"So what do I call you then?"
Harry was back in the Room of Requirement, sprawled in a chair it had seen fit to provide this time with one leg thrown over the arm and his heel knocking sullenly against the wood. He hadn't been sure he'd come back here; the Riddle-thing had been creepy, the reminders of the Chamber in second year—that hungry look in cold blue eyes, a phantom burning in his arm—had been unexpectedly vivid and horrible, and when he'd thought the whole thing over later he wasn't sure talking to a sort of pre-Voldemort would be as helpful as he'd thought at first.
But his most recent confrontation with Umbridge had left him feeling on edge and a little reckless, and any sort of retaliation against her was impossible. Same went for Voldemort, though he continued to plague Harry waking and sleeping. That was probably what brought him storming back to this room with its strange apparition of his greatest foe. It was the only confrontation he had the power to force just now, and shamefully, the only one he had any chance of winning, because his opponent was a magical mirage and not a real enemy at all.
Besides, he had the time now, didn't he? Harry scowled at the thought, bitterness from his Quidditch ban still fresh in his throat. He'd schedule more DA meetings, but the rest of them still had their own practices and classes and prefect rounds and joke shops and such to occupy them. So, private encounters with imaginary quasi-Voldemorts for him it was, then.
Merlin, how is this my life?
The construct had seemed glad to see him, which was awful. The big oaken door had slid silently open once again, revealing the same stone hall, bare but for the new pair of ancient-looking seats in the middle—and the Riddle construct of course, still peaky and still wearing a tiara, presiding over the whole thing like the host at a bizarre tea party. He'd ushered Harry in with a gracious smile and a little bow, and like the first time, Harry had nearly turned and left immediately. But in the end he'd figured, what the hell, he was already here wasn't he? So he'd stomped over and thrown himself down with his best glare and a drawn wand. Unfortunately the Riddle illusion wasn't at all intimidated—in fact, he'd seemed amused. It was all just awful.
He was sitting across from Harry now, lounging back in his own spindly chair as if it were a throne. His long legs were crossed ankle over knee, and his fingers were steepled together under his chin.
"You will call me what I am, which is the Dark Lord Voldemort."
Harry snorted, ignoring the man's offended glare. "Yeah, sorry, you're not Lord Voldemort. For one thing, you've got a nose." That got him a raised brow.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Did I not tell you about the resurrection and how bloody odd you look now?"
"I think," drawled the illusion, "that there is much you have not told me. Please, do so, so that I may be most useful to you."
He gave Harry a smile that probably would have been charming if Harry hadn't seen the same expression on the boy who stood over him as he died in the Chamber of Secrets. Harry couldn't hide his shudder, and the expression disappeared, replaced with a studied blankness Harry had a strong feeling was hiding annoyance.
"Sure, whatever. After you were destroyed when I was a toddler," he paused for a moment to enjoy how the Riddle-thing's blank face grew blanker at the reminder, "you turned into a wraith, I guess. Dumbledore says you fled to Albania or something. Sorry, he, I mean—see, this is why we need to name you." Riddle just gestured him on impatiently. "Okay, fine. So, he was a wraith, hanging about in Albania, possessing snakes. All of his followers were killed or locked up or in hiding, until two years ago when one of them was discovered but escaped. He tracked the wraith down and brought him back here, and… I'm not entirely sure, to be honest. It kind of looked like he got him a dead baby to possess. It was seriously gross. Pettigrew had to carry it around and feed it and who knows what other sorts of things."
"It was likely a homunculus. They are often used to host spirits in preparation for necromantic rituals."
"Um, if you say so. There was definitely a ritual. And it did use bones, so maybe it was necromantic, I wouldn't know."
"That is not surprising," muttered the conjuration, but Harry hardly heard him. It was all rushing back, the scene that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He could see the cauldron, could practically smell the strange fumes wafting over the graveyard and hear the potion bubbling and hissing. Could hear Voldemort's high, cold laughter echoing through the night and soft in his ear… the jeers of the Death Eaters… kill the spare…
"Potter," said a voice, and it was high and cold and his wand was up and pointed between Riddle's eyes before Harry knew what he was doing.
The illusion didn't even flinch. It just raised its hands, palms out and empty fingers spread, in a slow gesture of harmlessness—so slow it might almost be mocking.
Harry examined those hands, breathing hard. The fingers were long, but not the unnatural, spidery white digits of the real thing. The eyes gazing at him with a cool academic curiosity were bloodshot but still blue, the pupils still round. This wasn't Voldemort, not really. Even the voice wasn't quite the same, when he thought about it again. It had just seemed, for a moment… but no.
Get it together, Potter.
He sank back into his casual position on the chair, or tried to, but his body stayed tense. He made a conscious effort to control his ragged breathing.
"Sorry, I—" he opened his mouth to explain, but stopped abruptly. He suddenly realized that this would be the first time he'd discussed that night since he gave his account to Dumbledore just after it happened, and he was not about to confide in fake-Tom-Riddle what he hadn't even told Ron and Hermione. God, had he really even considered it? There could be no less sympathetic audience, bar maybe Snape. He wasn't even sure which he'd hate worse, Snape's cruel derision or Riddle's calm disinterest. Which itself, realistically, would probably be followed by derision.
He cleared his throat and looked away, lowering his wand with difficulty.
"Sorry. Um. Right, so, the ritual. There was blood and bone and flesh and they popped the baby in a cauldron and out you came. Massive great skeleton man with red eyes and no nose, just slits like a snake. Bald, too," he added a little vindictively. "And pointy teeth."
The construct took a moment to process this, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair. Harry examined his face closely, hoping to see disgust, but the man's expression stayed stony.
"Well. Sacrifices must be made for true and enduring power, and Lord Voldemort has always been willing to make them. What are youth and beauty in the face of strength and immortality? This new form sounds like merely another way in which the mightiest of wizards has pushed the bounds of known magic to achieve the remarkable." He punctuated this speech with a decisive little nod.
The remarkably ugly, Harry thought but didn't say. And scary. He couldn't help but feel there was a whole lot that handsome, clever and suave Tom Riddle might have accomplished in the world that serpentine, nightmareishly mad Lord Voldemort never could—at least, not without resorting to terrorism and murder. Then again, Voldemort probably didn't mind that, might even prefer things that way, so perhaps it really wasn't a loss for him after all. Harry shrugged internally—it was hardly his business either way.
"Bottom line," he said, circling back to the original point, "you look much more like Tom Riddle than Voldemort, which is quite lucky for you. It would make most sense to call you that."
The illusion didn't seem inclined to take the compliment, scoffing and tossing the hair that, frankly, he should be grateful he still had. "I can say with utter certainty that I am so many leagues beyond anything the boy Tom Riddle ever even imagined he could become, to compare us would be laughable."
Harry thought they were pretty comparable actually, and not just in appearance. Then again, he could definitely see and hear the Voldemort in this man far more than he had in school prefect Tom. He thought back to his original request for the Room, which he'd done his best to repeat this visit.
"You are a cross of the two, aren't you? A midpoint between Riddle and Voldemort. Maybe I'll call you Riddlemort." He snickered at the expression of deep outrage that spread over the handsome face across from him. "No? How about Volditom?"
"Absolutely not," the man hissed, and Harry wondered if he was about to discover a way to cast the Avada Kedavra with his eyes alone. That would certainly be an exciting new innovation of magic.
"Why not?"
"Because I say not!"
"Hmm." Harry swung his feet in the air, keeping his expression innocent. "I'm not sure that matters, does it? I mean, you're not real. You're literally something me and the Room of Requirement made up together, aren't you? Don't see as how that gives you much of a say."
Maybe-Riddlemort opened his mouth for an angry reply, then snapped it closed again. Based on the tense line of his jaw, Harry thought he might be grinding his teeth.
He held back another snicker, but also a sigh of relief. He'd been a little worried about this summoning, to tell the truth. It wasn't that he didn't trust the Room of Requirement to provide him with the safe environment he'd asked for, but Tom Riddle was… well, Tom Riddle. There was no way to completely declaw that beast, no matter the form. Previous experience told him that if this thing was even partially accurate, it was probably planning Harry's death and the subsequent domination of the wizarding world even now. (Besides, this was Hogwarts, and ideas about "safety" seemed to be different here than in other places.)
But if he had the power to blast Harry for his insolence, this would have been the moment he'd've used it. Since he was still all in one piece, he figured he was probably safe enough. As safe as he could be, anyway.
"It is rather long," Harry said conciliatorily. "I'll just stick to Riddle then, shall I? Given the nose and all." The man didn't seem at all pleased, but kept silent. "Anyway, Riddlemort pretty close to Quirrellmort, which is what my friend Ron calls our first year Defense professor. Could get confusing."
Officially-Riddle shot him a withering look. "Dare I ask you why you graced your professor with a portmanteau so disrespectfully combining his name with the Dark Lord's?"
"Oh! Because he was possessed by Voldemort. Did I not tell you that either? His wraith was living on the back of Quirrell's head all year."
The conjuration just blinked at him. And blinked again. An odd sort of triumph warmed Harry. It seemed he'd rendered the budding Dark Lord speechless.
"Are you doing this expressly for the purpose of aggravating me?" Riddle said at last, voice acidic. "I was under the impression that you wished for my aid. I must caution you that twisting and withholding information is not the best method of securing it. I have told you again and again now, to be in any way useful I must be properly informed."
"Wait, you mean you actually will help me train to fight Voldemort? Like, teach me spells and stuff?"
"Hmm. I would offer to duel you right now, but I notice you have conjured me no wand." He spread those long, slim hands open again as if to emphasize their continued emptiness.
Harry looked at them, pictured them holding that bone-white yew wand from the graveyard, and shivered. "Yeah, I'm thinking that that's for the best, really. I mean, I didn't specifically choose to give or not give you a wand when I asked for this Room, but I did ask for a space where I couldn't be harmed. Seems like, in order for that to happen, the Room decided you shouldn't be armed. Don't think I really want to argue with that. Maybe you could just… teach me incantations and movements without doing it yourself?"
"Perhaps. We shall see. But I also promised you my guidance, my insight into the secrets of Lord Voldemort. We might begin your instruction there. When you have told me what I need to know."
"Wow, you were really serious about that too?"
Riddle actually rolled his eyes. "If you did not believe me so, on either score, why exactly have you returned?"
"I'm not—entirely sure. It seemed like a good idea at the time." And oh, how many times had Harry said that before? "Better than finding Malfoy and punching him again, anyway. But no, I figured you were making things up. I mean, it's pretty obvious Voldemort doesn't love anything except maybe torturing people and the sound of his own voice. And everyone knows that the only thing he fears is Dumbledore."
"I do not—! Lord Voldemort would never fear Dumbledore!"
"Another conversation we've already had," Harry grumbled. "If you're not afraid of him, then how come you never tried to take over Hogw—" But Riddle was talking over him now, heedless.
"He fears nothing. Why should he, when he has delved into magic no other witch or wizard would ever dare, ever dream of conquering? Magic lost to the ages, secrets that could only have been uncovered by the truly brilliant, the truly worthy! No one has ever been a match for Lord Voldemort, and no one ever will be! Certainly not that old fool hiding in his tower." He slumped back, practically panting. Harry only shook his head.
"See, proof you were lying before, then. How can you teach me anything about his fears if you think he hasn't got any?"
Riddle let out a long, gusty sigh, then seemed to get a grip on his composure again. Drawing himself up in his chair, he fixed Harry in place with eyes that burned.
"Look, Potter. Here is what I am offering you. If you tell me what is going on, what actions Lord Voldemort is taking or has taken, I will tell you what I believe lies behind his choices. Perhaps predict those he will make in the future. We can revisit the question of spellwork at another time. Meanwhile, I shall offer you my insight and opinions on your enemy. Is that clear enough for you now?"
"Oh. Well, okay, Riddle, that's…" Harry thought it over. It was a bit suspicious, but he'd already decided the conjuration probably couldn't do much to him if he was reasonably careful. And it wasn't like the thing was claiming to want to help Harry out of the imaginary goodness of the heart it didn't have; this was more like offering a trade. Far more reasonable.
"I'm still not sure all that will help, though," Harry said at last, voicing the thought he'd been circling after his first visit. "Voldemort is mad, after all."
Riddle sniffed, the sound politely disdainful. "More likely you simply do not understand his genius," he murmured, like he couldn't help himself.
"No, he's mad all right. Madder than a box of frogs, and every time I talk to him it's worse and worse." At that, Riddle stiffened and looked up, eyes sharp, head twisting to the side like a curious bird.
"Talk to him? Do you mean that in the literal sense? You have spoken personally with the Dark Lord?"
"Yeah, I meet him nearly every year. Did I not just tell you about the resurrection ritual and the dead baby thing and the noselessness? And the DADA professor—which was totally real, by the way, I wasn't making that up to mess with you."
"I assumed such things had been described to you, or perhaps that you had seen them in a pensieve, if indeed they were true at all." Riddle was still staring. "You are saying you were in his presence on more than one occasion?"
"Not by choice, but yeah. Three times since I came to school, if I don't count meeting you."
"But I thought you said you were his greatest enemy. That he desired your death above all things." The curl of his lip showed Harry his opinion of having such an underaged and underpowered nemesis.
"Yeah, that's right."
"If that is the case, and he has truly had you within his grasp on multiple occasions, then why are you not dead?"
Harry shook his head. "That's just what I'm saying. Every time I see him, he's raving. Too busy ranting, complaining, or cursing his followers to take any decisive action where I'm concerned. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate that a lot—means I'm still alive, doesn't it? But it certainly points to him being pretty mad, and madness is unpredictable."
Riddle had no response to this, it seemed. Silence reigned for a time.
"The Dark Lord was… he was truly here in the school? For an entire year?"
Harry nodded.
"…I see." Riddle seemed somehow struck by that. Harry wouldn't go so far as to say shaken, not visibly anyway, but something about the Quirrell situation definitely rubbed the conjuration the wrong way.
"Cheer up," Harry said eventually when the silence had started to make him feel uncomfortable. "At least you aren't totally insane, right?"
The conjuration muttered something that might have been "I wonder" before cutting a glance at him and changing the subject.
"You mentioned a Malfoy, before. Have they any relation to Abraxas Malfoy?"
"I dunno. Draco's dad is called Lucius. Could be his grandfather, maybe? He and I aren't exactly close and I'm no expert on pureblood genealogy, so I can't say for sure. The Malfoys are big fans of yours though, so if Abraxas was one of your followers, it seems likely they're descendants of his. Lucius was even in your Inner Circle from what I've heard. Not that that's kept him from becoming Mr. Important at the Ministry since the war, what with all the money he's willing to throw around." He thought gloomily of Fudge's reliance on Malfoy senior—he was probably even giving the Minister advice about ways to slander Harry in the Prophet, the enormous git.
"Did you not say that my surviving followers had been imprisoned or driven into hiding after my—that is, after Voldemort's disappearance?"
"They were, lots of them, but a lot of them also claimed that they'd never really been true followers of yours in the first place. Said you had them under the Imperius curse. Most of those people just went back to their lives as usual when you were gone, after a few bribes here and there. Many of them even stayed important and powerful, Malfoy included."
"But that is disloyal," Riddle said in tones of horror. "That is against their vows. They should not have rested until I was returned to them, most especially those with the power and position to propel their search for me. They should have known better than to believe me defeated—should rather have died or been imprisoned than disown my name and mission. How dare they take refuge amongst our enemies, claim common cause with them?"
Harry chuckled darkly. "The real you seemed to agree. He tortured at least one Death Eater when he called them to the graveyard after his resurrection, and scolded the rest. In my opinion, you needed better followers. That bunch is all cowards and suck-ups. Though I guess if the requirements of your club include robe kissing and laughing when kids get Crucioed, it sort of cuts down on your list of potential members."
Riddle said nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought, actually, and Harry figured it might be time to clear out and leave him to it. Hermione would surely be back from her visit to Hagrid's soon, hopefully having convinced him that Umbridge really was dangerous, and she and Ron would wonder where he'd gone. He rose from his chair with a little groan.
"I'm off, Riddle. This has been… well, weird, but whatever. Interesting, I guess? If you still think you can help, then maybe I'll come back and we can talk spells and strategy, yeah?" The illusion waved a vague hand that seemed to indicate agreement. Harry shrugged, and made to turn towards the door.
Riddle spoke up suddenly. "Before you go, Potter, I wanted to ask you—how is it that you came to discover such a magical and esoteric place as this room?"
"Oh, we just asked the elves."
Riddle went statue-still. "The elves," he repeated, voice flat.
"Yeah, the house elves, they use this place all the time. Call it the Come-and-Go Room. They store broken things in it, and lost belongings and old school supplies and the like. Plenty of students must've stashed things here over the years, as well—the place has got whole mountains full of junk." Riddle gave a funny sort of flinch at that. "We don't use that version of the Room though, the Room of Hidden Things. We ask for a sort of DADA classroom. My friends and I are running a secret defense club here, since our professor is shite and evil to boot. Couldn't have done it without my elf friend though. They are amazing, aren't they? House elves, I mean. They can do all sorts of things wizards would never think they could."
"So it would seem," said Riddle dully. Harry shrugged again, and left him to do whatever bits of the Room's magic did when no one was around. Disappear, Harry supposed, just like the door did as he slid it closed behind him.
Harry realized there was a bounce to his step as he turned down the corridor towards Gryffindor Tower, and wondered at it. It seemed his afternoon with fake Voldemort had done him some good—who'd have thought?
Sure, he'd had to think about one of the worst nights of his life, but in a way that put the whole Umbridge thing into perspective. And needling Riddle had been… fun. Petty, of course, and not productive in the long term or anything, but fun. He'd probably go back and do it again sometime.
If the Room he'd made was good for nothing else, at least it had provided a bit of stress relief.