Rating:
R
House:
The Dark Arts
Characters:
Harry Potter Tom Riddle Lord Voldemort
Genres:
Angst Romance
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix
Stats:
Published: 04/18/2004
Updated: 04/18/2004
Words: 6,634
Chapters: 1
Hits: 2,752

In Pursuit of Knowledge

Jaylee

Story Summary:
Knowledge is seductive. (Harry/Tom, slash)

Posted:
04/18/2004
Hits:
2,752
Author's Note:
Special thanks to Hazel for the beta and the marvelous support, I adore her.

In Pursuit of Knowledge

By Jaylee

*****

Harry Potter couldn't help but snort in disgust, kicking the one or two odd objects on the floor to exemplify his displeasure. Not that anyone could see him doing it, anyway, and not that anyone would *care* what his response to Dumbledore's carefully constructed words had been.

The letter had been well meant; he knew that. He even appreciated the concern it conveyed... a little. But his headmaster's less than subtle inquiries into his emotional state, going as far as to list stages that were supposed to be 'normal' and 'common' (as if anything about his life was remotely normal) to suffer through following the death of a loved one, were only really serving to put him off letter writing and reading, indefinitely.

The fact of the matter was he was beyond grief, past bargaining and could care less about depression or acceptance, in fact, the only stage of grief he cared to own up to, the only one left to him, that made him feel better somehow, that gave him purpose, was anger.

If *that* was a common stage of loss then he'd proudly tote the fucking badge.

Sirius was dead and the world, for some odd reason, kept turning, ignoring Harry's silent plea that it stop in recognition of its tremendous loss. Sirius was dead and the Dursley's had the gall to keep on breathing, using up oxygen that Sirius no longer could, while they continued to shoot him various strained glances and pretend that everything was normal and they hadn't been threatened, quite severely, by the Order of Phoenix just days earlier. Sirius was dead and once again there was a world out there that Harry was expected to save, either becoming a murderer or a corpse for their ungrateful arses, but was currently cut off from, again.

It was insult to already existing injury that Dumbledore had included the Occlumency textbook along with the letter. Did the old man really expect him to be able to focus on this stuff now? A part of him actually wanted Voldemort to use their connection once more. He had a few choice things to say, after all, a few things he had been too grief stricken to think of when they had seen each other last. He would use the connection to show that bastard exactly what he thought of him...

He'd use the connection...

An idea was rapidly forming, one both scary and exciting. He had been in the Dark Lord's mind once before: feeling what Voldemort was feeling, experiencing what Voldemort was experiencing... it was possible. And if he could catch the creep off guard, take control of his thoughts while Voldemort was trying to break into Harry's mind, turning the tables...

He wondered why it had taken him so long to figure this out, when the answer had been right there all along, so clearly.

He was suddenly extremely grateful that Dumbledore had sent the book, feeling a surge of warmth for the old man that he hadn't experienced in a great long while.

He had the tools to learn, away from Snape's condescending, hateful eye, and a means to go forward, to actually *do* something instead of waiting around for someone to fetch him or to receive yet more terrible news from his friends. He had a means to avenge Sirius, and his parents, and Cedric...

He looked down at Dumbledore's letter and the book it laid on, thoughtfully, recalling the incident at the Ministry for the first time without overwhelming anger and profound loss, another allusive idea tickling his thoughts.

Dumbledore had told him that Voldemort couldn't stay in Harry's body because of the size of Harry's heart. That he had a power, in mass quantities, which the Dark Lord didn't, and thus couldn't understand.

He wondered how Voldemort would feel if he got to experience a little more of that 'heart' during his next little 'visit'. Fair play was fair play, after all. Harry had been tortured his whole life, first by the continuous taunts of the Dursley's and then by Voldemort's own persistent pursuit of him these past few years. And losing Sirius, well, that was just the final straw. It was high time that Voldemort faced something that *he* wouldn't like.

It certainly put a new spin on 'killing with kindness', Harry thought with a sardonic smile, as he grabbed the book and settled onto his bed, determined to read as much as he could on the subject before nightfall.

*****

It wasn't as hard to clear his mind as it had been during those painful months in the potions classroom, perhaps because Snape wasn't there to taunt him, or perhaps because he knew exactly why he had to do this, and thus had specific purpose this time around. Either way, all he knew was that it absolutely *had* work. It was the only way he could get control of his life back from that snake-faced, evil, parent-murdering, godfather-trapping, sadistic bastard. And he certainly wasn't going to sit at the Dursley's another summer with nothing to do other then wait for the visions to come.

Screw that.

Besides, he did have that whole element of surprise thing on this side. This definitely wasn't something the Dark Lord would be expecting...

His heart was racing so fast he feared that Voldemort could hear it, wherever he was, even if the thought was somewhat irrational, and he recognized it as such.

Gripping his sheets as tight as his hands would allow didn't help much to alleviate his fears either, but he found he was unable to loosen the hold, as if his body no longer wanted to work for him through his anxiety. But he figured that was okay, as long as his mind still worked, as long as he had the opportunity to...

And there it was: the painful tingling that indicated that Voldemort was initiating use of their connection, that sudden rush of dark, sinister thoughts that signaled the presence of a demented soul within his mind.

His heart was *still* racing very, very fast, but he prayed that the Dark Lord mistook his anxiety for fear of the foreboding presence itself, and not anything deeper.

It was with that thought in mind that Harry let him in.

Voldemort was pleased at Harry's submission, very pleased. Harry felt every sadistic, menacing pleasure that the Dark Lord garnished from it, and had to fight the urge to flinch. But he couldn't back down, not now. Not with victory so close within his grasp.

With stubborn intent he let the bastard savor his enjoyment for a few minutes. Let him get comfortable; let him be distracted by that one small victory, and then Harry thought... of Hagrid.

It was so relieving to find out, just minutes after turning eleven, that he wasn't abnormal, wasn't a freak. So dizzyingly profound, that he could remember everything he had felt in that moment as if it had just occurred.

To hear that he was wizard... it was beyond remarkable. It was fantastic.

And he had felt such a rush of gratitude for the large man who had come to save him from his menial life with the Dursleys. This man who had baked him a cake, and spoke of his parents with utter fondness, and taunted the Dursleys in a way that Harry had been hoping *somebody* would for years. In fact, his thoughts had been nearly bursting with appreciation, instant kinship, and trust.

But most importantly, he had felt the first burgeoning stirrings of platonic, adoring, uncomplicated love.

Hagrid had been there to save him. That wonderful, imposing, gentle man had come to collect Harry. And he *cared*. The idea was so novel to Harry that he had been overwhelmed with the emotion of it, and still was, to that very day.

Somebody out in that great big world, a world that had showed him nothing but grief up until that point, had cared for him all along, and had come, finally, to collect him and take him back to where he belonged. And that was so very important. That was everything.

Yes, he loved Hagrid.

Hagrid was his friend, and he would do anything for his friends. Anything. Even die for them. Because friendship, emotional bonds, camaraderie, but most significantly *love*, was worth dying for.

More than that, it was powerful enough to overcome death, itself.

The Dark Lord was agitated. In fact, he was absolutely livid, and that emotion was very strong, murderous even, but underlining all of that there was confusion, and Harry couldn't help but grin hugely.

By God, it was working.

This was why Voldemort couldn't stay inside Harry's body near the fountain in front of the Ministry, Dumbledore had been spot on about that, only this time Harry had used his heart and *felt* intentionally and Merlin, for once, it was good to be a highly emotional being.

'What's wrong there, Tom,' Harry taunted, allowing every ounce of the smugness he felt to pass through their link. 'Don't like what you see? Have I finally found something that you can't handle? This should make any future rows between us interesting, don't you think?'

'You little, insignificant, feebleminded... CHILD! You have no idea what you are messing with. You have no idea *who* you are messing with!' Voldemort roared through the link, his hatred so palpable and potent that Harry felt his heart stop for a moment.

But fear wouldn't stop him. Fear was nothing more than an annoyance that got in his way. He was so close...

'It must suck, you know,' Harry continued, gathering his courage, 'to find out that a sixteen-year-old has one over on you. To know that I know something you don't. You were Head Boy after all. And Dumbledore told me you traveled the world a lot, after Hogwarts, learning things. You're supposed to be *smart*. How sad is it that I haven't even graduated yet and I understand a concept you don't? Pretty pathetic, if you want my opinion. How was it you were able to get people to follow you, again? I certainly wouldn't have. You're quite the idiot. People fear you and you haven't even grasped something as basic as love. Dumbledore was right, you *are* defeatable.'

Harry didn't think Voldemort could get more angry than he had been... he was wrong. The rage was nearly all encompassing, the loathing even more so, but Harry had dealt with rage and loathing his whole life - he had tough skin. And he wasn't about to let the snake-faced bastard off of the hook. Not this time. The memory of his godfather was enough to spur him on.

'Love, you puny infant, is a weakness,' the Dark Lord grated, his nerves obviously strained.

'Is it?' Harry inquired, hoping his disbelief transferred fully through the link, 'then why do you fear it? Why did it make you mad, just now, and also that time after the prophecy broke? Let's be honest, shall we? You fear it because you don't know it. And you don't know it because you don't have it. It's quite simple, really. I didn't need to be Head Boy to figure that out.'

'Love causes the foolish to take imprudent actions, like your parents, for example. If it wasn't for their love of you they would still be alive,' Voldemort pointed out triumphantly, playing a hand he knew would eat at Harry's guilt.

But the reminder of his parents' fate only added fuel to the proverbial fire, as another point screamed within his mind, cementing his ambition.

'Love, you idiot, saved my life and cost you your body. My mother's love was strong enough to nullify the death curse, for Merlin's sake,' Harry announced with disgust, as if he suddenly found his enemy lacking in any remote glimmer of common sense.

The blasé nature was getting more and more difficult to summon though, especially as Voldemort's agitation grew, and Harry didn't know how much longer he would be able to keep it up without starting to crack, himself. There was only so much negativity he could take before he started to feel it in return, and truthfully, his disgust for Voldemort wasn't something that needed to be manufactured. He *really* didn't want the Dark Lord to take advantage of that, though. It was time to set the final bait and end this... at least for now.

'Everyone talks about this final showdown that's supposed to happen between you and me, but honestly? I'm no longer worried. Now that I've realized what your weakness is, now that I've got knowledge that you haven't.'

And as he had that time in the Potion Master's office, when he had wanted to stop Snape from witnessing his kiss with Cho, Harry pushed as hard as he could, summoning every ounce of his will, and severed the contact.

He felt weak as a kitten and very shaky in the aftermath of it all - dazed practically beyond repair, but none of that could stop the blatant satisfaction that calmed his soul.

Damn but that had felt good.

*****

The following night he couldn't help but be concerned. What if Voldemort saw past his taunt? What if playing up to the Dark Lord's key vanity - his supposedly superior intellect, wasn't enough to pique his interest?

But then, knowledge was seductive. When Harry had first learned of the wizarding world he had wanted to gather any and all information he could about it. He *needed* that knowledge - the knowledge would save him. Surely Voldemort felt the same. It would explain both his insistence and persistence on gaining the prophecy last year. It would also explain, in part, his fear of Dumbledore - the one wizard cleverer than he was. And if Voldemort really was the strategist everyone claimed he was, then he would want to understand this concept that Harry had over him. This force Harry had given him a mere taste of the night before.

His fears were put to rest as he felt the sinister presence once again.

And all he could think, besides the quickly weakening tinge of fear, was 'thank the gods, it had been enough'.

'Potter,' a dark voice grated in his head, scarcely giving Harry time to collect himself. 'I challenge you to a duel of wit.'

Harry couldn't help it, he laughed... No, that wasn't blatantly obvious, not at all.

'If you want me to have another memory, one that will invoke my ability to love, so you can test your own will against it, why don't you just say so,' Harry drawled, genuinely amused. Weren't Slytherins supposed to be subtle? He thought it was an unwritten law of some sort. But then it dawned on him that this particular Slytherin hadn't really been all that restrained in recent times, especially when it had come to Harry. His wants and desires were pretty much known by all.

'Find what amusement you will, but mock my words, I *will* have the last laugh. Now think, boy,' and that was all he had to say on the matter.

It was evident that Voldemort had been trying to build up some resistance - that he had taken the experience of living through the emotions that Harry had fed him the night before, and felt that he could now go through a similar situation without responding to it so adversely.

What he didn't know was that while Harry loved Hagrid quite a lot, his love for his friend held nothing on the love that he felt for the late Sirius Black. It was time to up the ante. A small smile teased the corners of Harry's lips as he cleared his mind and remembered his godfather.

Sirius who, a half an hour after meeting Harry, had offered him a home.

Sirius, the wanted criminal, unjustly accused, who had risked capture to come back to England and be there for his godson during the events of the Tri-Wizard tournament.

Sirius who had wanted Harry to stay with him at Grimmauld Place instead of going back to school.

Sirius who had loved him. Sirius who had understood him. Sirius who was wild, and crazy and reckless, but whose heart, when it had come to Harry, knew no bounds.

Sirius who had been *his* and his alone. A parental figure he hadn't had to borrow from Ron, or feel like he wasn't worthy of possessing, like his aunt and uncle.

Sirius Black, the best gift Harry's late father had ever given him, aside from life.

By God, he loved that man. Loved him to an extent that he hadn't even realized fully until Sirius had been taken from him.

The grief was unimaginable. It was torture, it was pain. Harry felt as if the weight of it could crush him, stomp out his soul, leave him bleeding and aching and then tear the remaining bits apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

And as if being crushed from the inside out was destined to happen, his heart suddenly felt as though it was swelling within his chest, ten times it's normal size, as he tried to grapple with the stifling emotions; facing, once more, his crippling loss.

Ten times. That was how much he loved Sirius. That was how much he wanted him back. And that was the love he would show if he ever saw his godfather again, in this world or beyond.

Voldemort's distress was so acute, it punctuated through Harry's poignant anguish.

The onslaught of the Dark Lord's anxiety, intermixed with the sheer power of Harry's love and grief was almost too much to handle, and Harry felt his physical body start to shake uncontrollably, as if his skin couldn't possibly hold in all of this *feeling*, but he refused to severe the link.

It was far from over.

It dawned on him that Voldemort was similarly overcome, and he wondered if this was perhaps the first time, throughout the Dark Lord's whole life, that he had had to deal with the emotional ramifications of the havoc he had caused. It was he who had led Harry to the Ministry that day, thus provoking Sirius to follow. And now he got to feel first hand what it was like to love someone so impossibly much that death would be a welcomed consequence if only to spare this person pain, only to lose that person so abruptly.

And Sirius was far from the only victim lost to the war. Dozens of wizards, young and old, had lost their loved ones, and had had to go through similar angst.

He thought of Neville, his friend, whose parents not only didn't know who he was, but no longer had the presence of mind to know who they were, themselves.

He thought of the Diggorys', losing their only son; a child they had brought into the world, and loved, and nurtured, and were so very proud of.

Was it fair for any parent to have to live to see their child go before they did? Was it just to rip someone's family from them?

'Family's are a farce,' a highly stressed voice rang in Harry's head - Voldemort was trying to fight back, like a wounded animal lashing out at a perceived threat.

'Familial bonds are a myth. A show. A lie to put on for the rest of the world to see that ought to be, but isn't. As my own birth can attest.'

And with that Voldemort attacked with the only force at his disposal, the only emotions he had ever felt that measured Harry's in potency. Anger. Hatred. Pain.

The images ran so fast through Harry's mind that he could hardly make sense of them. A childhood spent in an orphanage that was drastically under-financed, and over-crowded. Sterile beds with metal bars. The taunts of the people passing by on the street, and later, the taunts of his fellow roommates when his magic first manifested itself, proving him to be different from the rest of them. The disdain that Sister Agatha, his only mother figure, had for him with from that point on, assured in her conviction that young Tom Riddle was possessed by the devil, for children shouldn't be able to make objects float, or speak to snakes, or change the appearance of things. The exorcism he had been forced to endure once, and the humiliation that had followed.

The joy of getting a Hogwarts letter and finding a place where he belonged only to discover exactly what had happened to result in him being orphaned - what foundation had been laid that led to his long childhood of pain and degradation. He had not only been unwanted by most of muggle society, he had been unwanted by his own father, also a muggle.

So in this he felt his hatred was justified. That he had every right to his power and every right to start a war. After all, things like that should not be made to happen again. Wizards should never be made to feel inferior like that when it was obvious that the reverse was true. It was muggles who didn't deserve to know *them*.

Harry felt that in Voldemort just as clear as he felt anything else, and it utterly broke his heart.

Oh God but he could relate. To be ostracized by peers, to be loathed and mistrusted by guardians who were supposed protect, guide, and love. To be made to feel, over and over, that being different was unacceptable and evil... something to fear instead of embrace.

For the first time Harry could remember, he felt sympathy. Not for Voldemort, but for the hurt and desperate child who had once been Tom Marvolo Riddle. A little boy, like Harry, himself, who wanted nothing more than to be loved and wanted.

Yes, his heart ached for Tom, but that was still no excuse for murder.

'You think that's bad?! My childhood was just as dreadful. When you killed my parents you doomed me to your fate,' Harry returned, agitated and angry, but also desperate to make Voldemort see, desperate to make him identify with Harry as Harry had done with him.

A ray of hope had come from his recognition of their similarities. Harry understood Voldemort, he didn't agree with what he had become, but he understood. Perhaps he could make Voldemort understand him, too.

'My aunt and uncle, who're muggles, hated my guts, they *still* hate my guts. And I got beat up so many times in school from my cousin and his friends,' Harry continued in earnestness, 'I didn't have any friends, I didn't have *anybody*. And you don't see me going around murdering people. You don't see me going around preaching the insignificance of people who have every much as right to live as we've got.'

So Harry showed him, holding nothing back, every name his uncle and aunt had called him, every day he had had to go without food, every impossible chore his aunt had ever given him, and every taunt and fist he had ever met at Dudley's hand; lashing out with his memories just as Voldemort had done, only for drastically different reasons.

This wasn't self-defense, this was realization.

And at the end of it all Harry's heart was racing so strongly that he feared it would somehow break out of his chest, but then, so was Voldemort's. Harry *heard* it, a separate beat nearly in tangent with his own, racing just as fast, and just as strong.

That in itself was a startling revelation, he didn't think that Voldemort *had* a heart, in the metaphorical sense, and then briefly wondered if this was proof that the Dark Lord could use one if he chose... how else would he be able to hear the drumming of Tom Riddle's heart across their physical distance?

Harry shook his head to clear it, reminding himself that he still had more to say, and then continued in quiet sadness...

'You see. I had it just as bad and I still love people. I could have turned out just like you, and it wouldn't have been anybody's fault but my own. I made the choice that love was something I wanted. Real love. Not adoration because people fear me, and not admiration of what magic I can do or what fame I have. But because they know who I am and they know I can love them back.'

He let his words trail off in their minds, wondering what to say next, and trying to make sense of the tangled web of emotions still running rampant between them. Whose was which? Did it matter?

And just when he was getting somewhat of a handle on it, the link was cut, this time by Voldemort.

But Harry didn't mind, because just before the link had cut he had felt something that he was positive, this time, was Voldemort's...

Remorse.

*****

Voldemort didn't use their connection the next night. Or the night after that. In fact, a week passed and Harry couldn't help but wonder if he had had any effect on the dark wizard at all.

But his friends continued to send him letters almost daily, ever concerned with how he was coping, and nowhere in any of the letters did it mention that new deaths or dark activities had taken place. In fact, Lupin had expressed concern over that fact in one of his correspondences...

Voldemort seems to be laying low and things are quiet. Too quiet. I must admit I'm anxious he may be utilizing this time to plan something big...

So he couldn't help but wonder what that meant. Had Voldemort halted the war, or was he merely recuperating from his last connection with Harry, trying to build up defenses, once more, against Harry's ever feeling heart?

He had started this thing angry and so sure of himself, determined to make Voldemort feel his pain, and now he felt so torn up inside, and he couldn't really pinpoint any one reason as to why.

He was sad for Tom Riddle, that much was certain, in mourning for the loss of a young boy, so much like himself, who had had so much potential. He was sad for how things had turned out, that was also certain.

So much bitterness, so much destruction, and none of it, absolutely *none* of it, had been necessary. At least not from his perspective.

And, of course, there was still the loss of Sirius to feel. Still the Dursleys to avoid. All of it inserting a jarring reality into this contemplative daze he couldn't seem to break himself out of... until the night that Voldemort came to him again.

This time, like the last, there was no preamble, just a simple request, 'show me more.'

But the strange thing was that Harry wasn't getting any sinister vibes from the connection as he had in the past, in fact, all he got was apathy, as if the Dark Lord had learned to block his emotions while still being capable of utilizing the connection.

Stranger still was the realization that Harry actually missed that aspect of their connection. He very much wanted to know what Voldemort was feeling, he could think of nothing more all week, and a sense of dread was starting to creep through him that he couldn't, but he did the only thing he could think to do given the circumstance, which was show Voldemort more.

So he conjured a picture of Ron and Hermione in his mind, and let the thought of them fill his heart.

Sure there were times when they fought, and other times when Harry was so annoyed with one or the other of them that he got very cross, but no one in all the world could ever hope to find best friends who were as loyal, or supportive, or as wonderful as his were.

He was blessed to have them, he recognized that fact even through the jaded pain that surrounded his life. They were there for his every fumble, every threat, every heroic deed, risking their own lives many times in the process, and all because they believed in him, and they loved him.

He couldn't begin to articulate what it felt like to have that, especially after going most of his childhood without, but he would give his life for theirs in a heartbeat, and he would be just as loyal, supportive, and loving as he could, in return, in the hopes that that would be enough to convey the depth of his appreciation for them.

He thought of the rest of the Weasleys and how much he treasured them. That redheaded family with an endless supply of love to give, and a passion for life that rivaled anything he had ever seen before.

And Remus Lupin who had taken Harry under his wing, taught him spells, treated him like an adult, and remained Harry's last tie to his dead parents.

Dumbledore, despite Harry's recent anger at him, who was the closest thing to a grandparent that Harry had, who protected him, and molded him, and who loved him to such a fault that it had actually impaired the older wizard's startling, oft wise judgment; an extreme compliment in and of itself now that he thought of it.

Tonks with her exuberance. Dobby with his free spirit. Neville, Ginny, Luna, and everyone else in D.A. who had all rallied behind him.

And the memories he held of them all kept rolling through his mind, one after another, his feeling of completeness growing as each scene passed, and each wonderful emotion swelled.

It was during a memory in which he, Ron, and Hermione were laying on the grass in front of the lake when the most startling thing happened... Tom Riddle appeared in the memory, sitting next to Harry, his arm wrapped firmly around the smaller boy's shoulders as if it belonged there.

Tom Riddle, the young boy he had first seen in the Chamber of Secrets years earlier, with curly dark hair and shiny eyes, and not Voldemort, the monster he had become.

Harry held the scene in his mind with dazed awe; he wasn't really sure what to make of it. Riddle had inserted himself into Harry's memory, as if he had shared it with him, but the motivation of such an act completely escaped him.

'Do you like it?' a voice asked, permeating Harry's daze.

'I don't understand,' Harry replied, still marveling at the scene, his heart clenching tightly in his chest.

'That's you and I, as we could have been, had I been able to know you when I was that age,' a solemn voice answered.

And as Harry watched, the sixteen-year-old Tom leaned over and pressed a kiss to memory-Harry's hair, holding the contact for extended moments, before slowly pulling away and smiling widely at his companion.

'I would have liked you like that,' Harry announced, overcome, his pulse racing as he felt himself being enveloped by this wonderful warmth that started in the pit of his stomach and just seemed to spread all over, making him feel lightheaded.

'I would have loved you. You would have taught me how,' came the reply, startling Harry with the utter honesty Riddle allowed him to feel behind the statement, signifying that he truly meant what he said.

And Harry was surprised to realize that it was true. In a different time, in a different place - a place where death and destruction didn't abound, and evil didn't take possession of one's soul - they would have been so good together. Two bright, inquisitive minds who felt things so deeply - anything one was lacking the other would have given freely; creating a whole.

'Meet me in the park, outside the wards protecting the Dursley home, tomorrow night. I swear you will not be harmed,' the voice of Tom Riddle requested, allowing the honesty to seep through again, 'it is time we finish this.'

'Alright, I'll do it,' Harry affirmed, not at all afraid.

And the connection cut out once more.

*****

It was dark out, and the dull street lamps did little to rectify that fact, but Harry would have recognized the approaching figure of Tom Riddle anywhere.

And Tom Riddle he was, once more, just like the memory. Gone were the snake features and red eyes, gone were the spidery limbs and white, pale skin, and in his place stood a sixteen-year-old boy, tall and proud, from his neatly combed hair to his shiny black boots. Only his eyes gave him away, mirroring wisdom far beyond his lifespan, perhaps even beyond the lifespan of Voldemort. Harry couldn't help but wonder, just briefly, if Snape and polyjuice potion had anything to do with the new appearance, but just as quickly let the thought go. It didn't matter. What did matter was that Harry's scar wasn't hurting, and the man who had put it there was standing right before him.

'I wanted you to see me like this,' a voice so familiar to him, yet not, announced, emotion shining clearly from wizened eyes.

It was strange to hear that voice aloud, and not in his head, but that didn't matter either, because Harry felt his heart clench and then race and he could only nod his head, speechless, because he was feeling so much, again.

Tom took the last few remaining steps between them, reaching out to touch Harry's cheek softly with the tips of his fingers, just the barest caress, his hand oddly warm despite the evening chill.

Still Harry's scar didn't burn.

Poignant silence surrounded them, one minute leading to the next with only the sound of their hearts beating impossibly loud, nearly in tangent, to fill the void.

Finally it was Tom who spoke.

"You chose to love despite all you've been through?" he asked, out of no where, as if they were in the middle of an already existing conversation, his voice full of wonder, needing Harry to confirm what he already knew.

Harry could understand that.

"Yes," Harry answered assuredly. Of this he was certain.

"You showed me your love," Tom responded. A statement, not a question.

"Did I?" Harry inquired, being the one who needed a confirmation this time.

"Yes, you did," Tom announced, nodding his head in affirmation, his voice completely devoid of doubt.

"I'm glad," Harry replied with a smile, happiness shining from somewhere deep within. His heart had served a purpose after all.

"I think I understand it now, you know," Tom said conversationally, moving his hand to cup Harry's cheek fully, causing Harry's skin to tingle at the warm contact.

"Do you, really?" Harry asked, dubiously. Could his memories and love have accomplished that, truly? Had he really been able to do that? Even though he knew he had, it still seemed impossible. He was just Harry, just a wizard. A wizard who happened to feel things. A lot.

"Oh yes, Harry, oh yes," Tom replied, answering both they younger man's voiced question, and his unvoiced ones.

And with that the taller man leaned forward and pressed his lips to Harry's, holding them there, gently, like the softest breeze against smooth satin, before moving them to take Harry's bottom lip between his own, holding it, releasing it, and then tenderly placing a dozen more kisses on Harry's mouth, one right after the other in succession, light and pliable, as if he wanted to gather a lifetime worth of feeling in just that one moment.

And Harry felt Tom's hand on his face, and his lips on his own, and his taste in his mouth and his scent on his nose, and all he could do, all he wanted to do, was take it all in. Everything. Every sense, every sensation: obtain it, hold it, commit it to memory, and just let himself experience it forever.

But the moment, wonderful, exquisite, and euphoric though it was, was tainted with sadness, because they both knew that it wouldn't last, and that there would be no more kisses to bestow once the evening's task was done.

Because while Harry could forgive Tom Riddle, who finally understood love, he still had to deal with Voldemort, the man who had killed so many, and who Harry was prophesized to destroy.

Harry believed that everyone could be saved, everyone, even Voldemort, but some things just couldn't be ignored. And as Dumbledore had mentioned just weeks previously, some hurts were never fully forgotten. The irony was that it wasn't even his own hurts he had to consider the most, it was Tom's.

"We still have to go through with it, you know," Harry announced sadly, slowly pulling away from the taller man's hold.

"I know," Tom replied, just as forlornly, "I still hurt and I'm still so angry. Not even you can change that. Not even you can change the past. And now you've shown me that it could have all been different. *I* could have been different. And I just want the pain, all of it, to stop."

"Okay," Harry agreed softly, having already expected it, but still horrified at the task before him, a sob welling in his chest, unreleased, unheard, as he prepared for his heart to weather the pain of another loss.

And then, with a show of Gryffindor bravery, he stepped back, drew his wand, and used the hardest two words he had ever had to say in his entire life.

"Avada Kedavra."

*****

The Order of the Phoenix all stared incredulously at the young hero slumped in his chair, having just heard the complete tale, each face more overwhelmed than the last.

"But Potter," Snape inquired, too amazed to convey any of his usual disdain, "what did you *do*?"

"Can't you tell?" Harry entreated them, all of them, wanting them all to understand so that they may also understand his grief, "I loved."

And there it was, the events as he'd felt them. He hadn't set out to defeat Voldemort that way, and he hadn't expected it, but he had, and he did, and now he felt so empty, as if life couldn't possibly go back to being the same as it had been. As if he were different now, somehow. Wiser, that was for certain, but also a little lost, a little lonely, but ... hopeful, as well. There was possibility for the human spirit, after all. Tom Riddle had taught him that; it could survive anything and still come out shining.

Dumbledore beamed at him, his wise face painted with so much pride that Harry couldn't help but let his heart swell, just a little.

"Well done, my boy, well done."

And it was obvious from the nods around the table that everyone else couldn't help but agree. The Boy-Who-Lived had fulfilled the prophecy, at last.

Harry, however, could care less about the prophecy. He was at Grimmauld Place, Sirius' house, following yet another death. He wondered if Tom and Sirius would meet each other wherever they both were right now. And if Harry's parents were there with them. Would Sirius and his parents be able to differentiate between the man who had killed them and the man that they saw before them now? Would they be able to forgive him and then wait for Harry, all together, for whenever Harry's own time came?

For the first time in a great while Harry Potter felt a real, genuine smile spread across his face.

He would see Tom again someday, in another time, in another place, where they could be good together.

The End!