I need a place to prepare for war. I need a place to prepare for war. I need a place to prepare for war.

Harry only opened the door of the Room of Requirement for a moment before slamming it closed again. Resting his forehead against the wood as it disappeared, he sighed out his frustration. He'd been trying to find the right room on and off for weeks, ever since they'd started meeting here. Not for the DA, but for himself. But no matter what combination of words and needs he gave, the Room kept presenting him with variations of the DA's practice hall, and that simply wasn't good enough. His dreams were getting worse all the time, the sense of sick anticipation not his own mounting steadily, and he knew he needed to be far more ready than he was in far less time than he wished; a reckoning was coming, and coming fast.

And when it came to preparing for that, training dummies in a glorified defense classroom just weren't going to cut it. He didn't think even the animated statues of various beasts and monsters that one version of the Room turned up would be sufficient; how could conjured stone hope to match the cruelty and cunning of a mad dark wizard?

He wasn't sure what he was hoping the Room could provide that would, in fact, be enough, but the tide of panic that rose around him a bit more each day convinced him that he'd have to keep trying, and hope he knew it when he saw it. He resumed his pacing, shaking his head as he wondered what on earth to ask for.

Really, the only preparation for Voldemort is Voldemort himself. Or at the very least, Tom Riddle. A brief flash of memory assaulted him, of dark hair curling on a pale brow in a dripping chamber far beneath the school, and he shuddered. Yes, Tom Riddle was unmatched by any other; facing another apparition like that one would probably be the closest he could come to matching the machinations of the real thing. Perhaps if he could talk to that memory of young Tom again, study him, even fight him—in a controlled environment where he couldn't be hurt, of course, and with no 11-year-olds or basilisks around—it could give him some insight into what facing his older counterpart might be like. Surely some spectre of the boy remained in that snakelike husk of a Dark Lord?

His stride faltered as something shifted in his peripheral. A door was forming slowly in the wall, one made of thick oaken planks and bands of iron, with a big black ring in the middle for a handle. He hadn't realized he'd made any sort of request as he walked, had thought about anything other than Voldemort really, but maybe the magic had picked up some vision from his subconscious? It was worth a look; the creative potential of his conscious mind was clearly running dry.

When it was fully solid, Harry grabbed the ring and pulled. Instead of swinging open, the door shifted forward and then slid to the side as though on tracks. Rather like muggle prison doors he'd seen on telly. It was the kind of door that seemed like it ought to creak ominously, but there was only silence. Feeling wary, he took a step inside.

The room within was cavernous, and at first glance, completely empty. There were old fashioned muggle weapons mounted on the walls, but none of the dummies or statues or even fluffy cushions that he'd come to expect from the Room's offerings when it came to defense training.

Once again unexpected movement caught his eye, and he snapped to attention, one hand going for his wand even as the other groped behind him for the door. Some of those animated statues had been quite aggressive, and he didn't feel like being shot with arrows by a stone centaur today. But it wasn't a stone centaur, or a training dummy, or anything else of the sort. It seemed to be a man. Tall and slim, the figure stood by what Harry had taken for a continuation of the room but now realized was a wall covered entirely by an enormous mirror. He looked to have been studying the room just as Harry had, but seemed to have caught sight of his reflection and was stepping towards the mirror now, stooping a bit as he leaned in to examine his own features. Harry watched as he brushed a long-fingered hand across his brow. Then he stopped, shoulders stiffening, and the angle of his head changed as he looked elsewhere in the mirror. Following where he thought his gaze must point, Harry saw his own reflection and knew he'd been spotted.

The man turned to face him then, and harry gasped. He would have slammed the door shut again if he hadn't been completely frozen, shock coursing through him in stinging waves.

It was Tom Riddle.

Or, well, it was some version of Tom Riddle.

It wasn't the schoolboy Harry remembered from the Chamber. Nor yet was it Voldemort, at least not as Harry knew him, as he'd risen from that cauldron only months ago. This was a grown man, but a fairly young one, maybe forty at the most. It was hard to tell with wizards, given that they lived so long, but he didn't look much older than Remus or Sirius. Perhaps that wasn't much of a compliment, given that both those men were prematurely aged. And it was true that the figure before him looked a bit sickly, with skin stretched thin and pallid across cheekbones that were as perfect as ever, but below which were cheeks far hollower than they'd been when he was Harry's age. His hair was limp and overlong for fashion, and the whites of his eyes seemed bloodshot. But those eyes still pierced even from across the room, and the hair, though lank and thin, still curled darkly about his fine-carved features and the smooth column of his throat. It could be no one other than Tom.

He and the man, the construct, Tom Riddle, unmistakably Tom Riddle, studied each other for a suspended, endless moment. Harry could feel adrenaline tingling along every inch of him, from his teeth to his knees to his fingernails. He was gripping his wand so tightly he thought he might crack it. Run, shouted one part of his mind, and fight him! screamed another. But a third voice cut through it all, saying, isn't this what you asked for? The man who was the boy, who became the monster? What else could he possibly be looking at now but exactly what he required? What he hadn't even realized he had the capacity to ask for as he paced before the wall not minutes ago?

"Well," Harry breathed at last, heart still loud in his ears. "If I wanted a cross between Tom Riddle and Voldemort, I suppose the Room couldn't have done better."

The Tom-Riddle-thing's eyes narrowed, then flicked around the room, examining it again as he must have been when Harry first opened the door.

"The Room… of Requirement?" he rasped out, voice a bit hoarse. Harry started at the sound of it. Somehow he hadn't expected the mirage to speak. But of course, he scolded himself a moment later, he'd asked for that too. Hadn't he wanted to talk to Riddle? Study him, get to know how he thought? He shook his head; the Room had really delivered in spades this time. Hogwarts was incredible.

"Yeah, that's where we are now. And I required you. Though how it made—" he broke off, shaking his head again in amazement. "Magic still surprises me all the time. Do you think it made you from some magic left behind from the diary thing? A magical memory of a magical memory? Would it be able to draw on that, all the way across the castle? Wait, sorry, I don't know why I'm asking you, of course there's no way you'd know. I'm just blown away, that's all. There's no way you come only from my imagination. I'd never have thought you up this way."

To start with, Harry wouldn't have crowned him. He hadn't noticed it at first, half hidden as it was by dark hair, but the apparition before him was wearing a thin silver circlet. It had wings of some sort on it, and a large gem that dangled in the middle of his forehead. Harry didn't think any version of the man, real or conjured, deserved such distinction. There had to have been some way it was influenced by Riddle himself; perhaps he thought the deep blue of the jewel would compliment his eyes. It figured that even this iteration of him would be vain.

The creature, the man, had returned his gaze to Harry and was watching him keenly, but saying nothing. Harry shuffled his feet, unsure what to do next. Still sort of reeling, honestly. Finally, after a lengthy silence, the… Riddle cleared his throat and spoke again.

"What is it you required, then?"

"Oh!" Harry flushed. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten. "Uh, to fight you, I guess?"

Delicately arched eyebrows went shooting up at that, and Harry hurried to add, "And, you know, talk, and stuff. About you."

"About what, exactly, regarding myself?"

"I'm not… look, I'm not entirely sure. I mean, I know, but I don't… I wasn't really expecting you, you know? It never occurred to me that making you was possible. But I'm going to have to fight you. The real you, that is. Voldemort. And I guess I figured, since we already come here to practice defense, maybe I could use the Room to come up with something more specific to help me. And, well…" he trailed off, waving his arm to encompass the room, the man, himself. "Here we are, I suppose."

The Riddle-thing considered this, head cocked, eyes half-lidded.

"Tell me if I understand. You seek counsel on the matter of Lord Voldemort. On methods to battle him, to outwit and outduel him." Harry nodded. "I am not certain I can aid you in this. After all, the Dark Lord Voldemort is the most formiddable opponent you would ever face. In the unlikely event that you ever found yourself before him, you would most certainly perish. I doubt any amount of instruction could alter that outcome, no matter how proficient the teacher." This pronouncement was followed by a smug little smile, and Harry had to shake his head again. He's as arrogant as the real one, that's for certain.

"I have though, that's the thing. Faced him and survived," he elaborated at the illusion's questioning look. "Been doing it since I was a baby, really. It's sort of my thing. I just need to make sure I can do it again, because he's coming for me, and he's got his body back now. It'll be harder than before, but if I'm prepared, I should have a chance at least."

Riddle did not seem convinced. Harry huffed, suddenly growing frustrated with the whole strange encounter.

"Look, will you help me or not? Because I can just ask the Room to make me something new, if you can't. Now that I know it can do things like this, I'm sure I can come up with a more helpful version of Tom Riddle if I have to."

He was halted by the man's raised hand. Suddenly, it struck him that they stood a lot closer together than they had before. His own back was still only inches from the door he'd entered through, but the apparition of Riddle had drawn near him without him even noticing. Forgotten nerves sprang back to life and prickled up the back of his neck.

As if he could sense his renewed discomfort, the man gave Harry a wide, thin smile that didn't show any teeth.

"I am not certain, but I suppose that having been summoned here, there is no reason for me not to try. I will require more information from you before I can know with any surety. To begin with, what is your name?"

It seemed impossible that any version of Tom Riddle wouldn't know and hate his name—even the diary had known it—but when he cautiously answered "Harry Potter" he got no reaction, not even a flicker of the eyes. It made him uneasy, in a way. Would a construct that didn't hate him act much like the real thing after all, who seemed so utterly driven by his pursuit of Harry's painful death? Then he eyed the shrunken distance between himself and the construct, and the way Riddle stood poised on the balls of his feet as if he'd leap forward at any moment. Maybe the personal hatred was lacking, but this version of the man still seemed as if he'd be ready to strike out at Harry at the first hint of an opportunity. That was probably good enough.

"Harry Potter," repeated Riddle, and God, Harry had always hated the way that voice said his name. There was this caressing note; it never failed to make his skin crawl. "Tell me, Harry Potter, why you believe yourself at personal risk from the Dark Lord. Perhaps then I will know how best to assist you."

That made sense, Harry supposed. He had time for a brief overview anyway, before it would be time to head down to the Great Hall for the Halloween Feast. He gestured with the wand in his hand for Riddle to back up, which he did with another tight-lipped smile. Then he set to explaining what had never required an explanation before: his personal relationship with Voldemort.

There's a phrase I never want to say again, not even in my head, he thought disgustedly. With a suspicious eye on his strange audience, he tried to fight off the feeling that he was embarking on a new iteration of that very thing.

This is a magical construct, Harry assured himself. Not the real man.

And thank Merlin for that.