Hi! Anyway, holiday has started for me and I'll be updating frequently now. :) I really do appreciate feedback, whether it's good or bad. Drop a comment for me if you can. They're like my own favourite chocolate cookies. :) And something else, if you have any interaction between Harry and Tom you want to see, please send them through to me, whether by PM or review. I'll probably use them in the next few chapters before I really start diving for the finish line, just to build up their friendship a bit more.

The Ghost of Riddle House

They arrived in Little Hangleton at sundown. Harry landed on all fours, coughing fervently as he tried to keep his food in his stomach, where it belonged. Tom, the smug git, stood there waiting for him without a single hair out of place.

He hated Apparition.

Did he mention that?

Harry managed to force the feeling of nausea down, and after heaving himself off the floor, he gave his surroundings a brief glance – and immediately did a double take. Almost straightaway, his heart started thudding harder.

Tom looked at him oddly.

He ignored the Slytherin, and focused on the graveyard around them. The grass had a dead look to them. The withered flowers gave the place an eerie feel. Harry found his eyes drawn to one particular towering marble headstone.

It was striking.

There was a statue of the Angel of Death behind it, looming, a tall skeletal figure wearing robes and carrying a scythe. He recognised it.

He felt his chest tighten.

Last time he had been here, he had been bound to the statue, helpless as Wormtail took a dagger to his arm. Last time, Cedric had died.

"Kill the spare," Voldemort had said.

Harry would never forget it.

Little Hangleton Graveyard.

Tom spun around. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes-well, not really," he said. "In my fourth year, Voldemort had me here while he killed another student. This … brings back some bad memories. It's not really important. He made a mistake and I got away in the end."

"I'm not surprised he brought you here," Tom said. "This graveyard is personal to him – to me. My father and his family were buried here. Born, lived and died here. I think my father died before his time."

Harry looked down. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Tom laughed, venom dripping from his words. "My dear father deserved everything he got and more. I killed him. Or rather, your Dark Lord did."

For a moment, Harry was not sure whether Tom was jesting. Eventually, the dark expression on Tom's face decided for him. Still, he couldn't believe what he had just heard. He felt cold, numb, and he was only faintly aware that his jaw had dropped.

"You killed your father?"

Tom smiled silkily.

Frankly, it was creepy and Harry found himself shivering.

"I made plans to pay him a little visit when I could. Murder had always been on the back of my mind. I knew I might be tempted – so I made a few plans for that too," Tom said, still with the ghost of a smile on his face. "Look at the date; he died before he was forty. Voldemort got to him."

"Uh." Harry's throat ran dry when he tried to speak.

For the first time since coming back to his own time, he was reminded that Tom would grow up to be Voldemort, and thus shared the same personality traits, more or less. The time he spent with Tom had made him forget all of that.

"I had plans for making a Horcrux, or rather, two. The diary was supposed to be my first. I wanted to use my father's death for the second."

"And the second is the ring."

An affirming nod.

"Slytherin's ring," Tom continued. "There's nothing more fitting as a vessel for my soul. I am, after all, an heir of Slytherin. I read it, in a rather old text. My uncle is in possession of it – was. Take the ring, kill the man, frame my uncle for the murder – and voila! I'm immortal."

Right now, Tom looked almost sinister with the cold, hard glint in his eyes. All he was missing was a higher voice, spidery fingers and a pair of red eyes.

Harry felt hot all over, and then cold, then hot again. Tom, Tom who he had deemed so different to Voldemort, was talking about murder as calmly as the weather. Moreover, he had devised a plan for it.

He had always thought that murder would be sudden, spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment, emotional kind of thing. Tom was the exact opposite. It sounded so organised, like Tom was shaping it, puzzle piece by puzzle piece. Coldly. Calculatingly.

Harry licked his lips nervously.

This shouldn't come as a surprise.

It really shouldn't.

But when had Tom ever displayed homicidal tendencies in the time Harry had known him?

"You can judge me, Harry," he said airily. "I don't mind."

Harry's mouth moved before he could even think it over. "I'm not going to judge. I mean, I don't condone murder, of course, but it's not like I have the faintest idea of what your father was like. He could be even more insufferable than you for all I know."

It was supposed to be a joke, but it somehow came out sounding sincere.

Tom nearly appeared baffled. Obviously, it wasn't the response he expected. "I didn't realise you were so morally ambiguous."

"I wish you didn't though. Kill him, I mean. You could have been the better man."

Tom laughed slightly bitterly. "I haven't yet, Harry. Don't mistake me for your Dark Lord. And trust me, it doesn't take much to be the better man when my father is the subject of comparison –"

Tom broke off in midsentence, features freezing as he stiffened visibly. He narrowed his eyes. And the air around him hummed with magic. Vibrating like strings on a violin.

Harry became a little uneasy.

"Tom –"

"Be quiet. Wait."

As Harry watched, bewildered, Tom stretched out a hand at the seemingly empty air. Like he was feeling for something. Touching something.

What?

"We are a step behind. Too late."

Harry blinked. "Pardon?"

"It's gone."

"The Horcrux?" Harry frowned. "Voldemort took it? But why? How did he know we were coming? Are you sure –?"

"He didn't take it," Tom said. "It's someone else."

"How would you know?"

Tom turned to face him again. "Because as twisted as he is, I really don't think he would go as far as to destroy his own Horcrux. Do you?"

...

Harry was mildly unnerved by the house, as well as in awe.

It wasn't as much a house as a mansion.

Tom twirled his wand, and the gates swung open to admit them. The garden was in a state of disarray; with wild weeds springing up in every direction Harry could possibly turn his head. But even then, it was impressive.

The moment they stepped inside the Riddle House, Tom inhaled sharply.

"It's stronger in here."

Harry cocked his head.

"The stench," Tom elaborated. "The stench of a dead Horcrux. It's recent. Must have been a few weeks at most when it was destroyed."

The wind shrieked through the broken windows like banshees.

"What are you implying? That someone else is looking for them?"

Tom's eyes were as hard as diamonds. "That's exactly what I'm saying. There's someone else out there, hunting them down, one by one. Someone who wants to see Voldemort brought down and is willing to get their hands dirty."

Harry bit his lip. "It has to be someone with enough experience to evade Voldemort's radar. He probably does not even know about his Horcruxes dying."

Tom looked thoughtful. "Someone with power, position and connections."

For a fraction of a second, their eyes met. It was like a puzzle piece had slipped into place and everything suddenly clicked. There was a sense of something new in the air, and Harry wasn't sure he liked it.

"Dumbledore," Harry breathed.

The very air seemed to tremble under Tom's intensity.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they are all gone. He has, after all, been missing for quite a while. It gives him ample time to search to the ends of this planet," Tom said. "And he still has the element of surprise."

"So you think that this ring is the last one."

Tom glanced up. "Maybe, maybe not."

The wind howled through the house again, batting against the windows. Harry shivered, tugging at his sleeves. He cursed himself for not wearing more clothes. Tom seemed like he was in a trance, staring off into space.

The walls seemed to stretch on forever, leading to an extremely high ceiling, where a sooty chandelier was hanging. The entire place was dirty and broken but Harry could imagine its splendour when it had been bright with life.

Tom strode into the living room, leaving Harry to catch up. He made a circuit around the room, scanning for the little details, anything that could give him more information.

Harry, for his part, was gazing at the photos. There was a man who held a great resemblance to Tom, with the same cheekbones and eyes. His features were rounder, softer, but even in the picture, he practically oozed arrogance.

There was an older woman with hair pinned back in a bun. She had her hand on the man's shoulder. She gave off the impression of a slightly posh, upper class lady. Her other hand was grasping the arm of another man who looked like her husband.

Tom's grandparents?

Harry wasn't sure, but he could clearly see the family resemblance. It had to be a family photo.

"It's dark," Tom said, gesturing out the window. "We should sleep here for the night and head back tomorrow. It will give us more time to investigate in the morning, just in case Dumbledore left anything behind."

The idea of sleeping in the very place Tom would – well, he wouldn't if Harry could help it – kill his parents didn't appeal to him in the least, but he didn't feel like arguing about it.

"So … should we sleep on the couches?"

To be honest, the couches were really quite disgusting. They looked very much like the infested homes of cockroaches and other bugs.

"Don't be silly," Tom smiled. "What are all these bedrooms for?"

...

Harry woke up feeling like a piece of ice had been stabbed into his heart and someone had taken the chance to pour freezing water over him. He sprung up, breathing heavily, scrabbling for the sheets.

God.

A nightmare. It was merely a nightmare.

He was fine, there was no icy water, and Tom was still asleep in the next room.

Still panting, he sank back into the pillows –

– only to nearly get a heart attack when a pale face drifted in front of him, followed by a transparent hand reaching out for his shoulder.

It instantly felt like his whole left shoulder had been plunged into the Arctic Ocean in the dead of winter.

Harry stared.

It had passed through him.

"Y-you are a ghost."

The shape in front of him shimmered, and he blinked. Instantly, the ghost looked much clearer. The first thing he noticed was that it was a woman, and the second was that she looked incredibly sad.

"Yes," came the soft reply.

"You're harmless, right?" Harry laughed, partly from amazement and partly from relief. "I won't hurt you. You don't have to be scared. What's your name?"

"Merope."

"Ah. That's a lovely sounding name," Harry said, trying to reassure her. His life really was strange. He had no idea why he was conversing with a ghost when he should be sleeping soundly.

"I think you know me better as Tom's mother."

The comment promptly made him stop breathing.

"I-Really? Tha-that's amazing. I mean, I don't think he's ever seen you before. I think he would want to."

"Please don't," Merope said quietly. "Don't wake him."

"Of course not, not if you don't want me to."

"Don't tell him about this."

Harry was stunned. "Why not?"

Her dark eyes dug into him with the same intensity he often got from Tom. She simply hung there, in the air, her white dress blowing slightly despite the lack of wind in the room. "Just don't."

"Er, I suppose I could keep this to myself," Harry said. "Why are you here?"

Merope inhaled deeply, and her whole body glistened again. "My spirit could not pass on after I died. I was bound to the man I was in love with. Tom's father, you understand. And –" here her voice faltered, "– after Tom killed him, I got stuck in this house."

"I-I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "But Voldemort, he resided here in my fourth year. How could he not have seen you?"

"I chose to not show myself."

"And you're showing yourself now."

"A warning," Merope said, and her voice echoed around the room eerily. "I came to warn you."

His breath hitched.

"I am his mother, and I have his best interests at heart," she breathed. Her hand pressed itself on his chest. "You are driving him further down the path towards becoming the Dark Lord."

Harry felt like gagging.

"I know what has come to pass for the Dark Lord, and therefore I know your future," Merope continued. "If you care for him, stay away."

"What?" he managed to gasp out. "I'm changing him, aren't I? He won't become Voldemort. Tom doesn't even want to. I'm rewriting history. Why do you say –?"

Merope's face suddenly twisted, furious. "You are not rewriting history," she all but hissed. "You are letting it take its original path. You are changing nothing. You will be Tom's downfall, the very thing that wrecks him. You think friendship is salvation. It isn't."

Harry had no idea what she was talking about. Dear Merlin. What future? Tom's own mother was – what? – warning him to get away from Tom?

"Tell me what happens!"

Merope's eyes flashed. "I can't. It's dangerous to know the future when it hasn't passed for you. Trust me, Harry Potter, you can't change anything unless you stay away from him. You can't save him unless you stay away."

She drifted upwards, and already Harry could see her body blurring.

"Wait –!"

Merope gave him one last forlorn stare.

"Stay away."