Harry made his way out of the common room, books tucked beneath his arm.

Hermione had sent him away, together with his homework and a stern warning that she wouldn't help him do his homework this time. It wasn't his fault that he completely forgot about it until today, but someone tell that Hermione.

He had left Ron behind in a similarly desperate state as Harry himself was in, hunched over a table, staring down at his essay and laughed at by the twins.

Harry gave a deep sigh as he walked past a big window, looking out at the darkening sky. It was too late to ask any of his other friends for help, and not doing it wasn't an option either. An angry Professor Macgonegall first thing in the morning would be like hell.

So, he made himself on the way to the only hope left.

Strange that he'd ever think of Riddle as a source of hope.

A few weeks had come and passed ever since Harry had started befriending Riddle, and he felt more conflicted than ever. More than once, he'd had the chance to kill Riddle, but never actually followed through with it. Couldn't bring himself to, always found himself faltering in the last moment, wand trembling.

He didn't know why. It wasn't that he was afraid of regret or the consequences that killing Riddle would bring. He wouldn't mind risking his life if it meant Voldemort would be dead and stayed that way.

Problem was, he couldn't see Voldemort in Riddle anymore. And so he couldn't bring himself to go through with killing him.

Sometimes, he almost forgot who Riddle was, who he would be. It was easy to only see the brilliant mind, the quick retards, and the charming smile. And in those moments, Harry found himself staring at Riddle, unable to find the monster he would become. Then, he couldn't see the killer in Riddle.

Was it pity?

Dumbledore had told him of the little boy he'd met at the orphanage, utterly abandoned by both father and mother, and Harry knew exactly how that felt. Maybe, some part in him even felt as if there still was something inside Riddle that could be saved. As if he wasn't all bad.

His conflicted morals seemed to grow worse every time he met up with Riddle. Which was quite often, unfortunatly. They saw each other every few days, and each time the hole Harry had dug for himself seemed to only get bigger and bigger.

Harry sighed and pushed the door to the Room of Hidden things open, shoving his morals deep down.

He would need to ignore them for the next few hours.

Tom had seen many strange things in the few weeks he'd known Harry, but the face he made now, throwing a pile of books on the coffee table before them, was one of the strangest.

He glanced up from his own scroll of parchment and raised an eyebrow at Harry.

"Can you help me with my homework?"

Tom leaned back in his seat, surprised. Harry never asked for help. Even if it was only a helping hand after one of their duels, or a quick healing spell after hurting himself, he never let Tom help him. And now he made an exception?

He quickly vanished the surprise from his face, and instead put on a nice smile, "That depends on the subject."

Harry sat down on the couch, "It's transfiguration. I forgot I had to do it 'till tomorrow."

Tom did his best not to glare at him, "It's already late in the evening, Harry. What have you been doing the whole day?"

"Uh, anything else?"

Tom felt his eye twitch but forced the irritation down. "Alright, let's see if I can help you. But only for a favor."

"What kind?" he asked hesitantly.

Tom leaned forward in his seat, "I haven't quite decided yet." Harry looked at him suspiciously, lifting an eyebrow. Only fair, Tom thought and added, "Don't worry. I won't ask anything unreasonable."

Harry still seemed wary, but a few seconds later he gave in and sighed, "Sure, then. But don't try anything weird."

"Of course, Harry," he smiled and stood up, "Now, shall we go to the table over there?"

Harry following behind him, they made their way over to the small study table which stood behind Tom's bookshelf. Sitting down, Harry put the books down on to the table and Tom curiously grabbed the top one. "Quite a collection you have here," he said, turning it around, "I never knew Bedelia Reviee had published books on that matter."

"Er, yes, I think it's a new one," Harry snatched it from his hand and put it back on the pile, "I just took them with me just in case. But," he handed over a scroll of paper, "depending on how good you are with Human Transfiguration we might not need them."

Tom took the scroll and swiftly rolled it open. At once, his eyes were confronted with a page of messy, slanted writing and he squinted down at the paper. "Is this your handwriting? I have to say, I expected something a bit more… refined from a homeschooled student."

Harry looked huffy, "You can't read it?"

"No, that should be fine. It's just… different than what I'm used to."

"Bet you just stare at your own writing all day long," Harry grumbled, "Of course you'd be used to better."

Tom smiled at Harry, "Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment"

"I was trying to say you're a narcissistic ass, but sure," Harry said with a scowl.

Tom chuckled. Harry certainly had grown more confident in the last couple of weeks, hadn't he? He seemed to become more and more open every time Tom did something nice for him. It made him want to try to always be polite, even in Harry's most infuriating moments.

Though he wasn't quite sure why he'd be the one to put in more effort, not Harry. That was how friendship usually worked for Tom, after all. That was if Harry could even be counted as a friend. He certainly wasn't like any other friends Tom had.

Harry grinned back at him, and then gestured to the paper in Tom's hands, "Now, can you do something about that mess there? I already wrote that introduction there this evening, but I was getting stuck on the whole Human-to-Object thing."

"Well, it's quite simple, really." Tom began, putting the scroll back onto the table, "You have to apply the same logic as for the transformation of animals into inanimate objects. It would require a lot of practice to implement, but it should still come easier than other spells for Human Transfiguration."

Harry hummed doubtfully, settling back in his seat, "And that logic is?"

"Well, if you would transfigure a cat into a candle, for example, you'd have to take the material, the size, and of course, the awareness into consideration. The candle would still feel aware like a cat would, but now of its form as a candle instead of a human's. We know that from the experiences of humans who were transfigured into an object. They change form but their being itself is still the same.

"For me, when I wish to transfigure an animal into an inanimate object, it's as if I take the animal and push it into a different form. Based on the accounts of others, I've heard that sometimes it feels like warping or kneading the animal it into the desired form–"

"Wait, wait, wait." Harry interrupted him, pulling a feather and ink out of nowhere and opening the parchment. After jotting down a few sentences, Harry glanced up and asked, "Can you repeat that?"

Tom cleared his throat and started from the beginning. It felt nice, having someone listen so attentively to everything he said, so very different from the feeling the Death Eaters gave him. With them, it often felt as if his words, or even Tom himself, were being worshipped.

And while he often relished that feeling, he found that having Harry listen to him, not as a follower, but as something almost like a friend, felt better than that.

When Harry, instead of just accepting his words without questioning them, would look up at him with rapt eyes and ask him questions, Tom found himself almost feeling giddy, for some reason.

He scowled at himself and grabbed a book from the stack, turning it in his hand. Then, his eyes fell from the book onto Harry's hand, the one who was steading the parchment, and the faint scar on it.

Weird.

With a glance up at Harry, who looked completely absorbed in the text, he scooted closer. It seemed to be words of some sort. Did someone carve them in there? He frowned and tried to read them. It seemed to be in the same shaky, messy handwriting of Harry's. Did he do this to himself? But why would he?

He knew from experience that asking Harry about his scars didn't go down well. He had done so before, after all.

He remembered the moment well, when, in the midst of one of their duels, Tom had shot a Ventus at Harry. The spell made a strong wind gust from Tom's wand, so strong that everything around him, including Harry, got pressed back, away from Tom. Harry's clothes had billowed in the wind and he had been forced to lift a hand to shield his eyes from the gust.

Even his hair, which normally lay stubbornly on Harry's face, had been pushed back by the wind, revealing an odd scar beneath.

In his surprise, Tom had let go of the spell, and Harry had stormed forward, knocking him onto the floor. It had been one of the first times Harry had won against him, and so he'd looked utterly elated when glancing down on Tom, a grin on his face.

But it had vanished just moments later when Tom had lifted his hand, as if in trance, and brought it up to Harry's forehead, brushing the hair away. Immediately, Harry had flinched back from Tom's touch, stumbling up on his feet.

And until Tom had gotten to his feet and asked him about the scar, Harry's whole face had been closed off, turning away from Tom. The words had died in his throat and he hadn't even complained when Harry gave a nonsensical excuse and had stormed away, leaving Tom behind. He hadn't seen him again that day.

So, no, he didn't think asking Harry about yet another odd scar would be a good idea.

He turned to look up at Harry again, shaking his head only to see him already looking at Tom with a puzzled expression on his face, "Are you alright, Riddle?"

Tom cleared his throat, "Yes, of course, excuse me. So, as I was saying…"

About an hour later, Tom had his head propped up with his arm, looking over at Harry tiredly. He had just finished reading through the easy, and pointed out a few mistakes to Harry, and was now watching him go over them again.

He only narrowly stopped a yawn when Harry did, and instead leaned more on his arm, turning his head to look down at the dark oak of the table.

"Is someone tired?"

Tom lifted his head and glared at a smirking Harry, "You're the one yawning, not me."

"I'm not the one nearly falling asleep."

Tom sneered, "I wasn't."

"Sure, sure," Harry dipped his feather into the ink and continued writing, "You know, I'm nearly finished here. You can go if you want."

"I'm fine."

Harry glared at him, "I mean it, Riddle. It's already been late when I got here, and you got school in the morning. I don't wanna be the one to blame for your grumpiness."

"I am never grumpy." In the corner of his eyes, Tom saw Harry roll his eyes. He ignored it, and instead continued in his nicest voice "But it would be fairly unproductive for me to stay here if you don't need my help anymore. And anyway, when you arrived here, I had been just about to retire. So yes, you'll fully be to blame for my lack of sleep tomorrow."

"See? Grumpy."

"Oh, shut up, Harry," he suppressed a smile, and stood up, "Don't stay here for much longer. You need enough sleep as well."

"Believe me, I won't. As soon as I've got something of an acceptable essay I'll be out of here. Sleep well, Riddle."

"You too," Tom mumbled and walked away. Before stepping behind the bookshelf, however, he turned around, "By the way, if you ever need assistance with your homework again, I would gladly be of help."

Harry stared at him for a few seconds, looking absolutely puzzled, before breaking out into a wide grin, "Thanks, Riddle! But I suppose you'd ask more favors of me every time?"

Tom grinned back sharply, "Of course I would. Don't be stupid," He turned back around, "See you, Harry."

"Bye!"

And with that, Tom stepped out into the darkness that laid behind his lounge. The mountains of objects seemed oddly eerie in the darkness, but Tom wasn't scared, not like he assumed Harry would be. He walked past vitrines filled with skulls, vile potions, and jars with pickled eyes. The eyes looked at him as he passed and Tom looked back, a smile on his face.

No, Tom was only scared of one thing. And, he thought, smile widening sharply, it was about time he got rid of it.

When Tom arrived at the dungeon, he entered the common room with cold determination pooling in his stomach. But he was only halfway across the room when someone approached him from the side.

"Excuse me," the person hesitantly spoke up, and Tom felt a flash of anger at the interruption.

"Yes?" he snarled and saw as the person took a step back. Tom turned face to face to them and noticed it was one of his followers, Rodolphus Lestrange.

"There had been plans for a meeting tonight, have you forgotten?" Tom glared at him and he nervously continued, "I just wanted to ask if you wished to hold it now, my Lord."

"No. We can do it sometime else, I don't care. Leave me alone now." And with that, Tom stepped away from Lestrange and entered the dorms. Crossing the way over to his bed in the far corner, he took a folded nightgown out of the trunk and put it on. Then, he pulled the curtains to his bed close, and settled down onto his bed, finally allowing a sharp grin to take place on his face as he stared up at the ceiling.

It was time for some planning.

Back in the Room of Requirement, Harry just finished with his essay and was rolling it up slowly, careful to not smudge the ink. Then, he buckled it and his books beneath his arm and walked away, turning the light off with a quick spell.

It was strange, seeing the room covered in darkness. It never got as bright in here as outside without any sunlight shining into the room, hence the warm lights Riddle had put up all around the lounge, but it never was this dark.

Normally, the Room of Requirement didn't seem affected by time at all. It hadn't been when he and the other members of Dumbledore's Army had trained in here, and it wasn't during his meetings with Riddle. It seemed timeless, not part of the rest of the castle.

The fact that he found the same objects standing when switching between the times certainly didn't help either.

A loud creak sounded from somewhere behind Harry and he jumped, glancing around startled. Finding nothing out of place, he hesitantly turned around towards the exit again, fastening his steps.

He wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Finally, the mirror came into sight, and Harry practically flew towards it. Standing before it, he glanced around carefully in the darkness before it and took his wand out. He cast a spell to be sure that Riddle wasn't waiting around somewhere, watching Harry, and sighed in relief when he stepped through the mirror.

He had learned the spell exactly for this, to make absolutely sure that Riddle never found out about the mirror.

When he finally reached the exit, Harry cast a quick disillusionment charm on himself and his things. He wasn't quite sure what time it was, and if curfew was already in place, but he'd rather not risk it. Then, he pushed the door open and exited the room, a smile on his face. This evening had been rather successful, he thought. Riddle had been more open with him than ever, maybe because of the late hour. Maybe he should do this more often, get Riddle to put his guard do–

"Petrificus Totalus!"

A red light shot in his direction and hit his side before he could doge, freezing him halfway out of the door. Another spell swiftly undid his disillusionment charm and left Harry standing there, feeling oddly helpless and scared.

He felt a drop of sweat run down his face as footsteps sounded from his right, and he wanted desperately to brush it away, grab his wand and make a run for it.

"Potter. I should have known."

Harry cursed himself in his mind.

He completely forgot about Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy entered his field of vision, his wand held tightly in front of him. Harry didn't know if it was out of fear or anger. Probably the latter.

"What have you been doing inside that room?" he snarled, stepping closer. Ah yes, it was definitely the latter.

He paused, as if awaiting Harry's response and Harry glared at him.

"Ah, yes, you can't speak." He swiftly undid the charm, but as soon as Harry got his wand out, books falling forgotten onto the floor, it was kicked from his hand. A second later, Malfoy was upon him and pressed the wand to Harry's throat threateningly. "Now, you better answer me, Potter."

Harry glanced at the wand and said, "Er, homework?"

Malfoy scowled and dug his wand firmer into Harry's throat, making him gasp for air, "Try again."

"I mean it," Harry said desperately, "Those're my books down there!"

Malfoy didn't even look at them, "I don't believe you."

"Well, that's your problem." Harry said between gasps, "Now, let me go."

Malfoy ignored him, "How did you find this room?"

"You already know that! The others and I had lessons in there last year–"

"No, that was another room." Malfoy interrupted him, "I meant that specific one."

"It's only a room, Malfoy! Who says I haven't created it for myself?"

"That is not just any room, Potter! Don't you dare talk your way out of this."

"Why, 'cause it's the same one you use?" Harry said and smiled down at him. Big mistake.

Malfoy smashed him right against the nearest wall, Harry's head crashing painfully into it, "What were you doing in there? What do you know, Potter?!"

"I don't know anything, Malfoy!" Harry cried angrily, closing his eyes in pain, "Leave me alone!"

"You're the one not leaving other people's business alone. This room is mine," he growled, "do you understand?!"

Harry glared at him and had already opened his mouth when loud steps rang out in the corridor beside him. A prefect.

Malfoy seemed to notice it too and glanced around panicky. He pulled his wand back and said, "This isn't finished, Potter."

A moment later, he was gone, vanished behind a corner, and Harry put his disillusionment charm back just in time when the prefect rounded the corner, wand outstretched in his hand.

Harry stood there against the wall, being as still as possible as he waited for the prefect to leave the corridor. Then, he pushed himself off the wall and slowly and rubbed his throat. There was sure to be a big, fat bruise there tomorrow.

Maybe this wasn't such a great evening after all.