Summary: A thoroughly impossible freak accident transports our favorite attractive psychopath forward in time from 1942 to 1996. Harry Potter/Tom Riddle slash. Harry and Tom talk – then Tom sneaks away.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, Tom Riddle, or any other people, places or objects that may appear in this humble work of fiction.
Warnings: Possible spoilers up to the fifth book. M/M, obviously. Rating is down as T for now but may, possibly, increase to M as things progress.
Author's Note: Hmm, if I stay on schedule, this fic should be comprised of 27 chapters, meaning we're down to the last ten :( Well, in case you hadn't noticed, the chapters have been getting significantly longer, so that means the fic is about halfway done…gulp… and I could easily be off in my estimates by a chapter or two. And thanks again for the reviews! Keep 'em coming!

Chapter Eighteen: Similar Frustrations

Harry couldn't say when they stopped talking. They swapped stories about their lives for a long while that night. Harry started with the Dursleys; Tom started with the orphanage. Harry left out some bits about being lonely in school and being beaten up by Dudley whenever he wasn't fast enough to get away; Tom, Harry was sure, had left out some things about orphanage life that he didn't want to share. By unspoken agreement, neither had asked questions. They went on to talking about benign Hogwarts-related things, comparing teachers and funny stories. Harry told Tom about Malfoy's ferret transformation in fourth year; Tom told Harry about Kieran Finnigan's supposedly legendary blowing-up incident, in which he bulged so large that he filled up the entire Great Hall, and it took the Ministry three days to deflate him, which prompted Harry to tell Tom about when he blew up his own aunt. He must have fallen asleep eventually, because when he woke the sun was shining dimly through the curtains of Tom's bed, and Tom was lying soundly asleep on the other side, on top of the tousled sheets.

Harry rubbed his eyes and shuffled back to his own bed, lying sprawled out on top and thinking sleepily. He had found their conversation the other night pleasant, but pretty uninformative. Harry figured that if he had his greatest enemy sleeping in the bed next to his, without said greatest enemy even knowing that he was his greatest enemy, it only made sense to try to get as much information as he could out of him, especially since Tom was willing to talk. For all Harry knew, the secret to defeating Voldemort and fulfilling (or escaping) the Prophecy might lie in some unimportant story from over fifty years ago.

For two weeks, Harry snuck to Tom's bed every night. If he was having nightmares, Harry would soothe them away – he still felt a little funny about doing this when he really thought about it, so he tried hard not to think about it – but, if there was a light shining from behind Tom's curtains, Harry would sit in bed with Tom for hours. Their conversations grew gradually more intimate; Harry liked to think that it was because they were running out of dumb things to talk about after all that time; deep down he had to admit that he enjoyed unloading some of his baggage.

He had never been able to talk to anyone about the things he could talk to Tom about. It wasn't that he trusted Tom more than Ron or Hermione – far, far from it – but Tom, despite being a younger incarnation of Lord Voldemort, was an outsider in many ways, and he listened to Harry without looking horrified or offering suggestions. There were still some things he couldn't talk to Tom about; while they did talk about You-Know-Who's attempts on Harry's life, Harry often found himself fudging parts. You-Know-Who's resurrection in Harry's fourth year was presented as much tamer and did not take place in the Little Hangleton graveyard; Harry played down You-Know-Who's rivalry with Dumbledore; most of all, Harry did not make mention of the Chamber of Secrets opening in Harry's second year, because he doubted that Tom would appreciate him having killed Tom's pet basilisk. But it was easier – far easier – to talk to Tom about Sirius.

Harry observed that Tom was also getting more comfortable talking to him. After the first few meetings, once Harry started opening up, Tom followed, revealing more personal details of his life than Harry was entirely comfortable with knowing. Tom had told him how some of the other boys at the orphanage had tried to bully him in his early years, but Tom's magical powers had developed abnormally early, even for wizards, and strange bad things had tended to happen around those who bothered him even as a toddler, so he had generally been left alone. Tom didn't detail these things, and Harry didn't ask. Tom had never gone hungry – but was rarely full, either – and he had never been abused by the orphanage staff, but they had been scared of him, and he hadn't had anyone to talk to. It sounded no lonelier than Harry's childhood, but it bothered him more hearing about it than talking about it himself.

Tom had told Harry other things, too – things about the Dark Arts. Tom had been bored at Hogwarts in ways Harry couldn't understand; Tom was brilliant, and he had wanted to learn so much more than what he was taught. The way Tom told it, he absorbed magical information so quickly that he could barely keep his attention on class material for fifteen minutes; by the way Harry had seen him write out his homework neatly off the top of his head without any books in that way which terrified Hermione, Harry could believe him. So Tom had dived into the library, learning spell after spell, until the only challenge he could find lay in the Restricted Section.

And Tom had wanted to use the power he had for something; he was no Ravenclaw, he was not an academic. He wanted to change a world he had found so unsatisfactory to date. But he wasn't given the opportunity to show off his powers very often; there were no Philosopher's Stones or manic diaries or escaped convicts or evil dark wizards trying to kill him. Harry thought ironically that Tom would have appreciated the distraction. So, naturally, since trouble didn't follow Tom like a dark shadow, Tom had to make his own trouble.

Harry was bothered by how much of Tom he could understand from the stories. All his arrogance, manipulation, revenge, hatred… it all made sense in a bizarre kind of way. Tom hadn't been born an arse, he had been made one. That didn't mean Harry forgave him a jot for anything he had done; Myrtle and Hagrid hadn't done anything to deserve what they got from him, and Harry hadn't had the best of childhoods, but he hadn't gone around setting a basilisk on the school. Tom hadn't had friends, though, and Harry wondered, in the deepest depths of his mind that he didn't like to listen to, what he would have become if it hadn't been for a freckle-faced, red headed boy he had met on the Hogwarts Express.

No, he couldn't forgive Tom; he had made his own choices, and they were bad ones for the most part, in Harry's opinion. But Harry could understand the way Tom's mind worked more and more. He couldn't hate Tom anymore, and he could only dislike him when he was trying very hard, when he blocked out all the reasonable protests pounding at his dislike from all sides. Harry wasn't the type to think about his feelings, but when he looked at Tom lately, an unusual mix of pity and frustration would stir in him that was so unique he couldn't help pondering it.

Harry wondered what Tom thought when Harry talked to him. Did Tom even care at all? He didn't like to think about it, because he was afraid the answer would be 'no'; Harry felt guilty about talking to Tom about personal things, because he knew he shouldn't, but it felt so good to talk to someone who wasn't trying to help him or judge him, someone who only wanted to listen, that he threw the guilt aside.

Harry was in the middle of the story of how he met Sirius – he had already told Tom the basics about Sirius being innocent ages ago, but he hadn't ever explained about how he'd first met him, and he hadn't told him about Pettigrew – when he knew he had made a mistake.

'So Ron, Hermione and I left Hagrid's cabin, but we couldn't move very fast because Scabbers was struggling and we could hardly keep my Invisibility Cloak around us all –'

'What?' Tom interrupted. Tom hardly ever interrupted to ask questions, and Harry looked up sharply in surprise. 'What Invisibility Cloak? You have an Invisibility Cloak?'

'Uh, yeah,' Harry said slowly. 'It was my dad's.'

'And it's here? In your trunk? Could I see it?' Tom asked, his face rapt with glee. Harry was sure that if he could see into Tom's skull, he would see tiny gears whirring faster and faster within.

'Maybe some other time. It's getting really late. I should probably get back to bed. We can finish the story next time.' Harry hadn't fallen asleep in Tom's bed again since that first night; he always went back to his own when his eyelids got too heavy to lift.

Two nights later, Tom stopped Harry when he said he had to go. 'Could I ask you a question before you leave? It's not about the Invisibility Cloak.'

'Shoot.'

'Excuse me?'

'Ask me the question.' Harry had forgotten that Tom was oblivious when it came to some modern slang terms.

'Why do you care about my nightmares?'

Harry frowned hard. 'I don't know, I… well, this will sound dumb to you, but I don't like to see other people… hurting.' He looked up at Tom sharply. 'I know you can't understand, but even if I don't like you, it bothers me when you have nightmares,' he said hurriedly. 'It's nothing personal.'

Tom looked down, something indefinable passing over his features just as Harry lost sight of them, and Harry wondered if he'd said the wrong thing.

'Could I ask you something?'

Tom looked back up, and any trace of what Harry might have seen before was gone; Tom's toothy smile was as big as Harry had ever seen it. 'Of course, Harry.'

'What do you dream about?'

The smile faltered, but only for an instant. Then it was firm again, and Tom replied, 'I don't know, really. I don't remember afterwards. It's getting late, isn't it? We have a quiz in Defense tomorrow morning.'

Harry knew that Tom could do any quiz in any class with his eyes shut; he also knew that Tom's tone was the same one Harry had used when evading questions about You-Know-Who. He didn't feel as though he had any right to press Tom further, so he let it go.'Goodnight, Tom.'

'Goodnight, Harry,' Tom replied softly. Harry left with a feeling that all was not quite right, but he didn't know what had gone wrong…

Tom didn't sleep after Harry left as he usually did. He felt more frustrated with himself than he had since he was a child. It's not like he cared that Potter disliked him, even after he had stupidly – stupidly! – told him all about himself. Why did he even agree to it? Knowing about Potter wasn't worth having to give away that much about himself. Salazar Slytherin would be ashamed.Tom hadn't done anything so dumb in years, not since he had let it slip to Rosier about living in an orphanage.

So, Harry didn't like him, and it was nothing personal that he woke him up from his bad dreams every night. Maybe Gryffindors woke each other up from nightmares all the time.

Or maybe I'm stupid because I should have determined by now that they're all the same! None of them ever… Tom stopped thinking about it at once; a door had slammed shut on the trail of his thoughts, just as it always did on those rare occasions when he made himself feel sick thinking about it. Tom hadn't cried about it, had never let it even form in his mind, since his first year, after that time with Rosier. Tom had been caught crying in an unused classroom, and the others had laughed at him, they had laughed and laughed…

Harry couldn't sleep. He didn't know why he was so bothered; was he really dumb enough to have thought that because he wanted to tell all of his problems to Tom, his worst enemy, that Tom would want to do the same? Tom never showed emotion, he never showed anything but misguided interest! He told just enough about himself to keep Harry talking, and Harry always did twice the amount of talking that Tom did on any given night, he knew that, he knew it wasn't a fair exchange.

But he had still thought Tom could at least answer that one question for him, that one intimate question when Harry had willingly told him almost every private fear and heartache he'd ever had.

Harry had never seen Tom feel anything real. Even when Tom was talking about things that would fall under the category of deep, dark secrets, his face was neutral, his voice never skipped a beat, and sometimes he would even smile widely at the worst parts. Tom dreams made him feel something, though; they broke through his stillness and his ever-present smile and had him thrashing about in his bed nightly. What could make Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, so afraid? Tom wasn't going to tell any time soon.

That's it, Harry thought to himself firmly. That's enough. No more nighttime talks. It was a stupid idea. Resolved, he turned on his side and shut his eyes. Sleep came, but not for a long while.

The next day Harry said nothing to Tom and Tom said nothing to Harry, except when they were partnered together in Potions by Snape for the first time, and then the only talking was Tom ordering Harry to chop up some ingredients. Harry spent plenty of time talking to Ron and Hermione, though; he had forgotten how nice it had been when it was just the three of them, before he had touched that bloody crystal. Tom never tried to interject in their conversations that day, either; he was unusually quiet, only talking to anyone when Neville asked for help with his Transfiguration homework and Parvati and Lavender dragged conversation out of him. Harry knew it was irrational, but he was angry that Tom was being silent with everyone, not just Harry, angry that Tom wouldn't even let them share a private argument together. Stupid idiot is going to ruin all his hard work ingratiating himself, Harry thought furiously. Fine, let him.

Harry climbed enthusiastically into bed that night, with no intention of leaving it until morning.

Harry woke up around the usual time, and was squirming over to the side of his bed to pull the curtains open when he remembered his pledge, growled at how well he had been trained, and squirmed back to where he had been. He closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep.
Tom woke up with a gasp, his body covered in sweat and his limbs so tangled that it took him several minutes to undo the knots. He fell back onto his pillow, breathing heavily. 'Harry?' Tom whispered tentatively. There was no answer, except the darkness and stillness of night closed around him more tightly. He lay in bed for a few minutes, as if waiting for some sound to pierce the silence; then he got out of bed and, for the first time in weeks, dug into his belongings for 'Prefects Who Gained Power.'
Tom appeared worse the next morning than Harry had ever seen him. Even Ron commented that Tom looked as though someone had punched him in both his eyes, they looked so dark and sunken. 'You're working too hard,' Ron said worriedly, shaking his head. 'You and Hermione just keep driving each other to new depths of overwork.'

'I'm fine,' Tom said, but his voice shook so much with those two words that it worried the others more than it convinced them.

'You're falling apart,' Neville frowned. 'Why don't you take the day off? You could go up to Madame Pomfrey –'

'No,' Tom shook his head. Gaining control over himself, he managed to smile in his normal way. 'I just had a bad night, that's all.'

He didn't even glance at Harry as he said this. Harry was staring at him, though, but caught himself before anyone else noticed and walked quickly into the washroom to escape.

Tom actually seemed much better by breakfast; the black circles had faded a little, though they still made him look like he'd come off worse in a fight. He took his usual seat beside Harry, still not looking at him. Anger welled up within Harry at everything about Tom; who was he to give Harry the cold shoulder? Harry didn't see how he'd done anything to deserve it. But he didn't want Tom talking to him anyway, so he ignored him and took a few stabs at his pancake.

The post arrived. A familiar eagle owl flew in with some sweets for Tom from his supposed family, which he always passed around the Gryffindors, hardly touching any of them himself. Another owl dropped a copy of the Daily Prophet for Hermione. As Tom was passing a sweet pastry to Neville, Hermione gasped and grabbed Harry forcefully by the shoulder.

'Harry, look at this!' she cried, catching the table's attention. Everyone within hearing range focused on her.

She took note of this and read aloud. 'He Who Must Not Be Named Strikes Again: Third Muggle Killing in Nine Days, Two Aurors Wounded.' She continued reading the article. 'Last night at 11:27 in the evening, supporters of You-Know-Who are reported to have forcibly entered the Ashby residence in Aberdeen with a simple Unlocking Charm.'

'That's not far from here!' Parvati Patil gasped.

'Upon entering, the attackers proceeded to round up all members of the family, including Robert Ashby, 43, Alicia Ashby, 36, Duncan Ashby, 14, and Candice Ashby, 6.'

'Bastards,' muttered Dean, tears in his eyes. 'They got the bloody kids, too.'

The Gryffindors continued to listen in rapt horror as Hermione went on about how the family had been lifted up into the air in a way similar to the Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup and marched down the street, the family shrieking and waking the neighbors. They listened to how the Death Eaters had reportedly cast Cruciatus repeatedly on them all and dropped them from sixty feet above just moments before Aurors arrived, according to observers, who later had their memories modified. A minor skirmish resulted which ended in minor injuries to Aurors Shacklebolt and Williamson before the attackers Disapparated.

'This is getting really bad,' Seamus said softly, shaking his head in disgust. 'It's gross, it's really gross.'

'At least they didn't have to hold back on the details about how they died like with the last ones,' Ron replied.

Harry bit his lip. All of these killings were his fault; if he wasn't hiding in Hogwarts instead of facing Voldemort…

'Let's just get to class,' Harry said into the silence that resulted from Ron's comment.

'Hey,' Ron frowned, 'where did Tom go?'

Harry turned sharply around to his other side. The chair was empty.

'Oh, he left a little ways into the story,' Neville shrugged. 'I don't blame him.'

'I have to find him,' Harry said, kicking himself for letting Tom escape from right beside him.

'He knows his way around the school pretty well now, Harry,' Hermione said matter-of-factly.

'No, Hermione, I really have to find him. Tell Hagrid I'm sorry for being late.' Harry stood up as he spoke and walked briskly out of the room.

'Harry, wait –'

But Harry was gone. He was walking quickly back toward Gryffindor Tower. Tom will try to take my Cloak, Harry thought darkly, he'll try to use it to escape, maybe to Hogsmeade, or…

Harry didn't really want to think of how many places Tom could go if no one could see him. He broke out into a run as he reached the Tower, shouted the password to the Fat Lady, and raced up the stairs. Maybe he's not gone… maybe he hasn't found it…

He reached his dormitory. His trunk was closed. Harry unlocked it and threw things all over until he had dug down to the Cloak. It was still there. Of course, Harry thought stupidly, he wouldn't have relocked the trunk and put all my things back in the right place if he was trying to escape the school.

Tom did not have the Invisibility Cloak. Harry didn't put it back; he grabbed it, left everything else strewn over the floor by his bed, and rushed out of the Tower. If Tom were trying to escape Hogwarts, he would have tried to take Harry's cloak. If he wasn't trying to escape Hogwarts, he must merely be trying to ditch Harry. He must want to look up something illicit in the library, Harry thought grimly. Feeling greatly annoyed and swearing that he would give Tom some real black eyes when he found him, Harry raced to the library. If he couldn't fight Voldemort, he could at least fight Tom.

Tom wasn't in the library. Harry looked all around, and asked grumpy Madam Pince if she'd let anyone into the Restricted Section that morning; she answered curtly in the negative.

Harry stood still for a minute in the library and thought hard, Madam Pince glaring into his back. If I were Tom Riddle, and I wanted to be alone, where would I go?

The answer came immediately after the question, and Harry felt stupider than Crabbe for not having thought of it sooner. He walked quickly down the stairs from the fourth floor to the second, and headed straight for the out of order girls' bathroom.

TheSecretCharacter: Nope, I'm not American, but thanks anyway! Yeah, I use quotations the way the UK version of the book does, since I own the Canadian edition and it's the same as the UK. I think spelling words with the letter 'u' in random places is stupid, so I spell those words the American way, like 'favorite' and 'color'.

Monique: Oops, I've confused you! The 'she' isn't Tom's mother, it's Moaning Myrtle! Dumbledore was just saying how he had hoped Tom would manage to redeem himself even after he murdered Myrtle (Dumbledore just loves second chances). Tom's mother will show up eventually, though… I'm saving that for what I like to call the 'excessively maudlin' chapter. Yes, it gets even worse than this… hell, the next chapter gets worse than this.