Ah, comrades, I am so TRULY sorry about the hideously long wait (though probably no one noticed). My internet's been down since last weekend, and this is the first time it's worked all week so I'm taking advantage by updating. Who knows how long before this idiot thing breaks down again?

Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing, and since it's been so long I combined chapter twenty-six with chapter twenty-seven again (they were originally one chapter) and now you've got a nice long read for lack of updates. (The second part of this chapter was my favoritest part to write in the whole story, and still is.)

So enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Adventures

Harry helped Malfoy into his bedroom. The fair boy had one arm slung around his shoulder reluctantly.

"I can walk by myself. Get your nancy-hands off me, Potter," Malfoy slurred.

"First off, it's your hands on me, not the other way around, and you couldn't stand up to save your life right now, prat," Harry snapped. "Your father's a fool for letting you drink right under his nose." He deposited Malfoy on his bed and adjusted his own robes.

"M'father's a lotta things," Malfoy slurred into the blankets. "Mainly an ass, though." He rolled over and immediately shut his eyes against the torchlight.

"I don't see why he makes you attend these parties if all you do is mope around and get yourself drunk," Harry said dryly.

"That's the beauty of it, Potter. The moping's out once the wine is in!" Malfoy cried loudly with a giggle.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Are you going to bed now or what?"

Malfoy gave no answer, choosing instead to chatter on about the guests at the Christmas Party. "Did you get a look at Zabini's mum? Starting to sag a little but really…I hear she chops her husbands up and feeds 'em to the dogs, though, so maybe…"

"Shut up," Harry said smoothly. His friend made no sense on the rare occasions where he was drunk, and it usually fell upon Harry to keep him company till the effects of the wine wore off.

"Potter, Potter, Potter, so irritable on this joyous occasion," Malfoy cried out scathingly. "'Tis a time of great cheer, you miserable bloke!" He flung his arms grandly above him, still lying on his bed, and began to lead an imaginary chorus in a highly sardonic rendition of "God Rest Ye Merrye Hippogriffs."

Harry shut the door so as not to wake up the rest of the manor. He sorely itched to take out the diary from its place in his robes and speak with Riddle, but even in Malfoy's inebriated state he didn't wish to arouse any more suspicion.

When the singing got so loud and so awful that Harry couldn't stand it anymore, he strode to the bed and clapped his hand over Malfoy's mouth. "What's it gonna take to get you to shut that stupid gob?"

Malfoy said something that was muffled under Harry's hand. Once he'd removed it, Malfoy grinned sloppily and said, "Adventure."

Harry stared at him blankly. "What?"

"You heard me, Harry bloody Potter. Help me off this bed and we're going to have a bit of a stroll outside, got me?"

"Your father—"

"—is an ass, I know. Now help me up."

Harry shrugged in exasperation and pulled Malfoy to his feet, where he swayed and clung to Harry. "You look like an idiot," Harry said in contempt.

"I know."

Malfoy showed Harry a secret door behind a tapestry in his room ("Father tried to board it up when I was born, but the nails kept falling out") that led them out of the manor to the cold grounds outside.

"What now?" Harry asked, glad that he'd had the foresight to bring his thick cloak with him.

"I dunno. Want a tour?"

"Of your forests? Doesn't sound very thrilling to me."

Malfoy drew himself up as best he could, incensed. "Insulting my sense of adventure, are you? 'll show you, you mis'rable little four-eyes." He grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him towards the forest. "Father's raised all ki'ds of nasties down here," he slurred. "Maybe you'll start thinking it's thrilling once something's ripped ou' your entrails."

Harry was starting to grow nervous now. They were in a thick patch of bare trees, snow-covered dead leaves crunching underfoot. "Malfoy, you're going to get us killed—"

He barely had time to finish his sentence before they tumbled into a large pit concealed by bracken and Harry's sight went black.

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When Harry came to, he seemed to be in the same forest he'd been in before. The sun was up now, illuminating the pearly gray clouds that covered the sky. Orange-brown leaves poking through gleaming snow speckled the ground. Malfoy was nowhere in sight, nor was the hole they'd fallen into.

Harry scrambled up, whipping his head around. "Malfoy!" he called. Stupid sod, what's he gotten me into now? Harry thought, disconcerted. There was a crunching of dead leaves and snow behind him. Harry turned around.

Someone was coming through a path lined by bowing trees that arched their branches over the way like revering deer. It wasn't Malfoy. He was tall, with a handsome pale face rosy-cheeked from cold and black hair littered with snowflakes. He looked only a year or two older than Harry himself, and was dressed in black robes and a red scarf that was twined about his neck. He was carrying something under one arm.

As he got closer, he smiled at Harry with eyes that were bright and dark. "Hello," he said cheerfully. "I didn't know I'd be meeting you so soon."

Harry stumbled backwards. "Who are you?" he asked, trying not to tremble. Something strange was going on. It was too bright for December; the entire forest was white and bare and gleaming. It wasn't right.

"It's me," the boy said simply. "Tom."

Harry's jaw dropped.

"Aren't you happy to see me? I know how much you love talking to me," the stranger—was he really considered a stranger?—replied to Harry's shock.

"But—but you were…you lived fifty years ago. Shouldn't you be, er, dead?" Harry asked feebly. His mind was playing tricks on him. This had to be a trick.

"Alive enough to talk to you through a diary. Alive enough to meet you."

"No. You're fooling, you're not Tom, you're some silly little upstart from school trying to play tricks. Did Malfoy's father put you up to this—"

The boy laughed crisply. "Lucius couldn't put me up to anything if he tried. Lucius is an ass. And you, you are Harry Potter, your best friend is Draco Malfoy, your parents are stout Gryffindors, and your worst fear is failure. And…you greatly enjoy writing into my diary."

Harry noticed something with a sharp sting. "So if you are Tom Riddle, then why did you lie to me before? Why did you pretend you didn't know anything about the Malfoys when you know Lucius Malfoy on a first-name basis?"

Riddle shrugged. "Harry, you know the answer to that as well as I do. Don't you?"

Harry did. "You thought I wouldn't trust you if you were something of Lucius's."

Tom grinned. "That's my boy."

Harry took another step back. "Well, you were right. I don't trust you now."

Tom shook his head, still smiling. "Harry, don't tell me you of all people would not understand that where something comes from is no indication of its merit. Look at you, the seed of generations of Gryffindors, put into Slytherin because of your drive and your ambition; because of your curiosity. It makes no difference how you were born, Harry. It makes no difference where we start. We both know that."

Harry reluctantly realized that Tom was right, and that he, Harry, was being unfair. After all, Tom had been such a good listener, understood him so well.

"Alright then. You have a point. But why are we meeting? What do you want?"

A look of earnest hurt appeared over Tom's face. "Why do you think I come because of something I want for myself? I want nothing from you, Harry. I came to give you this, and because I wanted to meet you face to face." He took the thing out from under his arm. It was wrapped in crumpled brown paper and tied with twine.

Harry looked at it warily, but not as suspiciously as he would have done before. "I still don't understand. How can you be here? How can you be…?"

Tom shook his head. "Haven't you realized? We're not here, Harry. This place is just a crevice of your mind. A place in your subconscious. In the true woods outside Malfoy Manor, in the physical world, you aren't even aboveground anymore."

"So this place…it's in my head, then? It isn't real?" Harry asked slowly.

Tom laughed. "Just because it's not the physical world, it can't be real? No, Harry. Your dreams are just as real as the rest of you. This is a shade of the forest outside the manor, just as I am a shade of what I used to be." He said this last with a slight wistfulness that Harry noted, alert. However, before he could inquire further, Tom held out the rough package.

"Take it," he said in a friendly tone. "It will be useful. Promise me, no matter what you find in there, promise me that you won't be angry with me, Harry."

Harry took the package. Tom's pleading was like a song to his ears, and stirred a loyalty in him that he thought he'd only feel with Malfoy. "I promise," he said, doubt retreating into the back of his thoughts.

Tom smiled and everything was worth it. "Thank you. I'll see you again, sometime soon. Open that when you've returned to your own world, all right?"

Harry nodded, and Tom turned and strode away, his footsteps noisy and springy. Harry watched him till the bright red tail of his scarf was out of sight.

He then studied the package in his hands. It wasn't very heavy, nor warm, but that told him very little. His fingers itched to open it, aroused by the curiosity Tom knowingly spoke of.

"Harry!"

For a second he thought Tom had returned, but then he realized it was Malfoy's voice. Turning his head abruptly, wondering how Malfoy had wandered into this—place—as well, Harry found with a shock that the whole world had dimmed.

Looking around carefully, Harry realized that he was underground and no longer standing, but sprawled uncomfortably in the large pit he'd fallen into—when? Last night?

Malfoy was crouched over him, his face screwed up in pain from too much wine. "You up now?" he asked hoarsely.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. How long—"

"Since last night. We've got to get back, it's nearly dawn and I don't want Father to know." Malfoy winced and rubbed his temple. "Why'd you listen to me? Why didn't you just bloody tie me to the bed or something?"

Harry rose with a creaking of the joints. "Didn't know you liked it rough, but I'll try to remember next time."

"Potter! How many times do I have to tell you—"

"—not to talk about your preferences aloud? Sorry, mate."

"Bloody lying sod!" Malfoy bellowed. He regretted it instantly and cradled his head, whimpering.

"Look, let's try to get out of this thing first. Why the hell did your father put a pit in the forest?" Harry asked incredulously. What he wanted most of all was to go somewhere alone and think about the dream he'd had, but there were more pressing matters.

"Hunting, I suppose. Maybe there's been a werewolf running round the woods or something." Malfoy paled. "If he put it here to catch something, he's going to—"

"Come looking for it. I know," Harry said rather breathlessly. "Let's go."

The sky was already lightening by the time Harry and Malfoy had discerned a way of boosting themselves out of the pit. Like mice, they scurried through the trees and back into the tunnel under the manor. They emerged from the secret door behind the tapestry just as Lucius Malfoy opened the door.

Harry saw him taking in their disheveled and dirty appearance, only then realizing that his robes were streaked with dirt and tatters of dead leaves.

"If I've told you once, I've told you twice, Draco: learn to hold in your wine," Lucius said disdainfully. Malfoy said nothing, only looked away with a scathing glare.

"Your fire is ready," Lucius informed them. "I'm sure your…ahem…doting family—" he looked pointedly at Harry "—is awaiting you. Anytime you're ready." With a smirk, the man left the two in the room.

Strangely, Harry no longer felt so nervous about him. After what Tom had said of Lucius, an opinion that exactly matched Malfoy's, the mystique around the pale man had disappeared. Tom was much more of an enigma than Lucius…and in his dream, Tom had given him a present.

Harry's hand instinctively flew to the pockets of his robes for the package as Malfoy bustled around gathering his things for their stay at the Potters'. He was severely disappointed to find the pocket empty. Of course…he'd been holding it in his hand when he'd been brought out of the dream. And it might not even have been real at all.

"Oy, Potter, don't stand there like a boulder, start packing."

Confused and frustrated, Harry turned to his own truck to do as Malfoy said, only to find the crinkly package lying on top of his messy stack of jeans. There was something written in a rushed hand that he recognized very well:

"Merry Christmas."

Behind Harry, Malfoy had started happily humming "God Rest Ye Merrye Hippogriffs".

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