Harry's stomach churned in horror as the familiar handwriting appeared over the page in response to his own. He tried to throw the diary away from him, but his fingers wouldn't move. Tears welling up, shaking in anger, his own writing scrawled messily over the page, fury evident in the shaky and harsh letters.

Why aren't you dead? What will it take?

There was a small hesitation, and when Tom began writing, he didn't answer Harry's question. I didn't think I'd hear from you again. Couldn't stay away, Harry?

Tears dripped onto the page, and Harry cursed, trying to tear the page, hands shaking with anger. I hate you! Why can't you just die? You killed my parents, and no matter what happens, you keep coming back from the grave to haunt me!

I didn't kill your parents, Harry.

Of course you did!

In the future, maybe. There was a slight pause. I'm only sixteen, remember? A fragment. I'm not the one who did that to you.

It doesn't matter - you will, or you did, or whatever!

So why did you keep my diary, Harry?

Harry drew in a breath, trying to calm himself. He couldn't afford to get sucked into this. How do I destroy this diary?

The funny thing, Harry, is that I think, even if you won't admit it, you're just as drawn to me as I am to you.

GODDAMNIT, JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!

You'll be back.

Harry slammed the book shut, instantly regretting it as Ron mumbled something about spiders and rolled over in his sleep. Being more careful to be quiet, he stuffed the diary under his pillow. No matter what he did, it seemed to end up there, anyway.

After awhile, Harry gave up trying to destroy the diary. He had tried everything he could think of, and nothing worked. Every time, he woke up with it under his pillow, after another dream of Tom. The dreams started out fuzzy and vague, but the more time passed, the clearer the dreams became. In some of them, he and Tom went to school together. They were sworn enemies, classmates, or best friends. In others, Tom and Harry faced off somewhere he didn't recognize, wands out, an ominous green light clinging to Tom's wand. Sometimes, Harry felt disconnected, like he was just a viewer, as he saw a younger Tom sobbing silently and shaking with cold, curled up on a hard mattress with just one threadbare blanket to stave off the frost that had crept into the Muggle orphanage. He watched Tom's closest friend die from pneumonia, watched the too-skinny boy steal a piece of bread, and get whipped to the point that his skin ripped open like an overripe fruit because of it. He watched the lecherous ways that the keeper of the orphanage looked upon Tom, and the way his hand strayed when he tucked in the small, black-haired boy. He watched Tom cry over, and over, and over, watched the light in his eyes dissolve into despair and hopelessness.

And then, the letter came. The boy's eyes lit up, and he shook, unable to believe that this was a possibility. He'd be able to escape this place, for good. All he had to do was go.

And he did.

It didn't stop there, either. Harry watched as Tom poured into his studies in a way that he had only ever seen Hermione do. Tom mastered spell after spell, and potion after potion. He was a dream student, building a future away from that orphanage one spell at a time.

Even if he could escape that place by learning magic, though… some of the scars he'd received there would never leave him. It was wrong. It was still wrong. But Harry began to understand the haunted and hateful, distrusting glances that Tom gave the wizards of Muggle decent. In each one, Tom saw that keeper, felt starvation and cold and humiliation all over again. He couldn't take it. The rest of the school saw him distort into something cruel and cold, unemotional. Harry saw him curled up in a ball at night, crying, every night, the same way he had when he was younger. Destroying that which feared him. He watched Tom breaking down, filled with self-hate that he would never show, for all his pride, to anyone. He watched as Tom gave in to the monster that he thought he'd become. It's too late, anyway, Tom's red-rimmed eyes said as they implored Harry's green ones. I'm a monster. I can never redeem myself, anyway. I have nothing to lose.

It was wrong. It would never be okay.

Why did you do it? Harry wrote. He was at the Dursley's, and with nothing better to do, had ended up turning to the diary again.

You know why. You saw.

Don't you regret it? Innocent people died because of you.

Of course I regret it, Harry. But it's too late for regrets, apologies, and redemption. You of all people have shown me that. All there is left to me is to go forward. Well, as much as I can. Considering my situation, I'd say there's not much left to me. At least I have someone to talk to.

You don't deserve it. Harry stared at the accusation of a sentence, and it seemed harsher than it should. He had to conscientiously remind himselfthat this was Voldemort, the killer of so many innocents. Even this accusation was gentler than he deserved.

Still, thanks. Time passes awfully slowly when you're alone.

Harry wasn't sure what was wrong with him, but with all of these dreams of Tom pouring through his head every night, and their strange written conversations, he wasn't sure how he felt anymore. He hated Voldemort. He hated that twisted creature that Tom would one day become. The husk of a person that had killed his parents, and so many others. But Tom seemed so removed from that person…. Harry had a hard time seeing the attractive, dark-haired boy with such dedication and brilliance as the same Dark Lord he had thought he knew.

School had started up again, and after exchanging stories and shoveling their way through the feast, Hermione asked Harry: "Any success?"

"Success?" Harry gave her a confused look, unsure what they were actually talking about.

"You know," Ron told him, picking up on the conversation. "The diary. Have you destroyed it?"

"Er…."

Not to be discouraged, Ron asked, "did you blow it up? Throw it in a cauldron of acid?"

"Ron, I'm not sure that…" Hermione started, frowning.

"Aha! I got it! Let me guess - you snuck it into your dreadful aunt's pudding, and Dudley ate it! Fantastic!"

"Well actually…."

Ron's grin faltered, and Hermione's expression darkened as Harry shifted uneasily under their attention.

"You didn't do it." Hermione stated.

"I couldn't. I tried everything," Harry explained, sighing. "It's not a big deal, anyway. I think it doesn't work anymore," he lied, feeling guilty even as he did so.

"You could hand it off to Fred and George," Ron suggested thoughtfully. "They're great at breaking things."

"Harry, even if it doesn't work… I still think you should take it to Dumbledore," Hermione said, clearly worried. "It's not a burden that you should have to carry."

"I'll think about it, I guess." Harry glanced away, worried about what the two might think if they knew he'd been dreaming about Tom's life, or talking to him through the diary.

Despite his attempts to keep his hatred towards Tom smoldering, Harry couldn't help but keep talking to him. Their conversations grew less threatening and painful, and more inquisitive, as time passed. Harry asked about his parents, wanting to know what they were like, forgetting temporarily that Tom had ended up becoming the very person who had killed them. He stopped being able to connect the teen with his future crimes, and started confiding small things to him. He told Tom about how awful it was at the Dursley's, and about Snape's eternal hatred of him.

One day, unthinkingly, he asked Ron and Hermione: "Do you think that a person can change?"

"Of course, Harry. Why do you ask?" Hermione responded.

"Well, yeah, unless you're Malfoy. I'm pretty sure nothing could change his awfulness," Ron added.

"I guess it's more than that," Harry admitted. "Say someone did terrible things because they had a terrible past. Out of fear, and hurt. If they were able to overcome that… if they could talk to someone about that, do you think they could change?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Maybe." She searched Harry's eyes, sensing the secret that he was very carefully keeping. "Why do you ask? Do you know someone like that?"

Harry glanced down at the floor a bit uneasily. "Er… I was just wondering."

Neither Ron nor Hermione were convinced.

If you could do things differently, would you? Harry wrote.

You know that I would, Harry. This is the end of me, though. This book is all that's left of the Tom you know.

Harry's dreams shifted from Tom's history and thoughts, gradually. They had run out, and all that was left was the memory of Tom, imprisoned in the diary. He dreamed of sitting across from Tom in the common room, talking to him in person, instead of on paper.

"I should hate you," Harry said quietly. He might've been able to disguise his shaking, or the way he hung his head, if he had been writing. But Tom's eyes watched Harry carefully, more than aware of his emotional struggle.

Tom gave a small smile that was both beautiful and sad, all at once. "I suppose that means you don't, or can't, doesn't it? Even if I deserve it."

Harry sighed, risking a glance towards the other dark=haired boy. "I just can't picture you as being, er… evil. You're messed up, Tom. All twisted up and hurt inside. But not…. Not evil." Not yet, he thought, wondering almost simultaneously whether it was too late to divert that course, at least for the Tom he knew.

"Thank you," Tom replied, tone somewhat sarcastic, to lighten the mood. He paused, eyes passing over Harry as if he were inspecting him.

"What's it like… being stuck in the diary?" Harry asked, a bit uneasily.

Tom sighed, shrugging. "Lonely, I suppose. But… now I have you, don't I? It's not so bad, in that case."

Harry couldn't help it as his cheeks reddened at the way Tom familiarly claimed to practically own Harry. It was as though Harry was some sort of pet for the troubled teen. "Yeah… sure."

"You write me every night. It's nice. And I get to see you in your dreams…." A small, wry smile pulled at Tom's lips. Harry looked away, trying not to meet his gaze. "Shouldn't you be more interested in some or other girl by now, instead of visiting with a memory of monstrosity. That Hermione girl is more than meets the eyes, and Ginny hangs off of your every word." He scooted closer to Harry, who shifted uncomfortably. With a secretive smile, Tom leaned closer, and asked him, "What about me is more interesting than either of them?"

Harry glowed red, clearly embarrassed. "What? That's not - I mean, I just,"

"Maybe," Tom said, leaning dangerously closer, "they just don't understand you the way I do, hm?"

"Er…" Harry leaned back, away from Tom's face and taunting grin, but it was shortlived, stopped by the back of the chair he was sitting in. He could have sworn that Tom's grin widened as he put his hands up feebly to ward off the older boy, and Tom's arm slid around Harry's slender waist as he stole a kiss. Harry's muffled protests went generally ignored as Tom held him close, his lips soft and persuasive upon the younger boy's.

This is wrong, this is so wrong! I can't, I - Harry's thoughts chased each other around in his head. Even as he knew he should loathe Tom, even as his mind reeled with the wrongness of the situation, Tom's arms around him and his lips against his was too much. He gave in to the kiss, to the warm and unexpected sensation of Tom's tongue sliding into his own mouth as he gave a surprised, muffled sound. It was so wrong, and Harry lamented the fact that, despite everything he knew, it felt so right.