The Sun Sets Twice Again

After quickly listing all the things that Harry knew about Tom Riddle-- for this was supposedly Tom Riddle and not Lord Voldemort-- he decided to check the library first. Well, really he decided to check the library period, because he couldn't actually think of a second place aside from the Slytherin Common Room and, well, how was he supposed to get in there even if that was where Riddle was? He was surprised to realize that he wasn't actually certain when the library closed during the school year, let alone when, and if, it would close during the summer. Would it even be open during the summer with no students here? There were three students here, he supposed, but that didn't mean the library would be open if it was normally closed.

The trip down to the library was uneventful as he managed to avoid moving staircases, trick steps, and sarcastic portraits by merely paying attention to where he was going. As he walked he ignored the slight pang of guilt he felt for going against Dumbledore's request, reasoning that he had every right to talk to Tom Riddle now, and while the Headmaster meant well, putting the meeting off wasn't going to help Harry at all. If Professor Dumbledore wanted to delay the meeting for any reason aside from Harry's well-being, well, then Harry doing this was merely looking out for his own interests. Either way, the guilt was a completely pointless, trained response that he really needed to get over. It would only hinder him and he couldn't afford that--or maybe he couldn't afford not to feel guilty. He wasn't certain which one it was as of yet.

He was glad to see that the large wooden doors to the library were open to either side, allowing him in and therefore furthering his chances of finding Riddle. Riddle. He had actually liked riddles as a child; he enjoyed attempting to figure out things much the same way he liked uncovering the answers to a mystery. Now, of course, the name held all sorts of connotation for him, from his fondness of puzzles to his dislike of the enigma that was Tom Marvolo Riddle. Harry wished, more than anything right now, that he could just write the boy off as an insane and dangerous killer, but he had seen the memories, had been inside Tom Riddle's head. The boy was ruthless, absolutely, and that did make him dangerous. He was quite possibly obsessive--though Harry had to admit he shared that quality--and he really didn't take well to losing; he was intelligent, powerful, and an oddity. Even ignoring the more obvious similarities, they had entirely too much in common for Harry's liking. Except, of course, that Harry didn't want anyone, well anyone who wasn't responsible for the death of his parents, dead--not even the Dursleys.

It's all about choices. The choices you have. The choices you take. The choices you make. It's all about choices. He recited this silent mantra, which had become less and less of a comfort in the growing derangement that was his life, as he entered the library itself. Standing inside the doorway, Harry glanced around tentatively, suddenly unsure. No one was in sight, but of course he knew from his regular trips into the recesses of the stacks--usually conducting research on Hermione's request--that there were plenty of places to hide away if you didn't want to be disturbed or overheard. He shook his head, a sardonic expression on his face; most fifteen-year olds knew that because of snogging sessions hidden behind cover of book stacks, but he knew it because he often had what amounted to clandestine meetings worrying over something that was very likely to try and get him killed.

Ah, the life of unwanted heroism. He'd like to get through just one term without any school-wide derisive rumours about him, or rows with Hermione or Ron over something pointless, or someone trying to kill him. He'd even willingly take a boring term, if that was what it took. Boredom had to be better than mind-numbing fear, pain, and anger, both from and directed towards him. Of course, he knew that if somehow this particular wish was granted, after two weeks of silence and nothing to do he'd probably be wishing for a Death Eater threat, or something. What was the phrase? The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence? Then again, this fence was a thin boundary between life and life-threatening. You'd think he'd like to be firmly planted on the 'no one trying to kill you' side. And he would; he didn't particularly care to be on anyone's death wish list, but if he wasn't then chances were he'd stir up trouble anyway. Like his father and godfather and Lupin and..., when they were teenagers.

It's all about choices. The choices you have. The choices you take. The choices you make. It's all about choices. Still no Madam Pince. He sighed and walked further in the library. All the energy that had been building since he started to approach Hogwarts was ebbing away now, leaving him stranded and exhausted. Yet some persistent motivation in his brain refused to let him go back up to the Gryffindor Common Room and collapse in the safety and warmth of the fire. He needed to do this now, if only because putting it off until later felt too much like hiding. He glanced back at the doors, shook his head, then turned back around, trying to decide where the most secluded spot with a table was.

Harry walked to the left, disappearing behind the books on potions and moving past the books of rarely used charms, looking for the gap that led to an almost room-like enclosure. It was a favourite of Hermione's when she was trying to study over the whispering din of socialising students. He smiled as he remembered one of her many speeches on how a library was meant for learning about magic, not other people's private lives. Though he would probably find those speeches much more entertaining, as Ron did, if he didn't agree with her, having been the victim of more than one rumour in his time at Hogwarts. Still, he had to admit that the look of absolute indignation on Hermione's face was just too great for words.

He spotted it after a moment and paused, taking a deep breath. There was a perfectly good chance that the dark and enclosed little space was empty, of course, but there was also a reasonable chance that it wouldn't be empty at all. If it wasn't then he would be face-to-face with Tom Riddle, the Boy-Who-Killed-His-Parents--he spent a moment wondering at the fact it didn't matter *which* set of parents you were talking about--due to circumstances and his own volition. He took another shaky breath, trying to calm his rattled nerves and shaking hands, suddenly glad he wasn't having this conversation in the Great Hall during breakfast. He wasn't at all certain of how he was going to react to seeing...him...but he knew that he didn't care for an audience, even if it was just his teachers and another student and not the whole of the student body.

One more deep breath, not as stilted as the two previous, to stop his heart from pounding and his mind from panicking, and he was finally poised; a mental shift of deadly calm and certainty. If I could face him before now, at his weakest, and at his strongest, and his most vile, then I can surely confront a fifteen year old boy. Suddenly a wave of calm absolution, a feeling he could only associate with the deep, peaceful dark of unconsciousness, crashed over him. He wasn't surprised to note his wand was already in his hand, nor the fact his hand, like the rest of him, was no longer so much as trembling. He thought he could learn to like this never level of conviction, if he could hold on to it.

He entered the room formed by shelves of books, wand loose and ready at his side, both cold and raging--a balance of extremes. The more rational, child-like part of his mind was screaming that he shouldn't be here; he should be up in Gryffindor Tower like Dumbledore told him to be. Another part was laughing at that voice, telling it to shut the hell up and asking why exactly should he listen to the Headmaster? After all, was he to only have these meetings with the darkness when Albus Dumbledore so desired? Most of his brain was focused on the task at hand: surviving. At least he was good at that: physically and mentally escaping stressful, destructive, life-threatening situations intact. He wasn't sure if he should be proud of himself for that.

He blinked as he moved into the semi-darkness. All of the Hogwarts library was covered in a faint glowing, magical light, but it wasn't enough to read by. He knew that from experience. No other light was around, he saw, glaring around the square space. Looking around once more, Harry sighed; no one was there. Well, now what? He leaned against the nearest shelf lightly, considering where in the library to search next.

"Are you intending to just stand there looking rather dumb, or did you actually mean to say something?" A voice inquired quietly out of the darkness.

Harry started. "Who--" He stopped, already knowing exactly who was there. "What are you *doing* in the dark like that?" He asked sharply.

The voice--Tom Riddle--laughed and it seemed to come from the farthest corner to Harry. "I'm in a library, what do you *think* I'm doing?" Yes, the sound was definitely coming from the farthest corner.

"In the dark?"

"I enchanted the words to glow slightly so that I could read them without much light. Helpful little spell, don't you think?"

Actually, he thought Hermione might want to know that spell, but he didn't say so.

There was a shuffle of fabric and Harry tensed, raising his wand in the direction he believed Riddle to be. Now that he was looking he could see a book lying open, glowing somewhat. "By Gods, Harry, if I wanted to attack you you'd be *dead* by now. There's really no reason to be so defensive." Riddle's voice was cool; nonchalant. It made Harry want to punch him. If it had had the drawling arrogance of Malfoy's voice as well, he *would* have punched him. Another shuffle. "Lumos."

The enclosure was bathed in a warm, almost silver light and he warily watched the caster of the spell, vaguely distracted by the pale, shining skin of the boy a metre away from him. It was a boy he saw; a boy with ebony hair and sharp bones that protruded just a bit too much--a sign of malnutrition, Harry knew too well--and intelligent eyes and pale skin that glistened in the silver light. The boy looked worn and tired and wary, as well, like a child waiting to be slapped for an unknown slight. Harry blinked and the look was gone, replaced by a confidence born only of knowing that you can handle what ever is directed towards you, both good and especially bad. The signs of physical maltreatment were still there, however. Not in the way that Tom held himself or stared back at Harry, but in the thinness of his body and the pallor of his skin. Harry had seen the look, all of it, too often in himself not to wince internally at the sight, even if it was in his enemy. No wonder the arrogance of Draco's tone wasn't there; no wonder it more resembled his...nothing.

As for the way Tom was looking at Harry...the best way to describe it was watchful. There was no anger or maliciousness or danger, just bare curiosity and intense interest. Harry frowned, confused. Even in the Chamber, Tom Riddle--for these two were more the same person than Voldemort and the boy in front of him he now knew--had viewed him with a dangerous sort of intense curiosity. He had ignored it at first, until he realised what Riddle was, but now that he was searching for it, he saw nothing. Yes, the gaze was both intense and curious but it looked, it *felt*, different: appraising, amused, almost appreciative. He looked interested and something else as well; something that Harry didn't really have a name or description for, that he couldn't really identify when directed at him, but that he also didn't feel threatened by. It was so different from what he had expected, though, that he didn't know if he really wanted to dwell on that fact. Either way, he never got the chance.

"And here I thought I wasn't to be seeing you until tomorrow, Harry." Tom's voice was clear and seemed amused. "Not that I'm not happy to see you now. I do have a question or two for you, when you're ready to answer them. You aren't yet, of course. Then again, I doubt you've really fully comprehended the ramifications of our situation, Harry."

Harry's frown deepened. 'Our' situation? What situation was that?

"What situation is that?"

"Why, one of balances. You and I are connected, I'm told. Our fates are intertwined, I'm certain. A very precarious situation indeed." He smiled quietly. "Do you believe in fate?" He stopped again at the look on Harry's faced, then continued. "Not by divination, or a destiny made by god, but bound by men. What will be shall be because it has to be? A matter of choice decided by the outcome, that no matter what one does they end up where they're meant to be?"

"Predetermined free choice?" Now Harry was really confused.

Tom Riddle smiled again and it was sweet and it was charming but there was sincerity behind it as well. "Yes, in a way. It was something I was considering before, well, I ended up in this year. I imagine there's many more books on the subject by now." He frowned slightly. "I'll need to find a Muggle bookstore if I care for the non-magical perspective."

Harry snorted and Riddle looked up sharply, as if shaking off his thoughts.

"Don't you *hate* Muggles?" Harry replied to the other boy's questioning expression.

"Why would I waste my energy hating them? I have more important things to deal with. Though I can take my father and most of the Slytherins off that list now. Still that leaves plenty of things to do, enough so that I don't really have time to spend on the inferiority of Muggles."

Harry blinked, then he blinked again; then he stared.

Tom raised a single eyebrow--Harry inanely wondered how exactly people did that-- and asked, "Are you all right?"

He coughed, choking back his shock. "Yeah, yeah. All right. Just...surprised." That has to qualify for some sort of award for understatement.

"Really? Why?" The smile was gone, but the intensity hadn't faded a bit.

Why? What sort of question is that? Why am I surprised Dark Lord Voldemort doesn't hate Muggles? Because anything else is entirely ridiculous? Harry frowned. Entirely ridiculous and he's completely serious.

"If I have to explain it to you then...this is so very surreal." Shaking his head at the taller boy, Harry didn't even notice that his hand had reached up to rub at his scar.

"I do believe we've passed surreal, Harry. After all, my would-be future is your past. That doesn't happen in the 'real'."

"Things like this happen to me more than you'd think." Harry couldn't keep the bitterness from his tone, or maybe he just didn't care to.

"How intriguing." Tom actually did sound like he found it interesting.

"Not if you're the one living it; then it's just frightening and aggravating and bad."

"Bad?" He snickered and shook his head. Then he straightened again, looking serious, and inquired, "Frightening? You don't seem frightened of me."

Harry nodded slowly. He wasn't scared of the boy in front of him. Voldemort? Yes. Tom Riddle? Yes. This boy? No. Even though his brain was trying to insist that this boy was Tom Riddle, that this boy Was. A. Killer.

"You killed my parents."

"So I read." Riddle shrugged. Harry's shoulders tense, his jaw set, aggravated by this reaction.

Why was he reacting like he'd just said the sky was blue? The sky isn't always blue; this thought came out of nowhere, but he ignored it. Why wasn't he upset?

"Their names, James Potter and Lily Evans-Potter, are the very last on a rather long list. They only recorded deaths Voldemort himself was thought to be involved in in that book, though." He pointed in the direction of the book on the floor.

"They weren't the last either. Quirrell, and Bertha Jorkins and an old man, and Cedric Diggory, and who knows who else during this summer; they should be on the list as well. You killed them, after all." Harry was glaring at the other boy now, angry and self-righteous.

Tom ignored this and replied to the rhetorical query with, "Lucius Malfoy would know; though, I don't advise you asking him."

"What?"

"You weren't asking, but as for who knows, he *would* know, if anyone did. I certainly don't." He shrugged.

Any doubt in his mind that this boy was a killer was suddenly forgotten as Harry, both tense and calm, replied in a low voice, "You smug bastard, you don't care what you did to them at all. That you destroyed the lives of thousands of people. That you did it as some sick sort of power trip. You don't care. At. All."

Riddle looked confused, but his answer was even and somewhat amused, "What I did? Harry, I didn't do anything. Not that I remember at least. Actually, I shouldn't even be calling you Harry. After all, I only know *of* you; I don't know anything about you, really."

Harry glared at the pale, thin figure, taking a step forward in an unconsciously menacing gesture. "Just because you don't remember something doesn't make you less responsible for it. If that was true, I wouldn't be the Boy-Who-Lived. It's still your fault, no matter who really did it. You made me pay for years for something I can't even remember and never really did. Now, here you are, a young boy who doesn't remember what he did and why someone else wants him dead for it. Tell me, why the hell should I show any mercy?"

He frowned darkly before responding with a smile that was even darker and sarcastic. "Because you're the better person?"

"You should hope very hard that's true, because if it isn't... well, it's already my personal mission to rid the world of you and I'm not going to see many objections if I do," Harry hissed out between his clenched jaw, his voice low and dangerous.

Riddle wasn't concerned, but frowning; almost angry. Harry stopped for a moment, trying to connect the anger with something, a predictable action. After a moment, the taller boy smiled again. "You're assuming you're even capable of it. From what I can tell, you're just lucky. Eventually, that's going to fail you."

Harry slammed Tom against the wall, pinning him with his hands and upper arms against Tom's neck and chest. The wand dropped, cascading light across the shelves of books before falling to the floor with a loud clang. Their faces were covered with darkness again, but he was close enough that he could still make out Riddle's glittering eyes, but not the colour. He wasn't certain he wanted to know the colour. "Not before I stop you, you bastard. Not unless the universe really is out to make me miserable. Even if it is, I'll have nothing left to lose. Surely you, of all people, understand how dangerous that is." It was then that Harry realized he was no longer standing across from Tom. He blinked, backing away slightly, staring down at his hands as if they were foreign objects for a moment, before his eyes widened and he began to shake his head. He released Tom and the other boy fell to the ground and stayed, crouching. His hand never searched for the wand still giving off light as he stared up at Harry backing away, his mouth opening and closing again, as if he were trying to say something, anything, or maybe just gasping for air or reason.

"You really want me dead, don't you? You could do it, too. How does that feel?" Tom asked calmly, standing and smoothing his robe out, and continued to stare at Harry. "Well?"

Harry, still backing away, finally found his voice. "Wrong. It feels wrong." He stopped as he backed into a bookshelf.

Riddle didn't seem happy with the answer, or its lack of clarity. "For whom? You? So, you've never felt this before then? Well, that's interesting" Then suddenly he nodded, his voice softening, as if dealing with a scared animal. "You're afraid of what you can do, aren't you? Why? Just because you *can* do something doesn't mean you *have* to. People waste their potential all the time."

"Just because you can doesn't mean you should," Harry retorted angrily, ignoring the finger-shaped marks on Riddle's neck.

Tom shrugged, then nodded. "It just means you can. Isn't it better that you can, if you ever do have to?" He laughed. "Isn't it better that you have to, if you ever do *want* to?"

Harry shook his head, frowning. "What?"

"You do want to, correct? You wanted to kill me right then and even now, a part of you wants to finish what you started. I get that. However, I'm not quite so clear on why this scares you?"

"Because, like you said, I'm supposed to be the better person, right?" Harry nodded again, clearer on the intent.

Tom mimicked the gesture, though Harry couldn't tell if it was a conscious choice or not, and said, "That just depends on what you consider *better*, Harry. Everything does." He shrugged. "If you're not okay with who you are, all of you, then what's the point in being that person? You might as well just be another pawn to the chess board. I don't think that'd be better at all. You might want to think on why, or whether, you do. If you ever care to think, that is."

With that he picked up his wand and the book, shutting it as he straightened again, whispered 'nox' and after placing the book on a shelf--not the correct shelf, Harry's noted vaguely--swept out of there in a whoosh of robes, leaving Harry in the mostly-dark library alone and confused.