes away from the glossy ones just beyond. Harry wrapped the cloak tighter around him, a fist bunching it around his neck. "Death was angry that he had been cheated out of three souls, so when he rewarded the brothers, it was with the intent of punishing them for trying to evade him."

A part of Tom wanted to sneer, to hastily say that it was a simple fairy tale for whining children told to lull them off to sleep, but that hadn't been true, had it? He himself had held the Elder Wand in his grasp, felt the magic tingle the flesh of his hand, scorch it as it fought against him. He was not the true master of it, he never had been, and his lips twisted wryly as he regarded Potter with a heated glare- reminded, once more, that he was the reason he was trapped here.

But Potter continued speaking unheeded, unaware or unconcerned by the intensity and the hatred within Tom's eyes. "D-death doesn't like it when people cheat him, or when they humiliate him. And I think y-you just about pushed him over the edge with your horcruxes," he said, and he rose a hand, gesturing to the diary that still sat on the desk, the cover of it lifting slightly with the angle of the bent spine.

"Yes, of course," Tom said, not bothering to hide the bitterness from seeping into his words. "Surely, I am trapped for all eternity because a bit of a bruised ego, and not for my mountain of misdeeds."

Potter bristled at this, shoulders pulling back as he sat a bit straighter, narrowing his gaze. "Well, you've killed plenty of other people. Why not haunt you with them? Why hand you all these...relics when he could just as easily have given you other things to taunt you? Like a wand that's absolutely useless to you now," he reasoned, mimicking the same mocking and bitterness from Tom's voice, the stammer of the cold gone from it as he was strengthened by his own resolve, the heat of his own veins.

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring at the mention of a wand. And how absolutely no wand- his own, or the Elder- would respond to him anymore, his magical core gone and bare and just as achingly cold as everything else.

After a moment, Potter added, in a calmer voice, "You're being tormented by those specific ghosts, with those horcruxes, because I think he wants you to repent for making them. Maybe if you can salvage your soul, he'll let you free."

At the suggestion, Tom let out a mirthless, barking laugh, the sound making Harry shudder somewhat, shirking back some. "You've spent far too much time under Dumbledore's wing. Thinking that a bit of love, a bit of light and you can vanquish all the darkness." He then placed a hand over his heart, looking skyward with a twisted imitation of a look of indulgent concern, pity. "Poor Tom Riddle, if only he had had a mother to show him how to love, perhaps then he might not have grown up to have a heart of stone," he said, his voice sounding high and delicate with the false sadness he put in his words.

"No one has a heart of stone," Potter said softly. "And if you can just try to feel remorse-"

But Tom cut him off, his voice flat, curt, "Grow up, Potter. Dumbledore lied to you. Sometimes people do bad things because they're bad. I didn't do what I did because I was an orphan, or because I grew up in a government home," he paused, as if letting the weight of his words sink in before adding, "I did it because I wanted to. Because I liked knowing I had power, that I and I alone stood between life and death when someone sat begging at the end of my wand. I enjoyed killing them- all of them. Ask your filthy mudblood of a mother when you get back to Heaven, if you still don't believe me."

Potter stood, suddenly, causing Tom to press his back against the wall as he loomed over him- he wasn't really very tall, and Tom towered over him normally, but he had an advantage now that he stood. "You can tell me all you want that you don't give a damn about the cards you were dealt in life, but I know and somewhere deep down, you know too, that you're lying," he said, speaking through his teeth which seemed to still with the barely contained rage. "When you heard the prophecy and you selected me, it was because you saw the parallels between you and me. Half-blood, part muggle, part pure-blood. And then when we met in the Chamber, you pointed out those similarities once more. Orphans, alone in this world. A little similar in appearance.

"But we're not alike, not at all. And that's what kills you. Because while your father ran away from you and your mother, my father ran into death itself for me and my mother, dying to protect us. Because while my mother died, not begging for you to spare her but for you to spare me, her son, your own mother couldn't be bothered to live longer than an hour for you- her son," he said, and the malice and the anger and the hatred looked entirely improper on his young face, contorted his features in a way that might have otherwise made Tom laugh.

But it did not make him laugh, and he rose from the floor, Potter craning his neck suddenly to maintain eye contact with him. He wanted to reach out, tighten fingers over the neck swathed within the robe. But he knew it would do no good- whatever enchantment or curse that had protected Myrtle from his bruising touch would surely do the same with Potter, and relinquishing that information would be as good as relinquishing what small sliver of power he still maintained over him. The power of fear and intimidation.

So instead he hardened his gaze, stepping dangerously close to him and lowering his own head so he could be heard even as he whispered. "Your mother and father were nothing but filth. Mediocre, brazen witch and wizard who stalked after Dumbledore like sheep following a blind shepherd. It's of no coincidence that all three of them are dead, and by my hand and my orders."

He pursed his lips, continuing to loom over the smaller wizard. But Potter was resilient, a proper Gryffindor in every sense of the term, and did not shirk from beneath his tense gaze. Though of course, the fact that he was there at all seemed to be evidence of his petulance and facsimile bravery. Not too many would willingly step through the threshold that led to the Dark Lord's Hell, even if he was stripped of his magic.

But Potter wasn't most people. He was brash, ignorant. A lucky wizard who danced with Death several times before finally succumbing, hiding behind more powerful, more adept witches and wizards until he could hide no more. He was tenacious, that much was certain.

Undeterred by the dark current of Tom's voice, the sibilant way he spoke that made hair stand on end, made you lean forward to better hear him while simultaneously trying to squirm away, Potter said, "And the truly sad and pathetic thing is that you were so consumed by your lust for power, you couldn't even see the obvious. That the night you killed my mother- and the very reason why I can get through that door but you can't- is because the soul which you destroyed beyond recognition was so unstable that you made another horcrux."

Tom rose a brow, masking the surprise as quickly as it had come before saying, "Oh? I did? And what was that?"

"Me," he said simply.

Like the pieces of a puzzle coming together to form a picture, gears shifting into place. Tom reached out, grabbing hold of the desk to steady himself as he began to tremble with a sudden swell of emotions, of rage. A belligerent and oppressive need to hurt, to destroy, wrapping around him until he could see nothing through the veil of red, the muscles in his neck clenching as his teeth ground into each other. His lips twitched, his nostrils flattening as he breathed heavily, raggedly through them.

Images flashed before him, fragments of his life falling together like a shattered mirror, jagged edges of glass fitting into one another. Of Potter hissing parseltongue, speaking a dead and rare language against all logic, despite having nothing remarkable in his blood to dictate that particular skill. Of the failed attack of the Weasley patriarch, when fangs sunk so deep into flesh and blood and tissue that it should have been impossible for him to live, a matter of seconds the only thing that prevented him from slipping into the cold embrace of death. Of his other horcruxes, falling into the hands of Potter and his cohorts with such ease, almost as if he knew how to find them. As if they reached out to him, beckoned to him-

He lifted up the desk, the diary falling to the floor as Myrtle cowered below, tossing it across the room so that it slammed against the door, bouncing back with the sound of crackling wood. But it did not break, did not fall apart the way he wanted it to- the way he needed it to. He strode across the small room, Potter stumbling back and onto the bed to give him a wide berth, and grabbed a leg of the table, propping his foot upon the top as he pried the leg free. His muscles ached in protest, throbbing with the sudden outburst, but he paid it no mind. He was humming with energy, his nerves burning with the need to curse and hex and torture. The oh so familiar desire to grasp his wand and turn it upon those who failed him, who stepped too far in his path.

But he couldn't.

He didn't have a wand, because he was dead. Because his horcruxes were destroyed- because he himself had destroyed one of them!

With no wand to take hold of, the piece of wood was adequate enough, the end splintered and rough with the a twisted nail partially torn from it. And he turned upon the closest thing that he could see through his crimson vision- dragging the the weapon down in a swooping arc and into the thin door of his wardrobe.

It broke with a satisfying crack, and he continued to lurch into it until his breath came out in haggard pants, until the swooping curl of his hair fell into his eyes and further obstructed his gaze. Chips of wood flew through the air, thin strips falling to the floor as he continued his assault on the furniture.

A ferocious, animalistic growl escaped his throat as he swung the leg of the desk down once more, splitting through the wardrobe side. His shoulders heaved, searing in pain as he tossed the wooden slab aside, running a hand through his hair to push it back into it's polished coif. The anger had not quite dissipated, but he had as least indulged in his need for brutality, and though his muscles were burning in pain, his bones creaking with abuse, there was something wonderful about it. It almost felt like he was alive, again, the rush of adrenaline and destruction, the protest of his body as he continued to push the limitations of his mortality.

"Get out," he said, his eyes not leaving the dilapidated wardrobe, the doors falling from the hinges. There was a shuffle of clothing, shoes kicking on the floor.

Potter brushed passed him, fingers wrapping around the doorknob before he hesitated, turning around to face Tom. "When you were sleeping, I read the diary. Myrtle's been writing to you."

And with that, he pulled the door open, stepping out into the oblivion.

He left Tom, and with his departure he took the very calm with it, the room once more descending into madness. Cacophonous screams, louder and shriller than ever before now that Tom had remembered the purity of quiet, fists pounding heavily against wall. Nails digging and scraping into plaster, wheezing breaths through crushed and broken ribs.

-xXx-

Reading the diary wasn't the only thing Harry had done while Tom slept. He had also conjured up for him some new bed sheets, crisp and white and tucked under the corners of the thin and uncomfortable mattress. A new blanket sat on top, scratchy and coarse on his skin just as everything else was. Folded on top of it all was a new oxford, black and simple.

He shrugged it on, knowing that it would do nothing to fight against the bitter cold, but feeling some semblance of control. As if he wasn't falling apart at the very seams.

He grasped hold of the bed, tugging it sharply as his knees bent in the exertion. His father standing upon it made it feel as if he were attempting to lift a boulder, and his feet scraped across the floor as he lost balance.

He did not know how long he struggled, but eventually he had maneuvered it well enough that he could pull it to the door, kicking aside the broken pieces of his wardrobe. His father had, after much straining, stepped down from it, and was now standing on the floor as he continued to beat against the wall. His fist was an awful, stomach churning array of colors. Violets and grays and browns and sickly yellows that ran down the side of his arm, down his wrist. The blood that marred the wall was congealed and dried, deep maroon while the fresh blood splattered against it like brilliant rubies.

Tom Riddle Senior was relentless, but Tom had no intention of assisting him. Either his bones or the wall would have to break before he got hold of the ring within its depths. He would make sure of it.

-xXx-

He had managed to pry the diary away from Myrtle's clutched hands, prying impossibly strong fingers that had embedded into it away and hoisting up his leg to kick her sharply in the head, sending her reeling back. His head pulsed with the cries that ricocheted in his mind, but he did his best to ignore it, to try to make all the discordant sounds into white noise.

He held the diary to his chest, settling down on the bed, springs creaking beneath his weight. He propped the pillow up, resting his back on it, and bent his legs as he settled the diary against them. He opened it, dark eyes scanning the words written on the first few pages.

'Nasty boy! Stop making fun of me!' was written in messy scrawls, letters too close together so that he strained to decipher them. 'Go away!'

And then, in large, bold letters that left an imprint into the page from how hard she pressed the quill into them, 'BIG YELLOW EYES.'

The phrase seemed to be a mantra, and it was scratched down the pages, over and over again, becoming larger and bolder and messier with each line. He flipped through several of the pages, covered in the same description. Big yellow eyes, big yellow eyes, big yellow eyes.

It was the basilisk, he knew, the very last thing she had seen before her death. The day was, if he were being perfectly honest, rather insignificant in his mind. It had been so long ago, such a singular, inconsequential event in his own personal timeline that it had hardly mattered to commit it to memory. The only thing that had truly set it apart from the other memories of his days at the school, that bled into each other, was for the fact that it had been the first time he had killed someone, though indirectly.

At the moment, it had been out of sheer necessity. He had not known she was in the lavatory when he entered it, and by the time he had been aware of her presence, it was too late. The sink at the center of the room had already been parted, plumbing and porcelain fixtures separating into an abyss and the emerald crown of the basilisk had already emerged, jaw falling apart to reveal long, curved fangs.

She had seen it before she saw him, and he commanded it to kill her.

He supposed he could have used a memory charm on her, but it was simply more fun to see what Salazar's beast could do. To watch as light left her eyes, as if a flip had been switched, as she fell to a useless heap of robes and hair and skin and bones.

It wasn't nearly as exhilarating as he had always thought it would be, though, and he was a little disappointed with the suddenness of it all. There simply wasn't a spark, had been no terror in her eyes as she had hardly even understood what was happening to her, what Tom was about to do and what he was capable of. No pleas, no tortured cries.

And so it had faded away in his memory, as ambivalent recollections tend to do.

He had made it nearly a quarter of the way through the diary- constant, wretched writings of big, yellow eyes- before the words changed. He slowed, a thumb settling on the page to hold it open as he read.

'Awful, nasty, terrible boy!'

'Killed me. KILLED KILLED KILLED!'

'He's rotten and hideous!'

'But he is dead now too!'

'He is rotting inside the ground, poisoning the worms that think even in death he might be good!'

He threw the book away from him, not bothering to read any further. It flew across the room, bouncing off the wall and falling at Myrtle's feet. She sniffled, a brief pause in her cries, as she shuffled towards it, gasping hold of it and holding it protectively against her chest, tucking it below her chin. She began screaming once more, with those merlot lips of hers, and Tom screamed back, slamming his hands down on the mattress for emphasis and gripping the sheets in his fingers so that knuckles turned white.

"Pity I didn't even get to enjoy your death!" he roared at her, but his words were drowned out in her unending shrieks.

-xXx-

The pillow did nothing to muffle out the noise, but Tom still continued to wrap it around his head, hands pressing it down on either side as darkness fell over him. There was no sleep to be had, though he tried. It was even more torturous now that he had remembered what it felt like to sleep, his head heavy and body giving in to the exhaustion. He shouldn't have ever slept when Potter visited, and he cursed the younger wizard for ever letting him. It was a taunt, a promise of what had once been only for it to never be within his grasp again.

But he tried, with nothing left to do, he tried.

He was not sure how much time had passed since his death, and a part of him did not want to know. For whether it had only been a few days or a thousand years, the answer would never satisfy him. It would always be too little, no amount as long as eternity, and it would always have been too long that he suffered and rotted.

His thoughts were disrupted by a sharp, painful prod into his stomach, just above his navel. He startled, tossing the pillow from him.

His eyes met obsidian, crinkled and small between the folds of skin, the round face of someone who often gave into and indulged in life's decadence. Bright orange hair fell in tightly bunched ringlets, a manicured, red fingernail digging deeply into his torso, disappearing into the black fabric of his shirt. Hepzibah Smith had finally joined the others in her torment of him, not waiting for him to find the cup on his own.

He tried to bat her hand away, but just as the others she was impossibly strong and solid and was unable to, fingers uselessly pulling at her plump hand. "I don't know where it is!" he said, yelling over the wails that shook the walls of the room.

Her skin was just as translucent as the others, and he could see the rivers of blue veins beneath, and Hepzibah hardly even looked recognizable without the thick coating of makeup, the deep circles of rouge on her cheeks. She continued to poke at him though, digging deep into the soft flesh that seemed to give way at her touch.

"I haven't found it!" he said, as if she didn't hear him the first time. Eyes flicked up to him, a pointed and aware look to them despite the gauze coating them as she jabbed even harder.

"Here!" she asserted, and for a moment he was startled. None of them had spoken to him, if even one, singular word.

He tried to move, wriggling away from her, but she followed after him, unrelenting.

"Here! Here! Here!" she said, her voice pitched and manic and tilting on the edge of something inhuman as she punctuated each syllable by digging into his muscles.

He needed to find the cup.

-xXx-

There was nothing left.

He had torn apart all the walls, except for the small expanse that had kept Bertha Jorkins trapped, kept his father occupied as his fist split against it.

He had dug up the ceiling, and now a thick coating of dust covered the piles of wood, the joists in the floor, which he had ripped up once more, a desperate attempt to find the damned cup.

His mattress was nothing except foam and springs and tattered fabrics.

There was nothing to search.

There was no place it could be.

He didn't have it, and yet she continued to prod at him, his torso red and welted.

"It's not here!" he yelled, his patience going thin. He had nothing. No silence. No peace. No warmth. And now he could not even rest in the restlessness, was unable to close his eyes and maybe pretend he was anywhere else. The finger digging into him made that an impossibility.

"HERE!" She hissed, and his lips twitched, a flash of understanding settling into his muddled brain.

'Here?' he thought, eyes widening. His arms wrapped around him, a pathetic sort of embrace that did nothing to stop her assaulting finger, stained red from where she had split his skin with the sharp point of her nail.

"Here!" she said, as if in agreement, curls bobbing with the motion.

He swallowed, his head shaking weakly. "No," he said, voice trembling. No, he wouldn't do that. He couldn't do that.

She frowned, the red stain on her lips feathering. "HERE!"

-xXx-

He held the piece of wood in his hands, rough and tattered from whatever it had been torn from. From the walls, the floor, the desk, the wardrobe. Everything was in pieces, and he could no longer distinguish the piles of rotten and moldy wood from the others. But the piece was hefty, coming to a splintered point. It was strong enough, thick enough. It would not cave in or snap. It would break through.

Eyes flicked upward, meeting obsidian once more and he grimaced. He didn't want to. But it would make her stop. And that was all he wanted.

A part of his mind, a part that was clearer and untainted by desperation, not fuzzy with the madness that he loomed just on the outskirts of, was aghast at just far he had fallen. How the once neatly arranged ebony locks were now in disarray, curls sticking at awkward angles and hanging in front of his face, properly disheveled. They appeared gray, from the few strands that he could see, coated in the dust and particles that had fallen from the ceiling that he had never bothered to shake away.

And his eyes, he was sure, were wide with his corruption, his skillfully trained mask no longer in place, unable to keep locked away the overwhelming emotions that pummeled into him with such force he was brought to his knees. Desperation. Need. Agony. Fear. Humiliation.

There was no more room for hatred, no more room for anger and greed and for the desire to hurt.

The only desire he had was for everything to stop, for everyone to shut up and leave him alone.

He swallowed, hesitating only a moment before holding the stake of wood against him, positioning it carefully. "HERE!" Hepzibah exclaimed, nodding her head, curls tumbling over her wide shoulders.

And he plunged it in, wincing and crying out as it pierced through his flesh.

-xXx-

It was harder than he had thought to stab someone. Or perhaps harder to stab oneself, the natural instincts wanting to move away from perceived danger, his innate need to protect himself making his shove of the wood weak and unyielding against his skin. His muscle protested, acting as a barrier, but he continued to dig, his hand shaking as he fumbled with the stake, slick and slippery with blood.

He gasped at the pain, the sear that made his abdomen contract, and he sputtered, his vision swimming before him. He breathed sharply, trying to quell the spike of adrenaline surging within him, trying in vain to control it long enough to finish out his task.

"HERE! HERE! HERE!"

It took precisely seven stabs into his own stomach before he could see it, a shimmer of something gold nestled within the pinks and grays and the red. So much red, his blood staining and saturating his shirt and skin, unbearably hot on his flesh. Quivering hands, too weak and heavy, released the wood, wet and soggy and crimson, and he slumped back against the wall. He was vaguely aware that he was convulsing, sputtered as he tasted something tangy and metallic filling his mouth, slipping between lips.

He was swooning, the room spinning around him and he closed his eyes against it, star bursts forming on the blank space of his eyelids.

"HERE!" he heard, seconds before a hand plunged into the wound.

He lurched forward, screaming in pain as fingers plucked deep within him. He rose hands, wrapping them around her wrist and trying to pull her away. But they shook so violently, and he was unable to grip, so coated in blood were they. It was anguish, more than he had ever known. Even dying had not been this painful; it felt as if flames were lit within him, burning and scorching him from within, licking at his organs and alighting his nerves.

It was violating, disconcerting to watch as her wrist disappeared within him, to feel her fingers wiggle and grip as they tried to grasp hold of something.

"HERE! HERE! HERE!"

His vision gave way into dots, pinpricks of bright white, and his head fell to the side, unable to remain steadied. His stomach clenched, overcome with nausea and he felt something rise in his esophagus, like a fist shoved within it.

The hand finally retreated- "HERE! HERE!"- and he felt something heavy go with it, something hard and metal. Hepzibah moved away from his side, and with no one left to support him, he fell from where he was perched, slipping between a plank of wood beneath where the floor had been. His head thwacked against it, intensifying the dots burning into the back of his eyelids, the vertigo as if he was moving, independent from the room and his body.

His hand coiled around his stomach, wrapping tightly against if as if he could hold all the blood and tissues within him if he just applied enough pressure. He wondered if it was possible to die, if he would sink even further into death, into darkness and nothingness and shadows. If eternity would be spent like this, cowering within the rotten foundation of a haunted room, the screams and the wheezing and the pounding of fists and excited calls of 'HERE!' a background of indifference, unconcerned and unbothered by the man writhing below them. That he would be stuck forever in this state between life and death, too weak to move forward, too cursed to have anything beyond the four walls even if he could.

He coughed, groaning as the motion racked his body, as blood splattered before him, coating his chin. He could taste nothing but it, dirty pennies and vinegar.

This was death, this was Hell. He was not even a shell of what he once was, he was something weak and pitiful and deranged. And he would rot with the rest of the room, forgotten by the world that moved below him. Or above him.

And in the wave of thoughts that washed over him, turbulent and indistinct as they had been in the void- rabbits twitching from rafters, crackling green light flashing before him- there was only one thought that burned brighter than the others, that he was able to grasp onto.

He had only known peace when Potter had been here, and he desperately longed for that feeling of completeness, of wholeness once more. How cruel, that the one he hated most, the one he blamed for his residence in this damnation, was the one who seemed to be his only beacon.

He faded into the black, the screams sounding more and more distant as he sank into nothingness.

-xXx-

When he opened his eyes, it was to emerald, brilliant and glistening. And he wondered if he was reliving his death. Just as Myrtle recalled with fervor the big, yellow eyes of Slytherin's beast, he would recall the burst of the Killing Curse as it hurtled back towards him.

Cast by his own hand.

His own wand.

He could blame Potter all he wanted.

But he was the reason he was dead.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the condemning color any further.

-xXx-

It was warm, wonderfully pleasantly warm, and for a second he thought that perhaps he was outside, under the sun on a particularly lovely Summer day. But that was not possible, as the warmth only radiated from one side of him, the rest so cold.

He curled into it, slowly, achingly, seeking out the heat.

There was a moment of hesitation, but soon it wrapped around him, and he gave a contented sigh.

-xXx-

A page turned.

Someone sniffled.

Tom turned, trying to shift on his side, but he was pinned down, something wrapped around him and holding him in place. He reached up, trying to find the force that held him there, fingers curling around something- a blanket? A cloak? And he tried to pry it away but he couldn't, the fabric slipping from his feeble grasp.

"Sorry," a familiar voice said, and a weight moved from beside him, the heat leaving with it. But he was able to grasp the blanket, and it moved freely now. He wrapped it tightly around himself, trying to recapture some of the warmth that had surrounded him before. It was not the same, and he opened his eyes, blinking as the room settled before him.

It was the same room he had been in since he died, the same room from his childhood. But it was clean and complete, order restored to it once more. There was even a chair at the desk, Myrtle sitting upon it and quietly scribbling in the journal. He made to move up, but stopped when his vision blurred, the drab and monochromatic colors of the room blending together.

"Easy," the voice said again, and a hand settled on his shoulder. "I don't know what you did, but I had a hard time healing you, and I have no idea how long you were like that for." When the room stilled, settling once more, he looked to Harry, looking far bulkier than ever with multiple cloaks wrapped around him.

Tom furrowed his brow before he remembered falling into the torn apart floor with an arm curled around, forgotten by Hepzibah now that she had her prized possession, the horcrux that her death had forged. He remembered being enveloped in black, in shadows; of furry white feet kicking erratically against a noose, curses setting the air ablaze.

"What did you do?" Harry asked, his nose crinkled in disgust as if recalling the sight of all the blood, mangled flesh.

Tom looked around the room, his eyes settling on Hepzibah. She was perched in the corner, pressed against the door. She swished the cup in her hands, swirling whatever liquid resided in its well. It was tarnished with his blood, looking almost copper. Beside her, crouched his father, twirling the ring between his fingers. Had Harry pulled that from the walls when he righted the room?

"I found the final horcrux," was all he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Harry's jaw fell open, lips parting in a question before he understood, green eyes flicking down to Tom's abdomen. "Bloody hell," he muttered below his breath.

"It certainly is," Tom said plainly, chuckling despite himself when a blush crept up Harry's collar, pursing his lips at his poor wording. He cleared his throat, wincing at the burn, at how raw it all felt. "What are you doing here? Why do you keep showing up?"

"This time you asked me to," he said simply, placing something on the desk. It was a book, a thick and tattered book with yellow pages that bent together, white lines running down the spine from where the side panel cracked, peeling away in flakes. It was missing a cover, and what appeared to be the first few pages, the publication page faded so that even while squinting he could not read it. It was a book that was either well loved, or very hated.

"I don't recall asking," he said, but if he had, it couldn't have been a surprise. He didn't recall much distinctly, events bound together out of order from the moment he watched as a wrist disappeared within him.

Harry shrugged. "You did. And I vomited the moment I opened the door- which took some doing, since you barricaded yourself in," he said pointedly, as if waiting for Tom to apologize for inconveniencing him. When none came, he added, "I couldn't exactly leave you like that."

Tom scoffed. "No, that doesn't quite fit your image, does it?"

Harry skewed his lips, looking as if he was about to say something before deciding against it, his eyes softening. "I've been informed by people that I have a bit of a hero complex," was all he said, lips quirking somewhat with what might have been a memory. But he sobered almost instantly, wrapping his arms around his chest, as he said, "You can try to end this. Just try for some remorse." He spoke quietly, as if worried that Tom might react belligerently once more and not wanting to shatter the calm between them.

Why was everything so quiet when he was here? Why would Hell offer him such reprieve?

But there was no more room within him for anger or hate, replaced by a coil of tightly wound emotions. Desperation. Need. Humiliation. And in a quiet, resigned voice, Tom said, "If this doesn't make me regret it, nothing will. And for the record, I do."

"Feeling regret because of the consequences you face isn't the same as feeling remorse," Harry said. "You killed these people, Tom. They had families, friends, who missed them. Until you realize that, you'll never get to leave here."

He hated him. More than he had ever hated anyone or anything, Tom Marvolo Riddle hated Harry James Potter. He hated him for that prophecy, he hated him for the horcrux he had unknowingly placed within him, he hated him for awaking after death, as if it were just a deep sleep. And he hated him for sauntering through, coming and going from his Hell, not a care in the world. He hated that he was warm and that the room tried to steal that warmth from him, hated that magic came off of him and pulsing waves, singing the air. He hated that he wouldn't leave him alone.

"Why did you come here?" Tom asked again, interrupting Harry who had opened his mouth by adding, "And don't tell me it was because I asked you to. You and I both know you can ignore it if you want. So why are you toiling away your own eternity in Hell instead of Heaven? Aren't there enough splendors for you, or do you just enjoy watching my damnation?" He hadn't meant to sound that way, so defeated, so broken down. It was difficult to sound anything but, and he could no longer care to replace his mask of cool indifference.

Harry bit his lip in thought, chewing onto it for a second as he looked down at the floor. Finally, he said, "It's not Hell, but it isn't really Heaven. Everyone keeps telling me I'll get used to it, but I can't. I just feel..." he paused, looking away and around the room as he ruminated for the correct words to say. "Like something's missing, I guess. It's like I forgot something, and I know I did but I have no idea what it is, where it could be, or why I need it. Coming here, I don't feel like that. Not so much at least."

"You're a horcrux," Tom said, hissing over the word. It seemed so obvious now, so clear that of course Harry Potter was a horcrux, why had he not seen it in life?

He nodded. "Yes, maybe that's it. I'm not sure but...I feel like I have to help you."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Potter, but I can't feel remorse. I never have, and I never will," he said. He wanted to tell him to leave, to forget about it and never wander this way again. It was a waste of time, his sins too many, his soul too fractured. But the words died in his throat, something selfish telling him to keep them to himself. If Potter left- and never returned- then there would be nothing but screams and wheezes, eyes looking behind him, constantly boring into him but never actually seeing. There would be nothing but death and the pungent smell of rotting flesh and soil, nothing but ice.

He hated Harry Potter because, if he were being honest, he didn't really want him to leave.

His downward spiral into insanity was seemingly complete.

"I can help you, if you want. Try to...teach you," Potter said. Tom looked at him, and the lips that were beginning to turn blue, quivering somewhat as he fought against the chill. He was so terribly naive if he thought that Lord Voldemort could be taught remorse as if it were just a particularly difficult subject, one that he struggled with.

But when he opened his mouth, instead of telling him this, he said, "Alright." A look of shock fell over Harry, as if he hadn't been expecting him to accept his help. But then he grinned, and small dips appeared in his cheeks, little half moons. Dimples.

He was so innocent, it honestly made Tom feel sick.

But it was better than being alone, and if Harry was naive and stupid enough to trap himself within Tom Riddle's Hell, so be it.

-xXx-

Author's Note: I hope you all liked this update! Please review! Follow me on tumblr for sneak peeks to chapters, stories, for prompts, and just for fandom love. Thanks for reading!