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Chapter Text

Black leather cover, slightly faded from time; yellowish, thick pages; metal corners... It was just an ordinary Muggle notebook, not really standing out from the rest of the stationery. The pages were completely blank, as if the notebook had never been used, and only a neat inscription on the inside cover indicated that the diary had an owner.

'T. M. Riddle.'

Harry ran his fingertips gingerly over the rough leather of the binding, eyeing the find thoughtfully. Where had it come from in his suitcase? He remembered exactly that he hadn't bought anything like it. And the notebook didn't look new... Strange.

- Hey, Harry, what have you got there? - Ron unceremoniously plopped down on the bed beside him and snatched the notebook out of his hands.

- What's all this junk?

- Nothing, - the boy took the diary and put it under his pillow.

- Let's go to sleep, we have to get up early tomorrow.

For some reason he didn't want to talk to his friend. It must have been the last two weeks spent with the noisy Weasley family, and now Harry felt an acute desire to be alone, if only for a little while.

Ron, with his usual light-heartedness, paid no attention to his friend's strange reticence, but moved to his bed, immediately beginning to share with Seamus his impressions of the last match with the Chudley Cannons.

Harry pulled back the canopy, shutting out the noisy bedroom neighbours, and pulled out his notebook again. The quiet rustle of the pages was soothing, and the blank paper gave him such a strong urge to write that his hand reached for the quill. What could I write? The boy thoughtfully ran his palm over the first page and lightly bit the tip of the quill. Should he write how the day went? Or the summer? Or make a list... None of the options appealed to him, and he didn't want to spoil his notebook with anything.

The decision came naturally when Harry was about to put the notebook away until tomorrow and go to bed. He decided to put the quill away and rummaged through his suitcase, shaking out all his things, and finally pulled out a simple Muggle pencil. It was many times more comfortable to draw with than a quill, especially in bed.

Harry had loved drawing since he was a little boy. Or rather, since Dudley had been given a set of coloured pencils for his sixth birthday, but his cousin had liked the football better, so the brightly coloured package had been sent to the bin without regret, and Harry, who had never been given presents, had pulled it out.

From that day on, drawings began to appear on the walls of his closet. At first they were just scribbles, funny attempts to depict a happy family on the front lawn, various geometric figures, and then Harry set himself the goal of drawing a landscape, so that his closet would have a ‘window’. It took him a while to come up with anything worthwhile, but finally one of the walls was decorated with a decent picture of a forest and a river, with bluish-silver water, green pine needles, and a bright yellow sun. Unfortunately, there were only enough coloured pencils for a few months, and no one was going to buy new ones for Harry, but the boy was not sad for long, soon realising that he could draw with a simple pencil. The drawings were less joyful, but he learnt to play with shadows and light, pressing the lead harder and barely touching the paper.

Remembering his first ‘serious’ works, Harry thoughtlessly slid the tip of the pencil across the thick page, almost without realising what he was drawing. The strokes were smooth, shading some areas and barely touching others, the lines curved intricately to create contours, and now the paper showed a cramped closet with a thin mattress, a stack of books in the corner, and a small black spider running along the wall.

Harry squinted his eyes, looking at the drawing in bewilderment. Wow... He could have drawn anything he wanted, and for some reason it turned out to be a hated closet. It was a good sketch, though, even atmospheric, so Harry closed the notebook and tucked it under his pillow. His eyes were drooping, and the first lesson of the new school year was Transfiguration, which he should never be late for.

'I wonder who this T.M. Riddle is?' - Harry thought to himself as he was falling asleep.

'Did he know how to draw? What did he look like?’

The boy had long since fallen asleep when the notebook under his pillow was enveloped in a light, subtle glow.

Professor Binns was mumbling something to himself, oblivious to the fact that every single one of the students had fallen into a sleepy daze. Some of them were staring at a single point, some were staring at their cheeks with their palms, some were sluggishly scribbling on parchment with a quill, some, like Ron and Seamus, were asleep with their heads crossed.

Harry usually slept through History of Magic, too, or at most did his homework to free up the evening for Quidditch practice, but this year was different. The quill slid across the paper with a quiet squeak, confident strokes creating the illusion of a moonlit lake at night.

Harry, sluggish and sleep-deprived, had unknowingly slipped Riddle's notebook into his bag of books on the morning of the second of September, and was surprised to find it there during Transfiguration class. McGonagall was giving a very boring lecture, saying that practice would only be at the end of the class, so Harry, sitting at the last desk, slowly began to sketch his classmates, but this time with a quill. And to his surprise, the ink drawings turned out just as good as the pencil drawings, though the strokes were rougher, and blots were trying to get off the tip of the pen and ruin everything. By the end of the class, however, there were several new sketches in the notebook: Ron staring moodily out the window; Hermione concentrating on her lecture; the stern McGonagall in her pointy hat...

Then other drawings began to appear on the yellowed pages: Hogwarts with all its many towers; the Great Hall at lunchtime; the Gryffindor dormitory; Hagrid's hut; the Forbidden Forest.

By the end of his second year, Harry had filled nearly a third of the notebook with various sketches. And in the summer, after exchanging some gold for Muggle money, he bought pastels and watercolours at the art shop.

The third year remained on the pages of the diary as a scattering of bright pictures. A coal-black dog baring its fearsome fangs; Professor Lupin, with the dazzling glow of the Patronus bursting from his wand; the cosy streets of Hogsmeade, coloured by shop signs; a hippogriff Buckbeak, bowing its head in greeting... Sirius looked down at him affectionately from the last drawing of the year, smiling enigmatically and promising a whole new, happy life.

Harry had become so attached to his notebook that sometimes he felt as if he'd always had it. It felt so good to pour out his emotions on paper, and it brought such relief, as if he were sharing everything he had experienced with a close friend who was always with him, who would always understand and support him. This strange, almost painful attachment to his diary could not go unnoticed, but Harry, who always listened to other people's opinions, was so adamant this time that even Ron, who had teased him at first, giggling at his ‘love affair with the notebook,’ finally accepted it and stopped paying attention. Hermione, however, was worried, forcing Harry to take the diary away from her and poking at it with her wand for a long time, checking it for all sorts of hidden charms, but not finding anything, had to give it back.

Harry only snorted irritably at this. He was absolutely certain that there wasn't and couldn't be any hidden magic or anything else in the diary. But at the end of the summer before fourth year, something happened that he hadn't expected in any way. When he opened his notebook one morning to sketch a beautiful dream he'd had, he suddenly discovered a sketch that - he could have sworn! - had never been there before. It was a portrait of a handsome young man, about sixteen years old by the looks of it, standing on the steps of the main staircase of Hogwarts. Slightly curly dark hair, a straight nose, a firm, slightly raised chin, and a serious, thoughtful look in his black eyes.

Flipping through the notebook a few times to make sure there were no other new drawings, Harry stared at the portrait incredulously. Who could have drawn it? He didn't give the diary to anyone, and no one could take it without permission, Harry hardly ever parted with it, even keeping it under his pillow when he slept...

After a whole day of thinking about this mysterious incident, Harry could not find any logical explanation, and in the evening, once again scrutinising the image, he noticed another oddity. On the wall behind the stranger's back hung a beautiful medieval shield, which - Harry remembered exactly - was not on the main staircase. And there was a dark carpet on the steps, whereas in fact, carpets at Hogwarts were only present in the bedrooms and drawing rooms. The idea was born spontaneously in his head. Harry tentatively turned the page and sketched his own image quickly, with short, sharp strokes. It was exactly like the stranger's portrait, only the main staircase looked the way it should.

After looking at the result, Harry tweaked the features of his face a little to achieve a perfect resemblance, traced the outline of the glasses again, and was about to close the notebook when he suddenly froze, noticing the slowly appearing spots on the next blank page.

- What the...

Green eyes widened more and more as a new pattern appeared on the paper, emerging as if from the notebook itself. At first pale, barely perceptible, it gradually became full of colour, and now one could make out a hillside, a castle darkening in the background, and a dark-haired young man sitting on the grass under a tree, reading a thick, obviously very old book with interest.

The young man was the same as in the previous drawing, there was no doubt about that. But who was he? And how does he manage to draw in Harry's notebook? Or... The pages rustled, returning to the beginning. His gaze slid over the faded writing on the cover, then back to the drawing.

The pencil trembled in his hand as Harry drew himself sitting next to the mysterious stranger, as if on a hunch.

He froze for a second, staring at the graceful lines, as if he expected to see some sign... an answer... Perhaps that was why he wasn't too surprised when letters suddenly began to appear underneath the drawing, forming into words. Subconsciously, he hoped so.

Who are you?

The barely visible writing disappeared as soon as Harry touched the paper with the tip of his pencil.

- My name is Harry Potter. And who are you?

He waited breathlessly for the answer, though in the back of his mind he thought he already knew what it would be.

Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle.

So Hermione was right after all. Harry felt uneasy at the thought that there might be some magic in the notebook. What if it was dark? And he knew absolutely nothing about this Tom... On the other hand, if he wanted to do him, Harry, any harm, he had plenty of time to do so...

Meanwhile, the inscription faded and disappeared, replaced by another:

I like your drawings. You're a talented artist.

Harry chewed on the tip of his pencil thoughtfully. Should he reply? The thought that all this time the diary had been... alive, gave off an unpleasant chill somewhere inside. But... damn, this was so interesting! All the two years he'd been using the notebook, he'd looked at the initials on the cover countless times, wondering who this T. Riddle was, and now it turns out he was a wizard, went to Hogwarts, and Harry can even communicate with him. He squeezed the pencil so tightly that his fingers turned white.

- Thank you. You're good at drawing too. And how do you communicate with me? Are you a ghost?

This time the answer came almost instantly.

Not exactly. I'm a memory encased in a diary. I can see everything that appears in its pages and I can answer you.

Harry reread the inscription several times and rubbed his scar thoughtfully. It was a habit he had had since childhood. Whenever he was nervous, afraid, or angry, his hand would unconsciously reach for the thin zigzag on his forehead. This simple movement was somehow always soothing. The grip gingerly touched the page.

- What year are you from?

Harry strained to gaze into the disappearing letters, trying to guess the answer, but the numbers coming through a little slower than the previous lettering made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

1944. And you?

So long ago... Somehow Harry hadn't realised the notebook was that old. It turns out that Riddle had owned it... over fifty years ago. I wonder where he is now? Is he still alive? The initial thought that it might be better to get rid of the diary disappeared of its own accord. Harry had always been fond of things with history, he liked to imagine events that had happened to them long ago, and here was such an amazing opportunity to talk to someone who had lived half a century ago! All doubts were cast aside, and his hand was no longer trembling, hastily writing out the words.

- 1994. I'm a student at Hogwarts, going into my fourth year this year. Can you tell me about yourself?

Fourth year added a dark colour to his drawings. And his correspondence with Tom had become a real outlet for Harry. If it hadn't been for the diary, he would have been lonelier than ever, especially after Ron and almost all of his classmates had turned their backs on him because of his forced participation in the damned Tournament. The pain and resentment that even his closest friends didn't believe him was growing inside him with nasty black tentacles, poisoning even pleasant events like successfully completing the rounds. As if Harry had asked for this! He didn't need the Tournament itself, the glory or the prize for nothing. The Boy Who Lived was already causing him a lot of problems, because everyone was looking at him as the Chosen One, expecting him to do something, and Harry didn't want to be a hero. In his third year he realised that he liked artifacting more than anything else, and so he spent all his free time in the library, studying the art. The tournament only distracted him, interfering with his studies and forcing him to do things he didn't want to do.

Tom understood him. He believed that Harry hadn't thrown his name in the goblet, he supported him, assuring him that his friends would eventually understand and apologise, and his words made Harry feel better. Riddle was interested in everything that was going on in his life, and so Harry carefully sketched all the less significant events, trying to convey his emotions along with the drawing.

True, there were very few bright spots this year. He hardly ever used paints, using only one or two colours: The Goblet of Fire, blazing with a disturbing blue flame; a huge Hungarian Horntail with evil yellow eyes; creepy-looking mermaids dragging Ron and Hermione to the bottom of a murky, dark lake; a winding labyrinth overflowing with dangerous creatures; and, finally, a grey, abandoned graveyard with a boiling cauldron in the middle, the water in which shimmered with threatening blood-red reflections...

The day Harry had miraculously escaped death at the hands of the reborn Voldemort, he had stared at one of the blank pages for a long time, but his hand had never risen to draw the terrible snake face with narrow red eyes. He was uncomfortable with the thought of Voldemort living in his notebook, which he already considered something of a reflection of his life. It seemed that if he didn't draw his worst enemy, he wouldn't exist in reality. Silly, of course...

He had dipped his quill in the inkwell several times, intending to write to Tom about what had happened at the cemetery, but the ink was drying, and he still didn't dare to begin. Something was niggling at him, clawing at him somewhere inside with sharp claws of foreboding. Suddenly, as his eyes slid over the old inscription on the cover, Harry flinched, jerking as if he'd been electrocuted. In a bright flash, as if in the blinding light of lightning, a memory flashed. A marble tombstone with a deep crack right in the middle, and an inscription carved in tall Gothic letters: ‘Tom Riddle’. And after all, Voldemort had said he was named after his muggle father...

At the time, Harry had been so frightened by everything that was going on that he hadn't noticed it at all, but now... He stared at the diary incredulously. A disturbing, blood-chilling suspicion was rising from somewhere in the back of his mind, squeezing his throat with a spasm.

'No, it couldn't be. It couldn't be that Tom - his Tom! - handsome, intelligent, understanding... Supportive when everyone else turned away, advising on what to do in certain situations, turned into... No, it was impossible to believe. It's just a coincidence. A stupid, meaningless coincidence! How many Toms are there? And it's a common name.'

'But why do I feel so lousy? And why does an annoying inner voice whisper that there are no such coincidences? That there could not be two Tom Riddle, who studied at Hogwarts, at about the same time, that both were orphans...'

Hello, Harry. Are you doing alright? Why did you draw this?

The inscription that appeared below the image of the graveyard made him go cold.

'Tom is worried about him. No, it's definitely a stupid coincidence. After all, wouldn't Vol... Voldemort be wondering if he was all right? Of course he wouldn't! Which means it's all rubbish. And the diary had nothing to do with... The desire to be sure he was right was so acute that Harry grabbed a quill and, without giving himself time to change his mind, quickly dipped it into the inkwell.'

- I'm fine. Tom, I have to ask you... Do you know anything about Lord Voldemort?

His fingers trembled so much that a dark ugly blot blurred at the end of the sentence, but Harry didn't even pay attention to it, waiting with bated breath for an answer. The fear that his worst fears would be confirmed was coiling up inside in a ball of hissing ice snakes.

Tom was silent.

Chapter Text

Seconds slowly flowed one into the other, adding up to minutes. Time stretched like thick treacle, slowing down to infinity. It seemed like hours had passed, and still Harry sat motionless, staring at the yellowish page with tear-stained eyes.

- Come on,- he whispered through clenched teeth.

- Tom, please... I beg you, write 'no'

Yes.

The word that transpired stabbed at his heart with a sharp blade. Harry clenched his eyes shut, wishing with all his heart not to see, not to ask, not to know. God, why had he asked? Why couldn't he just leave it at that? It hurt so badly that it felt like all the air was suddenly gone from his lungs, his eyes stinging with impotent rage. He felt deceived, betrayed. Went right into his soul and stole something very important. He wanted to grab the damn notebook and throw it away, burn it, destroy it, just to forget everything. About how for three years he had confided all his secrets, shared his troubles, accepted sympathy and consolation in trouble from his worst enemy, who had crippled his whole life.

Still, he must make sure to the end.

Harry brushed away the angry tears that protruded in his eyes and looked at Tom's portrait with hatred.

- Are you him? All this time you've been him?

The question came out crooked, but Harry didn't care. Tom understood.

Lord Voldemort is a name I made up. I never liked being Tom Riddle. The name was too easy for me, too ordinary, and I always felt I was worthy of something more. When I was in my fourth year at Hogwarts, as you are now, I began to gather around me a company of people who shared my ideas, my future supporters. And that name - it became a symbol of trust, only known by those in the inner circle.

A bloody mist hung before my eyes. It's him. All this time... God, and he was still grateful to Tom for helping him in the bloody Tournament! He was the one who'd told him to use his strengths in the fight with the dragon, he was the one who'd told him about the toadstools when there wasn't much time left before the second round... He'd helped him through the tasks to eventually lead him... to himself! Harry felt himself gasping with a deafening, black rage overwhelming him from the inside out. He didn't even wait for Riddle's words to completely fade away.

- You bastard! I believed you! I told you everything! Shared things no one else knew about, told you about my parents' deaths, about the Philosopher's Stone story, and you... I hate you!

The quill ripped through the paper with a crack, but Harry didn't care, he continued to spill out onto the pages the despair that gripped him after the betrayal of someone he considered his closest friend.

- Do you want to know what you've become, Riddle? You are nothing! An ugly semblance of a snake-faced man! You're a madman who only wants blood and murder, and all your supporters are just a bunch of pathetic cowards hiding their faces behind masks! You want power and immortality?! Then know that I will do anything to destroy you! Wipe you from the face of the earth so that no memory of you remains! Damn you!

Harry slammed the diary shut with force and flung it away from him like a poisonous snake. The leather cover rustled as it travelled across the floor and froze, hiding under the curtain near the window. I wanted to grab my wand and blast the diary with Hellfire, but it seemed impossible to even hold my gaze on it for more than a second. A sickening wave of nausea rose from somewhere in his stomach.

'How could he be such an idiot? A stupid, naive, gullible fool!'

- You're a creature, what a creature you are, Tom Riddle! Drawing pretty pictures, helping with lessons, sympathising, promising that everything would be alright... Sneaky, two-faced scum!

His fist slammed into the pillow, and the next moment Harry collapsed on the bed, face down, and clenched his eyes so tightly that coloured spots flickered under his eyelids. Everything he had experienced in the past few days came crashing down on him with renewed force, weighing him down like a stone block. His shoulders shook with silent hysteria, and scraps of conversations with Riddle kept popping up in his head.

All things pass, Harry, no grief lasts forever. The important thing is to believe that things will get better in the end. Remember, the darkest night is before the dawn.

Harry had spent the week before he left the library, trying desperately to concentrate on the blueprints for the bottomless box, but his eyes glided over the lines with an unseeing stare and his thoughts kept returning to the diary that was still lying on the floor of the Gryffindor dormitory. Harry couldn't bring himself to pick it up or even look in its direction. In his mind, he knew he couldn't leave such a dangerous thing lying around. He should destroy it or tell Dumbledore... But he could hardly imagine having to tell the Headmaster about his stupidity in not parting with the darkest artefact for three years, he felt sick, and preferred to postpone the problem for another day.

And so he did.

All his belongings were carefully packed into his suitcase, the bedroom was empty, and Harry was still sitting on the bed, burning his eyes on the curtain behind which the notebook was hidden.

- Hey, are you coming? - Ron's red-haired head appeared in the doorway.

- We're leaving soon!

- Yeah, I'm coming, - Harry said quietly, and took a deep breath as he waited for his friend to disappear down the corridor.

'We should just take her. Take her and... throw her in the lake. Burn it in the fireplace. Doesn't matter, as long as no one ever finds her again. What's he afraid of, after all, it's just a notebook. Just a...'

Touching the rough leather of the cover echoed a slight tingle in his fingertips. It wouldn't even occur to Harry to open the diary again, but as soon as it was in his hands, an impatient vibration spread through Harry's body, and the black cover fluttered open as if in a strong gust of wind. The yellowish pages rustled, turning at a frantic pace, and the text, written in a nervous, hurried handwriting and spoilt with small blots, appeared before the frozen gaze of green eyes. His eyes involuntarily snatched up a scrap of the first sentence:

Harry! Please listen to me! I can...

His hands were smarter than his mind and hastily slammed the notebook shut. Harry exhaled desperately, feeling his heart pounding frantically in his chest. Someone's ragged, nervous laughter cut through the silence of the bedroom, and the next moment Harry was horrified to realise that he was laughing himself.

Voldemort is asking him to listen. The bloody psychopathic maniac who had killed his parents, who had ruined his life, who had set out to get rid of him at all costs, who had come back from the other side of the world to do it, wanted to explain something to him! Slowly but surely the laughter turned hysterical, tears welling up in his eyes.

- Harry! Hey, what are you doing? - Ron's surprised voice came through a layer of cotton wool.

- Harry? Mate...

- It's... it's fine, - he mumbled, barely suppressing a fit of wild laughter.

- Okay. I just remembered a funny anecdote.

- Yeah? - Ron said hesitantly, glancing at him.

Harry understood the reason for his distrust very well. Since Cedric's death and his encounter with Voldemort, he hadn't smiled once, let alone laughed. He must really look strange from the outside.

- Where are you? - a dishevelled Seamus came into the bedroom.

- Everyone's here, waiting for you! Or do you think the Hogwarts Express won't leave without you?

- We're coming, - Harry said, wiping away tears and adjusting his glasses on his nose.

- Just a minute.

Only his completely inadequate state of mind could explain the fact that he had thrown Riddle's diary into the suitcase without a glance and slammed the lid shut. If he'd been in his right mind, he wouldn't have let a piece of Voldemort near him for even a moment, let alone question the insidiousness of his intentions. Wouldn't he?

Harry! Please listen to me! I can explain everything to you. The part of my soul that is contained in this diary belongs to me as a sixteen year old. Before you told me that a dark wizard named Voldemort killed your parents and tried to kill you, I had no idea who you were or what would happen between us in the future.

I spent years living in the pages of that notebook, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, I had almost forgotten how to be human, because fifty years all alone, without being able to communicate with anyone, is a long time. But I waited, hoping that one day it would end, that someone would find the diary and set me free. Time passed and my hopes melted away, leaving only coldness and emptiness, until one day I saw a small, cramped closet with a spider on the wall. And that's when I realised my fondest wish had come true. Someone had found me.

If you knew how much I wanted to answer you, to talk to you, but I was afraid of scaring you, afraid you'd throw away the diary and I'd be alone again. Your drawings... They were so beautiful. They became my life. It was like I was back at Hogwarts, seeing the teachers as they had become, seeing your friends, your family, those amazing landscapes you drew. Those two years that I dared not speak to you seemed to drag on longer than the previous half century, and finally, I couldn't stand it. I really wanted to get to know you, to know what you were like. And so I drew my portrait...

And you answered me. You weren't horrified, you didn't destroy the diary. And I thought maybe I had a chance to make a friend. You may not believe me, but I've never been closer to anyone in my entire life than I am to you. At first I thought of you as the little brother I never had. I tried to help you, support you as much as I could. You know, I'm not really much of a conversationalist. I'm not used to sharing my thoughts and experiences with someone, because I've never trusted anyone completely, but with you I suddenly wanted to open up. I realise it sounds like sentimental nonsense, but it's true.

By the time you wrote me your story, I had grown attached to you, Harry. I began to feel alive again for the first time in years. Imagine my horror when I realised that the villain you speak of was myself. I may not be the current one, the future one, but it's still me. I was terrified. And I acted like a coward, Harry, I couldn't tell you the truth because I knew that once you knew, I would lose you forever.

Of course, I realised that sooner or later the truth would come out. Someone will tell you what Lord Voldemort's name was when he was young and you'll understand, but I couldn't bring myself to do it myself. Nor could I lie when you asked me directly. And for my cowardice, I was punished by the realisation of my greatest fear. You turned your back on me. And though I realise you had every right to do so, I still hope that someday you will read this. Forgive me.

When information about Horcruxes came to my attention in my sixth year at Hogwarts, I had no idea where this pursuit of immortality would lead me. I was young and stupid. Two things scared me more than anything else: death and madness. If everything you wrote about me in the future is true, it turns out that by defeating the former, I condemned myself to the latter. It's a paradox. Believe me, if I could have guessed how all this would turn out for me, I would never have done anything like this. After all, all I ever wanted to do was make the wizarding world a better place. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps the world is not yet ready for such a drastic change, but I swear to you, the last thing I wanted was to start a war in the magical world. I know all too well what that is.

You don't have to believe me, Harry. Much less do you have to forgive me, but I want you to know that everything I say is honest. If you're reading this, you know that I support you in your desire to destroy the monster I've become. I sincerely wish I could help you, but I know you won't accept help from me, so please go to Albus Dumbledore. I know he can help you. He can protect you... from me.

Thank you for everything. The time I spent with you was the best time of my whole lousy life.

Goodbye. I believe you'll be happy.

Your Tom.

The tears weren't just flowing, they were rolling down his face in hailstones, making the lines float before his eyes. Harry reread the text for the umpteenth time, and closed his eyes tiredly.

'I don't believe it' - the desperate thought pounded in his head, echoing somewhere inside with a deafening longing.

'I don't believe it... This is some kind of plan. Another deception to trap me and kill me. Like freshman year or the Tournament. It's all lies. Lies...'

... If you're reading this, you know I support you in your desire to destroy the monster I've turned into...

'Monster. That's right, a monster! A hideous monster that has killed so many people! He's the one who killed my parents, he's the reason I still have to spend every summer with the Dursleys, he killed Cedric! It's all him! Tom, Voldemort, it doesn't matter! A sneaky, lying creature who will do anything to get his way, use any method he can to get his way, push at the most painful part...'

...I couldn't. Nor could I lie when you asked me directly. And for my cowardice, I was punished...

'Liar! If you told the truth, it was favorable! So it was necessary for the fulfilment of some diabolical plan - only what? What did he gain by confirming that he was Voldemort?'

Harry opened his eyes and stared out his bedroom window, beyond which the orange lantern light indifferently illuminated the sleeping Privet Drive. For three whole weeks he had hesitated to take his diary out of his suitcase and read Riddle's letter, vaguely hoping it would disappear. But when he finally gave up, losing to his own curiosity or... whatever it was... the smooth ink lines were still there. So honest, so filled with regret and remorse, turning his soul inside out...

And to his horror, Harry suddenly felt like he really wanted to believe. To believe that his best friend, the one who had become almost a part of him, the one to whom he'd opened his soul, hadn't actually turned into a ruthless killer with snake-red eyes. That the Tom who wrote that letter might actually be remorseful and regretful that his actions had led to such a future.

'No. You can't give in. What he did...will do...that kind of thing cannot be forgiven. It simply cannot be forgiven.'

Realising this crystal truth somehow brought relief. Harry even managed to relax and take a deep breath. His gaze slowly slid down the written page.

On the other hand, he could pretend to believe Tom. He could even say he forgave him. What if he could get some useful information out of him that would help him defeat... him? The letter had mentioned some kind of Horcruxes that made Voldemort immortal, but what if he tried asking Tom? What if...

The pen hovered uncertainly over the page.

Chapter Text

- I'll believe you if you tell me about the Horcruxes. The truth.

Harry watched unblinkingly as the writing was absorbed into the page. The answer emerged immediately as the last lines disappeared.

A Horcrux is an artifact created with dark magic. You can check out all the information in the book "Dark Magical Entities", it's in the Hogwarts Library, in the Forbidden Section. There is a ritual that allows you to divide a human soul into several parts, and with the help of a special spell to encase the shard in an object. This way, if the mage's body dies, his soul cannot leave the world, as it will be bound to the bearer. Apparently that's what happened when I... Voldemort tried to kill you.

Harry frowned.

- Sharing a soul? Is that really possible? I mean, in what way?

Tom's answer triggered a fit of revulsion.

At the moment a murder is committed, the soul can split as an offence against human nature is committed. If a ritual is performed at that moment, the separated part is placed in a Horcrux.

- That's disgusting!

I know. I'm sorry.

'Sorry'. Harry suppressed the urge to toss the diary aside and wash his hands thoroughly. With alcohol. What kind of sick mind could come up with the idea of sharing his own soul? It's... it's... The scar whimpered desperately, distracting him from his gloomy thoughts. Harry rubbed his forehead furiously.

- This diary is the Horcrux that kept you from dying.

Yes.

Gross. And he said it was a memory. Liar. You can't believe a word he says. Suddenly a new line appeared in place of the disappearing line, and Harry felt a chill creep up his spine.

The diary was the first.

- First?

- You mean you created some Horcruxes?

His hand shook slightly, making the letters jagged, but that was nothing compared to the thoughts rushing through Harry's head. And when Tom answered, he felt like he was falling into a bottomless black abyss.

I don't know how many Horcruxes I've made, but the number seven is the most powerful magical number.

Seven. A lump rose in his throat. Tearing a soul into seven pieces. That meant seven murders-the innocent victims needed for the ritual. What if he put his idea into action? That means six objects that could be anywhere, holding parts of Voldemort's soul. What if someone else fell into the same trap as Harry?

- And... are they all... sentient? Like you?

I don't think so. With every ritual, the soul is split in half. In the diary, it's half my soul. In the second Horcrux would be a quarter, next would be one-eighth... You get the idea.

Harry unconsciously nodded. Geometric progression. Does that make Voldemort's new body have... one sixty-fourth of a soul? Oh, shit. I can see why he's gone off the rails. Meanwhile, a new entry appeared on the page:

But it's possible they could be dangerous. Also... To kill him, you need to destroy every single Horcrux until only the body remains. Otherwise, history could repeat itself.

Suddenly irritation set in. Why would Riddle be so easy about everything? Why would he reveal his weaknesses? Does he want to gain his trust again? But for what purpose?

- You do realise that if I want to destroy the Horcruxes, you'll be the first to go, right?

Yes.

The Devil! Harry threw the diary on the bed and stood up abruptly, pacing the room nervously. Why was he so calm? Or did he really not care about his life? No, that can't be it. It's Voldemort! Anyone can change, not him.

The scar ached more and more, heralding new nightmares of a thin, pale hand with a wand clutched in it; a cold voice saying, ‘Crucio’; human figures writhing in agony... These visions had haunted him constantly, ever since the night Cedric had died. He had dreamt of Cedric, too. A momentary green flash and glassy grey eyes staring into nothing.

And the most disgusting part of it all was that now he had no one to share his worries with. All because of the damn diary! He was so used to letting Tom in on all his problems that now he missed that opportunity like air.

Hatred, burning, eating away at him from the inside out, began to rise up inside in a choking wave, but Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. All of his affection, all of his sincere, open love for his friend from the diary had now turned into a poison. He felt he hated Tom even more than he hated Voldemort. Many times more. And deep down, he knew why. Voldemort, as ridiculous as it sounded, had been honest with him. He had never hidden the fact that he wanted to kill him, never pretended to be close, and therefore was seen as an enemy from the start. Dangerous, scary, but understandable. Tom, on the other hand...

His head wasn't just whimpering anymore, it was splitting with pain. Harry resolutely threw the covers off the bed, along with his diary, and collapsed cheek to cheek on the cool pillow. There was no more energy to think, much less try to understand the motives of the notebook ghost.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be busy unravelling insidious plans. Now to sleep.

In August, events swirled in a swirl of colour, making it impossible to think about anything.

The Dementor attack that had nearly crippled Dudley; the articles in the press smearing the Chosen One, and Dumbledore for believing him; the sudden arrival of the Order of the Phoenix on Privet Drive; the crazy flight; the house in Grimmauld Place where Sirius had been living all this time; Ron and Hermione hiding their eyes and obviously hiding something; the hearing at the Ministry.

It was all too much to think about anything else but Dumbledore's strange behaviour at the trial and the threat of expulsion from Hogwarts.

Barely back from the hearing at Grimmo, Harry, feeling happy and confused at the same time, unconsciously reached for his diary, wanting to share his joy - he had been acquitted! - It was only when he glanced at Riddle's penitential letter that he realised what he had just been about to do.

The diary was immediately tucked away in the furthest corner of his suitcase, but the disappointment that settled in his chest at not being able to share the happy news remained.

No, of course, his friends and Sirius and even Grum were happy for him, but it wasn't the same. In the back of his mind, he really wanted to see the inked lines, written in beautiful ornate handwriting, and read:

'Great, Harry! I knew you could do it!’ or ’Don't give a damn about those fools! You'll see, when they realise you were right, they'll come crawling back to apologise.’

And the atmosphere in the Black mansion was getting more and more tense. Fred and George were driving everyone crazy with their endless jokes; Ron and Hermione were fighting all the time; Sirius was rattling around like a caged animal, unable to accept that he couldn't be of any use to the Order, and he looked so depressed and unhappy that Harry couldn't help but feel that mood.

Harry's own dream was that the summer would be over as soon as possible. He couldn't wait to get to Hogwarts and find out if Tom was telling the truth about the Horcruxes. Ever since he'd moved to Grimmo, correspondence had been almost non-existent, because there was a great risk that someone in the Order would notice the diary and suspect something wrong, and Harry was in no hurry to part with a source of information that was not very reliable, but still a source of information.

Tom, however, made no further attempt to apologise or ask about the events in Harry's life. He continued to clearly answer any questions related to his past, holding nothing back. At least that's how it looked from the outside.

Still, Harry somehow got the impression that Tom, if he told the truth about the Horcruxes, wasn't telling the whole truth. It was unnerving, even though he'd convinced himself that it was foolish to expect honesty from Voldemort's shadow, there was still a tiny spark of hope somewhere deep inside that Tom wasn't deceiving him.

As it turned out, he hadn't really said everything about the Horcruxes.

Harry had gone to the Forbidden Section the first night after arriving at Hogwarts. His trusty invisibility cloak kept him safely hidden from prying eyes. The thick, dusty folio, "Dark Magical Essences", still stood on the farthest shelf, just as it had fifty years ago.

When Harry glanced at the table of contents and opened the page with information on Horcruxes, his heart sank treacherously in his chest and his eyes dug greedily into the faded lines. The shock of the reading was so intense that he didn't immediately notice the dim light of a lantern at the other end of the library, waking up only when Mrs. Norris' shrill meow sounded nearby.

Miraculously escaping Filch's scrutiny, Harry rushed into Gryffindor Tower at such a speed that he was finally in the safety of his own bed and couldn't catch his breath for several minutes.

Distrust, anger, and resentment mixed with something very much like guilt swept over him. The diary opened obediently to a blank page, as if to show that he had nothing to hide. And that somehow made Harry even angrier.

- Why didn't you tell me?!

He was more sorry now than ever that ink lettering didn't convey emotion.

What do you mean?

The instant reply made him clench his teeth to keep from swearing and waking his classmates.

- You know what it's about! I read that book about Horcruxes!

Several minutes passed, but there was no response, and Harry grabbed his quill once more.

- Don't play deaf, Tom! I know you could have been resurrected if you took my life force. I've had the diary for three years, that's about a thousand opportunities to break free and get a body! Why didn't you do it?

This time the answer came, but somehow slowly, as if reluctant.

You would have died.

- Yes, but you would have been alive! Or are you saying you like this existence inside a notebook?

Tom was silent. And Harry felt a sudden rush of remorse. Blaming Riddle for wanting to kill him was fine, but blaming him for not doing it was a bit silly. But before he could write anything, the words that made him feel sick to his stomach reappeared on the page:

Would you trade your friend's life for yours, Harry?

Harry almost groaned with despair. How could he tell if Tom was telling the truth, or if he was pretending to avert suspicion while he made some far-reaching plans? He wanted to believe it until his throat hurt, but Harry couldn't afford to be wrong again. Not like this.

- If you're so right, Tom, tell me how you could make this...how could you turn into Voldemort? I can't believe it's all just about Horcruxes. Can't a good person become a serial killer just because they shared a soul!

The answer didn't take long to come, but the content of it didn't clear up the picture at all, it only confused things even more.

You're wrong, Harry, if you think I was a good man at sixteen. I never was. Ever since I was a little boy I wanted to stand out, to be special, to achieve what others couldn't. When I arrived at Hogwarts, I was a stuck-up, arrogant boy who thought he was superior to others just because he could do what they couldn't, but was terribly self-conscious about his origins.

As you probably know, Slytherin has always disliked half-bloods, but respected talent and drive to succeed. It was from that desire that my grandiose plans to separate the magical world from the Muggle world sprouted, as well as my desire to choose a name that would reflect my high position, hence the idea of giving myself a title that didn't exist. And so I became Lord Voldemort. It's actually an anagram of my full name, Tom Marvolo Riddle. It's funny, isn't it? I was so eager to get rid of everything that connected me to my father, and all I ended up doing was rearranging the letters.

Well, then came the idea of Horcruxes as a sure way to defeat death forever. And I committed murder. The first one of my life. It was a Muggle-born Ravenclaw girl named Myrtle Warren. I didn't kill her with my own hands, I guess I wasn't brave enough to do it then. I suppose you've heard of the legend of the Chamber of Secrets? Well, it's real. The legacy of Salazar Slytherin, whose descendant I was proud to be. I opened the room and let the basilisk loose, and when it killed Myrtle, I performed a ritual and created this diary.

That's the story of the orphan boy, Harry. Unfortunately, I didn't realise at the time that the path I had chosen would lead to such terrible consequences. I thought I was doing the right thing, and that the people I killed were just necessary sacrifices to achieve my goal. I know it sounds disgusting, but there's no point in sugarcoating reality. Now do you realise that I've never been good and right?

Harry stared mesmerized at the lines that appeared. What is he supposed to realise? That Riddle is a monster who started killing back in high school? That the transformation of the handsome, intelligent, but overly ambitious and unscrupulous Slytherin student into the red-eyed, snake-like Voldemort was natural? He already knew that. But why did he still feel like there was something wrong with Tom - specifically this Tom from the diary? The quill slowly dipped into the inkwell.

- You told me a whole story, Tom. A sordid story. But it doesn't answer my question: why haven't you killed me yet?

The answer didn't come for a long time. Harry felt his neck stiffen from the uncomfortable position, his eyes slip from fatigue, but he continued to stubbornly stare into the thick paper of the page until, finally, the familiar graceful letters emerged from the depths.

Because fifty years alone with yourself is a long time.

Chapter Text

- That Umbridge is a walking nightmare! Her pink bows and blouses make me sick as soon as I get to class!

- Bows are nothing, Ron. It's the fact that the Ministry has banned practical Defense classes that's a disaster. Isn't it, Harry? Harry?

Someone shook him gently on the shoulder.

- Huh? - Harry was distracted from his thoughts about his last correspondence with Tom and came back to reality.

- Yeah, the bows are a disaster.

- You weren't listening to me at all, were you? - Hermione said indignantly.

- Do you really agree that we won't be taught practical Defense Against the Dark Arts? And this after the resurrection of, - she lowered her voice...

- You-Know-Who!

Harry didn't answer. He stared thoughtfully at the teacher's desk, or rather at Dumbledore, who was talking softly to Professor McGonagall, looking darker than usual.

For over a month now, Tom had been urging him to go to the Headmaster and tell him about the Horcruxes, hoping that he would figure out how to find them and destroy them before Voldemort came into full force. Harry agreed with him, but for some reason he was hesitant to take this seemingly correct step. It would seem, what could be easier? Go to Dumbledore, give him the diary and tell him everything as it was.

Yeah, stupid. Yes, he should have reported the notebook as soon as he realised it had dark magic in it. But the Headmaster wouldn't kill him, would he? Voldemort might...

Albus Dumbledore is the only wizard I have ever seriously feared, - Riddle's words suddenly came to mind. - If anyone could find a way to stop me, it would be him.

Stop. Destroying all the Horcruxes, no matter how many there were, including the diary... along with Tom.

Harry didn't want to admit it, even to himself, but the thought of Tom being gone forever made it hurt. Deep down, Harry felt like he had forgiven him. The very moment he had learned the power Horcruxes could have over the human mind. Tom had been with him for three years, but he had never once tried to hurt him, and after all, actions spoke much better and truer about a person than words. And how could he doom a friend - yes, a friend who had become closer to him than many others - with his own hands?

His green eyes met for a moment with the bright blue ones that shimmered softly behind the glass of his half glasses, but Dumbledore immediately looked away.

Could there be any way to resurrect Tom? Without sacrifice. Without bloody rituals and absorbing someone else's life force? What if we tried to convince Dumbledore that Tom could help them in their fight against Voldemort? Yeah, that would make for an interesting conversation:

'Professor, don't swear, but I've got a piece of soul in my notebook. Yes, yes, the very soul of universal evil. But don't worry, he's good. He realised everything and corrected himself after sitting alone for fifty years...'

That's ridiculous. Harry wouldn't have believed it himself. He'd have thought the Chosen One was possessed by a Horcrux.

- Harry! - Hermione's voice rang out over his ear.

- What are you thinking about all the time? Aren't you at all interested in what's going on around you?

Harry looked at his indignant friend silently. Frankly speaking, he really wasn't interested. All his thoughts revolved around destroying Voldemort and saving Tom, no matter how wild it sounded. Against the background of these global problems, the nasty toad from the Ministry, the abolition of the practice of defense and other school troubles were somehow lost. And the denunciatory articles in the newspapers almost did not cause negative emotions. Harry understood perfectly well why no one wanted to believe in the revival of the most terrible wizard of all time. The memories of what had happened at the graveyard were still too vivid. If he hadn't seen with his own eyes how Voldemort had risen, he himself would have preferred not to believe, hoping to the last that the return of the worst nightmare was just a lie. On the other hand, the Ministry's inaction could have cost many lives, and in that light, of course, it would be best not to turn a blind eye to the obvious. But how do you make people believe what they don't want to believe?

- I'm curious, Hermione, - he sighed and took a swig of pumpkin juice.

- I just don't think there's anything we can do at the moment, so there's no point in worrying, - he smiled at his friends, noticing the look of surprise on Ron's face, and stood up from the table and headed for the bedroom.

There wasn't much time before the next lesson. Just enough time to ask Tom a few questions.

No.

Harry blinked at the short answer and exhaled noisily, trying to pull himself together and not burn the stubborn notebook.

- Tom, look, surely there must be some way to get you out of here! I don't believe there isn't! Just tell me what I have to do?

The lines were still all the way down, but Harry was already guessing what the answer would be.

Forget about it! Harry, please, you have to go to Dumbledore! As long as you delay, there is less and less chance of catching Voldemort off guard. You won't be able to save me, but you can save everyone else.

My heart ached painfully. Tears came to my eyes in despair. How could he not understand!

- But I can't do that! I can't sacrifice your life, even if it's for the sake of others! You're a... friend.

The quill trembled in his fingers, leaving a blot.

Damn it, Harry! I'm not your friend! I'm not even a human being! Just a shadow, a pathetic wisp of a soul trapped in these pages. And there are living people around you, real friends who will die if you don't do what you have to do.

Owe. He'd owed someone his whole life! His chest felt like steel hoops. It was suddenly very hard to breathe, as if all the oxygen had vanished from the room in an instant. He had to live with the Dursleys because it was safe; he had to fight Voldemort because he was the Chosen One; he had to live up to other people's expectations endlessly! He was so sick of it all! He was sick of doing things for others without thinking how they would turn out for himself. The hoops preventing him from breathing suddenly burst with a deafening crack, and Harry realised with all clarity that he wasn't going to do it. Not this time. His hand was no longer shaking, and the letters came out crisp and even:

- I'll still find a way to get you out of there. Am I a Gryffindor, after all, or what?

Without waiting for an answer, Harry closed the journal and tucked it under his pillow.

He felt at once light and calm. It was always like that with him. He could agonise for a very long time, fretting, questioning, weighing the pros and cons a hundred times, but when he made the final decision, everything fell into place. The fear of failure and possible unpleasant consequences disappeared, and Harry began to feel that he would succeed. No safe way for others to resurrect Tom? There didn't seem to be any defense against Avada, either. But he'd managed to survive. Twice already, if you counted that strange incident in the graveyard when his and Voldemort's wands did the Priori Incantatem trick. He's Harry Potter the Boy Who Breaks All the Laws of Magic!

And no stubborn diary ghost can convince him otherwise.

Harry spent the next two months hunkered down in the library. He tirelessly perused book after book, barely paying attention to the title. He remembered all too well that the information he needed could be found where he least expected it. It had been the Flamel incident, the one he'd snuck into the Forbidden Section for, and Hermione had found his biography in a “light reading” book.

This time, however, the information he needed was very specific, and so Harry mostly visited the library after bedtime, under an invisibility cloak, because he suspected that the books that could help him were hardly in the public domain. He would sit up all night until dawn broke outside his window, poring over dusty folios until the sun came up. Afterward, he would peck his nose at his lessons, and Ron, who had to constantly push him to the side to wake him up, began to suspect that Harry had fallen in love and was going out at night.

There were some good things about his permanent fatigue, though. For example, the nasty Umbridge, who at first had done everything she could to piss him off, had quickly realised that her sarcastic hints about his “dutty chosenness” were unheeded and had fallen behind, confining herself to sweetly assuring him that there was nothing to worry about. Of course there was nothing to worry about. The ministry has everything under control. And the fact that people are constantly disappearing, Dementors are on the loose, and Eaters have escaped from Azkaban, it's all according to plan. Everything's under control.

Reading each issue of the Prophet with more and more notes about the crimes they were committing, Harry involuntarily began to feel painful pricks of guilt. What if he had listened to Tom and told Dumbledore about everything back at the beginning of the year? What if all of this could have been avoided? But at the same instant, memories of the years spent with the diary came flooding back into his mind, and Harry convinced himself over and over again that he was doing the right thing. He owed it to himself to try. He simply wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't try.

Books followed one after another, but nothing resembling a possible method of resurrection was to be found. In one creepy, chain-wrapped, black-magic encyclopedia, he even found the very ritual Voldemort had used: bone, flesh, and blood. The funny thing was, it was the least creepy of all the body-acquisition rituals Harry had found. All the others required human sacrifice, and sometimes several. Still, Harry hadn't given up hope.

He had almost stopped talking to Tom. And it wasn't because he didn't want to. He'd gotten used to the fact that every dialog he had inevitably reduced to a plea to stop acting like a stubborn donkey and to accept, finally, that the diary would have to be sacrificed. No. It was just that at some point Tom had stopped answering him.

Harry poured over his messages for days, but the ink disappeared and no new lines appeared, and finally Harry realised that it was pointless. Tom was definitely trying to encourage him to make the right decision with his silence, but he wasn't going to give up. As long as there was even the slightest chance that there was a way out, he wouldn't give up.

Harry spent the last night before Christmas vacation in the library, returning to his bedroom in the morning. His eyes were red and watery from sleep deprivation, and his throat was nauseous from book dust, but that was nothing compared to what he'd found.

In one of the dullest medieval volumes on artifacting, he was amazed to discover that there was a way to remove part of the soul from an object so that it could exist separately. Of course, it wouldn't have a body, but it would no longer be a horcrux, but something like a ghost. At least it didn't require any bloody rituals, and a ghost tom was no doubt much better than a Horcrux tom. He'd be able to live at Hogwarts, he'd be able to socialize with the living, he'd be... Yeah just be!

Harry was in such a hurry to tell him the news that he slipped at the foot of the bed and fell to the floor, catching himself on the pillow as he fell, and when he jumped up, rubbing his bruised elbow, he froze, staring at the bed incredulously.

The diary disappeared.

Chapter Text

This year's winter had been snowier and colder than ever. Or maybe it just seemed that way because of the icy emptiness inside that neither the hot fire of the fireplace nor the hot chocolate Hermione had brought with her.

Harry sat on the window sill in the Gryffindor bedroom and stared blankly at the snowflakes slowly swirling in the air, which, as they fell to the ground, joined the others like them, together becoming a fluffy white blanket that covered Hogwarts and its surroundings.

There were no emotions. No thoughts either. Gone were all fears, hopes, desires, everything that distinguished life from a ridiculous, meaningless existence.

It seemed to Harry that the night the diary had gone missing, something had broken inside him. Something very important that made him who he was: Harry Potter; the Boy Who Survived; a Gryffindor; a friend... It was as if his heart had been taken out of his chest, leaving a bottomless black hole in its place.

He didn't realise it immediately.

First came the surprise that made him turn his bedroom upside down, rummage through his things, shake out his bed. Then panic when he realised that the diary wasn't lost, but someone had taken it. Someone who could easily sneak into Gryffindor tower; someone who knew about it. But the awakened Ron, who Harry had nearly attacked with fists, believing his friend to be joking, had been so genuinely puzzled that it was clear he had nothing to do with the disappearance. After that everyone was ruthlessly interrogated: boys, girls, even the portraits hanging in the living room. His classmates looked at the furious Chosen One like he was crazy, but Harry didn't care. He had to get the diary back.

When it became clear that none of the Gryffindors knew anything, Harry rushed to the Lady of the Hall, hoping that she had let someone else in, so that there would be some chance of finding out who the thief was, but she only resented him, saying that she wasn't out of her mind to let strangers in.

And that's when Harry became desperate. Most of the students had gone home for the holidays, and the castle was empty. Now there was little hope of getting Tom back. If someone had taken it, they must have taken it away with them, or... Harry tried not to think about the possibility that something might have been done to the diary. It was too painful to imagine it lying somewhere amongst the rubbish, the pages of drawings burning in the fireplace flames... No, he knew it wasn't easy to destroy a Horcrux, but that didn't make it any easier. He wanted to howl with helplessness, to gnaw at the ground, to tear the whole damn castle apart brick by brick, just to find it... Just to get rid of that feeling of losing someone close to him, burning from the inside out.

Two days later, an owl flew in from Sirius, asking why Harry hadn't come to Grimmo. He had to scribble something inane in reply about an interesting assignment he needed the Hogwarts library to work on. It was a thinly-veiled excuse, but luckily Sirius had been smart enough not to remind him that there were just as many books in the Black mansion, he'd just wished him a Merry Christmas and sent a present that Harry hadn't even unwrapped.

He wasn't interested. The only present he'd ever dreamed of was the chance to feel the rough leather of the black cover under his fingers again and see the inked letters appear on the yellowish pages.

Let Tom swear, let him call him a fool and a stubborn donkey, he could even be silent, still, just so long as he could be. Just so he could apologise for all the harsh, hate-filled words Harry had written to him in a fit of anger back then, at the end of fourth year. To make sure that Tom knew-he had forgiven him for the hidden truth that, when tested, had turned out to be such nonsense.

How could he have ever thought that his Tom and Voldemort had anything in common? How could he have suspected that a friend who had helped, encouraged, supported him, could wish him harm? And he was going to trick the evil ghost into giving him information! The very information that Tom had shared instantly, without thinking, but knowing full well that it would lead to the destruction of the diary. The pain came with renewed force, twisting his insides and fogging his mind.

If only everything could be taken back...fixed.....

- Harry, - Hermione knocked timidly on the bedroom door, hesitant to enter.

- How are you?

- I'm fine, - he replied indifferently, not taking his eyes off the frost-covered glass.

Ron and Hermione had stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays, too. They didn't understand what was going on with Harry, but they sensed that he was very unwell, so they tried to cheer him up as best they could. Harry himself would have been much more grateful to them if they had gone away and left him alone. He didn't know how to explain to his friends that going to Hogsmeade, enchanted snowballs, chess by the fireplace, and other amusements were of no use to him right now. All he wanted was to be alone. No one to touch him or ask him questions.

The three months flew by in a flash. The snow and cold had been replaced by the green of the grass breaking through the frozen ground, the chirping of birds and the light, spring breeze, and Harry felt as if a taut, taut string had burst inside him.

The pain of losing the diary had dulled slightly, leaving only a nagging longing somewhere very deep. But it was something. It was something he could live with. At least he had finally woken up from the icy anabiosis in which he had spent the entire winter. With the arrival of spring, the world around him was not that it had become better, but there were colours in it. They were still dull and pale, but they gave hope that things would gradually get better, even though reports of terrible events flashed in the Prophet more and more often, and Umbridge had actually seized power at Hogwarts, having hung the entire wall near the Great Hall with ministerial orders and secured her appointment as High Inspector.

The students howled at the number of bans they were subjected to, and the teachers grew darker and darker by the day, exhausted by the endless inspections and nagging. Hagrid and Professor Trelawney, who by the end of March had been dismissed from her post and nearly thrown out of the castle, were the worst of it. Dumbledore, who had interrupted the huge scandal and stood up for Trelawney, had looked so menacing that Harry suddenly realised why he was the only one Voldemort feared. He almost dared to tell the Headmaster about the Horcruxes, but for some reason Dumbledore wouldn't listen to him and left as quickly as if he feared something, leaving him to listen to the sobs of the divination professor being comforted by McGonagall.

Harry didn't take part in any of the school drama, still preferring solitude to company. His friends gradually drifted away, seeing that all attempts to bring him back to normal life were fruitless, and after he rejected Hermione's bright idea of creating an underground dueling club, they took offence. But despite his refusal, Hermione had eventually put together a group of people who wanted to learn practical Defence and had courageously acted as a teacher, for which Harry had grown to respect her even more. He generally agreed with her that the better students learned to defend themselves, the better their chances of survival, but he didn't see himself as a ‘professor’ at all. All he could do was confirm at the first meeting of the club that Voldemort had indeed been reborn, and then he said that Hermione was better at witchcraft than he was, which was true, and then he ran away, unwilling to answer the many questions that came out of the horn of plenty.

He took no further interest in the affairs of Dumbledore's Squad, as the regular members of the club called themselves. He lived as if by inertia, waiting for some miracle. But as the days went by, things didn't get better, they only got worse.

Hermione was a really talented wizard, she could do almost all the spells she had learnt about in her textbooks, and after some practice she even managed to teach them to others. The only thing she couldn't do was the Patronus spell. After a few weeks of torment, she had to ask Harry, who had learnt it in her third year, for help.

And Harry couldn't refuse her a second time.

Dumbledore's squad was far more numerous than Harry had anticipated, but the slight surprise at the sight of the crowd gathered in the Room of Requirement was nothing compared to the amazement that swept over Harry when a huge glowing wolf suddenly burst from his wand.

- Isn't your patronus a deer? - Hermione asked quietly, equally surprised, to the delighted gasps of the rest of the DA.

- A deer, - Harry nodded dumbfoundedly, glaring at the ghostly predator.

- It was.

And at that moment, the walls of the Room of Requirement suddenly shuddered.

- What's that? - Someone asked fearfully.

Everyone looked around warily, searching for the source of the rumbling. It was quiet for a moment, and then one of the walls suddenly spattered with stone chips. A grinning Umbridge in the company of Malfoy and his entourage appeared in the gap, and a shrinking Zhou Chang stood beside them, eyes downcast guiltily.

Harry struggled to hold back a groan. After all, he had a feeling that nothing good would come of this club idea. And here it was.

Of course, the toad had immediately decided that Potter was the organiser of the illegal group. Well, who else? And he was escorted to Dumbledore's office, where there was already a scowling Fudge, calm as a rock, Kingsley, and the Headmaster himself, smiling at something in his mysterious manner.

Harry had wholeheartedly denied his involvement in the illegal student organization, but neither Umbridge nor Fudge predictably believed him. And even the assurances of Zhou, who tearfully proved that Harry had never been in the Room of Requirement before, made no impression on them. But that wasn't the worst part of it, it was the fact that, after pouring a barrage of accusations of breaking school rules on Harry, Fudge had turned on Dumbledore, charging him with treason. All because of the stupid name of the club!

He couldn't believe his ears as he listened to Dumbledore smilingly confirm all the accusations against him, thus favouring him, Harry, and when it came to taking decisive action, Harry thought it was all just a dream. How else could it be explained that Dumbledore had suddenly attacked the Minister of Magic, stunning Umbridge and Kingsley at the same time?

- We don't have much time, Harry, - he grabbed the stunned boy by the shoulders and shook him, forcing him to look into his eyes.

- I'll have to leave Hogwarts for a while, but I'm sure that will change soon.

- Professor... - Harry frantically tried to think of how to tell him about the Horcruxes.

- I have to...

- Not now, - Dumbledore cut him off, squeezing his hand tightly and dragging him into the back of the study.

- You must remember the most important thing: be careful not to tell anyone about what you're about to see. Although... - he grinned.

- I guess you've already proved you can keep a secret, - he said with a short wave of his wand, and one of the bookcases slid aside, revealing an inconspicuous door in the wall.

- Go, - Dumbledore nodded.

- And... good luck.

A shrill scream from Fawkes, a blinding flash of flame, and there Harry was, standing alone in front of the door, staring blankly at the spot where the Headmaster had just been.

- Ah... but... - he glanced suspiciously at the door, but a quiet stirring behind him spurred him into action.

The brass knob creaked softly under his palm, and the next second he was in a small, semi-dark room, hearing the cupboard outside fall back into place, cutting him off from the Minister's angry shriek. And after a while, as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, Harry could no longer hear Fudge's swearing or Umbridge's shrieking. His blood rumbled in his ears and his heart thumped like crazy as he caught sight of a young man sitting on a small sofa. He had an open book in his lap, but the intense gaze of dark eyes was fixed directly on Harry.

The very familiar look of very familiar eyes. Even though he had only seen them in drawings before. His throat was suddenly dry, and there was only one thought in his head: ‘This can't be happening!’

- Tom?

Chapter Text

Dark curly hair, pale skin, delicate features... Harry slowly, as if in a dream, approached the ghost rising to meet him. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached out and touched the shoulder covered by a black cloak. Alive.

His eyes darkened.

- Harry? - the voice was beautiful, deep, but somehow wary.

- How...? - was all he could manage to say, staring at the drawing from his diary that had come to life.

Harry felt like he was going mad. For months he had prayed for a miracle, for the diary to return to him, but even in his wildest dreams he could not have imagined seeing Tom like this... real.

A cheerful spark flashed in his dark eyes for a moment. Or was it just his imagination?

- The Philosopher's Stone, - Tom said, smiling with the corners of his lips.

- What? - Harry was so surprised that he forgot his shock.

- But it was... it was destroyed!

Tom tilted his head slightly, looking at him with interest, and under this attentive gaze, Harry suddenly felt embarrassed.

- Dumbledore said he destroyed it... - he repeated for some reason, looking away.

- The key word here is ‘said’, - Riddle chuckled.

- The Philosopher's Stone is too valuable to just get rid of. But to spread a rumour that the stone has been destroyed so that it... I...

- He, - Harry interrupted him decisively.

- Voldemort wanted to steal it! And you have nothing to do with it anymore!

The gratitude that flashed in Tom's eyes after these words made Harry's heart ache with tender emotion. Harry blinked furiously, feeling as if he were about to burst into tears like a girl from the overwhelming relief. He was all right... More than all right! He was alive!

- So, - Tom continued a little more quietly,

- Dumbledore told everyone that the stone had been destroyed, but in fact he returned it to Flamel, and when he found out about me...

- How did he find out? - Harry interrupted him.

- And where did the diary disappear to? Back then, before Christmas, I thought someone had stolen it... I...

For some reason, Riddle's gaze became slightly guilty.

- It didn't disappear, Harry, - he said very quietly.

- It was my decision. I realised that you would never take the diary to Dumbledore yourself until it was too late, so that day... Ron Weasley took it, probably wanting to look at your drawings or something, and I took advantage of the situation. I made him take the diary to Dumbledore...

- Ron! - My hands clenched into fists involuntarily.

- And he told me he didn't know anything!

- Your friend is not to blame, - Tom said softly.

- Dumbledore made him forget about it, he didn't want anyone to know about the diary. And then he began to study it. He wrote a few words, and I replied. I'm sorry, Harry, I had to tell him everything. About how you started drawing, about how we met, nothing personal, just the facts. Well, and then I told him about the Horcruxes and my attitude towards... Voldemort. Dumbledore, of course, didn't believe me right away, far from it, but he didn't destroy me, as I had expected. We corresponded for a long time before he offered to resurrect me with a stone-based potion. And, of course, I agreed.

- So, you... - Harry muttered uncertainly.

- You're not a Horcrux anymore?

- No, - smiled Riddle, but then his gaze suddenly became tense.

- But there is one problem, Harry. Dumbledore suspects that you may be a Horcrux. An accidental, unplanned one, - he hastily added, seeing his frozen face.

- He thinks that on the night Voldemort tried to kill you, his soul, already badly damaged, split again, unable to bear the murder of your parents, and a part of it slipped into the only living creature it could find... into you. That's why you have such a strong connection to him. That's why you see what he sees...

The ground began to slip away from under his feet. His breath caught, and his hand flew to the scar.

- That... That means that as long as I'm alive... To defeat Voldemort, I have to die? - his own voice sounded hoarse and completely foreign.

- No! - Tom exclaimed indignantly.

- The task was certainly not easy, but Dumbledore and I managed to find a way out. You see, a Horcrux can be extracted from a living host, just as it can from an object, but only the person who created it can do so...

- That is, Voldemort, - Harry thought grimly.

- That is, me, - Riddle finished.

Harry stared at him with wide eyes.

- Damn, that's right! - he whispered incredulously.

- You're technically... well, I mean...

- Yes, - Tom laughed.

- Technically, Voldemort and I are one and the same. Only, he's unlikely to want to take back a piece of his soul, and I wouldn't mind at all.

- So it will come back to you? Won't that hurt you?

- No, - he shrugged.

- It's still my soul, even though it was separated for a while. Besides, three pieces have already rejoined me.

- What?!

Tom grinned.

- Have you ever wondered where Dumbledore has been disappearing to all this time over the last few months? He's been looking for the Horcruxes. With me, of course. I was still in the diary at the time, but that didn't stop me from thinking, so I spent a long time trying to imagine where I would hide something as valuable as fragments of my own soul, and, more importantly, in what. You know, it turned out that I was terribly predictable! My grandfather's ring, the locket that belonged to Salazar Slytherin, the Ravenclaw diadem... that was the hardest part, but the Grey Lady helped us with that. Well, when the potion was ready and I had a body, we performed the ritual, and here... He nodded towards the small table on the right.

Harry stared in amazement at the relics lying on it.

- Actually, that's not all, - Tom sighed.

- There were seven Horcruxes. There was also the Hufflepuff cup, which came before the diadem...

- How do you know that? - Harry asked in surprise.

Riddle looked at him strangely and grimaced painfully.

- It's a side effect. With part of the soul, all the memories of what happened before the split come back to me. Like... pictures, you know...

- Pictures... - Harry repeated blankly, processing this unexpected information.

- So you know everything that happened to him. And when you take the Horcrux out of me...

Tom nodded grimly.

- I'll remember how I killed your parents, Harry. How I tried to kill you. Everything I did before October 1981. Believe me, the last thing I want to see is that, but I have no choice. Voldemort must be destroyed, and I will do whatever it takes to achieve that. I will gather all the fragments, and when only his new body remains, I will kill him, and then my soul will be whole again. Yes, I will remember everything he did, but...

His voice faltered.

- I hope it will help me not to make new mistakes.

Harry looked at him silently, while inside, despair spread like cold ice. Tom was so... confident, brave, intelligent... He now had a body, and soon he would have a whole soul. He would be able to live a full life, making up for the years spent in the diary... And what use was Harry to him now? What else could he give him?

Harry was so absorbed in these gloomy thoughts that he didn't notice how the dark grey eyes became piercing, and he shuddered with surprise when Tom suddenly grabbed him by the shoulders.

- Don't you dare think that! - he hissed.

- You don't know what you're like. It was only when I was with you that I understood what real life means. You taught me to enjoy the little things, to empathise, you filled my world with colour. How can you think you're not needed?

- How did you... - Harry whispered in shock, feeling himself drowning in those eyes, risking never surfacing again.

- I'm pretty good at mental magic, remember? - Tom smiled warmly.

- And your shields are useless!

That smile was the last straw. It was as if a dam had burst, releasing the emotions he had been holding back. Harry pulled Tom towards him with a sharp movement and hugged him tightly, closing his eyes against the overwhelming feelings of joy. This was it. What he had been waiting for so long. Tom was here, with him, alive... He knew how to defeat Voldemort, and he needed him, Harry. Even if it was only for a short time, even if he eventually realised that there were far more interesting people around him than he was, it didn't matter. The main thing was that he was okay.

- Silly, - he heard a quiet voice near his ear and felt an uncertain hug in response.

- I'll always need you. Someone has to stop me from becoming the new Voldemort.

- I'll be that person! - Harry exclaimed indignantly, letting go of him to look him in the eyes.

- You're such a nuisance, Riddle! Couldn't you and Dumbledore have told me that you were fine? Do you have any idea what I went through when the diary disappeared? I made up all sorts of things...

- I'm sorry, - Tom said guiltily.

- We just didn't want to get your hopes up too soon. What if something had gone wrong? I only got my body back a week and a half ago, and then there were the Horcruxes... Anyway, it was all very complicated...

- It was complicated for them, - Harry snorted.

- Who has it easy right now? I thought I'd lost my best friend! Forever, you know?

Tom paled slightly.

- Do you really consider me your friend? - he asked quietly.

- Even now?

- What's changed? - Harry looked at him in confusion.

- It's you...

- Yes, - he nodded with annoyance,

- but you know, it's not the same thing. It's one thing to confide all your secrets to a notebook, even if it answers you, and quite another to confide in a real person. Especially a person who will soon remember everything Voldemort has done. I thought, maybe you... I don't know...

Harry suddenly felt amused. Wow, Tom can doubt himself too. Who would have thought?

- Thinker. Do you really think these memories will change anything? They're not yours, Tom! I know what you're really like. I just didn't think you were capable of making up all sorts of nonsense! You're almost seventy, and you think like... me!

- Hey, the last fifty years don't count! - Tom protested.

- Do you think there's much chance of emotional growth when you live in a book?

For some reason, Harry suddenly felt very lighthearted.

- That's great, - Harry smiled.

- Otherwise, I would feel too small for... Anyway, let's grow up emotionally together. And don't you dare do anything nasty with your soul again!

- I'll never do that, - Tom said so seriously that Harry felt remorse.

- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... - He suddenly fell silent when he heard Umbridge's shrill voice behind the wall, giving orders.

- Oh, damn, is she going to be the headmistress now?

Riddle glanced at the door.

- Looks like it's time for us to leave.

- But how? That toad is in the office.

- That's not the only way out, - Tom smiled, pulling back the tapestry on the opposite wall, behind which was another door.

- Many Hogwarts directors had their secrets. This passage leads down underground and from there to Hogsmeade. It was probably built in case they had to leave the castle secretly. Are you coming with me? - he turned and held out his hand.

Harry looked intently into his warm eyes, glanced back at the table with the former Horcruxes, and without hesitation placed his hand in the outstretched one.

- With you.

The ritual to extract the Horcrux was long, agonising and very painful, both for Harry and for Tom himself.

It seemed to Harry that an eternity had passed since Riddle began to utter the hissing, broken words of the spell, and a dull pain pulsed in his head. At first barely noticeable, it grew and grew until it became so strong that it felt as if his head was about to explode. It was as if something that was an integral part of him, something his body did not want to part with, was being torn out with blood.

Relief came suddenly, when Harry was already dreaming of dying, just to stop this terrible, exhausting pain. His consciousness cleared, and he suddenly realised that he was lying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, his knees pressed to his chest, and Tom's voice was no longer audible. Overcoming the terrible weakness in his whole body, Harry struggled to his feet and immediately saw Riddle lying half-reclining near the old bed. His face was deathly pale, his forehead covered with sweat, and only the whites of his eyes were visible under his slightly open eyelids. Harry was terrified.

- Tom? - he whispered hoarsely, crawling towards the bed.

- Hey, can you hear me?

Riddle did not respond, only his fingers clenched convulsively into fists and his rapid, shallow breathing coming from his parched lips.

- Tom! - Harry touched his shoulder cautiously. Fear curled in his stomach like a nasty, icy knot.

- Tom, wake up! Come on!

Several minutes passed before his eyelids fluttered, and Harry saw the eerie, empty gaze of dark eyes.

- The potion... - the whisper was barely audible.

- There... - his hand twitched vaguely towards his pocket.

- Yes, - Harry began to rummage through the folds of his robe with trembling fingers,

- Yes, just a moment, hang on! Just a moment... - a small vial filled with something dark green finally slipped into his hand.

- Here, drink this, - he carefully brought it to Tom's lips.

- That's it... good boy...

Riddle tilted his head back helplessly, closing his eyes, and Harry felt a new wave of panic, but gradually his ragged breathing levelled out and became deep, and his cramped fingers relaxed.

- Strengthening, - Tom said quietly but more clearly, nodding at the empty vial in Harry's hands.

- Dumbledore made it...

- Is it always like this? - Harry asked in horror, running the back of his hand over Tom's forehead.

- I mean, are you always this bad?

His pale lips twitched into something resembling a smile.

- No, it used to be worse. After the first time, I thought I was going to die... It's always harder to glue than to break, isn't it? But now it's easier.

- I don't... - his voice suddenly broke off, and his eyes widened as if he saw something Harry couldn't see.

- No... no! - he suddenly clasped his hands over his head and closed his eyes, groaning through clenched teeth.

- The devil...

- You remembered, didn't you? - Harry asked quietly, feeling a strong urge to hug him, to support him, to tell him that everything would be all right.

It was paradoxical. Tom was literally regaining all the memories of the man Harry hated with all his heart, but for some reason, there was no fear that he would become a second Voldemort. He felt only regret that his friend had to go through all this, and a sincere desire to help. His confidence that Tom would never become the monster who had killed his parents grew stronger as the beautiful face contorted with pain.

- How are you? - he looked at the trembling hands, bowed head, and tense shoulders.

Riddle flinched and looked up at him with a crazed expression.

- How... - he gasped convulsively.

- How could I have let myself sink so low? And you...

- It wasn't you, - Harry said firmly.

- Those aren't your memories - they're his. You didn't do any of this, Tom, listen to me, - he saw him shaking his head desperately and grabbed his hands, forcing him to look into his eyes.

- These memories mean nothing! You would never do what he did! Never! You're completely different. You've changed...

- Changed? - disgust flashed in his dark eyes.

- He was just like me. He was me! And he turned into this... this... I never imagined I was capable of... Merlin, I tried to kill a child because of a ridiculous prophecy! - his gaze stopped at the lightning-shaped scar, and Tom jerked his hands away.

- I tried to kill you, Harry! How could you try to forgive me? How could anyone forgive something like that?!

- I didn't try! - Harry tried his best to keep his voice calm.

- Because I have nothing to forgive you for! You didn't do it! Tom, wake up, these aren't your memories. Everyone makes their own choices, and you haven't made yours yet! You have a chance to fix everything, to change your destiny! And I'll help you. I'll be there for you, I won't let you... I love you... - the words came out unconsciously, in a fit of despair, but as he said them aloud, Harry suddenly realised that it was true.

He loved Tom. As a friend, as a part of himself, as... His whole self, with all his flaws and struggles.

Tom flinched as if from a blow.

- I don't believe you, - he clenched his temples with his fingers, shaking his head stubbornly.

- You're lying, you can't...

- Lying? - Harry said unexpectedly calmly.

- Tell me, what's your Patronus?

- What?

- What's your Patronus?!

Deep down, he already knew the answer, but he wanted to be sure.

- A wolf, - Tom muttered, confused.

- And...

But Harry wasn't listening anymore. He jumped to his feet, grabbed his wand, and pointed it in the direction of the wolf.

- Expecto Patronum!

Riddle watched with wide eyes as the dazzlingly bright wolf flew off the end of the wand and raced across the room.

- You wrote that your Patronus is a stag, like your father's, - he whispered incredulously, looking at Harry.

- It was, like my father's, - Harry clarified slowly, lowering his wand.

- As you can see, it isn't now. I heard that they can change if... - he didn't finish, but he didn't need to. Tom's expression showed that he also knew what could cause a patronus to change. Harry took a few steps towards him and held out his hand. Just like Riddle had done two weeks ago.

- Are you going to stay here or go all the way? With me?

He watched as Tom's face gradually brightened and the pain and self-loathing faded from his eyes. A pleasant warmth spread through his body when he felt Tom's hand in his.

- With you.

Chapter Text

Harry returned to Hogwarts with a heavy heart. Tom, barely recovered from the ritual, went to Dumbledore to devise a plan to obtain the two remaining Horcruxes, while Harry had to sit quietly in the castle, trying not to arouse suspicion, and prepare for his exams.

Easier said than done.

Umbridge, having seized power, had finally turned Hogwarts into a strict educational correctional colony. All students now marched in formation, girls separately from boys, and teachers were forbidden to communicate with students on any topics not directly related to academic subjects. Punishments with the Bloody Feather became so regular and so severe that by the end of spring, almost all the students had bandaged hands, and only a few individuals, such as Draco Malfoy and his Inquisitorial Squad, seemed genuinely pleased with the changes that had taken place at the school.

Harry tried his best not to attract unnecessary attention and not to get into trouble, but it turned out to be much more difficult than he had expected. His concern for Tom and the lack of even the slightest news from him made Harry terribly nervous, making him quick-tempered and unbalanced, which Umbridge, of course, was happy to take advantage of, seemingly determined to use any means necessary to make him recant his words about the Dark Lord's return. Harry could only grit his teeth, repeating the sacramental phrase over and over again with his own blood: ‘I must not lie,’ and hope that Tom and Dumbledore were doing better than he was.

Thunder struck during the O.W.L. exams, forever etched in his memory with bright flashes of the Weasley twins' fireworks and a nightmarish vision of Sirius kneeling in the Department of Mysteries. The moment the cold voice mercilessly uttered ‘Crucio,’ accompanied by Black's hoarse scream, Harry knew he couldn't stand another second of inaction.

Unable to contact Dumbledore or anyone from the Order, Harry decided on a desperate move, asking Hermione and DA for help, realising that alone he had no chance of saving his godfather.

And then everything merged into a terrible, crazy whirlwind of events, leaving no time or opportunity to think about whether he was doing the right thing: a skirmish with Umbridge; enraged centaurs; a flight to London on Fawkes; a mad dash for the Prophecy and the frighteningly clear realisation that he had fallen into a trap, taken in by the false information kindly provided by Voldemort.

He will probably never forget Sirius' frozen, slightly distracted smile as he fell backwards into the Arc. Nor will he ever forget the burning, blinding hatred for Bellatrix Lestrange that flared up inside him like a fire when, forgetting everything else, he chased after her, ready to hurl his entire arsenal of unforgivable curses at her back, just to see her mad eyes roll back in pain, and her hysterical laughter replaced by a death rattle. But at that moment, when his hand with the wand was already flying through the air, and the tight spring of rage inside him twisted so tightly that Harry had no doubt that the Avada would be deadly, words spoken in a trusting whisper suddenly rang in his mind:

...I need you... Someone has to stop me from becoming the new Voldemort...

And he suddenly realised that he couldn't. He couldn't let hatred kill the good that Tom saw in him. The thing that had changed him, that he was willing to endure pain and fight with himself for, striving to become better.

The green flame of the fireplace flared up, carrying away Sirius's killer, while Harry stood with his wand raised in the middle of the Atrium, feeling both the wild pain of not being able to avenge the death of a loved one and the relief spreading through his body like weakness, knowing that he had managed to restrain himself, did not allow himself to cross the line. For his sake. For Tom's sake...

- Harry Potter... - an icy voice behind him made him freeze in place.

Surprisingly, the scar no longer hurt as it used to when Voldemort appeared nearby. His head was clearer than ever, and suddenly all fear, hatred and pain disappeared from his chest, leaving only a feeling of contemptuous pity as he looked at the thin, withered face with red slits for eyes.

- So, you broke my prophecy, - there was no question in his voice, only cold rage boiling inside.

Harry was suddenly overcome by deadly fatigue. Too much had happened in recent months: longing for Tom, exhausting uncertainty, fear for Sirius, the battle with the Death Eaters... He barely had enough strength to stand upright, let alone try to fight the most powerful wizard of the century. There was only one thing left to do.

- Do you really need this prophecy? - Harry asked hoarsely, looking straight into the glowing red eyes.

- I'll tell you what it said.

- Really? - the thin lips twisted into a sneer.

- "...None of them can live in peace while the other is still alive..." - not long ago, Harry would have interpreted these words to mean that one of them must die, but now...

- Well, this was to be expected, - Voldemort said quietly, raising his wand.

- The prophecy will be fulfilled, Harry Potter. I have nothing more to say to you.

Harry closed his eyes.

- Avada...

- Stop! - an excited voice, so familiar, so dear, made him look back in disbelief.

Tom was standing by one of the fireplaces. His dark hair was slightly tousled, the last greenish sparks had not yet faded from his robe, and his gaze, directed at the Dark Lord, was full of disgust.

- You... - Voldemort exhaled incredulously, his red eyes widening.

- But how...

And Harry clearly understood that he was not expecting any trickery from himself. He was sure that Tom would be on his side. Those few seconds of astonishment were enough for Riddle to raise his wand.

- Avada Kedavra.

A bright green flash seems to engulf everything around him for a moment. And when the real world returns, Harry feels someone grab his shoulders.

- Are you okay? Harry, don't be silent! Are you okay?!

He looks into Tom's eyes, sparkling with concern, and then slowly shifts his gaze to Voldemort's dead body lying on the floor of the Atrium. Amazement is frozen on the snake's face, and the dull eyes no longer flash with crimson reflections.

- The Horcruxes...

- They're gone, - Tom exhales with relief, pulling Harry close to him.

- He was the last one... But I won't return this fragment of his soul. Let him go to hell.

- Let him, - Harry blissfully closed his eyes, feeling his heart beating rapidly next to Tom's.

- I'm sorry, I'm an idiot. I fell for his provocation... - he suddenly stopped.

- But when he sent me that vision, I thought the connection was because of the Horcrux?

- Yes, it was, - Tom nodded.

- But during the time it was there, he managed to make his way into your mind, so he could influence you without the Horcrux. But now it doesn't matter. He's gone.

- No...

They stand there embracing each other in the middle of the Atrium until the fireplaces begin to flicker, signalling the start of a new working day. Wizards and witches freeze at the sight of the dead body, bumping into each other and crying out in surprise.

- Oh, Merlin! - Cornelius Fudge's eyes widen to the size of galleons.

- This is... this is...

- You are as perceptive as ever, Minister, - Harry missed the moment when Dumbledore appeared beside them.

- I suppose you know what to do next, - he smiled kindly and added in a whisper, leaning close to Harry's ear.

- And we'd better go before they come to their senses!

The next moment, Harry felt himself being squeezed from all sides by the funnel of apparition.

They were going home.

Fifteen years later.

The brush fluttered easily across the canvas, creating with bright, confident strokes the image of a handsome, broad-shouldered man with curly dark hair and attentive dark grey eyes, in which cheerful sparks flashed from time to time.

- Riddle, don't move, or I'll freeze you! - the artist squinted discontentedly, critically comparing the image with the original.

- No, the nose should be a little narrower...

The restless original, who was eager to return to studying important documents instead of sitting motionless in an uncomfortable chair, rolled his eyes in exasperation.

- Merlin, Harry, to hell with his nose! If you remember, it might not have been there at all.

- Don't even start, - said the Chief Artificer of the Ministry, brushing his hair back from his forehead and not noticing that he was leaving a yellow streak of paint on his skin.

- The resemblance must be complete! I'm not going to spend eternity after death admiring your overly wide nose.

- There it is - the true cunning of the Chosen One! - Tom feigned horror.

- And you said you loved me just the way I am!

- Without a doubt, - Potter nodded calmly.

- And your nose too. All right, stop distracting me, Minister, or I'll draw something extra, and then you'll be... Hey... Mmm... That's not fair...

He felt strong arms wrap around his back, and hot breath on his neck made his skin tingle.

Tom always knew how to make him forget everything except the mad desire to feel him even closer, to run his fingers through his soft hair and feel his lips on his own.

Looking back, Harry himself couldn't understand when that bright, childish feeling of attachment to a friend had grown into infatuation, accompanied by self-doubt and wild flashes of jealousy, and then into deep, passionate love. A love so strong, so wrong, so painful that it seemed that if Tom ever disappeared from his life, he would die. Simply because a person cannot live without a heart.

And he knew Tom felt the same way. It had been frightening at first, and at one time they'd tried to avoid each other, but they'd quickly realised it was impossible. And as time went on, their feelings never cooled, growing stronger and stronger, as if they were growing roots into each other, confirming the theory of soul mates. Sometimes it even seemed to them that they had one soul for two. One heart. One life. Together everywhere and always, disregarding public opinion, the broken hearts of the entire female population of magical Britain from ten to a hundred, no matter what. Together until the end. Just like then, at the very beginning.

The easel is mercilessly toppled to the floor, tubes of paints are scattered all over the room, leaving multicoloured stains on the light carpet, the sheets on the wide bed are carelessly crumpled, and the pillows have disappeared somewhere....

- Don't think you're going to get away with this diversion, - Harry whispered relaxedly, his eyes darkening with pleasure.

- I'll still finish your portrait, even if I have to lock you in here for a week, causing irreparable damage to the smooth running of the Ministry.

- Mm... a week? - Tom's eyes flash with excitement.

- After what you and I have done for the good of magical Britain, a global catastrophe wouldn't happen in seven days... - his hot lips found a sensitive spot on the back of his neck, and Harry arched up, digging his fingers into his dark hair with a hoarse groan.

- Dear Mr Potter, - the silver eagle-patronus stopped in the middle of the room.

- You need to report to level 1A of the Department of Mysteries immediately. The matter cannot be delayed. Junior member of the department, Alfred Norton.

- Level One..., - Harry repeated, his eyes widening with the renewed excitement.

- Oh, shit! This is an experimental lab! Tom, I've got to get to the Ministry, or those idiots are going to blow the place to smithereens!

- Well, which one of us needs to be locked up? - Tom groaned disappointedly, reluctantly letting him out of bed.

- Any more emergency calls and I'll disband your Mystery Department!

Harry, frantically trying to button his shirt, was about to reply, but the appearance of another patronus made him freeze.

- Mr Minister, at your request, I remind you that an official delegation from Bulgaria is arriving in three hours. Discussions about the possibility of a student exchange between Hogwarts and Durmstrang.

- Merlin, I forgot about them! - Tom was now jumping out of bed like a man on fire.

- After months of convincing Dumbledore of the need for an exchange between the schools and... Oh, for fuck's sake!

Harry chuckled as he continued to button his cuffs.

- Face it, Riddle, for once in her life, Trelawney has spoken the truth! You and I will never have a peaceful life together.

- I mean never, - Tom sighed sadly.

Harry glanced at Tom's unfinished portrait with a smile, then at his own in the corner, and nodded in satisfaction.

Never.