"Oh why,

Oh are we so in denial,

When we know we're not happy here?"

-- Hey Ya!, OutKast

.XoX.

Harry is skipping class on the floor and prepping a needle when Tom Riddle rises from the diary and joins him. Harry blinks at him. "Tom?" he asks. "What..."

"I was able to gather enough magic from Mouton to have a form," he answers. It is, as Harry might write it, a soggy form. It is ghostly and only barely not transparent and a thin line of something connects him to the diary. He does not so much as walk across the floor as glide. He is, besides this, the spitting image of a younger looking Marvolo.

The fact, though, that Tom has a form at all is impressive. And weird. "But she had you for, like, two days. And she still has magic. I thought you were gonna make her a Squib."

Tom winces. And then he starts lying. He will never outgrow that part of him. "Admittedly, I needed more time. More magic. She snuffed me out fairly quickly and, I presume, returned me to you. Since she is not drained completely, I am attached still the diary. In more ways than one. If it dies, I believe I will as well."

"You're still able to do magic or whatever, right?" asks Harry absently.

Tom frowns. "I suppose."

"Great. Grab your diary and get out of here. Our business is done, right? So shoo." He wraps a cord around his arm, tightening it. He takes the needle out of its case and fills it.

"What is that?" inquires Tom, leaning over him.

Harry makes sure the needle is free of air. "It's called the eating disorder to drug abuse pipeline. Ever heard of it?"

"No," says Tom.

"Guess your knowledge is a little outdated, Tom."

Voldemort would have been affronted at that. Voldemort does not want to know but needs to -- and the idea that his arsenal of knowledge is somehow lacking would surely send him spiraling.

If he was Voldemort, Harry Potter would be dead where he stands.

But Tom Riddle is not Voldemort. Most importantly, he does not want to be. So instead Tom rolls his eyes and kneels beside him and does what Voldemort would never do without ulterior motive: show concern. "I was gone for less than a week and you've turned to drugs? What happened, Harry?"

"They drawed the champion names for the Tournament." The needle sinks into his skin and Tom can see his shoulders relax as the cold liquid flitters through his flood.

Tom's frown deepens. He clears his throat and asks, "Yes? Did you get picked?"

"Yup."

Tom stares at him a moment more. "Yup? That's it? That's what got you here? What?"

"God," moans Harry. "I wish. "

Tom grabs Harry's wrists in his hands. "What happened? "

" You, " snarls Harry, pulling his arms away from Tom. " You happened, Tom, you and your ridiculous other half. "

Other less than half, but yes. "Voldemort?" says Tom. He feels anger and bloodlust -- of course he's around to mess this up -- but he knows that Voldemort feels that, too. It is the application of that that matters. So Tom jumps to nothing. Not to anger or insanity because what good is power without patience?

When Tom burns Voldemort he will burn himself, too, and he will deserve it. It is all the more reason not to act like it. "What," asks Tom, "did he do?"

"He had a son, that's what he did. The bastard . And then Luna Lovegood's here -- and Julian, the guy I told who go to hell -- and Mouton, the woman I sent you to, yeah, she's the Headmaster of Beauxbatons!" He breaks down into a fit of hysterical giggles. "Everything's gone to shit."

"That... That is SO MUCH information, I don't even know where to begin." Tom knows where he wants to begin, though. "Voldemort has a son?"

It is unlikely. Tom had been sure, as a 16 year old, that he was not one for sexual relations. He was barely one for romantic relations. Even so, he is gay. What business does Voldemort have with a woman? And Voldemort said himself, all those years ago, that he is in love with a man.

Tom speculates there might be a strategic, perhaps political, reason to sire a heir. It is not impossible. (But it is unlikely.)

And... and there is something else troubling about it, too. "How old is he?" Eleven years ago, Voldemort had contacted him. Had sent him off with a mission, a task, and then abandoned him upon failure.

Eleven years ago, and no mention of a child.

"They're saying seventeen. Didn't you know?" asks Harry, but there is not as much unfriendliness as usual.

"No," says Tom, furrowing his brows. "What did you inject yourself with?"

"Liquid dopamine."

"Oh," says Tom. "Isn't that highly addictive?"

"Yup! Are you leaving now, or what?"

He's not. Tom instead sits on the floor beside Harry, who scoots away from him. "I intend to kill Voldemort," answers Tom. "But you must be aware of my second objective--"

Harry's not aware of any of his objectives, actually. He has tried to steal Harry's skin, his magic, and though it is a task partly accomplished... something is stopping him.

Harry Potter is special. Tom wants to know what makes it so and he wants it for himself -- but he realizes now, upon the inability to, he cannot take it. And maybe that is for the better.

Voldemort's not one for asking. And there must be some distinction, mustn't there?

The objective Harry is aware of is different, though, partly a lie, and much simpler: Voldemort seems something in him, and Tom wants to see it, too. "I am aware," says Harry. He sets a journal -- not Tom's -- on his lap. "I also do not care."

Urgency overtakes him. "I'm not him. "

"So you say. Regardless, that's not of the question."

"Then what is?" Tell me so I can fix it. Tell me so I can stay. And he wants to. Stay, that is. He couldn't say why.

Harry blinks at him like he's being stupid, and Tom's prepared to admit he might be. He is better off stupid than arrogant. Arrogance splits your soul and later burns it. "Uh. Tom. We're not friends."

Tom blanks. That's not the response he was expecting. "What?"

Harry rolls his eyes and starts writing. "You only want me around for whatever Voldemort sees in me. That's not friendship."

Like you would know anything about friendship. But that's a mean thought. Voldemort is known for his cruelty (and so there must be some distinction) (and Tom Riddle is not Voldemort) so he doesn't say that. "I am not around just for that."

It might be a lie. It might not be, though. He will not find himself egotistical enough to be sure either way.

Harry continues on like he doesn't believe him, like he didn't even hear. That's fair. Tom deserves that, this distrust. He deserves a lot of things. "And he's wrong, by the way."

"Who?"

"Voldemort. He's wrong. Whatever he thinks I am, I'm not. Okay? I'm not special."

You have no idea how wrong you are. But he might. Enhanced surety is a Voldemort thing. (And Tom is not Voldemort.) "I am open," says Tom, "to disagreement."

Harry rolls his eyes. His quill scratches against the parchment. "So you're still on this."

"On what?"

"This act. This lie -- you're not him, that's what you keep saying, right?" Harry laughs. "You keep acting like you're so different. You act like wanting to die is revolutionary to your character. Let's face it, Tom," he locks eyes with Tom, "You're still Voldemort."

"I'm -- I'm not." This, he is not open to being wrong about. He has no idea why, but... he needs Harry to understand this. Just this. At the very least. (He refuses to be mistaken as someone that hurt him so.) "Voldemort has staked everything -- his entire identity -- upon power and living forever. I don't want power. I don't want to live forever."

"Then what are you still doing here? " He throws his arms down. Tom glances at the page he'd been working on and notes that all words written have been promptly scratched out.

"What do you mean?"

"I asked you to leave and you won't -- and Voldemort listens to no one but himself. You wanna be different? You wanna say again that you're 'not him'? Then act like it !" Harry snaps. "Leave! Kill Voldemort and yourself like you said you would and leave me the Hell alone !"

Tom could.

And he wants to. Heaven knows Harry Potter is not easy company. For all he knows, Voldemort was once again wrong and there is nothing else to get out of him. As for the magic connecting them... well, he has enough in the reserves to find someone else before they dwindle.

He does not need Harry Potter to kill Voldemort. Doing so on his own was the plan all along.

So Tom almost leaves. It is a close thing. But Tom doesn't. Can't. Because he doesn't need Harry Potter -- not for his mission with Voldemort, not with his magic and skin snatching needs, not for Tom's own companionship, not for anything -- ... Harry Potter needs him.

Well. Harry Potter needs somebody and Tom, Tom can do that. He knows Voldemort never would and spite's as good a reason as any.

Spite's not the only reason for staying, though.

Tom can see himself in Harry's anger. It is the attempted isolation of someone who has been hurt and refuses to be hurt again. I do not want friends. I may need them but I will work to ignore that until I don't need to work anymore. This situation is familiar.

Harry's like him. But not enough so -- and that's the main issue. When Tom needed help and was refused it -- or rejected it himself -- he lived on. It is a horrid life, filled with regrets and remorse and detestment and a finishing dream of fire. But it is a life. He lived on.

Harry's not like him here. Tom's worked to destroy the things he hates and that has historically included everything but him. Harry's worked to destroy only the thing he hates the most so, no. Harry is not like him. Harry won't just live on.

So Harry's wrong; leaving would be the most Voldemort thing to do. And you know what? He is not Voldemort! He is Tom Riddle!

And it is time to start acting like it. "What else did you take?" Tom asks.

Harry blinks at him. He's ripped out the soiled page of the other journal and holds it, bundled, in his hand. It is shaking. "Did you hear a word I just said?"

"Yes. That's why I'm asking." He leans over and gently grabs Harry's arm, turning it over. "You mentioned an eating disorder to drug abuse pipeline -- one shot of extra dopamine is not what you were talking about, were you?"

Harry reddens. "What's it to you? Do the words snod off mean nothing to you?"

"I worry," says Tom, ignoring the slight because he understands where it is coming from.

"You -- what? "

"Well," he says, quietly, "You are not the only one who wants friends... regardless of if I think I need them or not." A lie. Close enough to the truth that it doesn't matter. And close enough that it might be true soon enough.

Harry watches as Tom looks his arm over with a stoic expression. "You want friends?"

"Mhm."

"Voldemort... doesn't want friends."

"That's right. He doesn't." He wants followers. He wants soldiers. Maybe even a lover. But not friends.

"You want me to be friends with you?" He sounds bewildered. Hopeful, even. "I'm -- I'm an asshole, dude."

That didn't stop Julian, or Luna. The only difference here is that though they were not stopped, they were pushed away. And though they can't be blamed for that, Tom refuses to have the same happen to him. "I know," says Tom. "So am I. We can work on that. Both of us. Together."

Harry says, smally, "Okay."

Tom asks, because he knows Harry wants to answer, "What have you been writing about?"

Harry huffs and hugs the journal close to his chest. "The Rot. The uh -- the story we talked about."

"How's it coming along?"

"It's not. I mean," he chuckles, "it's not like I'm in the best condition to focus or anything, but damn."

"Oh," says Tom. "Writing block?"

"I don't get writer's block," says Harry, defensive.

Sure. I think you've been pushing yourself for years because you latch onto the things you do -- the few things you are able -- and make them a part of you. 'If I am not my eating disorder, who am I? If I am not a writer, who am I?' You push even when you are doing horribly, mentally, because that fact doesn't matter to you. And I think now you can't push anymore. But he is a friend not a therapist so he just asks, "Why aren't you in the best condition to focus right now?"

"I guess -- drugs. I guess." It is like a wall breaking inside him, finally allowing himself to talk about it, and the words spill out of him. "Uh. Been drinking on and off for a while, vanishing the trash -- oh, and I took some pills. Don't know what kind."

Tom considers this. "Where'd you get them?"

Harry has the decency to look sheepish. "Snuck into the dorms and stole some. The bottles are magic, though, so they replace themselves."

"You snuck in?" He looks around. "And then returned here, wherever here is? How'd you not get caught?"

Harry grabs what seems to be the air beside him and drapes it over his arm. It disappears entirely. Tom gapes and Harry laughs a little. "The family cloak. Nifty thing, isn't it? We're in the hallway by the Divination room. Have hardly had any visitors in the time I've been here."

An Invisibility Cloak is impressive. But not what Tom wants to ask about. "And how long is that? The time you've been here?"

"A week." It's said tensely.

Something in his voice prompts Tom to take a good look at him. He is pale and his lips have cracked around the edges -- his hair is greasy and eyebags heavy. "Have you... had anything to drink? Other than vodka? Or eat?"

Harry rubs an oily piece of hair between his fingers. He tries not to meet his eyes. "No," he admits.

"You should be dead."

"I am more durable than the average person," he says with a shrug, but there is nothing casual about it.

And...

And Tom thinks of his neverending fountain of magic, his sustained living that should have needed long ago -- and he thinks Harry is right. He is unsure of why. But they'll figure that out together. That's what friends are for.

"You should talk to the mediwitch," says Tom. "The body is not always kind to continued neglect. Unless you want me to take care of you? I am experienced in healing magic to some extent."

Harry hauls himself up with a huff. "No, that's alright. Madam Pomfrey, ah, knows me well."

Harry gathers his scattered things in his arms with Tom's help. "Is that so?" asks Tom.

They begin walking. "Yeah," laughs Harry. "So that'll be fine. Can't say I'm happy to be heading out into the world, though."

"Because of Luna Lovegood's arrival?"

"And Marvolo. And Mouton. And Julian."

"That's quite the circumstance."

"Oh, I know. And you know what your other half's son has been saying?"

"Do tell."

"He's been straight up cappin--"

"Cappin?' Tom asks.

Harry rolls his eyes but clarifies anyway, "Lying. Been telling people me and him are in a marriage contract."

Tom feels something similar to shock. "You and Marvolo? He's lying -- is that what he said?"

"Well, he's doing that weird little back and forth thing, you know? 'I might have lied, who says I'm lying,' you get the idea," Harry rolls his eyes.

"Did he tell you why?"

"He wanted to. I didn't let him."

"Huh," says Tom. "Interesting."

"Not really."

Harry might believe that but Tom doesn't. Puzzle pieces are lining up in his head. Something is clicking and it is wonderful. It is the sound of opportunity. "Could you do me something, Harry?"

"You've got a weird tone of voice there, Tom, so maybe."

Tom was not aware his voice was doing anything different than normal. He supposes it can't be helped. It is not everyday something like this happens. "A maybe will do. Can you give me to Marvolo?"

Harry frowns. "You're still caught up on that?"

"He's my main self's child. By extension, he's mine, too. Of course I'm still caught up on that." Tom can tell Harry is still not convinced, so he says, "He might also know about the current location of the other Horcruxes, or how many there are now."

"Horcruxes?"

"Things like me. Like the diary."

Harry sighs, ruffling his hair. "Alright. But if he doesn't return you in a couple of days, I'll kill him myself."

Tom knows he is exaggerating his protectiveness. But it is nice. Having a friend is nice. "I'll hold you to that, Harry."

Harry is checked into the Hospital Wing. Once he's settled through the many worried comments of Pomfrey, he owls Tom's diary with Tom inside to Marvolo.

Tom, in the meanwhile, thinks. Stews is a better word for it.

Eleven years ago, he thinks, and no mention of a child.

And maybe there is a reasonable, matching explanation for not telling Tom about their(?) child. Fucked up and not a real reason -- but that's all of Voldemort's logic. Something along the lines of apathy. Cruelty, if he is lucky.

There are many ways in which Voldemort would ignore telling him of Marvolo.

But you know what Tom thinks?

Tom thinks there wasn't any child to tell about.

.XoX.

"I am made of forgiveness

I am forged of fire and hatred

I am a product of time and time passed

Give me your heart and I will give you mine

I am made of forgiveness

But I was not born this way."

-- Harry Potter, "Strength."