Perfect

With his school robes tucked and folded neatly underneath his right arm, Harry opened the door to his single dorm room. He was a Prefect, you see; Harry had received the letter on the 25th of July, at the Dursleys' dining table. He was the only one awake, and dawn had just started to peek around the curtains. The yellow-light was slightly hypnotic, and as Harry wasn't quite awake yet, he felt the urge to slip back to sleep where he was. A light ruffling sound, a creak of metal, and the morning’s post tumbled to the floor of the hallway.

The letter was simple, surprising and very appreciated. Harry was prone to late nights and early mornings, and this wasn’t exactly greeted with enthusiasm. Ron went to bed at around nine or ten each night, after homework, woke right before classes on weekdays and slept in on weekends. Most of the other boys had the same sleeping pattern.

But Harry was finished thinking about the (many) privileges of being a Prefect. True, Hermione had beamed and Percy had looked at him with something akin to amazement. Right this moment, he was too fatigued to think about anything much, and the shower he’d just taken had nearly done him in. His homework, luckily, had been done for the weekend.

Harry used his left hand to push open the door and rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses. He blinked a few times, his eyes stinging, and the first thing he noticed was someone in his room, on his bed. Someone wearing very shiny penny loafers and dark, pleated trousers. Someone male, tapping their loafer on the made bedspread to an muted rhythm. His brows furrowed.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Prefect Potter.” That voice. He knew that voice. The tapping foot didn’t stop. The robes he held underneath his arm dropped silently to the floor, jumbled. “I’m sorry, Potter. Did I startle you?”

Any number of responses jumped to Harry’s lips. What came out wasn’t one of them. “What - who - why are you in my bedroom?”

Tom Riddle propped himself up on his shoulder and gazed at Harry levelly. “Which?” he asked flatly. “You must remember me.“ He looked at Harry thoughtfully, but his expression was marred with something different; expectancy, perhaps? “You have your own room. It wasn’t that difficult to get into.”

Dazedly, Harry said, “I don’t know if I remember you.” He stopped himself visibly. “Or rather, I’m loosing my mind or very, very tired.” Almost to himself, he added, “And they probably aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Riddle shifted on the bed. “Have you missed me, then?”

Fairly spitting, Harry felt his face flush and eyes widen. “Missed you? You’re mad!”

“Fine. I’m mad.” He does move from the bed, now, planting his feet on the rug next to Harry’s bed. He doesn’t move. “But you understand me...” Harry started to protest - “I very much despise summers, don’t you?”

“I like them,” he said hastily, defensively.

Riddle got a faraway look in his eyes. “Christmas wasn't bad, since I could stay here for the holiday... but for the summer’s I had to leave, and I always dreaded that.” Harry felt his vitriol falter some.

“I really couldn’t care.” Riddle sighed, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

“No, I don‘t suppose you do, Harry. Care. Why would you? They used to... lock me in a closet, a very small closet, when I did things. Made things happen, things I couldn’t explain.”

Startled, Harry shuddered and nearly moved closer. “They... locked you in a closet?”

“Yes. From time to time, they’d take me out and beat me. To teach me a lesson.” He gave a vague smile. “What lesson, they never said.” A pause. “The closet got to be a haven after a while, if that makes any sense.”

“Sure.”

“See?” Tom said, almost brightly. “I told you that you understood me.” Harry frowned.

“I never said that...”

Riddle shrugged, moving towards the door. “Well then... sleep well I guess, Potter.”

“Wait!” He thought frantically, hastily. “Don’t leave just yet.” He still had questions. Tom glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“Yes?” Harry glanced at the tips of his bare toes and back up at Riddle.

“How did you get in here? I imagine it was hard,” he said, searching for conversation. Tom gave him a slow, obliging nod.

“In your room?”

“Not specifically. Just... here. This time.” He shifted his weight and tried not to look petrified.

“How did I come back after you thought you’d killed me, you mean?” Riddle asked softly. Harry blinked.

“Yeah. That‘s it.”

“You destroyed the diary, yes,” he admitted. “But not completely. Then you made a very big mistake.” Harry blinked again, feeling his mild tinge of panic accelerate.

“Did I?”

Tom looked at him oddly. “Yes. You gave it back to Lucius Malfoy, Harry.” Harry paled.

“Good God, I did.”

“And Lucius... who knows why he does what he does,” he said deliberately. “But did you know that a life must be taken when one is brought back?”

“I knew that... yes. With the Dark Arts training I’ve been having...”

“Yes,” Riddle smiled. “And you’re a Prefect now. I was a Prefect. Did you know that?”

“I did. Ron had to polish your Special Services trophy a while back.” Riddle arched an eyebrow.

“They still have it in the case? I’ll have to go and see it sometime.” Riddle tapped a finger to his lips. “Prefect Potter. Funny, I was lead to believe that you weren’t a model student... That was, until last year. It seems your grades made a dramatic change for the better.” He smirked, shaking his head at Harry. “What was the motivation for such a big renovation, Harry?”

“The... Dark Arts training. I have to concentrate on my studies. It’s imperative.”

Tom cocked his head. “Oh? Why imperative?”

“For the fight against Voldemort... to defeat him... you...”

“Ah.” Riddle shrugged. “Well... Necromancy's not anything to mess around with. However, I'm quite alive. If you prick me, do I not bleed?” He gave Harry a feline grin.

“I’m not sure I want to find out.” He almost sounded bemused. Tom shook his head.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Harry snorted.

“Sure.”

“Okay, you don’t trust me. But I won’t hurt you.” Harry looked confused, but just for a moment.

“Why wouldn’t you hurt me?”

“I’ve got no reason to hurt you.”

“No?! You're...” He gave an airy, unamused laugh. “You had a reason in the Chamber of Secrets. What makes today any different?” Tom gave another casual shrug, and withdrew his hands from his pockets.

“I just wanted to see you, is all.”

He gave another humourless bark of laughter. “See me? What do I hold for you that’s interesting. Unless you came here to kill me...” he scowled. “You came to see me. The one who eventually kills you. Several times.” Tom frowned.

“Kill me, then. Go on.” He spread his hands. “I’m unarmed.” Harry stared at him.

“So am I.”

“Not a good idea for you to walk about unarmed, you know.” He scrutinized Harry. “Not a good idea at all.”

“No, I suppose not,” Harry considered. “But it’s my room.”

“Yes, but you walked in unarmed.” Tom raised his eyebrows.

“I was in the shower.”

“You were showering? Now that I’d have liked to have seen.” Harry flushed red.

“Stop it.”

“Oh.” Tom shrugged again, and sat back down on Harry’s bed, crossing his legs. “So. You make it a practice to walk around Hogwarts scantily clad, unarmed? Think Dumbledore’ll protect you?”

“No,” Harry said firmly, “I think I can protect myself.”

“Protect himself without a wand,” Riddle murmured to himself. “Funny.” He paused, looking pensive. “Say, Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you believe that people can be sorry for what they’ve done in the past?” Harry nearly guffawed.

“They can try.”

“Have you ever been sorry for anything you’ve done,” Tom asked pointedly, eyes boring into Harry’s.

Edgily, “Of course. Everyone has been sorry for something they’ve done.”

“Ah. Right. Well, enjoy your sleep.” Riddle made to leave again, standing, but -

“I can’t sleep now,” Harry confessed, his hands dropping to his sides fitfully.

“Why not?”

“I’m wide awake. I dunno.” Tom gave a bemused, self-satisfied smirk.

“Yes, and I’m sure seeing your mortal enemy relaxing on your bed had nothing to do with that, did it?” he teased. Harry nodded.

“Nothing at all.” He paused, his eyes flitting towards the wall at his right and back to Riddle. “You... you didn’t mean what you said earlier... did you?” Tom looked at him.

“What was I saying about what?”

“About... me, in the shower. How you’d like to see me... in the shower. All that,” he stuttered. Tom looked meditative.

“Did I mean that I’d like to see you in the shower, naked, water cascading down your frame?” He gave another smirk, this one wicked. “I have lots of questions about you, Harry Potter. That is just one of many. But I admit to a certain curiosity where that matter is concerned, yes.” Harry didn’t quiet know what to say, afraid he would stutter again, and willed himself to stop blushing.

“Oh?”

Riddle looked exasperated. “Oh, come on, Potter. Everyone in the school wants to know what you bloody sleep in.” Harry shook his head, feeling as if, for once, he knew unerringly what to say.

“No, they don’t. Not everyone, at the very least.” He contemplated. “Not Malfoy, for one.”

“Oh, he doesn’t?” The tone was sugary-sweet and very, very false. “Are you quiet sure?”

“He can’t. He hates me. I hate him,” he insisted firmly. Tom scoffed at him.

“Please. Remember when you were young? The girl you liked the most was the one you teased the most mercilessly.”

Harry shook his head. “I haven’t teased any girl, Riddle.”

“No? Well, the boy you teased, then.”

Harry nearly growled. “I didn’t tease *anyone*. I’m not like that.” He almost added, ‘not that you would understand’ but felt - somehow - that it wasn’t appropriate. Riddle glared at him briefly, but his features quickly moved into something unreadable.

“Oh, that's right. Such a nice boy. Everyone loves Harry. He doesn't get in trouble, champion of the weak and downtrodden... must be quite tiring.”

“It’s not,” he protested, though he knew that he was lying, and lying badly. “I’m... none of those things, really.” He bit his lower lip momentarily. “Not everyone likes me.”

“What are you, then?” Riddle goaded mockingly.

“I’m just me,” he said mildly. “Harry Potter, I guess.”

“Not the Boy Who Lived, then?” Riddle actually seemed surprised. Harry chewed over that, for a moment.

“I still might die.”

“The Boy Who Defeated Voldemort? The Boy That Carried Cedric's Body Back to His Parents?”

“I didn’t defeat Voldemort,” he objected, purposefully staying away from the second question.

“You left him without any corporeal form for quite a few years,” Tom reasoned. There was a silence. Harry stared at the man, the boy, really, in front of him, who hadn’t aged a day since their last encounter, and found his curiosity oddly piqued in too many arenas for his own comfort.

“Why do you say ‘him?’,” is what he finally settled on.

“Why not? I’m not Him. He isn’t me.”

“Yes, you are Him. Tom Marvolo Riddle. ‘I Am Lord Voldemort.’ Or don’t you remember?,” he accused acidly.

“I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, yes, but think about it, Harry. I was brought to life... and I exist side by side with He who is Voldemort.” Another still pause, and there was no trace of teasing or malice on Riddle’s face. “Don’t you wonder whose life was given for mine?”

Yes. “Who’s, then?” Riddle didn’t answer for a moment.

“Maybe I’ll tell you. But not just now.”

“You seemed so eager to impart the knowledge,” Harry bit, feeling disenchanted.

“It’s someone you know.” Harry panicked, but stopped himself before his mind started to cloud.

“Damnit, who?”

“Not you.” Slowly, “Lucius Malfoy certainly is very ruthless.”

“I’m not an idiot,” he snapped. “*Who*?”

“I'm not going to tell you.” Harry swore.

“You bastard.”

“No, actually, my parents were married.” There was a hint of mocking laughter in his tone.

Laughing sharply, he said, “I knew that. You're... a prick, Riddle.”

“A prick?” He clutched at his heart in mock-wound. “Speak on, sweet lips that never told a lie!”

Harry glared again. “You're... horrible.”

“Ah. well, then, I'll just leave you. Sweet dreams.” Again, Riddle started to leave. Harry wavered, pressing a palm to his forehead.

“Damnit. Damnit. Don’t leave. This is pointless... for you to leave.” Hurriedly, “You obviously came here for something.”

“I told you,” Tom said, as if Harry was slow, “I came here to see you.” Harry snorted.

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.” Tom smiled at him.

“You’re hair is still wet.” It was. Cool droplets were sliding down the back of his collar and chilling his over heated skin. Tom turned around, searching for something, picked up a towel, and threw it at Harry. He caught it deftly, and patted at his hair. “So, Harry,” Tom said lightly, “are you a virgin?” Harry almost fell over.

“That’s none of your... yes.” He blushed, cursing himself.

“You are?” His tone was almost a sigh.

“Yes. I just told you so.” Harry shook out the towel and twiddled with it, folding it in half and in half again. He tossed it at the bed.

“I would have thought that your fellow students would have been throwing themselves at you,” Tom mused, “and a few of your teachers.” He seemed privately amused by the idea, whereas Harry was repulsed by the thought of Snape (or any faculty member, for that matter) mooning over him.

“Well, no... it’s just that. No one is particularly interesting.” He tried to shrug it off, but the movement was too awkward.

“Malfoy?”

“Malfoy is a git,” he said tonelessly. “And a boy.”

“But dead sexy. And Seamus... he‘s cute, if you like that type.”

“He’s my friend -”

“And a boy,” Riddle finished. “Hmm. Ah!” He snapped his fingers. “Ginny! How is my little Ginny?” His eyes glittered, and Harry took a step back.

“Ginny is... not my type, okay?”

“She was my type,” Riddle said quietly.

“She’s Ginny.” His tone was warning, almost.

“Harry.”

“What?” Tom moved from the bed and walked worryingly close to Harry. He stopped, at about half a foot away.

“You’ve gotten tall.”

“I grew up, you mean.” Tom studied him quickly, eyes roaming over what Harry suddenly felt to be too little clothing covering him.

“Your shoulders are broader, yes,” Riddle agreed. He circled Harry in hawkish manner, eyes flitting up and down, side to side, surveying him like a piece of meat or a dog. “Filled out nicely,” he surmised.

“I’m... I... will you please stop that?”

He moved to the back of Harry, breath ghosting across the back of his neck. Shiver’s coursed down his spine in waves that didn’t want to cease. “Stop what?” he whispered.

“Stop. Just... stop what you’re doing.” He felt like running far away from his room. He didn’t know where he’d go, but anywhere was better.

“Stop... talking to you? Stop... looking at you? Stop... making you feel like you feel right now?” Harry could have been wrong, but there was a gentle, tickling brush of fingertips on the small of his back that disappeared almost immediately.

“All the above,” he murmured, throat dry.

“Surely people have come on to you before, Harry.” His tone was calm and curious.

“Not like this.”

Tom idly stroked Harry’s hair, seemingly oblivious to the way Harry’s spine stiffened. “Like what, then?”

“Like... I don't know!! Just not like this!”

Tom lightly ran his thumb over the shell of Harry’s ear. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

“Why? It doesn‘t matter.”

“It does to me. I’ve kissed people before,” Tom informed him.

“Yes, I imagine you have.”

“I’ll tell you whose life was given for mine if you kiss me,” he offered up. Harry’s eyebrows lifted in shock and he whirled around, heels slipping on the rug in his haste. He flopped down on the bed, scared witless, tempted, moved and confused.

“Well,” he said in a strangely strangled tone. “You really are mad.” Riddle laughed at him, almost peculiar eyes squinting into a smile that looked odd on his features. Of course, nearly everything looked out of place on Riddle; from his slightly rumpled 1945 era school uniform that sat oddly on the shoulders to the almost-reflective shine of his shoes.

“Fine, fine, Potter. But we’ve gone over this.”

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he said, voice trembling. Riddle nodded, and glanced down at his shoes.

“Well. That’s it then. Night, Potter.”

“I’ll kiss you...” he called out quickly, “if you promise to tell me who it was. If you promise, Riddle.” His eyes sought Riddle’s, and he tried to glower at him from his lower vantage point on the bed, but all it took was one more arched eyebrow and his chin ducked down to nearly touch his chest.

“I promise.” This surprised him, and his head jerked back up.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said, rubbing his sweaty palms over the material covering his thighs. Riddle smirked at him.

“Whatever you want. I admit my partners are usually a touch more enthusiastic.” He moved closer to the bed, and Harry stood, looking around at the walls of his room as if he’d never seen them before. “Relax,” he murmured, taking the initiative to grab Harry by the shoulders and plant him firmly opposite of him. “Close your eyes,” he ordered, but it didn’t sound like an order to Harry, and so he did what he was told. “Nice.” Without any to-do, Riddle leaned forward and pressed a dry, almost quick kiss against Harry’s lips. “Was that so bad?”

Harry still had his eyes closed. He opened them, blinked at Tom’s smiling face, feeling woozy. “I don’t know.”

“Would you like to try it again?” He flushed a colour Ron would envy.

“I don’t know.”

“You seem to be saying that a lot,” Riddle quipped. “Just never mind it.” Harry looked at him expectantly.

“Yes?”

“It’s Draco Malfoy.” Harry heard himself gasp but didn’t realise he’d made the sound.

“Malfoy?!”

“He’ll be dead in three weeks, give or take a few days,” Riddle informed him coolly. “He’ll die slowly,” he added, eyeing Harry’s dismayed expression.

“That’s...” he couldn’t finish, and found himself sitting at his bed again, face between his hands. “That’s horrible,” he whispered finally.

“I told you Lucius Malfoy was ruthless.” It was a ridiculous understatement.

“Lucius Malfoy is vile,” Harry spat, raising his head. He realised belatedly that his eyes were swimming and he didn’t even know why.

“Yes, he is.”

“Draco Malfoy is his son.” Harry couldn’t fathom it. Riddle gave yet another shrug, but this one Harry found infuriating.

“He does what it takes. Never really cared much for Draco, anyway.” It dawned on Harry that this made perfect sense. “I imagine my own father would do very much the same thing to me, if I were alive.” Harry was appalled and speechless, but what was more was he knew Riddle was telling the truth. “Hm. By all accounts, your father loved you. This must come as a bit of a jolt.” Harry didn’t answer. “So. What will you do now?”

“I really don’t know.” One tear, the only he would shed, fell onto his knuckle and magnified the miniscule apertured stylings there. His handprint. It looked foreign and wicked.

“I suggest you do some research. I have some books I could lend you, for a start.”

“What?”

“Get that Mudblood girlfriend,” Riddle sneered at the word, “of yours to help. She’s smart. And decide for yourself whether or not you want Malfoy to know. He’ll notice something’s wrong soon enough anyway, I expect.”

“What a mess,” he muttered, only half-hearing what he was being told.

“Yes, a big mess,” Riddle agreed. “Are you sorry I told you?”

“No.”

A pause. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.” Harry nodded vaguely. “And Harry?”

“Hm?”

“Do you trust me?” He thought for a moment.

“... Yes.”

“Not a good idea,” he frowned. “Never trust anyone, Harry Potter. Ever. They will use you for their own ends. They will hurt you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Riddle stared at him for a long moment, and moved to the door, starting to open it.

“I'll get those books to you. I do hope they help. They're dark magic, however, so be sure to put some kind of concealment charm on them.”

“Oh, yes.” He licked his lips. “Tom?”

“Yes?”

“You will come back again?” He flushed. “To help me?” Something flickered in Riddle’s eyes.

“Do you want me to come back?”

“Yeah.” He half-smiled. “I could use the help.” This was only half true, but he wasn’t telling Riddle that. Riddle already knew.

“Then I’ll come back.”