Errr...

I am so sorry.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Porcelain

"Aren't you glad to see me?" Tom's voice was distant, faraway, but there and then. This was not the diary, not Harry's imagination. They were in the Slytherin Common Room, far away from the bright and snowy woods, from the beautiful golden field.

Harry's eyes roamed from Malfoy asleep in the armchair to Goyle lying dead beside him to the misty memory that stood not four feet away.

"You're not real—you're s'posed to be in my head," Harry whispered dazedly. He tentatively put a hand out towards Tom; it passed straight through his body.

"You gave me life," the boy murmured just as quietly, looking at Goyle. Harry, suddenly grasping his meaning, shuddered.

"You did it—you made me push him—you made me kill him!" Harry cried, horrified. "I'm a murderer…"

"Harry, that's impossible," Tom said soothingly. "You are your own master. You wanted him to fall; you wanted to make me real."

"No!"

"Yes. There's no use denying it. And watch…his life fled quickly. It will be mine soon." Tom peered intently at his hands, and Harry watched numbly as the apparition slowly solidified, becoming more vivid, harder to see through. When he looked back at Goyle, the dead boy with the blank stare seemed to be fading in turn.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked in a hushed tone. Tom didn't answer, still staring at his skin. A few seconds passed.

Goyle's body was gone. Tom smiled and reached one hand out to touch Harry's cheek. This time, Harry could feel it: flesh and blood, a soft, cool sensation.

The moment was broken by a snore from Malfoy's direction. "I think," Tom said quietly, "that we should find somewhere more private to talk, don't you?"

Harry, still reeling, gathered up the pieces of his essay and stuffed them in pocket. He managed to cover the two of them with the Invisibility Cloak. Ten minutes later, they sat in the Room of Requirement, which had turned itself into a bedroom for Tom's purposes.

The newly-made boy sat on the bed, sipping a cup of hot tea that the room had left him on the bedside table, while Harry's own cup sat where it had been. He was sitting against the wall, his head in his hands, trying to make sense of what was happening.

"What are you thinking?" Tom finally asked, setting down his teacup.

Harry raised his head and stared at Tom in disbelief. "What? Can't you tell? Can't you poke around in my brain, like you've been doing?" he asked raggedly.

Tom laughed softly. "Harry, no need for such harsh manners. I don't exist in your mind anymore. I'm solid matter now. I'm sorry if you find yourself missing our place…it was certainly pretty, wasn't it?"

Harry couldn't imagine how Tom could be so calm…he'd just killed someone. No, Harry thought, what if it really was me? My decision? My choice to throw Goyle down those stairs? His mind whirled; he cradled his head once more.

"I suppose I'll stay here for now," Tom said thoughtfully. "Though I must catch up with the times…not that you aren't a wonderful resource for news, but you wouldn't mind bringing me some books from the library, would you, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "Sure. Fine. I'll do it."

Tom grinned. "Don't worry about a thing. No one can trace you to this. There's no body after all; and I doubt anyone will really care that Gregory Goyle is gone…"

At this, the blood roared furiously in Harry's ears. He leapt up and yelled, "How can you say that?! How can you talk about this like I'd just trodden on a cockroach? Sitting there, with your stupid smile and your tea and your damned new self—" In a rush of anger, Harry seized the cup out of Tom's fingers and threw it at the door. Porcelain lay glittering, reminding him of Malfoy dropping the mug at his house over the Christmas holiday.

Tom stood, after a few moments in which Harry's chest heaved up and down as he tried to regain himself, and spoke earnestly, soothingly, at him: "I'm sorry, Harry. It's just that I haven't been alive for so long…you don't know how good it feels, simply to feel anything at all. To hear your voice out loud, to smell the spices in that tea, to touch." His hand strayed to his own face, relishing the contact. "I can't help but smile." Harry looked away.

"I'm sorry about Goyle; it was an accident, really. You wouldn't hurt anyone, I know that. Don't be upset over it. We've got things to do, you and me," Tom added, smiling gently. Harry was too distraught to even bother asking what the boy was planning.

"I'll get the books," he muttered. "Tomorrow, you'll get them in the morning. Stay here, you understand? Don't leave the castle."

Tom laughed. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Harry tugged the Invisibility Cloak on and left Tom, still fumbling in his mind. We're in this together, he told himself firmly. I brought him back, and I have to make sure things turn out all right.

Malfoy was still in the common room when Harry got back. The door opening jolted the fair-haired boy back to consciousness. "Harry?" he murmured. "What's going on?"

"Went out for a snack," Harry said shortly.

Malfoy nodded and struggled to rise. Harry helped him up and they made their way down to the dormitory. "Finish your essay?" Malfoy asked sleepily.

Harry felt the scraps of parchment in his pocket as they opened the door at the foot of the stairs.

"No."

---------------------------------------------------

The next day, Harry awoke from a dreamless night. Odd, he thought, that he hadn't seen Tom in their usual meeting place. He got out of bed and opened his hangings, noticing that one of the beds was empty, the curtains still open.

It was Goyle's.

Memories of last night flooded back to him. He staggered and sat down on the bed quickly. But it might have all been a dream…Goyle wasn't dead, just because his four-poster was empty. Harry looked out checked his watch and saw that it was already ten o'clock. Goyle was probably in class, and he, Harry, might have overslept because of his late night—

Across the room, the hangings on Malfoy's bed opened and the boy emerged, tousle-headed. "You're not in class," Harry blurted stupidly.

Malfoy squinted at him. "Yeah. So?"

Harry blinked. "Aren't we late? For class?"

"Have you gone daft, Potter?" The boy was managing to drawl even this early in the morning. "It's Sunday, stupid." Malfoy paused, looking around. "Where's Goyle got to?"

Harry sprang up and started dressing. "I've got to go to the library."

Malfoy asked incredulously, "What, now? Why?"

"Er—O.W.L.s. You know." Harry dared hope, his heart thudding much too loudly as he rushed to the library despite Malfoy's protests, that he'd get to the Room of Requirement and it would be empty.

But did he want it to be empty? If only he had the map, he could check and see, but the thieving twins had been long ago driven from his mind.

He wondered what to get for Tom. Some sort of "Great Wizarding Mumbo Jumbo of the Twentieth Century" title, Harry guessed. Madame Vulture's beady eyes rounded in surprise as he entered the library—perhaps, she thought, even the less serious fifth-years were doing last-minute O.W.L. cramming. But these thoughts were dispelled when she saw that Harry was checking out Magical Progression of the Late 1900s and Knows and Knots: Strange Puzzles of Twentieth Century Magic.

Harry made his way up the stairs to the seventh floor, clutching the books so tightly that his knuckled turned white. No Tom, no Tom, no Tom, he prayed. But the boy awaited him, lounging over the cushy bed, with a friendly grin that confused Harry and made him wonder just what he was so afraid of.

Tom took the books and his smile broadened. "Thanks, Harry. I'm sure these'll be a big help. But you still look distraught…"

Harry sat on the bed beside the older boy. He stared at his hands, much like Tom had been in awe of his own last night. But this was no fascinated gawk, no amazed reverie; Harry was checking for the bloodstains that should surely have appeared by now, to add a poetic feel to the whole damn situation. Harry's hands, however, were clean—as clean as a fifteen-year-old boy's could be.

Tom must have realized that Harry was beyond words; he scooted close and pulled his fingers through Harry's messy, unkempt hair. "It's going to be all right," he whispered soothingly, though Harry could hear a snake's hiss at the far edge of Tom's voice. "You brought me here, in one piece, and I'll never forget it, Harry."

Unconsciously, the boy leaned against Tom, and Tom let him stay that way for a while before Harry stirred and got up. "Take this to the owlery and deliver it for me, will you, Harry?" Tom asked before the other left. Harry took the envelope and nodded.

"I'll be back tonight, maybe," he said to Tom before leaving and inspecting the envelope. It was addressed to Lucius Malfoy; of course, Harry thought dully. The memory-turned-boy may not respect his friend's father, but he must be the only one apart from Harry who knew what was happening. He'd probably known all along, wanting it to be his own son who released Tom, and so he'd sent the diary.

But what Harry couldn't figure out, as he mailed the letter (he didn't bother trying to open it; Tom, having taken Goyle's wand last night, had no doubt sealed it shut with magic) was why Tom Riddle was so bloody important in the first place. He was a first-rate wizard, of course, the enchantment on the diary had proven that. He had his way with words, and his way with people, obviously. But what made him worth bringing back to life fifty years after he'd died?

And why would Lucius Malfoy of all people want this to happen?

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