So...I was going to wait at least another day or two to post this, but I just can't help myself. :P Enjoy!

Two Halves

July 31, 1944

As Tom eyed the small scrap of parchment he had extracted from the binding of his diary, the feeling of eerie familiarity that he had been experiencing all evening washed over him once more.

He retrieved his ink and quill from his trunk and flipped to the middle of the diary. A drop of ink dripped from his quill and landed in the center of the page. It was then that a truly curious thing happened: within a few seconds, it disappeared entirely, as though it was absorbed by the page itself.

Tom glanced again at the phrase:

"I AM LORD VOLDEMORT"

Perhaps the most unnerving part of it all was that the phrase was written in his very own handwriting, which he had just realized. A wild thought crossed his mind: was it some sort of password? He wrote the words carefully on the page where the drop of ink had landed a few moments prior, but looked at them in disappointment as they too faded away.

Who was this "Lord Voldemort" anyway? It was curious to him that the phrase was written in all capital letters, which made him wonder if it could possibly be some sort of anagram. It wasn't much of a stretch for him to think so – Tom loved puzzles (or really anything that required the application of his mind).

And, after only about ten minutes, he solved it. He could hear the tea kettle whistling in the kitchen, but the mystery of the diary held his full attention. With slightly trembling fingers, he wrote once again:

"I AM LORD VOLDEMORT"

And below it:

"TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE"

Tom scowled in frustration as the words vanished once more. He was about to close the diary and admit defeat when two words suddenly appeared on the page:

Prove you are who you say you are.

He wrote back:

How?

Diary: Who is your favorite Hogwarts professor?

Tom, in state of curious disbelief that he was conversing with his diary (which was even more puzzling given the fact that it's calligraphy looked identical to his own): Horace Slughorn

Diary: And what is his favorite dessert?

Tom: Crystallized Pineapple.

Diary: Do you have any special talents? Ones that, to your knowledge, no other living person has?

Tom hesitated. He had several talents, after all, and he didn't want to answer with the wrong one. Finally, he wrote what the diary was most likely looking for: I can speak Parseltongue.

For a few moments there was no response. Then: Are you alone?

Tom: Yes

Diary: Good. We shall begin…What do you remember of last year?

Tom (who was growing weary of the questions, especially since he had so many of his own): Who are you?

Diary: In due time, My Lord.

Tom: My Lord?

Diary: In due time.

Tom, sighing: What part of last year?

Diary: How did Hagrid actually get expelled?

Tom looked down at the page in alarm. How could it possibly know one of his darkest secrets? His paranoia kicked in: what if someone had casted some sort of enchantment on his diary to get him to admit his wrongdoings? Who would be capable of such a powerful spell, though? And who would be suspicious enough of him to do so? Only one name came to mind – Dumbledore. Well, if that was really the plan, the old fool would have to try a bit harder than that.

Tom: I think it's best that you divulge exactly who you are before we continue.

Diary: There's nothing you can possibly hide from me; I know every aspect of your past. I am simply trying to gauge exactly how much of it you remember.

It was Tom's turn to say: Prove you are who you say you are.

Diary: Have it your way. I'll tell all – I just hope you're sitting down.

Tom: Go on, then.

Diary: Near the end of last year, you opened the Chamber of Secrets. You discovered the entrance after a considerably painstaking effort and released the creature that resides there, hoping it might send the message that mudbloods are not welcome at Hogwarts. Things didn't go to plan though, did they? Dippet threatened to close the school because of that filthy girl's death…it was almost too convenient that you could frame Hagrid. Term ended shortly after, so you were able to evade the questioning that Dumbledore surely had in store for you. He never believed a word of your story and you damn well knew it. Does any of this sound familiar?

Tom, with disbelief: Yes.

Diary: Good. When did you remember?

Tom: When I took Rosemary to the Chamber of Secrets in February.

Diary: What in the bloody hell – Rosemary who? Horton? Were you teaching Avery some sort of twisted lesson? Seems a bit drastic – she is a pureblood, after all…

Tom: Apparently you aren't aware of my entire past.

Diary: I know everything that's happened up until this very day last year. The only things I know from the year that followed are those that you've written in these pages. But we'll come back to that (and Rosemary Horton…) later. Next, I must ask: what do you remember of last summer?

Tom tried to remember, though he really hadn't thought much at all as of late that didn't have to do with the tournament, Rosemary's family, or his new job. He couldn't remember any specific events of last summer, but knew he had stayed at Hogwarts given the fact that he had nowhere else to go. He supposed this lack of memory of it all hadn't really struck him because it was something he had done every summer for the past few years; after a while, things had sort of become blended together.

Tom: I stayed at Hogwarts. I spent most of my time reading…

Diary: In late July you paid a visit to someone; do you remember who?

Tom tried to remember, but nothing at all came to mind: No.

Diary: Do you by chance remember your lineage? Besides the fact that you're the Heir of Slytherin?

Tom: Yes. I discovered I was part of the Gaunt ancestry last year… my mother's side.

Diary: And your father?

Tom: I'd rather not say.

Diary: Fair enough, though it is rather curious that you remember that, but not the events of that day…Well, anyway, last July, you took a trip to visit your Uncle Morfin in Little Hangleton and he revealed the answer to every question you had ever wanted to know about your parents. Then, in a rage upon hearing the truth (and quite impulsively, I might add…) you decided to off the lot of them: your disgusting muggle father and his parents. Thankfully, you were able to escape suspicion by framing Morfin with the whole thing. And don't worry…the ring is safe and sound.

Tom stared at the page in disbelief, even after the words had faded away. How could all of this happen without any sort of trace– not even a vague recollection– in his own mind? Even more perplexing – how did his diary apparently know about things that he didn't? He was at a loss for words, but finally wrote: The ring?

Diary: Marvolo Gaunt's ring. It's in your vault at Gringott's.

Tom: I don't have a vault at Gringott's.

Diary: Yes you do. Since last July.

Tom's head was spinning. The more he found out, the more questions he had, but the diary wasn't giving him much of a chance to ask them. The sentences kept rapidly appearing, one after another.

Diary: Continuing on…You became worried when you returned to Hogwarts and saw the article in The Prophet regarding Morfin's sentencing in Azkaban. You grew paranoid that Dumbledore was beginning to look at you suspiciously, given that this had been the last of your family. You also knew there was a good chance he was a legilimens…It was the only way you could explain how suspicious he already was of you after Hagrid had been expelled. Thankfully, you had been able to keep your distance for a while, but it seemed as though things were beginning to unravel...you worried that each of these secrets would soon be revealed.

And then, one year ago this very day, you carefully Obliviated your own memory, preserving a copy of it within these pages. You tried to be as thorough as possible, of course, erasing anything that might be called into question in case Dumbledore or anyone else came to you and inquired about the Chamber of Secrets or the Riddle family.

You then placed an enchantment on this diary so that your memory would reveal itself in exactly a year's time, figuring that it would be more than enough time to absolve any suspicions of you that had come about. It was impressive magic, really. But, as you well know, Obliviation is quite tricky, especially when it's meant to be temporary. Obviously, some of the memories came leaking back a little sooner.

He had become sufficiently annoyed by the whistling tea kettle in the kitchen and had finally fetched his tea while the diary wrote its page-long anecdote, only to spill half the cup on himself in shock as he read the words that had appeared before him.

Tom allowed them to sink in for a few moments, even though he didn't necessarily doubt the veracity of the words for even a second. It was exactly what he would do if he was in such a situation…and it certainly explained the blank spots in his memory that he had been experiencing throughout the year.

Plus, all of a sudden, the memories of the previous year had begun flowing back to his mind in full force.

There was no longer a need to confirm, but he wrote anyway: So, you're me…one year prior.

Diary: You're taking this extraordinarily well…Do you remember now?

Tom: Yes. There's still one thing, though: what about this Voldemort person?

Diary: Well, he's us, too. He's the new…identity, I guess you could call it...that you (we?) created the a few days before erasing your memory. It was about time that you shed the disgraceful muggle name your mother had given you. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Tom considered it for a moment: Yes. I suppose it does.

The next words appeared suddenly: Onward with your memory recovery: what do you know of Horcruxes?

Tom: A considerable amount after speaking with Slughorn and reading the chapter regarding them in Secrets of the Darkest Art.

Diary: Did Dumbledore finally return it to the library?

Tom: I've never seen it in the school library. I acquired it from Borgin and Burkes.

Diary: The old prick removed it last year when he was worried you were too interested in the Dark Arts. Well, I'm glad you haven't completely forgotten them. You were toying with the idea after the mudblood's death, but didn't know enough at the time to act on it. It's curious, isn't it? That becoming immortal is truly so simple…

Tom: It is.

He had probably a thousand questions to ask (and apparently quite a few memories left to regain), but a knock at the front door pulled him back to reality. Tom considered ignoring it, as it was probably just some drunk coming to ask him for a scrap of food anyway, but he heard another knock, a bit more frantic, this time, just as he turned back to the diary. Tom closed it with annoyance and hid it under his mattress before crossing the flat to the front door. He opened it without bothering to conceal the large wet spot on the front of his shirt from his spilt tea – it wasn't as though he felt the need to impress the squalor that showed up on his doorstep every evening.

An exceptionally conflicting mix of emotions washed over him when he instead saw Rosemary's pale skin and dark red hair glistening in the moonlight. First, it was disbelief – how did she manage to escape her parents' careful watch? Then brief happiness– it was truly wonderful to look into her deep blue eyes once more– followed by dread: what did she possibly think of him, knowing that he lived in such a place? He had never meant for her to see his flat. Last, he was rather furious – how had she found him, anyway? Didn't she know that it was exceptionally foolish for a young woman (especially one as marvelous as her) to be wandering the streets of Knockturn Alley at night?

Not to mention the fact that his head was still spinning from the influx of memories he had recovered just a few minutes prior.

"What happened to your shirt?" she asked after a long silence in which they had stood, staring at each other like strangers.

"Tea," he muttered, trying as hard as he could to contain his burgeoning temper toward her.

The one thing holding him back from releasing his anger unto her was the air about her. It threw him off entirely; she looked stiff and business-like…there was no trace of the smile that usually graced her features when she was around him.

Rose looked at him expectantly, annoyance apparent in her voice: "Well…may I come in?"

"I suppose," he told her, albeit a bit hesitantly. The last thing he wanted was for her to see the rest of his rather pathetic flat, but there was little that could be done at this point to prevent it. He couldn't exactly send her away.

Tom silently admitted defeat, stepping aside as she strode in and closed the door behind her. He stared at her while she looked around the flat for a few, long moments. Finally, she muttered, "Nice place."

It was perhaps the first time he had heard her use such a snobbish voice toward him and he could no longer fight his fury from surfacing. "Don't you dare patronize me," he snapped in a threatening tone, his last shreds of self-control quickly vanishing.

His anger must have inexplicably softened her somehow because surprisingly, she didn't respond with her own biting remark. "I'm sorry," she said apologetically. "I just thought you'd be happier to see me."

He was obviously happy to see her after everything that had happened, of course, but he was not happy that she had visited him here. He had tried to ignore the anger burning inside of him, but it was too late; he had already lost control. His voice became condescending in its own way as he snarled: "Don't you realize how dangerous it is for someone like you at this time of night!? I can't believe you would be so naïve!"

"Well I'm so sorry to have disappointed you, but it's not as though I can simply pick and choose when to visit," she said bitterly, her eyes hardening into a glare and losing any trace of softness from moments before. "My apologies…I shouldn't have come at all."

She gave him a look of disdain before she turned for the door. As Tom watched her, he experienced both the urge to let her go and the urge to ask her to stay. He suddenly felt as though he had been living in a fantasy for the past year, of which Rosemary was the primary component.

But the truth of the matter was that his life not so simple. Obviously. The parts of him that she would never know (and couldn't know) had increased exponentially over the course of just a few minutes. How could she possibly love him if she knew? Of the pureblood crème de la crème which she had been born into, she was certainly on the rebellious side (a quality he happened to adore in her), but that certainly didn't mean he could simply come out and tell her that he had murdered several people. With her, he knew he would always have to be somebody else, as much as he might yearn to reveal to her every dark, twisted part of his soul and plead for her understanding. This would become his new ideal…albeit one that would never be.

Despite this swift realization as well as his irritation with her, he knew that, without her, he truly wouldn't be himself any longer. If he let her go he would most certainly regret it, especially with how precarious their relationship already was at the moment. He caught her hand just as she reached the door and painstakingly forced himself to let go of his anger and pride. At least for the time being. "I'm sorry."

Tom tried to recover himself a bit, even though he was no longer sure exactly what it meant to be 'himself' anymore. "I am happy to see you," he told her when he had finally calmed himself, reaching up to touch run his hands along her smooth arms.

"Why are you acting so peculiar?" she demanded.

"I'm just…surprised that you're here. I wasn't expecting you," he told her. After all, it was the truth. "And I could ask the same of you."

He led her by the hand to his armchairs, the only two pieces of furniture in the living room. He bit the inside of his cheek and stifled his anger once more while pretending not to notice when she eyed the dirty fabric warily, probably worried that it would ruin her dress the moment she took a seat. It was extraordinarily humiliating, not that he could really blame her all-too-apparent disgust with his living situation.

Thankfully, he was beginning to become too worried about her to bother focusing on his own emotions. Her hand felt limp as he held it in his own. She looked down at her palm as he turned it, eyeing it as though it were a foreign object and not a part of her own body. Then she looked at him in the eyes. He was startled immediately by the cool disenchantment of her gaze; it was the first time that she had ever looked at him in such a way and it fostered an absolutely terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"What's the matter?" he pressed, preparing for the worse. Given the regrettable situation they found themselves in and the look she was giving him, he wouldn't have been surprised if she was there to deliver some truly awful news. His imagination begun to run rampant with undesirable possibilities: perhaps she had gotten engaged; or worse, simply fallen in love with someone else.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Well, besides the obvious, I stopped in to Borgin and Burkes to find you and the man you work for informed me that you've never so much as mentioned me."

Tom breathed a nearly audible sigh of relief. "Is that all?"

"What do you mean, 'is that all'?" she asked angrily, tearing her hand from his grip. "Were you worried that your Tournament slags wouldn't stop by anymore if they knew?"

It was the first time he had ever seen her acting jealous and one of the few times she had been angry toward him. Although he would never admit it to her, there was a rather significant part of him that loved seeing her angry; watching her become so unhinged always made her even more attractive somehow. In these rare, delicious moments in which he caught the glimpse of her darker side that had initially caught his attention all those months ago, the one that she wouldn't dare show anyone but him. She reminded him of a wild animal: impulsive and dangerous…not unlike himself, really. Perhaps the real reason he relished these moments was because they allowed him to see that the two of them were really quite alike. It reinforced his belief that, if anyone was ever to understand him, it would be Rose.

So of course he couldn't help but egg her on, if only for a little longer: "Miss Horton," he started as a teasing smirk spread across his face, "I never thought I would see the day…you're jealous, aren't you?"

"No I'm not," she snapped, her face turning a brilliant shade of scarlet. "I'm just a bit offended that, to you, I'm not even worth talking about."

"Of course you are," he told her, dropping the teasing tone from his voice. "Although, if I could, I'd keep you a secret from everyone so I could save you all for myself."

Her gaze softened, slowly losing its cool disenchantment.

"The entire reason I got the job was to distract myself from everything that's been going on," he continued. "That's why I haven't mentioned you to Mr. Burke."

"I see…" she paused and then added suddenly: "I don't know why I was so bothered by that…something so trivial. Although, I haven't really felt like myself at all lately."

"Nor have I," he told her (which in his case, as he thought back to the diary hidden under his mattress, could not be closer to the truth).

"You're all I think about," she said, raising one of her delicate hands and placing it gently on his cheek. He had forgotten how warm she always was. "All I can think of is being together. I love you so much."

Tom was hit with the full force of her words, as though he had forgotten just how greatly he could be moved by her. "What are we going to do, Rosemary?" he asked her, hating how pathetic his voice sounded to his own ears. He cursed himself for how he had neglected her in a way, forcing her to come up with a plan all by herself while he immersed himself in any and every distraction.

"Well, I do have some good news, believe it or not. I spoke with my mother this morning and she said that she will be appropriately picky with the suitors my father attempts to choose for me…I know it's not much, but at least it buys us some time. We'll be back at Hogwarts and together again soon, so perhaps we'll be able to come up with a definitive plan then…"

Tom nodded and attempted to smile, though he did not feel even remotely optimistic about finding an actual solution. But, as she leaned forward and kissed him, his cynicisms became irrelevant. He could not imagine that there might come a day that he may kiss her for the last time. In his mind, her parents no longer mattered; he swore to himself in that moment that she would be his and only his for the rest of their lives. The alternative was just too much to bear.

Rose explained how she had found him, describing the plan she had hatched with Avery and the others. As irate as he was that her plan had required her friends to discover even more details of their private life, he was rather proud of the way he she had manipulated her mother into allowing her to leave. She stayed for a while and they moved to his bedroom, swapping kisses and touches and sweet words beneath the covers. After all, they had to enjoy the things that could not be conveyed through their letters while they still could.

Eventually, though, the time he had been dreading arrived. He walked her back to Diagon Alley so she could meet up with Faye and the others on their way back to St. Ives. It was awful to see her go, knowing that it would be another long month before he saw her again, but at least his temper had subsided and they had left things in a good place.

When he returned to his flat, Tom wanted to lie in bed and savor the vivid memory of the last few minutes with her before they began to fade, but his tireless curiosity began to nag at him and his mind was pulled once more to the diary.

He opened it and a new message from his former self promptly appeared: Now, then. What could you possibly have to do with Rosemary Horton?

Tom closed his eyes, smiling a bit to himself before his response: I haven't the first clue where to begin.

Later that night, when he finally retired to bed, there were at least a thousand thoughts swirling together through his mind. For the first time in a year, he felt like he might actually know himself entirely. Well, at least his past self, the one that committed such monstrosities that he could never so much as dream of uttering to another soul. Not to mention the fact that, while conversing with himself through the diary, he had reawakened his goals for his future. His desire to become one of the most well-known, powerful wizards of his time was again coursing through his veins.

He supposed that he had another self that he knew quite well, too: the one that loved Rosemary. It occurred to him that, if he hadn't erased his memory in the first place, he very well might have been incapable of loving her. But in the past year he had inadvertently allowed himself to do something he had never expected: to grow indescribably close to someone. And now he was left with two versions of himself. It was rather comforting in a way…that part that loved her did have a grounding way of making him feel quite human, which was something that he had always struggled with prior to falling for her.

Although, it was also a tad disconcerting to feel as though he had been split into two halves. No, that would be a most profound understatement: in reality, it was entirely disconcerting. While he knew each of the halves quite well on their own, he didn't have the first clue who he truly was if they were to mix together. Unfortunately, if there was one thing that was certain in his mind, it was that they had, in fact, become irrevocably mixed. What this meant for his life (and Rosemary's place in it) had yet to be seen.

Tom wouldn't have worried over such things if he were the only one to worry about. But, the added uncertainty of Rosemary could not be ignored. He grappled with the possibility that she could one day ruin everything; opening himself to such vulnerability exposed that risk. By the time he realized this, he had already built her into his dreams of the life he envisioned for himself. The result was a paradox of simultaneously grasping for control while it dissolved in his hands like dust.

"There are times when I worry that I've already lost myself. That is, that my self is so inseparable from being with you that if we were to separate, I would no longer be. I save this thought for when I feel the darkest discontent. I never meant to depend so much on someone else." ― David Levithan

Secrets revealed! Hurrah! And I finally got to use the little excerpt from the summary. :D

Just to clarify (because I know this part might have gotten a little wordy) - the diary is not a Horcrux.

As always, thank you to my lovely reviewers (Mrs. TomMarvoloRiddle, A regrettable decision, AlishaCorral123, RosiePosie15, and CharlotteBlackwood)!

A LOT happened in this chapter, but don't worry, there's still plenty of drama on the way before Part I ends! Only one more chapter from Rose and we'll be back to the split POV set-up for a little while.(: