Chapter 35:

It was much later in the day that he finally managed to steal some alone time.

The insistent throbbing and pounding of his head had faded somewhat, but he could still feel the pain stalking the recesses of his mind like a black panther; waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Locking the door of the abandoned classroom behind him, he pulled the smoky red orb from out of his pocket. The remembrall felt cool and solid in his hand, the glass fitting snugly against the lines of his palm. Hesitating slightly, not sure if he was right or if he wanted the knowledge associated with being right, he tossed the ball to the floor.

It shattered instantly, hissing as the smoke poured out and towards him, hitting him dead on. Swirls of memory settled into his head and he dropped to the floor, clutching his head with one hand and supporting himself with the other. Tom. Wand. Obliviate. Plans. Sleeping. Sorry. He couldn't believe the dick had wiped his memory. The asshole.

Scarce minutes later, it was over, an anticlimax, and his vision cleared along with the smoke. All that remained was the shattered shards on the floor, cutting at his skin until they smeared as crimson as the smoke they once contained. He lifted his hand, cursing slightly, his wand moving to heal the wounds.

As he finished the incantation, a small slip of paper among the glint of broken glass caught his eye. Frowning slightly, he plucked it up, collapsing backwards into a sitting position. Wow, gaining memories made you tired. Did most people know that? His energy was utterly spent by the onslaught of recollection. Well, he liked to think it was the gaining of the memories that made him feel so very tired, not the icy darkness that tainted them. Tom. Hell. He unfolded the paper carefully, worried that the fragile parchment would crumble in his hands. It was written in block capitals, just like the original note.

Harry, I feel I must apologise. Although the memories were rightfully yours and wrongfully stolen from you, I can only imagine the unease you must be feeling. Its easier to forget, isn't it? Nonetheless, now you know. The truth. I was never particularly fond of you when we first met, but seeing what you face every night has sort of corrected some of the misconceptions I may have made about your character. We are not the people we used to be anymore. We all change.

It is my solemn belief that a person should always be warned of what they are getting themselves into. For many of us, it is already too late - we have no choice, and any moral obligation I have implores me that I cannot allow him to take away yours. You should not have to face him blind, for it is difficult enough to deal with him with 20/20 vision, at least that was my understanding. The point is Potter, society has taken away my choice in this war, my chances and future, but you still have yours. I will not see you throw it away on an uninformed decision and the careful charisma of one Tom Riddle. So, here you go. Enjoy your memory lane. Choose wisely. This note will automatically burn once you have finished reading it - I cannot take the chance that it will ever be discovered, for my life would then be forfeit.

Sincerely, Draco Malfoy.

Harry's first thought was that it had to be a joke. Draco Malfoy sent him the remembrall, Draco sneering Malfoy who hated him since first year. The incredible bouncing ferret, Draco Malfoy. It didn't seem possible, but the message rang true, and it seeped his heart with ice. Was Malfoy a death eater then? He couldn't be. Lucius though…god. Draco was pretty much set for inner circle life, whether he agreed with it or not. He'd always seemed such a pompous, bigoted inbred little rich kid.

Then again, Harry himself had always been the epitome of Gryffindor's Golden boy. Draco was right, people did change. He watched the paper turn to cinders in his hand, before he vanished the smouldering ashes and the glass for good measure.

He half wanted to turn his wand to his own head and obliviate himself again. Tom, how could Tom do that to him! That was a stupid question. Tom did grow up into Voldemort, mass murdering dark lord extraordinaire. Tom, for Tom's standards of no morals whatsoever, had been shockingly merciful. He could have just forced his allegiance, his silence - Harry had his mark snaking on his arm, did he not? A thought struck him suddenly. Tom. Tom had been the one to tell him what the remembrall did, how it contained memories. Tom had warned him not to get his hopes up about him ever changing for good. Now he was confused. God damnit.

It was like the Slytherin did it deliberately just to screw with his head. The horrible part was that, try as he might, he still couldn't think of Tom as Voldemort. He wasn't. He couldn't be. His mind cringed, cowered and recoiled from the idea as if it were a hot stove, or a bomb just waiting to go off. Why had Tom taken the liberty of warning him? It didn't make any sense. The feeling of marionette strings being silently wrapped around him was growing, leaving him distinctly unsettled.

The worst part was, he couldn't think of a single way to stop it happening. Not one. He wasn't sure if he could, or even wanted to. Tom had been right in saying that they were both trying to convert the other, and it was binding them together tighter than chains. He couldn't afford to let it go, not when his very soul had latched onto the idea of changing Tom and preventing Voldemort from ever happening. And Tom had realised that, he'd known it from the very start.

This was so messed up.

He stowed his wand back into its holster, straightening and smoothing his robes down absently. His head was spinning, whirling with the events stacking up inside it like a line of dominoes. Crap.

He tried to look on the bright side. Tom wasn't going to be leaving either, he had just as much at stake with trying to convert Harry. He wasn't actually sure that was a bright side. There had to be something though, didn't there? This situation couldn't all be an elaborate ploy, devoid of all hope of redemption or salvation, could it? Something of it must have been real. It was too unnerving to think that every single moment he had spent with Tom, every line of banter had been nothing but a mirage to show him exactly what he wanted to see.

He was out of his depth, clearly. But he had to be making a difference, he just had to be - because he'd passed the point of no return a long time ago. He sighed. He couldn't feel his headache creeping back.

Maybe he could beg off Occlumency with Tom until tomorrow, when his head was a bit less off kilter. Yet, he needed to learn it, not learning just meant more death and less sleep. Occlumency. He was hit by a wave of sheer horror.

Occlumency meant Tom would read his mind. Now. Today.

Shit.

A/N - Well, here you go. An update. Not sure how good it is, but it's an update. Look on the bright side, right? Thanks for all the reviews =) adios!