Chapter Nine -- Spell Casting

Tom and Harry took dinner in the Great Hall together that evening -- on Professor Dumbledore's insistence. Harry had long since dried his eyes and was now staring, sullenly, at a pile of mashed potatoes, stirring them around with his fork. Tom, on the other hand, was steadily working on his second helping.

"What's the matter?" he asked Harry, not concerned but just curious. "Aren't you hungry at all?"

"No," Harry mumbled. "Not that you care."

Tom shrugged, nonchalantly. The boy was right. He didn't care.

"You know, Dumbledore keeps telling me that we're going to be happy together and that everything's going to turn out all right in the end," Harry continued, once again on the brink of tears. "But I just hate you so much and I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life with you . . ."

Harry turned his face to the side and attempted to gag his sobs -- As if Tom wouldn't know that the boy was crying.

"Don't cry," Tom said, more irritated than anything. "I hate it when people cry."

"Oh, sod off then!" Harry wept.

"Can't," Tom sighed. "Dumbledore wants us to stay in here -- alone and together -- for at least another half an hour."

"Why does he insist on torturing me like this?" Harry asked.

"You?" Tom hissed. "What makes you think he's only torturing you? Do you think I like being stuck here any better than you do?"

Harry stopped weeping for a moment and looked up at Tom with large green eyes.

"I s'ppose not."

For the first time that night, Tom noticed the lightening bolt scar on Harry's forehead -- The one that marked him as "The Boy who Lived." That symbol of good defeating evil that had practically become legend in the wizarding world.

"I gave you that then," Tom muttered, more to himself than to Harry. Harry looked confused for a moment and then he realized that Tom was staring at the scar. He quickly smoothed his hair over the mark, making sure that it was out of sight. "Out of sight, out of mind," as the Muggle saying goes.

"No bother," Harry said quickly, trying to dismiss the scar -- wishing right then that he could just rub the damned thing off.

"No, I just thought that . . . Doesn't it hurt?"

Harry looked at Tom Riddle -- Crimson eyes glistening, looking very interested in whatever Harry had to say. Tom's eyes looked warm to Harry for some reason.

Harry shook his head. "No, not really. Dumbledore gave me a potion a few days back so that I wouldn't feel anything. It itches a little though," Harry said, rubbing the mark through the layer of messy black hair.

"Sorry," Tom said, slumping back in his chair.

"No you're not," Harry sighed.

The rest of the evening was spent in silence.

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Tom woke up bright and early the next morning -- sometime around five -- and decided to go down to the Great Hall and have breakfast before Harry Potter woke up. He trounced down to the Great Hall and entered to find . . . Harry Potter sitting at one of the tables, working on a potions project. Harry looked up when Tom entered the room but quickly turned back to his work.

"Sorry," Tom muttered. "Didn't think you'd be up yet."

"I always wake up early," Harry snapped. Five o'clock in the morning and the boy was already hostile.

"So do I," Tom stated. Harry stopped his work momentarily. "What are you working on?" Tom asked, showing a slight amount of interest.

"Potions project," Harry grumbled.

"What's wrong? Not coming out right?"

"It's coming along fine," Harry said quickly, not wanting any of Tom Riddle's help. Tom walked behind Harry to get a better view of the caldron. The young boy flinched but Tom didn't take much notice. The concoction was blackish brown and bubbled furtively. "What is it supposed to be?" Tom asked distastefully.

"It's a sleeping draft," Harry said matter-of-factly.

"A sleeping draft?" Tom laughed. "That's supposed to be a sleeping draft? Try some asphodel."

"I don't need your help," Harry scowled but Tom noticed that Harry slipped a little bit of asphodel into the caldron. The potion stopped bubbling and turned a charming violet color.

"I was top of my potion's class," Tom said with a wide grin. Harry felt his cheeks beginning to burn. "Not only is he horrible, miserable, and disgusting," Harry thought to himself. "He's bossy and arrogant too."

Harry tried to imagine what his parents would think of this situation -- Harry, sitting in the Great Hall, receiving academic assistance from Lord Voldemort himself. Would they be disgraced? Would they be depressed? Would they pity their poor son?

"Wondering what your parents would think?" Tom asked, suddenly. Harry leapt to his feet. It was as if Tom Riddle was reading his mind.

"How'd you know that?"

"Just a good guess," Tom shrugged. "How much time every day do you spend thinking about your parents?" Then he added, as the traditional hurtful side note: "And are they really worth all the time you spend on them?"

"Of course they're worth it," Harry snarled.

"You never met them," Tom said, nonchalantly. "How do you know they're worth the time of day?"

"I just know," Harry replied, bitterly. "And I'm always thinking about my parents. They mean more to me than anything in the world."

"Suit yourself," Tom said, not wanting to argue with the devoted young boy at this hour of the morning.

"Don't talk about my parents anymore," Harry commanded, sitting back down in the stiff, wooden chair. "It seems wrong."

"Why's that?" Tom asked, puzzled.

"You're too far below them," Harry said, biting into the words. Tom was just about ready to give the boy a serious piece of his mind when Dumbledore cast bursting into the Great Hall. "Lucky for you, Potter," Tom thought to himself giving the boy his coldest stare.

"Ah! How convenient to find you both awake!" Dumbledore exclaimed. "I thought that maybe we could go for a walk around the forest today or maybe we could take a trip down to Hogsmeade or maybe we could . . ."

Tom and Harry just glared at each other.

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Harry crossed off another box on his calendar. Another day done, another day closer to July 31st. Harry shuddered -- He didn't want to think about it. Only about a week longer and he'd be officially bound to Tom Riddle. God, what would Hermione and Ron say when they got back? And then there was Ginny who had already experienced the glory of Tom . . . She had always had a bit of a crush on Harry. What would she think about this situation?

Harry flopped down onto his bed and sighed. "Alright Harry," he thought to himself. "You've been wallowing in self-pity for long enough. Time for some optimism." Would life be that awful with Tom? Other than the fact that the boy was cruel, heartless, insensitive, and full of bitter hatred and malice, there wasn't anything wrong with him. "He's certainly attractive enough," Harry thought to himself and then realized that he shouldn't be thinking about things like that. After all, looks are completely inconsequential. "All that glisters is not gold," Harry thought, quoting the Muggle playwright, William Shakespeare. Tom Riddle might have glistered but he certainly wasn't gold.

"Enough optimism," Harry sighed. "There is no optimism in this situation. You're stuck with the most hateful boy the world has ever known and you're stuck with him for life. How could you ever be optimistic about that?"

Harry glanced at his calendar. Eight more days and Harry felt like he was counting down to the apocalypse.