Disclaimer: Don't Own, Don't Sue.

Chapter Two: Answer

He was so naïve.

He thought nothing of the stranger next to him, sitting there as if the world were at ease with him, and he with it. Did he have no vigilance? No perspective? No distrust? Did he know nothing of the Wizarding world? Did he not know that Glamour Charms were common, polyjuce potion easy to a skilled hand?

Did he not know he was the most wanted boy by the Dark Lord himself?

He was so naïve.

The park was calm, empty expect the straddling summer leaves that wanted to litter a chaos upon the ground, dropping from the tree, but unable to break the connection. The swings, broken and hanging down in disgrace, swayed in the gentle breeze. Sorrowful that no soul was to swing on them for a long time.

He found them far too interesting for his tastes.

He sat there, arms spread out lazily against the wooden bench, fighting the essence of temptations so well that he ought to be acknowledged for that, nothing else. His right foot was resting atop his left knee, his body reclined in a relaxed state, his mind fighting for such a realm.

Temptation was the Devil. Especially when it was so easy, when the thing was just within grasp, but that would mean you failed. He wasn't there to succumb to the temptation; then again he never thought he would be presented with such an opening.

He had just been there to watch.

The boy sat at the base of the tree, lounged among the roots, his wild black hair scraping his forehead in the breeze. His emerald green eyes were shut tight, unseeing to the world around him, trusting of the easing peace the park created. He was entrapped within thoughts, oblivious to what sat not far away.

Upon a bench, watching his every movement.

He was the first one there, planning an easy day of prowling and watching, and then the boy arrived, barely acknowledged him, and sat down upon the roots of the trees, falling into his thoughts.

He was so naïve.

He thought he was so safe, but he hardly was. Not with the person that sat not five feet away, fighting temptation, and almost losing a battle he never thought he would have. Never, ever.

Suddenly a gusting laugh broke the world, startling both of them. The boy craned around, his neck bending darkly as he watched a whale of a boy walk into the park, his 'friends' trailing him. He was a thing of a boy. Grotesque with a body that bubbled and jumbled as he walked, sweat a permanent feature upon his forehead and underarms.

His clothing was slickly tight, but he wore enough of the fabric to cover any unpleasant rolls. His piggy eyes bulged out, his teeth bearing in a stained yellow of too many cigarettes, and for such an early hour he already reeked of the prudent smell of alcohol.

The man on the bench couldn't help but curl his nose upward, a tight disgust feeling his sensitive nostrils. Even the boy was affected, but he should no sign of being so as he turned back to his thoughts at the base of the tree. Briefly his eyes lingered upon the man on the bench, watching him with sudden interest, but just as soon as it came, it diminished.

He laughed inwardly. He thinks me a muggle, he thought, I really ought to be offended. But he wasn't.

"Oy, look who it is," the whale child whaled, ironically enough, in a piggish snort of a voice that couldn't cause decent me to lose their meals. He waddled a bit, eager, as he turned his greedy thirst on the boy at the base of the tree. "The little, wittle, Potter boy, or my so-called cousin, personally I don't believe it."

Cousin, the man drawled in his head. Interesting. He gave no flattery to life, let alone living flesh and blood of a Potter relative.

"What's the matter?" the boy kept taunting while his lackeys chortled in the background. They probably didn't understand, a bit like Crabbe and Goyle. Junior and Senior. "Still thinkingof war?" a piggish smile formed his lips. "Well I told you what it was Potter," his tone had dropped into an oddly serious sneer. "It's annihilation. Best accept that."

So he was questioning war…the man shifted a bit. That made sense—considering what was going on. He glanced at the green-eyed boy and smirked. He had to give the boy that, he could be rightfully clever in his ways of dealing with his cousin.

"Go away Dudley," the boy finally snarled as the whale loomed up to him. "Or I shall annihilate you." So serious was his voice that the whale pales, eyes bulging out disgustingly, and he retreated several steps back.

"Come on Big D, let's go," one of his lackeys attempted, barely touching the boy's sleeve to pull him away. Dudley willingly succumbed.

Silence befell the park once they were gone. The bench man was more then just intrigued. No longer did he have to fight temptation. No, he wanted to know more, and this was the best way.

His shifted in his seat, eyes falling upon the boy, willing him to open his green eyes and look at him. Straight in the eye. Not to see him for whom he really was, though that would be amusing.

The boy wanted to know about war? Then he shall tell him about War.

Clearing his throat in a far too muggle-like fashion, he gathered the boy's attention, undaunted by the bright green eyes that shined at him suddenly from behind the jet-black bangs. He creased a smirk and settled back onto his bench chair, allowing the black leather of his jacket to form his arm.

"Want to know about war then?" he drawled out slowly, his eyes fixated upon the swing. He waited for a response. There wasn't one. Maybe the boy wasn't as naïve as he thought. He glanced to the side; the boy had closed his eyes again.

Oh, he was.

"Don't understand it do you?" he continued, his voice foreign sounding to his ears. Otherwise it would be too obvious. "Should make perfect sense, right? Fight for what's right, fight for what's wrong. That doesn't tell you what war is…though you cousin is drastically wrong. Annihilation is only a factor, not the point."

His eyes were still closed but he had tilted his head slightly, obviously listening. The man on the bench grinned.

"Though annihilation doesn't mean death," he smirked as a frown formed the green-eyed boy's lips. "It means just getting rid of a lot of things." The green eyes were open now, boring into the side of his head. He couldn't look over again lest their eyes met.

Temptation was crawling back…but later—maybe.

"If you were given a request in return for a nice bed…what would you request? Anything in the world, the world itself at your hands, what would you take? It's a balance, to give something, something must be given. Though what's given in return is often bigger then what is received. An awkward balance, but a balance." He paused, absorbing the peacefulness of the world.

Continuing, he ran rumbling fingers over the wooden bar of the bench. "One time a man was given such a request, a simple request in the least. Drawn to the life of violence, lusting for blood and gore, his only dream was witnessing, hosting in a sense, a way. His own war. That was his request, a trying request, a simple one nonetheless with consequences that could be lusterless to his cause. But triumphs that were lustful to his cause.

"So he made the request. 'Give me my own war.' And it was granted. The next day, the first day of the day he was to have a war, he walked outside, breathing in the fresh air, hoping to already smell the stench of blood. He wasn't satisfied but he would come, he was sure.

"Fighting. Violence. Blood. Screams. Death. Gun fire. Violence. Violence. The grin could barely be suppressed as he trotted into town. When he reached the place, however, he stopped dead in shock, horror, disgust. No fighting, no violence, no blood, no death, no anything. Anything but peace. The man with beady brown eyes, a pudgy face, scrambled down the street in horrified disbelief. He was sweating profusely but he didn't seem to notice as he eyes darted around, taking in all the calm, peacefulness of the town.

"He was plainly disgusted by it and let this be known by abruptly yowling in anger and shoving an old man that walked by. There was a distinct crack as the old man's hip broke and a silence befell the street. The boy hissed in his breath…would this be the start of the request for the war?

No.

"Suddenly the old man started to laugh, and two burly men stepped forward and heaved him up. "Didn't like that hip much anyway. Good day sir." The old man cried out as he was traveled off, toward the hospital, eyes barely tinted with watery tears." The man paused, realizing that as he spoke, his tale was becoming more and more story-like.

"Everyone went back to life after that," he continued finally. The boy was entrapped within his tale; nothing else mattered but his words. "Nothing had happened. He had broken an old man's hip, hadn't bothered to do anything, and then nothing had happened.

This peace was horrifying.

"He had to break it. Diving forward, he made a trail of chaos in the street, shoving, slamming any and all around. He even so much as kicked a little girl in the stomach and yet nothing happened."The he spotted the mayor before the clock tower, where he was taking a usual walk around the town, and greeting the people he loved and protected. When the mayor spotted to the pudgy man he waved a merry hand but never expected the reply he'd get."

A prolonged pause filled the air as the man chose his next words slowly.

"The pudgy man had smashed his beefy fist into the man's face, instantly breaking the nose. He turned around, waiting for the outrage, the way he could ruin the peace. But nothing happened.

"The mayor wheezed a few unheard jokes up from under his bloody hand and allowed himself to be led away from the crowd that was forming with smiles, sincere ones. They merely greeted the man and told him that it was a nice punch.

"'What do you call this?' he shouted to no one in the crowd. He was staring upward, as if at God, but that wasn't who he was addressing. "This isn't a war! I requested a war! I wanted a war and what do you give me instead? PEACE! This isn't a war! I wanted a war!"

"People in the crowd looked at him bemusedly and nodded about war being an oddly sweet thing for him to request. He ignored them all, looking upward to whoever he had made the request of, before collapsing onto the ground, shaking.

"Too much peace. He wanted a war, not peace. Peace…the word shuddered through him and around him like the grasp of Death's wiry hand. He wanted a war…he couldn't break the peace for his war. He had wanted a war, his thirst, his lust, for blood. His deranged harboring of the thing itself spewing in outrage at the sign of peace." He was lost in his own memories, his mind whirling up the thoughts of the tale, completely in trapped with dazed eyes.

"'I gave you a war,' the voice, toneless, and the shaking man. 'You asked for your own war and I gave you one. What better is a war to a man that loves violence then the direct opposite? I gave you a war, sir, a war of peace against your very soul.'"

"Against your very soul?" the boy echoed, those words haunting. The man on the bench nodded, understanding his feeling.

"He had one request, that was all, and he requested his doom. His very doom for a war." He turned to the boy, eyes resting on the lightening bolt scar on his forehead instead of the green eyes.

Ah, the temptation.

"There are other forms of war," the man said. "Not all is violence. So what is war?" the boy leaned forward keenly. "It's whatever you request it to be."

He understood that statement, the boy had. He was wiser then he gave off the appearance of being. He was still naïve, but that didn't matter nonetheless. He had a mind, if he attempted it appeared.

Temptation.

He had stood up, dusting off his over-baggy pants, his floppy shirt floating wildly about his skinny arms. "Thank you," the boy nodded. "I needed to hear that."

"There's a lot you need to hear Potter," he couldn't resist. Instantly the boy stiffened, eyes widening, stepping back slightly in fear, his fingers etching closely to his pocket. His wand.

Stretching as he stood up, the man studied the boy closely. Oh the temptation. It wasn't almost too much now. How could he resist. So close at hand, his number one enemy, the boy on top of his hit list.

"W-who?" the boy stuttered, gathering a better defense stance, studying the man, disbelief clawing his stomach. How could he have been so oblivious!

"Why Potter," the man smirked as he pulled out his wand. "I'm your best pal." With that he muttered a foreign Latin word and his whole appearance changed, the polyjuice he had been wearing, mixed with the strong Glamour collapsing.

Cold. Harry fell cold. Numb with horror. Shocked in a realm of disbelief so deep that he felt more then inadequate. How the hell had he been so stupid!

Before him the appearance of the long-haired, olive skinned man disappeared, collapsed in pale, sunken cheeks, with blood red eyes that haunted his very nightmares. His scar pricked, but not a lot. Not like it should've been. The man loomed up a few inches and his nose, once flat, seemed to finally be building itself up, into a normal one, though it never would be. His bald head glinted far too healthily in the sun of the park and his pale skin flashed lighter then ghost's skin.

Lord Voldemort. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Harry collapsed back against the tree, horrified. All thoughts of getting a bind and escaping diminishing with the numbed essence that swarmed his body. He couldn't move and he wouldn't have been surprised if he had suddenly started to drool through his sagging mouth of horror, or his feared heart-beat could be heard around the neighborhood.

"Why, Potter, no invitation to tea?" the man mocked.

"How…possible…Dumbledore…scar…" the boy fumbled over his words as the man stepped forward, eyes flashing under the sun.

"Wards are weaker the farther away you are from home," Tom Riddle, Voldemort, winked darkly. "I know more about your scar then you think, I can control how well you feel me. I just like your writhing pain."

As in response to his words, he let the link open a bit, causing a spiraling pain to increase in Harry's mind.

"So you going to kill me then?" Harry snarled, his hand too numb in fear to grab his wand. Oh why was he so damned slow, numb, stupid? He backed into the tree, getting as far away as he could.

Tom Riddle stepped forward, eyes boring with a lusting gush of temptation, thirst for death, and a harboring essence of glee. Then there was something else, a flash of it, as Harry moved in his baggy clothing, the fabric sagging off of his thin body like a spilt essence of extra skin. A flash of possibly sympathy.

If it was even there, that's flash, it disappeared quicker then it came. Replaced with the same look he always gave Potter, though it seemed offset. He stepped forward, his body shifting through the shadows of the looming tree, his body moving quicker then a snake's blink.

He was right next to the emerald eyed boy in a second, basking in the boy's fear. The boy tried to crane away but he couldn't, and try as he might, he couldn't reach his wand. Not that it matter, Tom Riddle had plucked it away, dropped it several feet away for good measure.

Then he tilted his snake face as he rubbed a finger down the boy's cheek, relishing in the boy's squirming pain.

"Not today Potter," the man whispered in his ear. "Today let's just say…your prolonged life shall be a mutual birthday present." He chuckled as the boy's start, and he drew away, his menacing smile breaking his face. He turned, to leave.

The temptation was lost. Another day, if he stayed so naïve.

"You owe me tea one day Potter, you can't possibly be that rude." Then with a crack with he gone, laughter of mirth cracking the park like a death bell. Harry collapsed against the tree, gasping in burning gulps of breath.

He couldn't believe it. To things flooding his mind. The main, ironically enough, being that he had gotten his answer to war…from the one man that was creating his own war.

He was so naïve.

A/N: R&R please.