He checked the bedroom on the third floor first. Tom wasn't there.
Harry sighed and sat down on the bed. "Tom?" he called, after casting a Muffliato Charm. "Can you hear me?" He waited; moments later, Tom stalked into the painting.
"What do you want, Potter?" Tom asked coldly, his face impassive.
"I want to apologise," Harry said.
Tom's eyes narrowed but he remained silent.
Harry went on, "You can't blame me for questioning your motives - you've been nice to me, but the Diary Horcrux was nice to me too, so I think I had a fair point about that. But I know you're not Voldemort."
Tom gazed at him, his expression stony. "I am not the Diary Horcrux either," he said finally.
"I know you're not."
"No, I don't think you do. I don't think you understand the difference."
"Explain it then."
"The Horcrux was Dark, made with Dark magic; the soul fragment was therefore tainted, and further corrupted by the magic used in the ritual that split it in the first place. What I am is different. The whole of my soul had also been corrupted from having made the two Horcruxes, but the Parselmagic ritual required a purification of my soul before I could even begin the process of transforming the essence into a tangible form which I could then draw from. As I explained before, Parselmagic is natural magic - it's neutral, which means it's neither Light nor Dark. As such, in order to best perform the Solidum Essentia Animae ritual, I had to purify my soul and restore it to its natural, neutral state. I then performed the ritual, successfully transforming the essence of my soul into a solid form, which I was then able to draw from. So, that's what I am: the natural, neutral essence of my soul. Not the Dark, corrupted fragment that the Diary Horcrux was."
Harry frowned. "When Voldemort did the same ritual did he purify his soul too?"
"He tried. But he'd split it too many times, and it was unstable. That's why he gave me his memories. He wasn't certain the ritual would work the same way it did for me, or even at all. So he thought, if it didn't work, he would at least be restored to being the Tom Riddle of 1945, but with all of his memories and knowledge. The purification was not successful, because his soul by that point was irreparably corrupted. He performed the ritual anyway; and it worked - but only because he was such an extraordinarily skilled and powerful wizard."
"So Voldemort's soul essence is Dark and yours isn't?"
"Precisely."
"But then you made the third Horcrux a year later, corrupting your soul again."
"That wasn't me - that was Voldemort," Tom said. He seemed determined to make that distinction, as if he wanted to separate himself from it. "Although I was planning to make it," he conceded after a moment. "Once I could find a worthy container."
"Why though?" Harry asked. "I don't get it. Why weren't the two Horcruxes - and the portrait - enough for you?"
"I thought seven was the right number of times to split the soul, seven being such a powerful magical number." He gazed at Harry, his expression sombre. "I was wrong obviously. I never should have made the Horcruxes at all. I know that now. I regret it. I wish I had only done the portrait."
"Do you regret making the Horcruxes because they were destroyed ... or ...?"
"I regret making them because splitting the soul corrupts not only the fragment, but also the wizard," he said. "Every time Voldemort made a Horcrux, he got further removed from his sanity and his humanity. The more he made, the worse it got. I know what it did to him - through his memories, I have seen how he went from being me as I am now, to what he is now. Splitting the soul shouldn't be done. Not even once; the price one has to pay is not worth it. I didn't understand that before but I do now. There is a lot I understand now that I didn't before," he said quietly.
"Like what?" Harry prompted when he didn't continue.
Tom was quiet. Finally he said, "I understand what one's humanity is worth, and how precious it actually is. I hated it, before. I thought it was my greatest weakness, and something to eradicate. Now I consider it my strength."
"That's ... a very big change," Harry said.
"I mean it," Tom said seriously. "You can't imagine, Harry, what it was like for me - to wake up in the portrait ... with him. Voldemort. There he was - my future self - and I suddenly had all his memories and knowledge, and I knew everything he had done and everything he had become, and it was ... horrifying. Sickening. I know I've lied and manipulated and hurt people ... I've done the darkest of magics, and I've committed murder. But he has done things I could never have even imagined. Terrible things. Unspeakable things." He shuddered. "It has been profoundly affecting," he said quietly, "to see in myself the ... seeds ... that Voldemort took further to such unthinkable extremes."
Harry nodded, understanding what Tom meant.
"It has made me ... question many of my past actions and decisions," Tom said softly. "Voldemort's goals were my goals, but to see them carried out as they were - " He broke off, looking disturbed. "Before, I didn't care what I did or what I'd have to do to further my ambitions."
"And now ...?"
"I realise there are lines that should not be crossed," Tom said solemnly. "I was so consumed with learning and mastering the Dark Arts, I didn't care what price I'd have to pay for it. But now I know the consequences are more far-reaching than I'd previously thought."
"Wait. Are you saying you regret immersing yourself in the Dark Arts?" Harry asked in surprise.
"Perhaps, to some extent," Tom said. "I regret the cost," he clarified. "I enjoyed the Dark Arts, so I won't pretend it's out of the goodness of my heart, because it isn't. I haven't seen the Light and now I'm suddenly 'good'. I regret the consequences of immersing myself so deeply - because of the effect they had, not because I've suddenly developed a moral conscience."
"Oh. Right," Harry said.
"You look disappointed. I'm only being honest. I don't have the same morals that you do, Harry. I just don't. I'm sorry if that upsets you."
Harry was silent for a moment. "I'm just trying to understand," he said finally.
"I was good at the Dark Arts - very good. One takes pleasure in what they're good at. You're quite good at defense against the Dark Arts. Do you not take pleasure in your talent? I wanted to be great. I wanted to be the greatest and most powerful wizard to ever live. I found Dark magic to be more powerful and more compelling than Light magic. It's dangerous and very seductive - there's a rush one feels when casting Dark spells that can be quite addictive." He paused and looked at Harry consideringly. "You yourself cast two of the Unforgivables. Did you not feel a rush when you cast the Imperious Curse on the goblin and the Death Eater at Gringotts? Did you not feel it when you Crucioed Bellatrix after she killed your godfather?"
"I didn't really succeed when I tried it with Bellatrix. I did cast it successfully on Amycus Carrow though, at Hogwarts just before the battle."
"Oh? And did you feel it then?"
"Yes," Harry said, remembering.
"Did you enjoy it?"
"It wasn't like that," Harry protested. "It wasn't enjoyment exactly; I felt satisfaction, because it was justified. He deserved it."
"I see. And do you regret it? Do you wish you hadn't done it?"
"No, because he deserved it," Harry said defensively. "He spat in McGonagall's face!"
"So you don't regret it. Do you see? You felt justified in casting that spell - an Unforgivable. I felt justified too, in learning the Dark Arts. I saw it as the path to greatness and power - "
"Did you feel justified when you killed Myrtle, an innocent girl who had done nothing to you?" Harry interrupted. He was still feeling defensive. It was true, he had taken pleasure in casting the Cruciatus Curse on Amycus Carrow, but he wasn't like Tom; he hadn't taken pleasure in casting Sectumsempra on Draco, and he hadn't murdered anyone.
"She caught me opening the Chamber of Secrets," Tom said. "She would have told on me and got me expelled from Hogwarts. I was desperate. So ... yes, I felt justified."
Harry stared at him.
"I do regret it though, because of the consequences. It tainted my soul. And it started Voldemort on the path of murder and megalomania. If I could go back, knowing what I know now, I would have made different choices. I would have Obliviated her instead of setting the Basilisk on her, for example. I would have tried to hold back from killing my father - "
"You would? Really?" Harry found that surprising.
"It was because I killed him that I had to kill my grandparents," Tom said. "That was the real turning point, I think. I had that brief moment where everything could have changed for me. Since waking in the portrait and seeing the future in Voldemort, I have thought about what might have been if I'd been able to live with them. It wasn't that I cared for them, but I knew I could respect them at least, which I certainly hadn't felt for anyone else in my family. I had ambition to be great and powerful beyond all other wizards, but I had no money and no connections. I was ... pathetic. I had gone to the Gaunt house to meet my wizard family - my grandfather Marvolo - and ... you can imagine the disappointment and disgust I felt when I met my uncle, Morfin. My Muggle grandparents were far more promising. They had an estate; they were wealthy and distinguished and were of good standing. I hated Muggles intensely but I could have accepted them. If things had gone differently, I might have lived with them and I wouldn't have had to struggle the way I did. I wouldn't have had to go back to the orphanage. I might have left Hogwarts with a better plan than working at Borgin and Burkes ..." He trailed off, his expression pensive.
"There was more to it than that though, wasn't there?" Harry pressed. "When I saw the memory I felt what you were feeling. You might not have cared for them exactly, but you did care that they were your family. You wanted to be accepted by them."
Tom froze. "Yes, perhaps I did," he said finally.
"Why are you trying to paint yourself as purely cold and rational? You said you appreciate your humanity now."
"I am not used to acknowledging that part of myself," Tom answered after a moment. "I do appreciate my humanity, but I still find any kind of sentimentality in myself ... difficult to accept," he admitted. "It's a hard habit to break."
Harry gazed at him. "You're being surprisingly forthright."
Tom inclined his head. "I have decided to be honest with you," he said. "You'll likely learn soon enough how to take advantage of our mind link, so there's no point in trying to keep anything from you because you'll only find out about it later."
"So it's a calculated decision."
"Yes," Tom said bluntly. "Though if it were anyone else, it would be different. It's because of you that I choose to ... share my true thoughts. Despite our differences in morals and magical affinity, we have a lot of similarities, Harry. We're both orphans. We're both half-bloods. Neither of us knew we were wizards until we were invited to Hogwarts. We both look remarkably like our fathers. And both our mothers made great sacrifices for us, ultimately losing their lives for it - yours by standing between you and Voldemort, and mine by lifting the spell over my father." He stared at Harry, his dark eyes gazing at him steadily. "I've never met anyone like you before ... someone with whom I have so much in common."
Harry stared back at him. The Diary Tom had talked about their similarities too, but this Tom seemed very different. "And that means something to you?" Harry asked.
Tom's expression shifted. His eyes were piercing. "Yes. It does."
The atmosphere between them felt charged suddenly with a strange kind of tension.
Their eyes locked, and the feeling grew more pronounced. The dream from earlier that morning flashed in Harry's mind unbidden; and for a moment, he remembered what Tom's lips felt like against his.
Tom's eyes narrowed, as if he knew what Harry was thinking. He smirked.
Harry flushed, and hastily averted his gaze.
"It's rather ... compelling, don't you think?" Tom said softly.
Harry swallowed. "What?" His face felt hot.
"How much we have in common. It's quite remarkable, really."
Harry looked back up at the painting. Tom was staring at him intently, and for some reason it made Harry feel breathless. "I've always noticed the similarities," Harry said, trying to sound normal. "The Diary Horcrux noticed too and mentioned it, right before he set the Basilisk on me."
Tom's face instantly shuttered. "I'm not the Diary Horcrux."
"I know you're not," Harry said. "I'm just telling you. He talked to me about our 'strange likenesses' - I think he'd initially thought it made me more of an equal and a threat to him, but after he learned of my mother's sacrifice, he dismissed our similarities as unimportant."
Tom was silent for a moment, then he said, "Will you show me the memory? I would like to see it. I want to know what happened. Perhaps then I can understand why you keep comparing me to the Horcrux."
Harry hesitated. Hadn't Tom himself warned him that showing his memories was giving up knowledge that could be used against him?
"I will show you a memory of your choice in return," Tom said.
Harry nodded after a moment. "All right, that's fair." He racked his brain, trying to think of what he most wanted to see. "Will you show me your memory of the first time you purposefully used magic against anyone at the orphanage?"
Tom's lips tightened. "Very well, if that's what you want to see." He didn't look very happy about it. "I suppose you want me to go first?"
"Yes."
Tom reached into his robes and took out his wand, then placed the tip to his temple. His face screwed up in concentration for several seconds as he drew the memory out, then he cast the spell.
The memory began:
Tom was outside, reading a book. He looked to be about eight years old or so. He was sitting alone but there were other children playing nearby.
The other children began to chant suddenly:
"Tom Riddle,
he's dirty spittle,
he has no friends
and he smells of piddle."
Tom's hands clenched around his book but he ignored them as they continue to chant the rhyme, again and again.
Two boys and a girl broke from the group and approached him, their faces twisted with malice.
"What's the matter, Tom?" one of the boys said, smiling cruelly. "Haven't got anyone to play with?"
Tom didn't acknowledge them.
The boy kicked him. "Look at me, Spittle!"
Tom looked up, his expression cold. "Go away." There was the same ringing force in his voice as there had been when he told Dumbledore to tell the truth in Dumbledore's Pensieve memory.
For a moment the three children obeyed the command, beginning to turn and walk away; but then they turned back and formed a circle around him.
The girl reached down and snatched Tom's book away, then held it over her head. The two boys laughed.
Tom jumped to his feet and tried to grab it back but the girl passed it to the boy next to her. "Give it back!" he hissed. The boy passed it to the other boy then shoved Tom hard with both hands. Tom stumbled backwards but stayed upright. He advanced on the boy, his face contorted with rage, and swung at him.
The boy ducked out of the way; then he launched himself at Tom, knocking him to the ground. He managed to get astride him, then he began punching Tom in the face. Tom struggled to break free, but the other boy was bigger and stronger. The other two children were laughing and shouting encouragement to Tom's attacker.
"Get 'im, Billy! Give 'im what for!" the other boy yelled gleefully.
Tom put his hands up to protect his face. Billy called out, "Help me! Hold his hands back, Dennis!"
Dennis tossed the book aside and got down and grabbed Tom's hands, pulling them up over Tom's head and pinning them to the ground. Tom struggled violently, trying to buck Billy off him.
"Hold his legs down, Amy!" Billy shouted.
Amy threw herself down onto Tom's legs, then straddled him behind Billy.
"Get off me!" Tom bellowed, and suddenly Billy, Dennis and Amy were flying through the air, knocked back by Tom's magic.
Tom rolled over and pushed himself off the ground, getting to his feet. His nose was bleeding. "Don't ever touch me again!" he hissed.
The three children stared up at him dazedly, looking confused. Tom's eyes narrowed in sudden concentration; all at once, the three children gasped sharply and clutched their stomachs, as if they'd been punched. "Don't ever touch me again," Tom repeated, his voice cold.
He spotted his book on the ground and marched over to it, leaning down and snatching it up, then began to walk away.
The memory ended abruptly.
The painting and Tom came back into focus. Tom had his arms crossed and he looked irate. "That's just a taste of what I had to endure from those filthy Muggles," he said lowly, his eyes flashing.
"I understand," Harry said softly. "I got the same treatment from my cousin and his gang. They called it Harry Hunting. They would catch me and hold me down and beat me up, five against one. They made my life hell."
"But you didn't fight back, did you? I imagine you think you're better than me for 'rising above it'," Tom sneered.
"I don't know, if I could have done what you did - if I'd known how - I probably would have done it too. I'm not a saint. There's a lot you've done that I don't understand, but that - I don't think was wrong. You were defending yourself."
Tom's rigid stance relaxed a bit. He nodded tersely.
As they gazed at one another in the silence that followed, it seemed to Harry as if a small measure of understanding had been reached between them.
After a moment, Tom spoke. "I'd like to see your memory now," he said pointedly.
Harry nodded and took out his wand. "Do you want to see the whole thing? Do you want all of my interaction with the Diary Horcrux or just what happened in the Chamber of Secrets?"
"All of it."
Harry pressed the tip of his wand to his temple and concentrated, pulling out the memory, then cast the spell.
The memory began:
Harry and Ron were in the girls' bathroom with Myrtle. Harry had just picked up the diary from the floor. He began flipping through it, but it was blank. "He never wrote in it," he said to Ron, disappointed.
The memory skipped ahead, to Valentine's Day, when Harry first met Horcrux Tom. He had gone to his bed early so he could examine the diary. Earlier that day, he'd had that scuffle with the singing dwarf, which resulted in his school bag ripping and an ink bottle smashing all over his things, drenching his books with ink - all except the diary. He wanted to investigate whether the ink had been absorbed by it or if the diary was just enchanted to repel it. Getting out a new bottle of ink, he dipped his quill in it, then held the quill over the first page of the diary. A blot of ink dripped onto it, then disappeared. He dipped his quill again and wrote, "My name is Harry Potter." The words disappeared after a moment; then new words appeared: "Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?"
Harry and Tom watched in silence as Memory Harry and Horcrux Tom wrote back and forth to each other. Then Horcrux Tom offered to show Harry his memory of what happened at Hogwarts in his time. Memory Harry accepted, and he was sucked into the diary.
They watched as Memory Harry looked around Headmaster Dippet's office, confused, until Tom appeared and Harry realised he was inside Tom's memory as a spectator. After Tom and Dippet talked, Tom left the office and Harry followed, observing the conversation between Tom and Dumbledore and then following Tom to the dungeon, where Tom found the young Hagrid crouched in front of an open door, a huge box next to it, whispering, "C'mon ... Got to get yeh outta here ... c'mon now ... in the box ..."
"Evening, Rubeus," Tom said, his voice sharp.
In the present, Harry looked over at Tom in the painting and said quietly, "Hagrid is my friend, so this is hard to watch."
Tom nodded, his face unreadable.
"It's all over," Tom was saying to young Hagrid. "I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."
"What d'yeh - "
"I don't think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters don't make good pets. I suppose you let it out for exercise and - "
"It never killed no one!" Hagrid cried.
"Come on, Rubeus. The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered ..."
"It wasn' him! He wouldn'! He never!"
"Stand aside," Tom said, drawing his wand.
The memory skipped forward: Harry was looking at the wall, beyond which was the Chamber of Secrets. He stared at the two entwined serpents that adorned the wall, then said in Parseltongue :: Open :: The wall cracked open and Harry entered the Chamber. He began walking down the long passageway, looking for Ginny; then he saw her, lying face down on the floor between the stone feet of the statue of Salazar Slytherin. He rushed forward and tried to revive her. Then Horcrux Tom appeared.
In the present, Harry sneaked a look at Tom in the painting, wanting to see his reaction. Tom looked disturbed. This was going to be very uncomfortable to watch together, Harry realised. Turning his attention back to the memory, he resolved not to look at Tom again until it was over.
Horcrux Tom had just picked up Memory Harry's wand and was making his true intentions clear.
The confrontation escalated quickly. Tom explained that he had been the one behind everything, and that he had possessed Ginny, setting the Basilisk on the four Muggleborn students and Mrs Norris.
"It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop trusting her diary," he said. "But she finally became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And that's where you came in, Harry. You found it, and I couldn't have been more delighted. Of all the people who could have picked it up, it was you, the very person I was most anxious to meet ..."
"And why did you want to meet me?"
"Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry. Your whole fascinating history. I knew I must find out more about you, talk to you, meet you if I could. So I decided to show you my famous capture of that great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your trust."
"Hagrid's my friend," Harry said. His voice was shaking. "And you framed him, didn't you? I thought you made a mistake, but - "
Tom laughed. "It was my word against Hagrid's, Harry. Well, you can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school Prefect, model student; on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls. But I admit, even I was surprised how well the plan worked. I thought someone must realise that Hagrid couldn't possibly be the heir of Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years to find out everything I could about the Chamber of Secrets and discover the secret entrance ... as though Hagrid had the brains, or the power!
Only the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, seemed to think Hagrid was innocent. He persuaded Dippet to keep Hagrid and train him as gamekeeper. Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed. Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did ..."
"I bet Dumbledore saw right through you," Harry said through gritted teeth.
"Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me after Hagrid was expelled. I knew it wouldn't be safe to open the Chamber again while I was at school. But I wasn't going to waste those long years I spent searching for it. I decided to leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen-year-old self in its pages, so that one day, with luck, I would be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish Salazar Slytherin's noble work."
"Well, you haven't finished it. No one's died this time, not even the cat. In a few hours the Mandrake Draught will be ready and everyone who was Petrified will be all right again."
"Haven't I already told you that killing Mudbloods doesn't matter to me any more? For many months now, my new target has been - you." He paused to let Harry take that in, then continued, "Imagine how angry I was when the next time my diary was opened, it was Ginny who was writing to me, not you. She saw you with the diary, you see, and panicked. What if you found out how to work it, and I repeated all her secrets to you? What if, even worse, I told you who'd been strangling roosters? So the foolish little brat waited until your dormitory was deserted and stole it back. But I knew what I must do. It was clear to me that you were on the trail of Slytherin's heir. From everything Ginny had told me about you, I knew you would go to any lengths to solve the mystery - particularly if one of your best friends was attacked. And Ginny had told me the whole school was buzzing because you could speak Parseltongue ...
So I made Ginny write her own farewell on the wall and come down here to wait. She struggled and cried and became very boring. But there isn't much life left in her: she put too much into the diary, into me. Enough to let me leave the pages at last. I have been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I knew you'd come. I have many questions for you, Harry Potter."
"Like what?" Harry spat.
Tom smiled pleasantly. "Well, how is it that a baby with no extraordinary magical talent managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort's powers were destroyed?"
"Why do you care how I escaped? Voldemort was after your time."
"Voldemort is my past, present and future, Harry Potter ..." Tom said softly, drawing Harry's wand from his pocket. He traced it through the air, writing three words:
TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE
Then he waved the wand once, and the letters rearranged themselves:
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT
"You see?" Tom said, his voice a whisper. "It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course. You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father's name for ever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother's side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Harry. I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"
Harry stared at Tom. "You're not," he finally said.
"Not what?" Tom snapped.
"Not the greatest sorcerer in the world. Sorry to disappoint you, and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn't dare try and take over Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were at school and he still frightens you now, wherever you're hiding these days."
"Dumbledore's been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!"
"He's not as gone as you might think!"
And then Fawkes appeared, dropping the Sorting Hat at Harry's feet, then landing heavily on Harry's shoulder.
"That's a phoenix ..." Tom said. "And that - that's the old school Sorting Hat." Tom began to laugh. "This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harry Potter? Do you feel safe now?" His laughter rang out through the Chamber and Harry just stared at him.
"To business, Harry," he said after a moment. "Twice - in your past, in my future - we have met. And twice I failed to kill you. How did you survive? Tell me everything. The longer you talk, the longer you stay alive."
"No one knows why you lost your powers when you attacked me," Harry said. "I don't know myself. But I know why you couldn't kill me. Because my mother saved me. My common Muggle-born mother. She stopped you killing me. And I've seen the real you, I saw you last year. You're a wreck. You're barely alive. That's where all your power got you. You're in hiding. You're ugly, you're foul!"
Tom looked enraged, then he smiled. "So," he said. "Your mother died to save you. Yes, that's a powerful counter-charm. I can see now - there is nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you see. Because there are strange likenesses between us, Harry Potter. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself. We even look something alike ... But after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved you from me. That's all I wanted to know." His twisted smile grew wider. "Now, Harry, I'm going to teach you a little lesson. Let's match the powers of Lord Voldemort, heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter, and the best weapons Dumbledore can give him."
Then he called forth the Basilisk.
Watching his Memory self fight the serpent, Harry felt a strange mix of pride and sadness. He wondered how Tom felt watching his Horcrux self. Was the Diary Tom as horrifying to him as he was to Harry? Harry hoped so. He wanted to believe that Tom had changed, that seeing Voldemort had shaken him so profoundly he had a whole different perspective now. He seemed to be full of regret, if not remorse. Harry could only hope the Tom he had been getting to know was the real Tom, and not an act.
When Memory Harry stabbed the diary with the Basilisk fang, Harry heard a sharp gasp from Tom in the painting. He looked over and saw that Tom was visibly distressed.
"Did you feel that?" Harry asked him, alarmed. "Did that hurt you?"
"Not physically," Tom answered in a strained voice.
The memory had finished. Harry stood up and walked over to the painting. "Are you ... all right?" he asked Tom.
Tom shook his head. He looked overcome. "Give me a moment," he said hoarsely, and he turned and walked over to the tree in the painting and disappeared behind it.
Harry heard a choked sob a moment later; he turned away, wanting to give Tom some privacy.
"I'll come back," Harry said softly, and he headed for the door. He opened it, then turned back to the painting. "I'll be back," he repeated.
Then he walked out, closing the door behind him.