Disclaimer: Rowling is more awesome than I could possibly be, even if I could just walk into Mordor and shoot lasers out of my eyes.

A/N: This chapter is pure Riddle, with only little more than a paragraph of Harry at the end. Some of you might wonder why someone as conceited and cynical as Tom Riddle might have been even the slightest bit impressed by his encounter with Potter. Well, it's exactly that. When a psychopath meets someone they feel in some way inferior to (something they rarely ever feel), it does provoke a strong response, generally. And of course, a lot of hatred. You can't write HPTR without hatred.

Thanks must be given to all my awesome reviewers. I am writing as fast as I can. My muse is on a spree. Forgive the typos, they are just the roadkill of my speed ride.

To Barranca: Dippett trusts Dumbledore because he is weak in character, I fully agree. The point is that, even if accidentally, he does chose to trust a very trustworthy wizard. My Albus is Rowling's Albus. He is the one who is fine with Minerva having given a 13-year old Hermione a time-turner, and who encourages the trio to save Sirius with it. He has teenagers face death yeah after year, even though he could have potentially prevented that most of the time. Dumbledore is, in canon, very open-minded actually, and fully trusts in the power of good people. As far as Tom goes... If you want to address whether he is an actual psychopath or not, I will address that issue myself in chapter 5 or 6. What I do believe though is that he has both experienced and caused a lot of pain and a lot of hatred in his life, and if there is something his receptors would be sensitive to, that could be pain and hatred. It is love or protectiveness, for example, that could be staring at him right in the face without him noticing. Also, I never actually say that Harry DID epxerience these feelings. I point out that Harry has been taught not to hate his enemies. This is only what Tom -thinks- he has perceived. It is his PoV, not mine. By the way, I love your reviews, they are inspiring.

Chapter 4

It is nighttime, and most other Slytherins are already sleeping, wasting their pathetic little lives in this meaningless horizontal position, and probably dreaming of threesomes and becoming the Minister of Magic, like most typical slitherers do. I am, of course, far past these petty fantasies, these cute little ambitions that their obnoxious, simple minds can come up with, and my spirit wanders in worlds better than this one, as I lovingly immerse myself into Elizieh Cropthorne's "Blood Magicks of the 15th century", 1751, one of the fifty original, hand-written copies. The delicious smell of weathered leather infiltrates my flaring nostrils and I feel aroused, knowing full well that this book is more precious than a room full of the fancy robes that these Slytherin brickheads own. And thus, while I wear second-hand rags that this vulgar and vainglorious Abraxas Malfoy sometimes winces at, the treasures that I am discovering are beyond his shiny knuts and galleons, beyond the paons at his mansion and his expensive ebony chest.

And indeed most of the Slytherins, Salazar bless them, cunning and crafty and connivy as they tend to be, these opportunists, they are beginning to sense something in me of greater value that their little toys, something that draws them to me like bees to honey.

First it was the females of course, who succumbed to my deceitful charisma, these sorry creatures that can be swayed by a charming handful of sugary words, their pitiful, naive hearts aching for beauty and kindness, throwing themselves at me to be manipulated. And the man of course, who, also swept by my natural gifts, pretends to be a father to me, tries everything in his power to achieve some manner of proximity, even knowing only too well his own hideousness and the aversion his bothersome advances cause.

Then it was the Slytherins in my year who realised how far from the typical know-it-all I really was, who caught onto my dark streak, my grand visions and my undeniable allure, and sensed a leader in me, these astute, shrewd little snakes.

Lately, even the Slytherins of years above my own come to me paying their silent respects to my ascencion to power, their eyes conveying a curiosity spiked with admiration.

And soon, I know, it will be more than that, for they will fear me and love me, and tremble at my feet, offering me obedience, adoration, their wills, their hearts, their minds; these worms will call me "My Lord", and in my mind, I can already hear the sweet sound.

This will be my ultimate vengeance for all who ever called me a freak, for all who ever pointed their disgusting, flabby fingers at me, and judged me, for all who abandoned me into the world of Muggles, and the pain, and the ugliness.

Somehow, it's already morning, a part of the day I particularly despise, for it is then that Hogwarts becomes a revolting hive full of vociferous, turbulent, aggravating insects moving around without shape or structure, shoving breakfast down their throats and emitting irritating giggles. And yet today I am excited, and my heart is pounding fast, sending blood into my brilliant brain, while said organ is attempting to predict how exactly the upcoming Trasfiguration class will unroll itself.

That somewhat alarming, fairly handsome and certainly very powerful man, the green man as I've baptised him inside my mind... I wonder if he will be there, and whether the meaning of that look of recognition is his eyes, that has been subtly haunting me, will be made clear to me, and justified. I can't help but experience the uncanny feeling that somehow this man is directly related to me, and there is something menacing and ominous about this premonition which I consistently have been trying to shake.

The look in that man's eyes... It cannot have been a coincidence. Something tells me I shall meet him again very soon.

His magic... it knew me. I am sure of it.

His tempestuous, swiring, sinister magic comes back to mind, and I quicken my pace as I walk towards the Transfiguration class, eager to come into contact with it again, in spite of the fact that, in the back of my head, the fact that the green man is closely associated to Albus, the one wizard that could somehow always see righ through my mask, is actually causing me to feel a little threatened and agitated.

As I approach the classroom, surely enough, the magic of the green man hits me in full force, and I cannot actually decide whether the feeling is unpleasant or not, for it closely resembles both drowning one's self and consuming great quantities of marijuana. The kids around me seem, and I am fairly sure they are, completely unaffected by the magic, which makes me want to laugh at how magically desensitised, daft, clueless these odious young creatures really are. Before I walk in, being cautious and vigilant as I am, I strenghten my Occlumentic wards, not only because I know that the barmy fool of a Transfiguration Master is a skilled Legillimens, but also because the presence of the greem man dictates the necessary precautions.

The waves of his power clash against my shields, and I almost gasp at the intensity of the violent encounter.

To any outsider though, nothing has happened, and I am simply a student walking into a classroom.

The green man is standing behind Dumbledore's desk, at the teacher's right, rigid, serious and confident, and as the other students make their way into the class, I stare at him from my pristine desk in the front row.

He is young, but his face has a certain hardness to it, a bitterness of a man that has seen much horror, the lines around his mouth deep, his radiant eyes dark and examining. He bears quite a few scars, and I deduce he must be a wizard of many wars, despite his age, especially since more than a few of these marks are curse marks, as my careful eye can tell. His skin is rather pale, a heavy contrast with his dark, unkempt, rebellious coiff, and as my gaze travels around the strands falling by his forehead I notice a very peculiar cicatrix, that piques my interest to an even greater degree, due to its unheard of, perfectly geometric form.

A bizarre thought is nagging me, spawned by the admission of my undeniable physical resemblance to the green man. Is he a relative of mine? Is that why he seemed to recognise me? Is he here because of me? I cannot tell his exact age, because of how tired his face seems, but I do expect him to be around 28 or 29, which means that it is biologically possible for him to be my father, and immediately I become enraged with myself, for producing such moronic, pathetic thoughts.

And yet a scenario has already unfolded in my mind, of how the green man, a teenage prodigy war mage, was forcefully parted with his flirt, before she could tell him that she was pregnant with their child, shamefully and out of wedlock; how she became the tragic target of the green man's enemies, and hit by a fatal but slow curse, she had no time to do anything but deliver me to the orphanage and die; and how he, years later, after returning from a magical war in China, or India, or Tibet, found out about his lost child and decided to approach his progeny discreetely and conclude whether the child was worthy for him to raise.

Even as these childish, nauseating thoughts spill into my mind like cancerous vomit, I feel ashamed of myself more deeply than ever in the last few years, for being an aspiring Dark Lord that still constructs wishful fairy-tales in their mind, and aches to learn of his parentage, a pathetic little boy with silly fantasies and delusions of grandeur. I grit my teeth, and feel my soul fill with repugnance and abbhorence and spite and scorn and venom towards everything and everyone, and I cannot really pinpoint why.

"Good morning children," the red-haired jester gleefully exclaims. "Today I will present to you my new assistant," he adds, and the green man makes a step forward, the eyes of all drilling holes into him in happy curiosity.

"Hello, everyone. My name is Harry Potter, and I am going to be helping professor Dumbledore both in teaching and his own personal research projects," the green man says, and now I know that his name is supposed to be Harry Potter, and somehow that really irritates me, because I find it entirely inappropriate for that intriguing, complex man. It is too simple, and dull, and homely, so I am nearly overwhelming with the certainty that "Harry Potter" is a fraud, for such an individual must certainly bear a name of greater aesthetic quality, like Demetrius Windcarrows or Astydamant Nox.

"Now students, I want you all, front to back, right to left, to stant up, present yourself with a few simple statements, for our Harry over here," Dumbledore adds, and he looks so happy that I want to send a gastroenterical disease his way, and then a few blood boiling curses. Being in the front row, I am the third to have to undergo this humiliation, but I quietly comply. In this classroom, Albus' one, I never pull out the orphan card, the poverty card or the model student one, for it would be a waste of my acting talents to perform in front of an unwilling audiance, and thus I reserve these acts for the ones that fall for them, that is, all other teachers.

"My name is Tom Riddle. I am a Slytherin, and I enjoy books, spellcraft and music. I have no parents, and no pets. I am fond of studying," I say in a flat voice, my eyes nailed onto the green man, watching for some sort of interesting reaction. And indeed there is one, because the young man, who so impassively listened to the first two kids and smiled gently at them, seems to be scrutinizing with great intensity me, taking me apart with his eyes, and on his lips there is a strange shadow of a smirk, clearly meant for me and me alone.

I feel a strange heat grow inside my chest, and oddly enough, I get an adrenaline rush out of nowhere. Maybe I sometimes tend to be a little too self-absorbed, and maybe often believe things to revolve around me, I will admit that; no shame in understanding one's own importance. But this time I am most fervently, passionately certain that this strange occurance has something to do with me in particular. I ponder upon that while the other kids, like empty, mechanical idiots, spill the names of their owls and loved ones.

Albus gives as a few absolutely ridiculous and nonsensical Transfiguration exercises to complete, and as usual, I am done with them in less than a dozen of shockingly boring minutes while wondering about the actual point in acquiring the skill of transfiguring pink tea kettles into cabbage-coloured pin cushions. And then something fairly unusual happens, for just as I am completing the last of my spells, that barmy teacher with his eternal smile asks us whether anyone is finished yet, knowing full well that no one but me could have manages to complete the tasks in just a few minutes. I do lift my hand, though, and he proceeds to pointing me joyously to the green man.

"All right, mister Riddle. I can see you are a talented young wizard. Instead of these... casual exercises, that clearly don't strain you at all, what do you say if... the two of us went to the neighbouring classroom, so we can advance a little faster with the syllabus?" that Harry individual tells me, his voice strong and factual, and somehow his suggestion feels threatening. And yet, I am so eager to break my endless boredom and the repetitive dullness of my current life, that I very quickly get up and approach the man, who has by then moved closer the the door.

We walk silently in the corridor and enter another classroom, that is now completely empty, while my mind races, examining the various possibilities on what is actually hapenning and why.

"Take a seat" he says. I am having a very hard time reading his face, and I loathe him for that, because I am only too used to treating people and their needs like the open books they so often are.

"Sir..." I begin saying in a soft voice, thinking to test the waters by asking whether we have ever met before, and mentioning the fact he looks familiar, which, of course, he doesn't. I am interrupted, which is yet another thing I usually cannot stand.

"You can call me Harry. Can you cast a corporeal Patronus charm?" he asks bluntly, and catches me completely off guard.

Well, he wastes no time testing the waters, this man. What is he trying to accomplish?

The list of things the green man does that I find absolutely outrageous seems to be growing fast, and I feel like a fool for having no answer ready. The Patronus charm, I have to admit, is probably the only charm in the book "130 defensive charms for the wizarding adventurer" by Evangelia Prince, 1928, that I have not yet managed to fully master, and the fact he asks about this particular charm makes me want to hit him.

Could he possibly know this is the one defensive charm I cannot manage to cast with suitable success? Or is he making a guess, based on the fact that such an undeniably Light spell is generally tougher for Slytherins than for the rest of this school's students?

"No." I finally say. I decide to be honest, for it might earn me the favour of this powerful wizard, who's magestic magical aura is still tingling my skin and quickening my breath. "I can discern that my silver smoke is trying to give itself the form of a snake, but somehow it dissipates before I actually manage," I add, trying to sound casual and very matter-of-factly.

"The patronus is a very special charm, and it doesn't only require skill. It requires being able to to tap into one's inner peace and happiness, as I am sure you know, mister Riddle," the man replies. I nod slowly, and his gaze locks into mine again, with no intention of retreating. "What do you think about, when you cast a Patronus?" he then inquires, and I want to give him various different replies such as 'Mind your own business' or 'What are you trying to achieve?'.

I also feel the irrepressible desire to rudely point out that the Patronus charm is not a Transfigurative spell, that it is part of the NEWT syllabus, and that his question is absolutely ridiculous, but I forcefully bite my forked tongue and just concoct a plausible, polite answer.

"I think of my academic successes," I finally state, and somehow the tone of my voice opely holds irritation, in spite of my generally awe-striking self-control.

"It is there that you are making your mistake, then. An academic success can evoke emotions of joy, and pride. But that's not what you need for this spell. You need to tap into moments of happiness, of peace of mind. When I first achieved a full-fledged Patronus, I was your age. I had thought of when I first found out I was a wizard. Why don't you try that?" the man tells me, and for the first time his expression towards me softens a bit, but I will not be fooled, for I can tell what his simplistic scheme is.

He wants to indirectly let me know that he also grew up without knowledge of his wizarding nature, as to make me feel some sort of connection between us; how crafty, how subtle his manipulation.

Nonetheless, I do as he says, and I colourfully visualise my initial meeting with Humble-bore, where I was first told of Hogwarts and of wizardry and where I had the silly man to burn a cupboard in order to convince about the truth of his words. I cast the Patronus charm, but all that comes out of my wand is a shapeless puff of pathetic smoke, leaving me feeling equally ashamed and annoyed. Of course, I let none of these show, and I keep my fine feautures calm and empty, my eyes watching the failed spell as they would look at a wall.

"I know why you fail at this, mister Riddle. Because you take everything around you for granted. This amazing world of witchcraft and miracles, that took you into its arms and became your home, you are ungrateful towards it. Only when you realise what an extraordinairy gift, a true blessing you were offered that day, will the memory of that event become strong enough to support a Patronus charm," he reveals, and before I can even open my own mouth in polite protest, he dismisses me, for I will be late for my next class.

And I hate him for that, for criticizing me and judging me, and then having me go, whereas no one else in this school would ever dare call me something as vexing as "ungrateful", after all the respect I have earned.

Walking between the castle's grey walls, I repeat the encounter time after time inside my head, as if it has some huge, hidden significance that I have yet not uncovered. The kids around me are shouting and shaking, like enthusiastic, hyperventillating little worms in a rotten apple, and my reflections and speculations become increasingly disorderly. One thing that I can safely conclude though, is that the green man has spoken with Bumble-sore about my early years, for he seems to know that I grew up in a muggle surrounding, while I had personally stated only the fact I was an orphan, without actually specifying whether I had a muggle or wizarding upbringing. I try not to infer anything else, for I feel a streak of paranoia creeping into my mind, and consequently I get a headache.

Harry's PoV

I am not even sure how it went. I could argue it went disastrously bad, or unexpectedly good. All I know is that I will not be easy to even establish a basic channel communication with Riddle, for he is an insely secretive kid, full of arrogance and spite.

And yet, something about our interaction has me hoping that my approach was not erroneous after all, and that something might eventually come out of it. Inside that classroom, face to face with young Voldemort, the killer of my parents, friends, teachers and beloved headmaster, I could definitely not think as calmly as I would have liked. It is hard to avoid the easy solution of just taking a deep breath and casting a Avada Kedavra without warning, and yet I think I could not do it. Not because I haven't killed before, Merlin knows many Death Eaters have fallen by my hand, but because this young boy is thirteen, and no one can be guilty enough at thirteen.

It is wrong to desire the violent, painful death of a 13 year old; but Merlin, how little the knowledge of right and wrong matters when you come face to face with the killer of all you ever held dear.

I walk to my living quarters, a small, naked room Dippett has provided for me. I light the small fireplace wandlessly and wordlessly, and sit on the bed. Suddenly I miss Hermione, would have known exactly was would be the right thing to do, athough she would have left it up to me to actually do it. And I miss Ron. My Ron, before the civil war and Gabrielle changed him into another man. And yet I wouldn' have wanted them here, either of them, for in the end I'd learned to walk alone, and fight alone.

They would be merely distractions to me now, and what I need is solitude and reflection. A gruesome image from the war suddenly explodes inside my head, with disembowled children and dismembered men groaning and screaming. I do not wince. It has been a long time since I last winced. Yet I still often avoid sleep, for it is there that these memories haunt me the most.

I pour myself a glass of firewhiskey and down it fast. This situation makes me feel uncomfortable, for the war I am familiar with is a war of fire and steel and Avadas, not a subtle war over a half-lost soul. I wonder whether I know what I am doing or not.

I hope I do.