a/n what a long wait for such a short chapter! and no tom in it, either! ;0

second one goes up tomorrow. i had to spilt it in two (the book 3 plan was one short paragraph long, what happened)

the ‽ interrobang looked silly so ?! it was.

He did not wake gently this time. Not like the time he'd fainted after killing Quirrell.

He woke in the night, screaming.

"Tom!" was the first word on his lips. His body was burning all over, but his mind was numb. "Tom!" All around him was a whirlwind of movement where Hermione and Ron jumped, startled awake. "TOM!"

"Hey, Harry... it's okay. Harry." Hermione's familiar face appeared in front of him. "If you keep shouting we're going to get kicked out."

"Where's Tom?" he asked frantically. The hospital wing was buried in moonlight, the previously Petrified victims all already restored, and there was no other black-haired boy to be seen. "Where is he– gods, where is he, Ginny– Ginny?"

"I'm over here." Ginny called. She was in a bed beside his, separated by an open curtain. She was the only other occupant of the hospital wing, sat among the blankets, propped up by pillows, looking infinitely weary. "Harry, take deep breaths. Calm down." He was surprised she was still in hospital.

"Tom?" Harry saw Ron mouth at his sister.

"Tom was the one who attacked us in the Chamber." Ginny said, sparing Harry a brief glance. "The basilisk accidentally stabbed him and once its master was dead, it gave up."

It was a heavily edited version of events, but Harry was nonetheless grateful for it. She must've known that Tom was his soulmate and that Tom was– had been– a Death Eater. She must've thought Tom was a threat. He had possessed her, after all. He'd been planning to kill Muggleborns, after all. And Harry had been yelling at him. He couldn't imagine how his friends would react if they knew. When he looked down, his hands were shaking. His hands were–

There were still words on them. "Suffer…" They curled languidly, but tonight there was no second writer.

Harry had distracted Tom and given Ginny the chance to make a move. He'd shouted at Tom, told him he didn't want him, told him he was a liar and a psycho. He'd blown his top at a boy who'd been trapped in a diary for forty nine years, just because he had supported the other side of the war. Tom had been his soulmate! Harry shouldn't have been so bloody angry.

Despair crashed down on him like a wave, followed by a heavier burden of guilt. Guilt that he'd never even managed to apologise for rejecting Tom in the worst way possible.

Harry could still feel the blocked bond. Tom must've awakened as the second writer when Ginny somehow found his diary, but now he was gone. Part of his soulmate was dead. Harry could almost laugh. Look, he'd managed to end a life once every year. And look, his soulmate had somehow split himself into two. Even better: their bond was still so broken and weak that Harry only ever saw a few words and didn't feel any of his soulmate's emotions at all.

He wanted to cry more than laugh, though... but he tried to box away that despair. He couldn't spend all his time wallowing in mourning. He had to find the other part of Tom – the one that had made it obvious he didn't want to be found. The one who talked about burning deep in the forest in a pyre that Harry couldn't hope to put out. Harry Potter wasn't one to give up. He had a trail now, and he was going to hunt Lucius Malfoy down and wring out every last drop of his secrets. He would turn his guilt at Tom's death into this fiery drive to set it all right.

"Mate, you okay?" Ron asked, peering at him in concern. "You've been out for over a week, and you still look, dunno– haunted, kind of."

He was haunted. "Yeah," Harry lied. "I'm okay."

–––

Night. Long shadows and a now-empty room. Ginny had been released only a day after he'd awoken. Once Ron and Hermione had been chased out, the two of them sat in this taut silence and said nothing. He wanted to ask her why, how, why why why, but he just– couldn't bring himself to open his mouth and acknowledge what had happened. That he'd made mistakes.

Not long after Harry was released from the hospital was he called into Dumbledore's office. He had a whole cauldron of questions he needed to ask, but he honestly didn't even know where to start. So when he slumped down in the chair and refused a lemon sherbet, portraits pretending to be asleep around him, the headmaster's office feeling too full of light and gold, the first words he said were, "I failed."

Dumbledore looked mildly surprised, his white eyebrows raising ever so slightly. "I wouldn't say that, Harry. Quite the contrary. The school has been saved! The chamber closed, and not a single student killed."

"No. One was." Harry said grimly. "Tom."

His headmaster's expression turned grave.

"I failed you, sir." Harry continued. "The one thing you said I needed to do. I didn't. I just– I was so stupid and I let myself be angry. He didn't let it show, but he was so hurt. I failed him, sir, I failed you, I failed myself–"

"Harry," his professor said only somewhat sternly but with all the effectiveness of slammed bars. "As long as you acknowledge your temper was out of hand and seek to improve it." His features softened. "I'm certain that you'll have more chances to meet Tom in the future."

Harry was looking at his hands. "But he won't be the same, will he?"

"No," Dumbledore agreed. "He will not. But his heart will remain as it always has. As I'm sure you've already seen, Harry, Tom is a boy crippled with doubt. He will doubt that he needs you because all his life he has strove to be strong. He will doubt that you love him because he does not deem himself worthy of your love. He will doubt the truth and honesty of every person he comes across, simply because that is the way he chose to live."

"And I have to prove him wrong?"

"Every step of the way, Harry."

Harry was so guilty of failing. He had to… had to show that he didn't hate Tom and wouldn't let his anger get the better of him this time. It wasn't even just about his guilt. Harry had always considered himself sympathetic to other people, and thinking about Tom, now, made his heart threaten to tear in two.

Tom was a Death Eater. He had torn himself apart and was likely insane and everything else. It really wouldn't be easy. But fate always matched two soulmates for a reason, right?

The door opened just then to the man Harry had very much wanted to see.

Lucius Malfoy.

The pale-haired wizard stopped in the doorway, carefully regarding the headmaster and the boy at his desk. "Dumbledore." He drawled. "I wasn't aware that you were handed back your reign of the school."

"Ah, but Lucius," the old man said, "I was requested back within the week."

"Mr Malfoy." Harry butted in. The wizard turned to look at him down his nose, features drawn slightly in distaste. Harry wanted to return the look right back. "I know you owned a little black diary and it caused this entire thing." King of subtlety, it was Harry.

"Pardon me?" the Malfoy asked, still looking slightly disgusted at the sight of Harry. Which was no big surprise, because Harry was a halfblood who hung around with the Weasleys.

"The diary of Tom Marvolo Riddle, from you to Ginny where it possessed her into opening the Chamber of Secrets." Harry had climbed out of his chair and stood with all the defiant height he had. He turned a glare up at Malfoy. "I know you did it, Mr Malfoy. I know she was possessed." Harry was bluffing, really, because Malfoy could've easily lost the diary and Ginny could've picked it up.

He didn't think that was the case, though.

"The boy does have all the memories stored away in his head." Dumbledore commented mildly from behind his desk, "and to think! The Chosen One, openly condemning Lord Malfoy?"

Lucius met Harry's glare and they locked in a silent battle of wills. Well, that Malfoy wasn't openly denying the fact that he owned the diary pretty much confirmed that he had planted it on Ginny, and that strengthened Harry's resolve further. He would get answers from this man.

"Look, I don't want to send my classmate's dad to court or prison," the pureblood looked incensed at Harry's use of 'muggle vocabulary'. "So I'm willing to let you off if – and I'm saying, only if – you tell me exactly where you got that diary."

He had to admit, if his mind wasn't crowded with thoughts of Tom, he would've been raging mad that Lucius Malfoy had essentially nearly killed Ginny.

But now he was determined because Tom had been killed.

Lucius' light grey eyes flickered up to Dumbledore, who was watching the two of them with a slightly disarming smile. Then he looked back at Harry, who stood there like there were stormclouds gathering around him, darkening and roiling with every passing second.

Finally, jerkily, the Malfoy said, "The Dark Lord."

"What?" The gathering thunder around Harry dissipated in an instant as he blinked. Tom must've been a very highly ranked Death Eater, then, if the Dark Lord himself had given a part of Tom to one of his underlings to hold onto.

The grey-eyed man sneered. "Did you not hear? The Dark Lord. He placed it in my care while he had me under his sorcery." His gaze kept flicking up towards Dumbledore. "And I did not know in what way it was cursed or enchanted, so I truly cannot be held accountable for the events that occurred in its presence. I'm afraid the Weasley girl must've stolen it from me–"

Harry bit the side of his mouth to keep from snarling. Yeah right Ginny had 'stolen' it. Lucius Malfoy was a solid bag of lies, and Harry was about to open his gob to tell the man just that, but he was stopped.

"Harry." Dumbledore said, his previous smile now gone. "You've done quite enough." Dumbledore was going to shoosh him right in front of this arrogant arse? Harry was going to complain, but then he was struck by sudden memory of what happened the last time he lost his temper. He slowly sank back down in his seat.

The door burst open, unlike the way Lucius had so casually opened it before. Looking slightly dishevelled, blonde hair in disarray, was Draco Malfoy. His eyes jumped from his father to Harry to all the portraits peering at them on the walls and he seemed to gulp. "Father–" he began, "I was told you were here."

Father eyed son.

"My son." he said icily. "I can only wonder why Mr Potter here was aware of my ownership of several… private artifacts."

Lucius Malfoy was really quite a bit more cleverer than Harry gave him credit for. He watched Draco pale and throw a look at Dumbledore.

"Lucius." Dumbledore suddenly said, with a hint of steel in his tone. "Now, you cannot blame the boy for attempting to warn his soulmate about the dangers of a cursed object and having her explain this to Harry. And, to be fair, Lucius, Harry is not going to file any court case against you. No harm has been done." Harry saw the younger Malfoy's shoulders sag, "Your boy doesn't deserve to be punished for what he's done."

"You don't tell me how to run my household, Dumbledore." Lucius said stiffly, but Harry could tell that his dangerous anger had quietened down. With a few more loaded glances, the two Malfoys left the room after a curt goodbye and Harry relaxed into his chair.

"Professor," Harry sighed, "I've noticed lately that I've started picking up when people lie."

"Is that so, Harry?" Dumbledore hummed, looking unsurprised.

"'Cursed object.'" Harry quoted. "It's not cursed, is it?"

"That was a very minor detail for you to notice, my boy." His eyes sparkled with amusement. "Your Legilimency skills are coming across rather nicely."

"Legilimency?" Harry asked, brow furrowing. He'd heard Hermione mention the term once or twice, maybe, but hadn't delved into it. From what he knew, it was one of the Mind Arts. Why would he have any skills in it? "And not really… Like, it didn't really crop up at all in class, but just then I guess I was paying extra attention."

"It will come to you." Dumbledore reassured him. "Tom was particularly gifted in Legilimency, too." The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. "I see that the talent comes from the soul."

Harry shifted in his seat slightly awkwardly at the praise. He was never regarded as anything talented. Maybe had a little talent in DADA, so this new skill felt a little like he had stolen it from Tom. "About the lying and stuff…"

"Speak up." his headmaster encouraged.

"Draco knew you'd speak up for him." Harry said slowly, trying to catch Dumbledore's eye for confirmation. "He gave you this look just then when his dad started getting angry."

"I've been in correspondence with Mr Malfoy, Harry, yes. While my students have been petrified around the school, I have not been idling."

Harry blinked. All throughout the year he'd felt somewhat on his own and frustrated along the general public that Dumbledore hadn't put a stop to it all. But apparently the headmaster had been doing things. What would the point of talking to Draco be? Dumbledore must've contacted someone else, too. "Didn't Ginny call for Fawkes? Your pheonix?"

"She did." Dumbledore said.

Harry waited expectantly.

Dumbledore hummed.

"So– uh, you knew she was possessed?" Harry prompted.

"Why of course, my boy! I saw your young Mrs Weasley wandering around one night in the corridors; took her in for a cup of tea; and surrounded by a warm hearth and open ear, her fragile heart could not hold. I guided her, Harry, by informing her to call Fawkes if she were ever in need. Or to cling onto the tail end of possession and use the abilities as her own." Dumbledore's eyes flashed then, and Harry was startlingly reminded that this was the greatest wizard in the whole of Britain. "Why, Tom could never keep secrets from me. I've certainly been prepared for the 'gifts' he's left me."

"Okay," Harry said slowly. He'd have to keep that in mind – the fact that Dumbledore saw and heard practically everything. And that his soulmate had an enmity towards the headmaster, who didn't mind at all. "So you knew this would happen?" he said, the thought dawning. "You knew Ginny would use what you taught her to– to–"

"Harry," his headmaster said. "I cannot see the future." Light fell across the old man's face and he looked weary. Bone-tired. "And I, of all people, am not all-knowing. Experienced, perhaps. But never all-knowing. What little I do know is that I will not stand aside and allow my student to be used, powerlessly, while I could offer her safety and freedom. Of course any man, woman, boy, girl, can be used in life, and sometimes it can be necessary, but every last one deserves a choice. I had to offer Ms Weasley that choice."

Harry was going to complain, but then he imagined what it would've been like to be possessed. Growing gaunter by the day. Mind not your own, blood over your hands because you'd trusted in a stranger, and he couldn't fault Dumbledore for giving Ginny even a bit of power over herself. As much as he hated what had happened down in the chamber, he just couldn't. He couldn't hold onto that hate when he saw Dumbledore here, the tired old man. All of them, just too tired, all good intentions that somehow fell astray.

Harry really did feel tired. "So," a little awkwardly, he cast around for another topic, "is the basilisk dead?"

"Goodness gracious, no." the headmaster said in surprise. "Why would we slay an innocent beast that has been blinded by its cruel masters?" Harry had the sinking feeling that Dumbledore wasn't just talking about the basilisk. The old man chuckled. "And basilisk venom goes for a very large sum, you know. Think about all the new textbooks we could purchase, the brooms… and the Defense Against the Dark Arts professors."

Funnily enough, Harry had forgotten all about Lockhart. "Is he all right, professor?"

"Health wise, yes, although his memory has fallen into a state of disrepair." Harry was fixed with a rather serious look. "Harry – this was not your doing. Lockhart's mistake was his own, and you should not feel the burden of it."

Harry hadn't realised just how much he'd needed to hear that until then.

"Neither was Quirrell's death nor his soulmate's."

Harry froze, his pulse suddenly loud in his ears. Slowly, he relaxed, feeling as though he was drawing nails out of his rigid spine. "Yeah, I know."

"You shouldn't fret, Harry. You are doing terrifically." Dumbledore continued. "You know now that Tom is on the Dark side, closely affiliated with Voldemort himself. You know precisely who your soulmate is. ...It might be time for a break."

Harry knew what the old man was getting at, and the thought left a bitter taste on his tongue. "You think I'm too young to go looking for my soulmate."

"It is not your youth." But he was saying that Harry was too young, anyway. "I ask that you spend some time to stew, Harry. Your search and task requires dedication. It requires thought and devotion – things that take time to incubate – acceptance of your soulmate for who he is. Tom deserves more than a young boy who goes recklessly charging in, powered by nothing but the thought that this is someone he should be saving. Mull the fact that he is a Death Eater. He deserves a soulmate who knows exactly who he is choosing to love."

"So you don't want blind faith." Harry said, flatly.

"Love is always blind." Dumbledore said gently. "A blind man can have purpose. Magnets, Harry. You two will always find each other. You were fated to collide."

Harry didn't how to feel about that, but he did end up telling the professor he'd try stay out of trouble, and that he wouldn't go hounding after Death Eaters while yelling Tom's name.

The old man beamed at him. "Well then!" he said. "I think that's everything cleared up. Now go, Harry, I'm sure your friends are waiting for you."

–––

On the train, Harry was musing aloud to Ron and Hermione, talking about the strange house-elf that had–

"Dobby?" Malfoy asked incredulously from the compartment door where he had just appeared. He glanced back, painted on a sneer, said, "Really, Potter. You ought to get a better imagination. Your prince in shining armor is a house-elf?" A few agreeing snickers were heard from outside.

Then he stepped in, closed the door. Said with skeptical eyes, "Are you aware of the fact that Dobby is my father's house elf?"

A pause. Harry stared. "Uh." (There was a "pah!" of laughter behind him. Ron.) "Then d'you think you could tell me why your house-elf was like, throwing puddings around my aunt's house?"

Malfoy crossed his arms, brows furrowed. "You said he was trying to stop you from going to Hogwarts?" Harry nodded. Malfoy sighed, his hand coming up to rub at his face. "He was probably trying to be traitorous and warn the Boy-Who-Lived before his big bad master put another plot into play."

Hermione was frowning throughout the entire exchange. "... What are house-elves?"

Most of the time, Ron, bless him, just pretended Malfoy wasn't there and leaned past Harry in attempt to look out the windows. It was probably the most peaceful option. "Creatures that live to serve," Malfoy shrugged, taking the conveniently empty chair by his soulmate. Earlier, Harry had to chase out Neville and Ginny from their compartment just so Malfoy could pop in discreetly at this arranged time. "We've got a few at the manor. Hogwarts has hundreds."

"So, servants?"

Malfoy snorted. "Servants are paid. House elves–"

"What?" Hermione asked, suddenly jolting upright, hair seeming to quiver on end. All three boys watched her with mild alarm. "They aren't paid?"

Malfoy blinked slowly, as if uncomprehending her indignance. "They enjoy working."

"They're forced into slave labour?"

"Their pay is the joy of work." Malfoy said patiently. Harry hadn't seen the blond in action (where he didn't immediately just sneer) like this very often, and he could tell by Ron's side glances that he wasn't the only one surprised that Malfoy could actually have patience. "Like studying for something you're interested in."

"But– Draco, that is slavery!"

Harry just closed his eyes and hummed to himself, finger trailing along the glass of the window. Hermione and Draco flourished together. But individually...

...

The blonde really was still a prat.

–––

That summer was, hands down, the best Harry had ever experienced. He felt a little twinge each time Petunia told Dudley some lie (which was hilarious, he had to admit.) He got squished birthday cakes. Birthday cards. Support and love from his two great friends. He even got a cordial little card from Malfoy, which he highly suspected Hermione had pestered the miniature aristocrat into writing. He and Malfoy… they were just acquaintances. Obviously they both shared one person in their lives, though they more or less stayed to the opposite ends.

Though Harry realised that they really did have a similarity. Realised it over the summer, baking away in the room, hiding under the sheets, sneaking reading, lying back and thinking about Tom, Tom, Tom.

Both of them had a soulmate on the other side of the war.

Obviously he wasn't going to ask Hermione how she handed it, because she'd pester him about who his soulmate was and he'd eventually cave or she'd go digging. And obviously because Hermione was the goddess of digging, she would probably find out about Tom, who Harry felt that had to be kept secret. Tom, the one who had been about to kill Ginny, the one who had also been killed by the actions of Ginny, Harry, Mr Malfoy, the basilisk, and probably many others.

Well, while Malfoy was on the other side of the war, Malfoy was still a kid. He wasn't– wasn't entrenched in the dark arts so far that Lord Voldemort himself had placed part of his soul in another death eater's 'care'. Wasn't buried so deep that he was unconcerned with killing, maiming, living with darkness for so long that he'd shattered and never looked back at the light.

But maybe Malfoy, still, was a step towards 'accepting his soulmate.'

One thing he also thought about was his status as the figurehead of the Light side of the war. The young soul fragment of Tom had obviously been desperate enough to overlook that, but the current Tom already thought he was too strong for soulmates (which clearly wasn't true.) What would happen if Harry approached him? Would he give in? Resist? Would he join the Light side? Maybe he'd help Harry overthrow Voldemort.

The days rolled by in a slow wave, Ron was spending his time in Egypt, Hermione also out of the country, and soon enough, Aunt Marge turned up.

"Runt!"

Harry clutched the edge of the table, his hands growing white. If he didn't do this, they would never let him to go Hogsmeade.

"And his parents. Hopeless. Those sorts never breed the good type." She had crumpled, sunken eyes, and a mouth filled with crooked teeth.

Harry couldn't hear over the pounding in his ears. A shout was struggling to burst from his throat. His parents were good people, how dare she? She didn't know anything about them. Didn't know anything near the truth, but here she was, waving a gnarled hand dismissively as her mouth moved and spat.

He was a bow pulled taut.

"You can see that dirty blood in this runt." She squinted at him and her eyes were filled with such dismissal. As if she had the right– the right?

She yelped as her wine glass shattered in her hand. Harry felt a glare sear into his forehead, but he stared at the table. Focus. He just needed to take deep breaths and cool his blood before he actually stabbed Aunt Marge.

"Ah– pressed a little hard." Marge said, as Petunia made a noise of concern. "Happens all the time, broke a mug too the other day. But as I was saying…?"

Tom.

His hands stopped shaking. A deadly calm stole over him. Remember what had happened the last time he lost his temper? Remember the boy he'd killed?

"Good-for-nothing. He ought to be grateful you've taken him in, Vernon."

Harry fixed his eyes on her, a cold fire burning in him, and when she glanced at him, she visibly started. Those were haunted eyes. Empty.

"A-As I was saying, this gravy is absolutely spectacular, Petunia…"

Later, his uncle still refused to sign the form. For the glass, he said. Harry'd have to work to repay that. Too tired to argue, Harry returned to his room and tried not to think about what repercussions he'd face because he'd illegally performed magic in his home. Again.

The repercussions came a day later in the form of Cornelius Fudge. As soon as he asked to see Harry, who was sitting at the breakfast table, Harry saw Petunia and Dudley's faces pinch. They knew anyone asking for Harry had to be magical business.

A short chat later, after Fudge had perplexingly waved away his instance of magic, asked if Harry had been defending himself or something, if he was alright, "No Death Eaters?", and let him go without even a warning, Harry was left standing, confused, in the doorway.

Dudley poked his head from the kitchen to look at Harry, and sneered, "Got arrested again?"

Harry walked past him, eating his breakfast, clearing his plates and washing the dishes in a bit of a daze. Fudge hadn't cared about his use of magic, but why? He'd been concerned with Harry's safety instead. Obviously that was because Harry was the-Boy-Who-Lived, mascot of the Light – he wasn't allowed to be killed – so it had to be related to Voldemort, didn't it? Fudge wouldn't care about Harry for any lesser things. Then Harry got all sorts of worried. What if Voldemort was back? No, he'd hear from Ron and Hermione if that were the case.

The days continued to lug by, and when Harry owled Malfoy (because his two friends were still overseas) about whether there was some group of Dark Wizards in his area, he got his answer.

(At least it wasn't Tom.)

Sirius Black. Mass murderer. Traitor. Malfoy told Harry everything with little embellishment and quite a bit of snideness. Har har, Malfoy seemed to snicker. I know more about your family and their deaths than you do. Harry couldn't help resent him a little.

Harry's own godfather.

There was a sense of numbness about it. Because while the absence of his parents sometimes faded into the background, like an old wound, this was a new, raw, injury. It was real. The horror of Voldemort had been real. His parents, their friends and their lives…

There was a serial killer hunting Harry. He could only hope that he'd find Black before Black found him.