The Sun Sets Twice Again

Chapter Thirteen

"I realize the wall is incredibly interesting to simple minds but are you intending to watch it the entire day?" Tom's derisive tone snapped Harry out of his thoughts suddenly.

Harry glared at him; Tom smiled back. Tom was sitting in the arm chair, leaning against the cushion behind him, one leg drawn up to his chest and the other propped up so the sole of his shoe was on the edge of the coffee table. There was a book open on his leg, but Tom wasn't looking at it now. Instead he was watching Harry, while Harry watched him back. Harry had the sudden, repetitive urge to force Tom to stop smiling like that-- like he knew something about Harry that Harry didn't know himself.

"You know, if you really want to hit me you might as well just do it. I can take a punch," Tom said, raising an eyebrow. He closed the book.

Harry frowned. "Are you suggesting I punch you?" What he had meant to say was 'are you stupid enough to offer that'?

"No, I'm merely saying that punching me would probably be more productive than sitting in that chair sulking like a five-year old. I'd find it less annoying, as well."

Harry grinned. "Wouldn't want to do anything that'd annoy you less."

"Wonderful. Then by all means, continue acting like a child. I'll be over here reading the grown up books when you decide you're not five." Tom was scowling.

"Dumbledore left books in here? I thought he removed everything dangerous? I happen to know those hurt when you're hit with one." He did know, as books were Hermione's weapon of choice in more than one way.

"Oh, I suspect he knows one of us is bound to get hurt. Can't really prevent that. The books probably have some purpose or relevance to our situation at the very least, knowing Dumbledore."

"Great, research," Harry said, making a face.

Tom sneered. "You're undereducated as well as dense? Yes, research. As much fun as 'point and incant' is, it's worthless if you don't know a spell and don't understand the theory. Spells have patterns. Therefore curses, being spells, have patterns. Which means whatever is between us has a pattern, an unknown one, and the sooner we know what one the easier this'll be. Unless you want to talk about your feelings?" He smirked, and now Harry really wanted to punch him. "Didn't think so." There was a short pause; Harry thought Tom might be waiting for him to start a fight. He resisted the urge. "Talk or read? Your choice, for now."

Harry reached over and grabbed the book Tom was holding, mostly just to see what Tom would do. Tom grinned, though to Harry it seemed to be full of malice.

"Harry, tempting me to start something is very, very stupid, even for a Gryffindor. I suggest you don't try it. If you do decide to try it anyway, make sure you can at least finish it." His voice was low when he spoke, the grin never leaving his face, and he stood from the chair and stalked over to the bookshelf. The movement was graceful, he was on land like Harry was on a broom, and Harry wondered briefly if he played quidditch and what position if so and exactly how much trouble the Gryffindor team would be in if he ended up having one more thing in common with Harry.

Tom didn't say anything else, grabbing a book off a shelf, and returned to his seat to read. They had been reading for about five minutes when Harry broke the silence.

"The books, er, ...about me...did anyone ever do any research on the curse scar?"

"Not that I saw," Tom said, shrugging. He didn't even look up from his book.

"Alright."

There was another silence, not quite as long, before Harry spoke again.

"I can see why you'd hate Muggles. I mean, I'm not really...fond of them myself." His fingers twisted the ends of his too-long sleeves where they rested against his knuckles and he watched the pictures, little men and women arguing about some charm, instead of looking up at Tom. "I can even see why you might want to kill a few of them...er, sort of. I don't understand killing, but...yeah. But why immortality? I mean, why would anyone want to live forever?"

"I sincerely doubt you have the slightest idea why I would choose the targets I chose-"

Harry interrupted him. "The orphanages, you didn't want to go back there so you must have really not liked them. And your father, you hated him for abandoning you."

"If that was the extent of the issue I would have stopped with them. I didn't stop there, did I? So, as I said, you really have no idea what you think you're talking about," Tom said, sneering. "That aside, I'm not certain why I chose the targets I did. The Malfoys are obvious, I hated that bastard Augustus and it'd suit my sense of play to revenge someone like him by having those connected to him serve me." He shook his head. "Everything is interconnected, Harry. Victims and servants serve their purposes politically, but what I accomplished was bigger than that. I have an entire society, possibly societies across the planet, in fear of a name I made up late one night when I was barely fifteen. It's just another form of immortality. It's been fourteen years since I was...defeated...temporarily, at least...and my threat hasn't left. The books about me, they're amusing honestly. You-Know-Who." He snorted.

"Point is, I did what I meant to do in part; I achieved fucking immortality in the minds of men. If you hadn't come along, I probably would have managed to take over everything by now, even Dumbledore. Apparently, I was close when you stopped me, and that was a fluke. Something about *you*, not something failing in me. I survived the curse as well, you know, not just you. Neither of us died that night, or any night after. Now, I have years to figure out how to live forever. Plenty of time to deal with death."

Harry looked up from his book finally. "So, it's just another challenge to you?"

Tom closed the book on his lap, tossing it onto the coffee table, and turned towards Harry. "A challenge? Death is not something you can challenge, Harry. It isn't something you can beat. It's there and it's certain, tangible, complete. No, I didn't want to challenge death, because it isn't something I could win. That wasn't what I was doing, am doing, will be doing...whichever. What I want to do isn't beat death, as that's impossible, but to embrace it and come out alive. I want to live by triumphing over life, not death, except in as much as life is defined by death." He shook his head. "I doubt this makes a bit of sense to you, either. Simply speaking, immortality isn't about death, it's about life. My life is immortalized by my acts."

"Your acts are evil."

"Back to that, are we? Evil...and good...they're just schools of thought. Just a sense of absolution. 'Good' acts taken out of context can be 'evil', and 'evil' acts 'good'. Therefore, no acts are good or evil, out of context, and inside context, it all depends on how you see it. Don't claim to be objective, Harry, it's a pointless lie. I know myself and I know that, barring mental illness, I would not kill without a purpose. And I could justify my purpose by perpetuating my own survival and achievement of goals, though you might not accept that justification. But really, what right do you have to reject the justification of *my* actions? It'd be awfully self-righteous of you, if you thought you did have the right to do so."

"Is that why you didn't hit me back when I, er..."

"Attacked me?"

"Uh, right. Is that why, because you felt I had the justification to do so?"

Tom smiled. "Bravo. You're not as incredibly dense as you seem to be."

"You have a really fucked up sense of fair play," Harry blurted out.

Tom grinned. "I have a pretty 'fucked up' sense of everything, actually, but if it works...I honestly don't care what people think of me, outside of what I want them to think, of course. Respect and fear serve the same purpose, after all. Fear is easier to gain and more effective in a lot of situations, as well."

"'It is better to be feared than loved'," Harry said.

"Machiavelli. Looks like you can read."

The urge to pound the expression of amusement off of Tom's face was back.

Tom laughed. "Temper, temper."

Harry blushed. "I *really* hate this."

"The connection? Well, you'll figure out how to use it yourself soon enough. Then I'll hate it." Tom shrugged. "It's already quite annoying when you're accidentally affecting my emotions. Woe is me when you learn how to do it consciously." He grinned.

"You don't seem too worried."

Harry could feel a nervous sickness at the pit of his stomach though, and he knew it wasn't all him.

"What I seem is never to be believed. You can tell how I feel, however, so really, that shouldn't be an issue."

"You're nervous."

Tom looked at him in a manner that was frighteningly reminiscent to Snape's 'I should kill you on the basis of your utter stupidity' glare.

"How wonderful of you to have grasped the obvious there, Harry; too bad you haven't mastered subtly yet," Tom drawled. "Then again, you are a Gryffindor."

Harry was glad Tom couldn't deduct house points.

"*Why* are you nervous? I mean, it's not like it's one way. Whatever I feel you feel, even if whatever you feel I feel, and..."

"And I'm the one much more likely to use the knowledge to my advantage?"

"Well, yes."

Suddenly Tom laughed. "You honestly have no idea what you agreed to in the wizard's pact, do you? How did you survive four years at wizards' school without knowing about basic wizardry customs? Never mind, it's not important. You agreed-- well actually, Dumbledore, you, and I agreed-- not to speak of what happens, or is discussed, in this room. You swore on your magic, actually, not to talk about it. Not with anyone except me, even Dumbledore. As I said, I agreed to the same thing, so obviously I can't speak about it either. Therefore, I can't use it against you..." Tom's expression softened as he added, "You know, you remind me of a kitten."

It took Harry a moment to change mindsets as he spoke. "I...what?"

"You remind me of a kitten. That isn't a bad thing. I always had a fondness for cats. They're generally intelligent, independent, resourceful, and bloody dangerous to piss off. None of the pathetic loyalty of a dog. You hit a cat, it'll hit back, as it happens." Harry snorted; only Tom would compare the worth of an animal to its willingness to do harm. "As for kittens, they don't know they're dangerous yet, do they? They take it for granted that they have claws, and they scratch and bite you when you're not paying attention, but they mean well enough. They're...cute, for lack of a better term."

Harry frowned. "So, you think I'm harmless?" He wasn't sure why he felt so insulted.

"Never. I know better than to tempt fate." Tom grinned quietly then. "Though, I might not know better than to tempt you." A shake of his head. "You think you're better than that, don't you? Better than me? That's cute too. Except, Harry, I have no interest in 'corrupting' you. That'd ruin you."

Harry blinked. He didn't understand how Tom thought. He wasn't sure he wanted to understand how Tom thought, actually. Ruin him? Ruin him for what? He wasn't any use to Tom if he was on Dumbledore's side so it couldn't be for that. When did that become an if? He wondered fleetingly before going back to the confusion at hand. Fuck it, he'd just have to ask and hope Tom answered.

"Ruin me? Tempt me?"

Right, the tempting part was a fairly important detail as well.

"If I took over, made you me, made you anything really...if it didn't destroy you it'd still ruin you. You're too...pure for that. It's...no, I wouldn't do that. I'm not going to jeopardize anything by trying to change you. If you change, it will be on your own accord. Your choice. If I can tempt you into the way you change, however...well, I'm certainly not above trying."

"You have nothing to tempt me with," Harry said. His voice held more conviction than his thoughts and they both were more certain than his emotions. He wasn't worried though; he was too confused for Tom to pick up on any one thing at the moment. Setting the book he had been reading on the coffee table next to Tom's discarded one, Harry crossed his arms over his chest and glared challengingly.

Tom shrugged. "Perhaps not. But what does Dumbledore have to offer you, either?"

Harry frowned. He wasn't ready to discuss Dumbledore with Tom, but he didn't believe for an instant that Tom would just let it go.

"He helps me." There, that seemed neutral enough.

"Does he now? It's possible I misunderstood the facts, but didn't he nearly get you killed by encouraging the whole philosopher's stone fiasco? Didn't you end up having to kill Quirrell in order to get away? Didn't you still end up in the hospital wing? That's how he helps you?"

Tom's questions sounded like accusations, but Harry wasn't certain who Tom was angry at. Still, a different tactic then. "Hogwarts is my home."

"This requires Dumbledore? Hogwarts existed before Dumbledore and will exist after him. It will always be your home."

"My friends. They would never forgive me." Harry felt sick at the thought of what Ron's reaction to just Tom's presence would be, let alone...anything else.

"Forgive you for what?" Tom said 'what' as if he knew exactly what he had in mind, which of course wasn't what Harry had in mind at all.

Harry involuntarily felt himself blush at the suggestive tone of Tom's voice. "Not for *that*. I don't...I wouldn't..." The blush deepened. "For letting you tempt me. For giving into the temptation. For being anything else than the noble and brave Gryffindor. They'd *never* forgive me for that, Riddle, and well, you're not worth losing any of them."

Instantly Tom's expression darkened, the flirting tone -was Tom flirting with him? Oh, god--gone from his mannerisms. Two separate emotions, completely independent of Harry's guilt and fear, flared: anger and pain. Tom was hurt. By Harry's words. That certainly had a novelty to it. Harry's guilt surged again suddenly, along with an ill-feeling in the pit of his stomach, at that thought. As quickly as it had come Tom's features softened again, though the anger and hurt still raged beneath the surface of his movements, boiling in his blood. Harry wasn't sure if 'his' referred to Tom's blood or his own.

"What's wrong, kitten?"

The last word was spoken softly, sounding endearing and mocking in a single breath. In that moment the emotions, hazy and bleeding together, snapped into focus. Rejection, a shared fear. Isolation, a shared knowledge. Anger, a shared purpose. Pain, a shared fate.

"I don't believe in fate," Harry said. If Tom was confused by the declaration he didn't show it. "I don't, because I refuse to believe this, any of this, was meant to happen." He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again, not trusting the other boy enough to keep him out of sight like that. Green-blue eyes stared back at him, unassuming. Fuck. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! He noted that screaming obscenities was more satisfying out loud.

Tom Riddle was *not* supposed to be a reasonable human being. He was not. Tom Riddle was the boy that in a little over a year from now murders his own father and in less than that unleashes a terrifying beast in the halls of Hogwarts, which cumulates in the death of one student and the framing and expulsion of another. This boy, in nine months - if that - would have been a killer. It didn't matter if he wasn't 'Lord Voldemort', he was still...evil. Yes, evil. That was what he was, Tom was.

"Back in your timeline you kill a girl by the end of the year. You're a killer." Harry felt the accusation should have held more venom but he couldn't find the energy.

"I can kill, Harry. I don't deny that, I embrace it. I embrace death and I will make it mine. I never expected to manage that without bringing death. It's just another form of immortality, in a way. The perpetuation of survival. We are all killers, but you and I especially Harry. I'm not the one with blood on his hands here. Don't forget that."

Harry was about to deny that, to argue that he wasn't that, to explain that he could never be that, except...he was. He was a forced killer, a revered destroyer; he was a 'saviour' because he lived and because he would kill. And Tom Riddle was a villain because he had lived and because he would kill. It wasn't all that different, just in intent. Not that Harry had intent, exactly, except to survive -which seemed increasingly unlikely until a day ago-- to have his friends survive -he would die for them, literally-- and to get revenge -which wasn't noble or brave at all. As for Tom's intent, it seemed to be changing--or maybe it had never been what he thought it was? Before Harry himself was born but after this moment in Tom's mental development?--and Harry wondered if this change changed anything else. Harry was a killer, or certainly able of it, and the denial fell on numbed emotions.

"I won't. I can't." He wasn't sure what he was referring to at all now.

He didn't forget anything--couldn't forget the guilt, or rather the lack of guilt at what he should feel guilty for, it was all seared into his mind. It made him. He ignored it, when he could, repressed it when he had the chance, forced it down when he was desperate. Tom wouldn't let him do that, now, it seemed. In that moment he hated Tom for something entirely different than what he was expected to. He hated Tom for reminding him of him. He hated Tom for being. He hated Tom for showing up and asking questions that he really didn't want to think about, didn't want to answer. He hated Tom not for the acts he had yet to commit--though his parents' deaths still weighed heavy on his mind, as they had since he had discovered how they had really died--but for the potential to commit the acts. The same potential Harry had in himself. Harry felt sick again.

"What you can't do is let it take over you. That's not healthy. None of this guilt, either. Making yourself sick isn't going to help anything, is it? You didn't eat any breakfast. Let's go down to the kitchens and get some from the house-elves. All right?"

Harry nodded. Anything to be out of this room. Any sort of distraction would do. His stomach rolled at the thought of food and he hoped he'd be able to force something down long enough to placate Tom. He could always go to the toilets and throw it up after Tom was gone, of course, but losing his breakfast in front of the other boy was *not* an option. With this thought in his mind, the focus helping to calm noise of his other thoughts, he followed Tom up to the kitchens. He really needed to follow people around less.