Objectively, subjectively, literally, metaphorically, and really in all ways, it was a terrible decision. Frankly, he wasn't thinking, only acting. He couldn't outsmart Voldemort at his own game of premeditation, so being unpredictable, doing stupid shit that could very well get him killed, that was his best chance at being, in Riddle's words, "unexpected."

It was strategically ridiculous, of course. Voldemort was getting far more out of this than he was.

Harry's plan had a high chance of failure, was long-term at best, and so risky it made his head spin. Voldemort was losing nothing from this, other than the sheer grating bother of having to tolerate Harry's presence, and that in itself wasn't really much of a price to pay for someone who sought him out at every chance, and now beyond even waking moments.

He came to lying on the soft wool of the bed in his dorm, lying at an angle, half-turned towards a dip in the covers beside him. In the eerie silence, he heard the quiet rise and fall of breath. Through panic, he squinted against the dark, and made out a tall, thin figure, curled on their side, so silent it was as if they weren't even there. Slowly, he reached out a hand, let two fingers touch the nape of the figure's neck, just to see what his eyes couldn't manage without light. Their hair was short, but not like the ruffled mop of Ron's hair, or anyone else in the dorms', it was too neat, only mussed slightly by the pillow. Nobody in the whole of Gryffindor was that neat, not even Hermione.

Carefully, he laid a hand on their shoulder, only to find their own slowly curling around his wrist. Bony, spindly fingers. Harry blinked. "Oh, it's only you," he said. "I thought a murderer had climbed in while I was sleeping or something."

"And your first course of action against a presumed murderer was to card your fingers through their hair?" Riddle asked, dryly.

Harry flushed. "I just wanted to see if I recognised it. Ron sometimes comes wandering over in his sleep, mumbling about spiders. I was figuring it might be him."

"Why am I here?"

"Why're you asking me that?"

Riddle hesitated a moment. "Harry," he said, slow, after a while, "I only appear when you want me to. Would you care to explain why you want me in your bed at night?"

"That's hilarious. I probably called you in my sleep. I just ran into you. The other you." Riddle tensed. "The only reason I made it out unharmed is because I promised I'd meet with him in his mindscape regularly. I only said I'd talk, but he seemed to take that just fine."

Something like a huff. "I suppose I should just come to expect your increasingly poorly-executed decisions, Potter."

"I'm going to have to talk with him eventually. Why not now?" Harry shrugged. "It was stupid. You don't need to tell me it was stupid; I know. But if I shut you out and never once spoke to you, are you telling me you wouldn't push?"

"Oh, I would," said Riddle. "But that would assume the presence of a rapport, a camaraderie. Why do you imagine Voldemort would find himself so bereft, so hollow without your company that he couldn't possibly leave you be?"

Harry looked him earnestly in the eye. Their interactions, with every counterpart, in every time and dimension, had consequences. "Because I've got his soul. I have you. I know you, both of you. He likes more than just equal footing, and so he's trying to get the step up."

"You know the things he'll ask won't be trivial smalltalk, then. You know he will want to know parts of your life you've kept very, very well-hidden. Like I have, and like I had, with the orphanage."

"It's a fair trade. I'd let you see, but your counterpart... would he respond the same way? Doubt it." Harry winced. "Really, is he capable of anything but loathing downtalk? Or worse, pity."

"You imply I wouldn't talk down to you upon receiving one of your memories?"

"The orphanage is more real to you. Voldemort is..." Harry wrinkled his nose, trying to find the words. "He's practically sloshed - completely numbed himself to your past, but it's still sharp for you, here, like this. You can still understand what it feels like, that kind of, uh, aching emptiness. You know. So, yeah, I'd share with you. But I'm hesitant about him."

Riddle regarded him a careful moment, then smiled, small, approving. "As correct as that may be, he wouldn't be reliving our own memories, now, would he? He'd be reliving yours. To which he cannot possibly have numbed already."

"Then we can use this," Harry said, torn from regret into a small slip of hope. "Right?"

"It was still a thoughtless action executed just as thoughtlessly. But we both may be able to gain from this, yes. See that you find a hint of impulse control before your next action." Riddle curled over, and said, quieter, "Your Gryffindor luck will run out eventually."

The day passed like he was walking through honey, a slow, cloying trickle, itching at the back of his throat. Memories of the night made him feel vaguely nauseous, the claustrophobic sensation of the hallways closing in on him, the sick smack of running straight into Voldemort, wandering alone in some half-formed house.

Riddle had the same unsettling effect on him, the same nondescript feeling of something being terribly wrong, but he could at least wrap his mind around him most of the time. Riddle was by no means predictable, but he was logical. A cold, sick sort of logic, but still understandable. Voldemort had a very tenuous grasp on being rational, from Harry's limited experience, too clouded by the fog of rage and paranoia to make any steps they could map out.

It made him uncomfortable to admit, even to himself, that he didn't much like making Riddle mad. It was that same rage, like ink, staining him for hours afterwards. If Riddle, in any form, was angry, Harry would walk around in a haze, snappy and biting, occasionally mindlessly vicious. He'd get jumpy, too, like a cornered animal. He'd never shared Riddle's emotions as potently as he did the anger - not sadness, not joy (if a Dark Lord was indeed capable of experiencing it), not even true fear. Just twisted fury.

Hogwarts itself hadn't truly felt safe in a long, long while, but this- this seventh sense, a sudden unwanted gift of Voldemort's innate awareness, it only heightened his more suspicious side, behind the bravado, the courage, the recklessness borne from Gryffindor spirit. His suspicion had always been distinctly Slytherin, the little broken shard of Tom Riddle's soul shoved, wrongly yet easily-missed, into Harry's already whole consciousness.

Now the walls seemed more like a cage, protective like a diver from a shark, shrouding him from the outside world, sheltering its other students in a faux secure bubble, all to themselves. It worried him, this enriched cynicism, bitterness, and distrust. Riddle had hinted that his fragmented mind would have entwined itself within Harry's own, snaring and barbed. He had hinted Harry could not purely be himself unless the Horcrux was removed, and even then, Harry felt sure he'd find, completely without intent, that a part of himself would've gone with it.

He would have Riddle's distrust, but Riddle- Riddle would have Harry's capability to care for and love the people around him. As Harry's paranoia had crept on him, so would Riddle's new-found ability to experience empathy in full. It was a fair trade off, all things considered, but, still, it made him feel slimy, filthy in some unknown way, fearing that Riddle might, in the end, have to defeat him to fulfill the Prophecy and bring peace - that their roles might be irrevocably reversed.

The sinking, antsy feeling remained and, in fact, worsened as evening fell. The sense of wrongness was so intense that, by the time he arrived at his dorms, everything had taken on a surreal, dream-like haze, like trying to see through tears and vertigo. Things had been wrong since Harry's stupid decision in the night, but now he felt that same roiling guilt oozing off in waves from the rest of the dorm. It was written in everyone's faces as he passed through the Fat Lady's painting, this shattered sort of look Harry had seen once and decided that was enough, but found himself unable to escape.

Hermione was sitting on the sofa in the Common Room, looking only a few shades darker than death. Ron had his head in one hand, the other clenched in the fabric of his trousers, all scrunched up like he was in pain. "What's happened?" Harry asked.

"It's horrible," said Hermione. Her eyes were wet, but she remained remarkably composed. A terrible part of him thought that must've been thanks to all the practice. "You-Know-Wh- I mean, Voldemort, he's been killing muggleborns who've been particularly... outspoken about their feelings towards him." She breathed in, a little shaky. "He's after dissenters. It's not very surprising, naturally, but I just. You know, there were whole families among the victims? I don't mean parents and children, either, I mean- grandmothers, uncles, in-laws! Cousins five times removed, as well, for all the good that would- just completely- completely ridiculous."

Harry made an aborted attempt to say something, but the bottom of his stomach had dropped out, and he felt suddenly cold to the core, like Riddle at the orphanage. His fingertips were numb, slightly, and he raised a nail to his mouth and bit down, as if that would make the pain register.

He'd just volunteered to give the very same man information. And now he'd flown into a murderous frenzy, like he was trying explicitly to prove just what a terrible decision Harry'd made, just how much he'd come to regret it, that simple remorse wasn't enough.

He thought he might be sick, but no, he hadn't been hungry at breakfast, or lunch, or after the long hours in class. He'd spent his free periods staring at the walls; food had been the last thing on his mind. There was nothing in his stomach to come up, so he stumbled his way past the sofa, and gestured towards their bedrooms. "I'm- I've got to- I-"

"Yeah, mate," Ron said. "It's alright. Go get some sleep or something. We all need it, right?"

He nodded, rose slowly, and somehow dragged himself up the stairs to collapse onto his bed. His throat was in knots, and abruptly he realised he deserved this. He'd caused this.

Beside him, the bed began to dip against a newly-formed weight, and when he craned his neck to the side, Riddle was sitting beside him, hands folded in his lap. His face was carefully blank.

"Why'd you have to go and do that?" Harry asked, voice cracking.

"I didn't make that decision," Riddle said.

"But you bloody well would've if you weren't trapped here with me."

"Yes." For a split second, Riddle seemed saddened by this. In a very light sort of way. At Harry's confused look, he said, "It's a choice with a very satisfying beginning and middle, but the end hasn't done anyone any favours. Not even me." He rearranged himself on the bed, so he lay parallel to Harry, and was silent. Then, like he'd pulled the words kicking and screaming out of his own mouth, he offered, "Some part of me wondered what I'd do if I never managed to find the chance to slip out of hiding. It was inconceivable that I would remain in the shadows. It was too limiting, never enough. The pleasure of watching a well-formed plan fall into place, the joy of going unsuspected in a sea of your own victim's blood - to be quite fustian about it - those were all superficial, fleeting, with nothing to supplement them. There was no true lasting impact, they weren't really accomplishing a thing, and in the shadows, that impact, that visceral terror I wanted to see from others, to harvest, so that I might snare a thousand extra hands to forcibly work on the means towards my ends - it was all unobtainable. All of it." He sighed. "If I hadn't gained full control over the Ministry, the long-term effects of my choices would've been rendered meaningless. No matter how finely honed my magical talents, without total control, I would never gain the ultimate power - the power to, eventually, control whatever I chose, no matter how much an undertaking. With - Horcruxes in my hands - no concern for my own death, with immortality." Riddle spoke as if the dream, one he was so close to reaching, was true enlightenment. Like, in its achievement, Riddle would ascend to some higher plane, likely to seek power there, and repeat the process all over. "I would exert control from one thing to the next, until I had everything, forever. All of it in eternity."

He propped himself up against the pillows, unseeing eyes fixed on the curtains, lost in his reverie. "I imagined that, once I'd secured my hold on Wizarding Britain, the supplemental glaze of satisfaction I'd been finding in killing would finally gain a base in furthering my cause. And it did. And now it can again." He let out a long, slow breath. "I've no regards for life, but killing is simply a pasttime - at times a chore - and not my true goal. Now my counterpart is well on his way to accomplishing this true goal, I suppose he has the freedom to indulge in pasttimes. Especially if, in his eyes, their deaths will only help his tightening hold over the masses. They'll serve to solidify his fear tactics. He's pleased to be able to kill without consequence, a concept a young Tom Riddle had only ever managed to dream of." Riddle shrugged. "That was all very long-winded, but it says this: I feel no guilt over these people's deaths, but I am saddened by them. Only in his eyes are they furthering our cause. For me, I will, by no choice of my own, completely lose your trust. It makes things so much more difficult, and you end up suffering their deaths and your own remorse. Previously a very, very pleasurable outcome. But now, protecting my Horcrux is paramount. It's insulting that part of my soul should suffer."

Riddle stretched and sighed, discontent. "If it weren't for your existence as the keeper of my soulshard, I would've done it, you're correct. But you do exist, and you have frankly tantalising, alluring potential. So, had I been free to make the move, now? I wouldn't have. And I can say with certainty, the only reason Voldemort indulged was because he could foresee no negative consequences. He overlooked them because he does not yet know your importance. He's unwittingly hurt himself, which is a hateful thing to even contemplate. And that is why he wants to know you, Harry. When he realises how important you are, he will stop making mistakes like these."

There was a veritable ocean of information for Harry to process, as he would set to do for the rest of the day. But first, he asked, "You kill for pleasure, but only when it suits you?"

"And it's a very surface pleasure. An excitement to indulge in once in a while should it have no consequences. Not nearly tempting enough to carry out should it be found that there are any."

Harry blinked. Riddle was shamefully forthright. But why? Why? "Why? Why are you telling me all of this?"

"I've lost your trust, and now I intend to gain it back."

Harry stared at his hands and imagined all the information swirling around in them, growing like a fireball. "This is a lot to give."

"And yet not enough. You've proven yourself competent enough to understand that this information, while a lot, cannot be used against me, and will not fall into unwanted hands. I am not losing anything in giving it. And as my Horcrux, it's simply natural that you should know them, to better protect this fragment of my soul."

"That's what Voldemort meant when he said I knew a great deal more than I should about him."

"Not more than you should. He hasn't spent 16 years realising you are more than capable of handling this without putting me in jeopardy."

"Look, I trust you, relax. I already trusted you, as stupid as that is."

"But now you won't doubt yourself about it. You know I only do things for a purpose. Everything else is trivial entertainment I can easily put aside. I have no self-serving reason to betray you, and now you can more clearly see why. Yes?"

"I have this feeling like I should be thanking you."

"None necessary. Repay your gratitude simply by resting, soothing your friends, and learn from this that every action has a very long-winded explanation's worth of consequences. Please comport yourself with more care towards your actions in the future."

"You really are a self-assured git." Harry sighed. "Makes me glad you're on my side. You're right about us being able to do great things together. Have you really never considered working with us?"

"With you, yes. Perhaps even the more intelligent of your friends. But your organisation, it fights for peace that will allow the Wizarding World's shameful corruption to continue. You're all humiliating yourselves and tarnishing the very name of magic."

"Not just tarnished, is it? That corruption is directly responsible for your time in the orphanage. It's personal with you, isn't it?" Riddle didn't answer, so Harry kept going. "I'd work on fixing the corruption. And I know most everyone in this school would too. You could pretty much stupidly easily find the same everywhere else in Wizarding Britain. You act like you're alone in that, but you're not. Plenty of people want it to stop."

"Yes, well. My counterpart doesn't know that, unfortunately. He should consider it, you're right. You're worthy of our consideration." He frowned. "But that level of power isn't enough for me."

"Once we've got you back into your body, I'll show you. I'll actually be able to show you there's power in everything everywhere, 'cause I've seen it, and you haven't had the chance to until now. You can have all of that power, too, you greedy arse. You don't have to subjugate everyone else to gain it."

"And how about my predilection for murder, Harry?" Riddle asked, politely.

"It's disturbing. It's wrong. I'd really rather you not, if you can control it. But, worst comes to worst? There are a very, very few people in this world who deserve it. You seem to have this fantastic knack of choosing all the wrong people, though, all the ones who don't."

Riddle considered this, quietly. "We need to reunite my split soul with my body as soon as possible. We need the remaining Horcruxes," he said. "Power in everything, everywhere? Every day my counterpart, and all my shards, go without knowing this is a disgrace."

Harry looked at him, at the fervour burning through his eyes, and thought, You can't let yourself be too weak to seek it, can you? You really can't.

Author's Note: me to myself this chap tho: IT'S NOT SO FUCKING CHEERY ANYMORE, IS IT?

;A; oops i write like an emotional and tonal rollercoaster

from my own notes: "alSO LIKE COULD U FINALLY START THE HORCRUX HUNT PLEASE? GOD"

yes i know i'm sorry. what the shit rite? this is supposed to be a horcrux hunt!fic. we have the horcruxes. where's the hunt? i'm only seeing pseudo-philosophy from sleep-deprived college students who are getting in way too deep with harry potter meta analysis.