After what felt like years of endless hallway, the Room of Requirement finally ceded to being required only on the most secluded of floors.

The Room of Hidden Things smelt of mould and old parchment. Its corners were sprinkled with cobwebs, dust caught sticky in their grasp. Nothing seemed to have changed from last he saw, but the towers of discarded junk were uniform after a while. He couldn't be sure there wasn't something else lurking.

Ron was so awed by the veritable magical landfill that he smashed into a set of brightly, intricately decorated teacups. The look on Riddle's face as he scrambled to catch them was possibly worth all of the hassle. The room looked beautiful, of course, but it gave Harry such an uneasy feeling. The Half-Blood Prince's book lay here, and apparently, nestled beneath all the carved tables and manuscripts and long-forgotten trinkets, a Horcrux. An absurd part of him worried that it might have been lonely.

Drafts of impossible wind fluttered the pages of ancient books, and blew leaves into their hair. Harry was immediately pinned in fall colours, feeling rather stupid, when on everyone else, they were strangely complementary. It was odd, he had a tendency to forget Riddle was solid flesh, or something close to it, and seeing leaves fluttering into his face, watching him wrinkle his nose and brush them off hurriedly, was like wandering around in a dream. Though he seemed to have far too many of those lately.

In the distance, he heard a whine, like panic gripping him close and dimming his hearing, only this was most certainly real. Whining and hissing, sounding almost petulant, childish, like a baby begging to be picked up by its mother. Not that Riddle had ever had one to pick him up. Another of their many similarities. "Oh," he said. "Well, there it is."

Riddle seemed fascinated in the extreme. "I ache to find it." He rolled up his sleeves, narrowed his eyes, and went running into the abyss. Harry wondered how far an extension of his soul could, in fact, extend.

He blinked. "Voldemort's never really been patient, I guess."

Then, he ran.

He knew instinctively where both of them were. The lonely Horcrux was crying, but Riddle sung. He was always in Harry's company, and even here, when they were apart in distance, they were never apart in mind. Harry was at Riddle's heels in minutes. "Are you going to bloody wait?"

"I can't," he said. "I must- listen, hear how it cries for us- my soul. You've been so alone. It has us now. We're here, you're not alone anymore."

Harry was sort of touched, in an odd way. Voldemort wasn't by any means a caring person, but he was arrogant enough to love his own soul deeply. Eventually, after dodging falling pots, and nearly dying to what looked to be a cannonball, they came to a stop at a simple desk. On it, an equally as simple box. Riddle snatched it up instantly and tore it open, revealing- "You put your soul in Ravenclaw's diadem? Really?"

"There, there," came Riddle's crooning, patting the ancient treasure's glittering jewels and pristinely-polished metal.

"It's a fucking tiara," Harry got out, after a while of spluttering.

"A very valuable one," Riddle confirmed. "One that holds my soul."

Harry asked, slyly, "Did you wear it?"

"I'm certain I'd be greatly suited to it, but no."

"Pity."

"You mock us, and yet you are as strongly connected," Riddle said, off-hand. He didn't really seem to be paying much attention to anything other than the sparkling diadem cradled in his palms.

"It makes a bit of sense, if you think about it. You always have your hair perfectly styled, and Voldemort doesn't have a single stain on his robes, not even blood. You are utterly obsessed with your appearance, aren't you? Of course you chose a tiara. You girl."

"Now there's an interesting thought," Riddle said. "You won't get any response from me. It is a gem among all creation. And if I felt the need to wear it, my strength would not be diminished in any way by something deemed effeminate, arbitrary and contrived perceptions that they are. It is a glorious sight to behold, and I would be extraordinary with it-"

"You're right, you'd probably be very royal in it, enough to soothe your weird need to be king of all things. You're still admitting you'd wear a tiara, though."

Riddle's mouth was curling up in an amused smile. "And in it, I would still be king of all things."

"Right," said Harry. "It's gone a bit quiet now. Is it going to refrain from killing me, unlike the last one?"

"Ask it yourself."

Harry looked at it. Awkwardly, he said, "Don't kill me. I've come to help you. Well, you've come to help you, too, but here I am."

It seemed to purr in contentment. Riddle ran a long finger along its rim, looking about as pleased. "It cannot talk to you in anything but your dreams. It does, however, sway the emotions of those in its presence."

"I can't say I'm surprised. You already do that. Uh, all of you."

"Treat it well, then," he replied. "A word of advice. I doubt calling it a tiara will particularly endear you to it."

"I've endeared you to me. Sort of."

"I've sixteen years of patience built within me. It has been solely in its own company all these decades, and you are quite... singularly trying."

"Thanks," Harry said. "I'm taking that as a compliment."

"Be that as it may," Riddle continued, ignoring him, "you are as much our soul as anything. We do so cherish you."

"Only because I'm your soul, then," Harry felt the need to clarify.

"And because nobody tests my patience or my mercy like you do. You are wondrously insolent. I find the challenge invigorating."

"Okay," Harry said. "Thanks again. I think."

Riddle flashed him a charming smile, straight out of the pensieve memories, the precise sort that swayed Slughorn. "You're most welcome."

"Probably Lord Voldemort isn't as invigorated."

"Oh, he is," Riddle assured. "Never doubt it for a second. Why else would the Prophecy have chosen you? Why else would I devote my attention to you? No-one short of incredible can capture it."

"You wanted to kill me up until a few weeks ago."

"There's a fine line between love and hate, isn't there?"

"So now you suddenly love me?"

"I wouldn't call it sudden." Riddle stopped at that, and seemed to realise just what he had said. He hummed. "I think we've already had the 'love' discussion. I'm afraid I can't give you that. But you must be precious to me, after a fashion, mustn't you? You are my soul and my soul's keeper. My partner, my-" Riddle's eyes darkened. "We are intertwined. You are-"

"Not yours to possess, just to make that clear."

"No. What a waste that would be, to make you into a puppet. You are my other half, the Lord Voldemort's other half. Not to hone your talent would be a travesty."

"You mean your talent."

"No," he snapped. "Yours. Our wands are brothers. Our magic forms two perfect halves. But they are separate, unique, not identical. You could say the whole we form is not symmetrical." There was a zealous light in his eyes again, the one he got when power floated into his grasp. "But we are ever stronger for it. You will see. When I am Returned, we will perform magic together, as allies, not as enemies, and you will see. With our powers together with and not against, we can do anything." The zeal was quick to fade. "I only wish I could convey this to my counterpart adequately."

Harry was sceptical. Was there nothing two portions of the same soul could not concisely communicate? "He doesn't know?"

"He knows you will make him stronger. He does not know you complete him." Riddle languished over the words, dripping like honey. "He does not understand how our partnership-" this, he said almost seductively, "-is in all ways greater than our enmity. He does not see that we should seek to let our magic combine when needed, that we should unite our magical knowledge, and learn what limitless possibilities our alliance offers. He must know. Then, we can Return, with our patchwork soul. And I will find my mind." Riddle breathed. "We must find the other Horcruxes, and treat them with the utmost care."

"I-" Harry started, feeling a little hot, despite the cool breeze. "Voldemort wants to work with me. Sounds a bit like something I'd come up with completely off it on Liquid Luck."

Riddle rested a hand on his shoulder. "Talk with your friends. Rest. Then we can ask Dumbledore about this Horcrux he has managed to catch sight of."

Hermione and Ron caught up to them fifteen minutes later, panting and sweating and covered in dust. "Sorry," Harry said. "He's a bit fast."

Hermione exhaled an exhausted breath. "Did you find it?"

"Yeah." Harry grinned excitedly, and waved her over. "Come take a look. You're gonna have loads to say about this once you see it."

Hermione stepped forward hesitantly. When Riddle raised his hands to present his new prize, she looked like she'd picked salt when she meant to pick sugar, face curling up in a grimace. "Merlin, did you have to?"

"Naturally, I did."

Harry reached out a hand and wiggled his fingers under Riddle's nose. He nodded, and Harry gently plucked the Horcrux from his grip. Immediately, he felt as if he'd snuggled into a particularly lovely blanket, a comforting embrace from an old friend. For all Harry's teasing, apparently this version of Voldemort was happy with him. Harry promptly set it on his head and spun around. "How do I look?"

The rich colour of Riddle's eyes seemed to darken, half-lidded and appraising. "Positively enchanting."

Harry fiddled with the hem of his sleeve, then placed the diadem into Riddle's ever-present impeccable hair, mussing it slightly. "Not so bad yourself."

This earnt him a predatory smile. "Thank you, Harry."

"Right, so. Right." Harry moved along quickly. "That's one down. Three more to grab."

"You know we're going to have to explain this to Dumbledore, right?" Ron frowned. "He'll want to know why we haven't hexed it to the moon and back by now."

"It's a lovely piece of jewelry and an ancient artefact and we all look good in it?" Harry offered, wincing. "I'm shite at lying to him. I've tried, but I always have this creeping feeling that he knows anyway. He's insanely powerful, and my Occlumency clouds my mind about as much as a window."

Hermione looked puzzled. "Why not just tell him the truth?"

"'Why, Headmaster, this is Tom, you remember him, don't you? There are quite a few of him, and this one happens to not want to kill me. I promise!' He'll kill me instead. And I'll get a very long lecture on putting the castle at risk by allowing Voldemort to infiltrate my mind, and me trying to explain, 'But he cares about protecting people now! They just have to be his soul first,' won't go over well as an excuse."

Riddle sighed, sat cross-legged on the once-final resting place of a piece of his own being, and rested his chin in his hands. "Must I throw myself in front of a blade for you to prove it? The old man hates me, and I can tell you the feeling is most definitely mutual. Not even knowing I've given you the locations of my own Horcruxes will convince him."

"It might?"

"And how could you show him? He'll go after them as soon as he possibly can, and I'm already down by two. Two others can take care of themselves, and the rest are left waiting for his eager hands."

That image alone was unsettling enough. Never before had he dreaded Dumbledore taking the upper hand. "We've got one."

"I'd rather not lose two more. I can't guarantee three of seven is enough to restore my mind to its former glory."

"'Glory,'" Harry repeated, dryly.

"Or to restore my youthful face," Riddle said, sounding genuinely distressed. "I've grown quite fond of it these past sixteen years."

He snorted. "You really are an arrogant prick."

"My looks have helped me immensely in this life. I don't imagine my current corporeal form has an easy time charming people into doing anything."

"He just scares them instead."

Riddle huffed. "Hardly a method that should be used solely by itself. Charm gains followers like Bellatrix, not Lucius."

"Bellatrix still wants to get in your robes, even if you hiss at her. Actually, she probably enjoys it."

"I'd prefer her swooning to Lucius' snivelling. She's at least loyal."

"You just want your ridiculously huge ego validated."

Riddle fought a war with his mouth, which was trying desperately to come into a grin. To everyone's surprise, he lost, and began to laugh, high and light. It matched Voldemort's precisely, but the expression of happiness made it as different as anything. It should've been a terrifying contrast, but Harry felt oddly content in seeing it. It proved the point he wanted so desperately for Dumbledore to understand - that Tom Riddle, no matter how small the part of him, was capable of change. Even if his joy still came at others' expense. "Ah, yes, 'validating my ridiculously huge ego'. A favourite of my pastimes. And to think you've accused me of poor wording!" He dissolved into more laughter, which made Harry scowl half-heartedly. He should've been offended, but he couldn't seem to bring himself even close to it.

"Don't pin acting like a Third Year on my soul," Harry informed him. "You're doing that all yourself."

"I never would have laughed at something so brainless before, so I think I shall pin it on you. My appearance doesn't reflect my true age, so it really can only be your fault."

"How old are you, anyway?"

Riddle raised an arched eyebrow. "It depends. This body seems to put me in my prime, and really, I can hardly blame myself for such a choice, however subconscious. It's anywhere from sixteen, as long as I have assumed this form, to twenty. However, when I left my original body, I was fifty-three. Sixty-seven when I regained a physical form. And sixty-nine presently. But am I truly any of these ages? Before my resurrection, I was hardly living, and yet..."

"Well, then Snake-Face should be glad. He gets to escape wrinkles and grey hair."

"I think I would've aged quite well," Riddle said, haughty. "Very well, in fact. These physical attributes would simply display the extent of my many experiences and vast repertoire of knowledge."

Harry smirked. "Your head is so big I'm actually shocked the tiara fits."

A pleased sigh. "Your wording is still terrible. Trust a Gryffindor to walk himself straight into a trap."

"Trust a Slytherin to set one."

"You do give as good as you get, Harry. I'd like to say that was my influence, but your smart remarks are a brand of their own."

Harry stopped a moment. "Voldemort wants to convince me I don't have a brand of my own in the first place. What makes you different?"

"I have decided to take in what makes me stronger, not destroy it. You can attribute that to my sanity."

"Relative sanity."

"As you say."

Harry only wished Voldemort would come to the conclusion himself. Perhaps, if he told the diadem, it could relay a message... it was preposterous, might even get him killed, but also one of his last hopes. When had he not relied on all his plans being thwarted anyway?

He'd ask Riddle. His Riddle. Tom. Not that Harry thought he'd be able to get away with calling him that anywhere but in his own mind, for his own purposes, so he might not get hopelessly lost trying to figure out which Riddle he was really talking about.

But first, he needed something to drink. His mouth was so dry he felt as if he were about to swallow his own tongue. "Can we get out of here? I'm thirsty."

Hermione swept the room a few times, then said, "Accio flask." A few hundred began to pool at her feet, a mottled calico of colours. Some were painted garish neons, and others were dull and rusted. All of them looked like they hadn't seen the light of day in an eternity. "Right. Big selection."

"They're probably three hundred years old," Harry protested.

"Scourgify," Hermione said, exasperated. "Really, Harry. We have magic freely at our disposal, and you're worried about a few flasks?"

"A few hundred. That could've been anywhere before you called for them. I could get poisoned and die."

She crossed her arms. "They're clean now."

Harry picked up a simple silver cup and eyed it sceptically. "If I die, I want you to bury me with a note that says, 'I told you so.' And I want this melted and remade into... into a fork." Ron snorted. "Or a knife," he added, sourly.

"You'll be fine."

"Aguamenti." Everything looked normal. But that's what the person who obviously cursed this would have wanted him to think.

"Here, hand it to me," said Riddle - Tom - Voldemort - whoever. "I have no true physical form. Any supposed curse wasn't intended for me." Harry gladly passed it over. Tom took a sip, stared with narrow eyes at the glistening water, so long Harry wondered if he were admiring his own reflection - Harry wouldn't put it past him - and then nodded. "It's perfectly fine for human consumption."

Harry sighed with relief and gulped the whole thing down in a second. "Worth dying for."

Tom stared. "You'll give yourself indigestion."

Water dribbled down Harry's lips, and he shrugged. Tom followed the motion closely. "I've got the manners of a prince compared to Ron."

"Oh, thanks."

They returned to the dorms with Harry hidden safely under the Cloak of Invisibility, which he'd brought more out of comfort than acknowledging its possible use. He felt safe, breathing in musty, poorly-filtered air, hair getting ruffled and charged with static, silk tickling his nose. Dumbledore would probably see through it, but they could at least safeguard against any stray students roaming the halls. Explaining the sudden appearance of Ravenclaw's diadem in any believable way was near impossible.

Harry now sat on his bed with a Horcrux cradled in his hands, staring down and wondering if it was, indeed, real.

It purred.

"Can you talk outside of dreams? I don't want to have to sleep to hear you." He received only a hiss. "Okay, I'm taking that as a no. I want to see who you're more like, Riddle or Voldemort." This provoked a louder, angrier hiss. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, all of you are insistent you're the same. Maybe in general, but you did get less patient with age. And less calm." He glared. "Not that you're calm in the first place, you're like a great big walking set of bloody stage directions. You're theatrical, and you moan more than Moaning Myrtle."

The diadem started in on another hiss to rival even the best of Crookshanks', but then cut out half-way through, and settled back into contented purring.

"You're as off your rocker as all the other Toms," Harry told it. Voldemort always had him at the end of his wits, or forgetting he had any to begin with. "You are theatrical, but you're not, as well? How does that make any sense? Then again, you are a walking contradiction. 'Pureblood superiority!' says the half-blood, because he's a sodding lunatic." The diadem grew hotter in his hands, until it was almost scalding, and Harry promptly shut up. "Don't bite me. I'm sorry. If I make you miserable, you'll just make me feel even worse."

He was overwhelmed with a feeling of smug satisfaction from the diadem, which he flicked gently with a nail. "That wasn't even a compliment." But this Riddle seemed to think it was. Of course he did. Carefully, Harry rearranged himself so that he could lie comfortably on his stomach, wrapped in warm blankets, eye to eye with the diadem once he'd set it on his pillow. "I want to figure you out," Harry said. "But I can't really do much. I can hold you, but nothing else, really. I guess I could use my other senses, but I don't want to try to taste you, or smell you. I can already hear you a bit." He stroked the tip of his pointer finger across the glittering gems and over ancient metal. It was pleasantly warm, now, like a small little heating charm, and back to purring rhythmically. Tom was supposed to be a snake more than a cat, but Harry honestly didn't know how snakes would express happiness without outright telling someone.

And of course, only he and Tom could ever hear them.

He waited awhile like that, in the dark. And then his eyes were growing lidded, snuggled into the covers, next to something, though not breathing, perfectly alive. "I think I'm gonna fall 'sleep now," he whispered, and let himself drift.

He blinked awake in what he instantly recognised as Riddle Manor's foyer. For a moment, terror coursed through him, enough to make his hands shake, force the tips of his fingers to go numb. But then his eyes caught on Riddle, sitting against the front door, reading a book under the light of his wand, gleaming an almost pure white in equally pale hands. As usual, his left eye was red, but his right, its natural stormy grey. Harry knew at once this was the diadem.

"Hello," he said.

"I'm not a 'great big walking set of bloody stage directions'," the diadem returned in greeting.

It wasn't the welcome he expected, but he never truly seemed to be able to fully expect anything Voldemort did, let alone how he treated guests in his mind. He wasn't in agony, and that was an improvement to most other times. "Well, you kind of are."

Riddle huffed petulantly. "I most certainly am not."

If he wanted to argue all night, Harry could humour him. But the knowledge of the other Horcruxes, alone and vulnerable, hung over him like the sword of Damocles. "Then what did you get so pleased for when I said you were?" Please just answer and be done with it.

"Oh, no," said Riddle. "It wasn't that comment that pleased me. No, you said I moaned more than Moaning Myrtle." Riddle's eyes ran up and down Harry's body, where he sat, legs curled, on the floor. Smooth, silky, Riddle offered, "Is that what you and my other soul shard do all day? Moan? You did seem quite fond of one another."

Harry went a vibrant pink.

Riddle laughed. "And so responsive, too."

This was a new sort of approach, Harry thought, staring down at his toes, entirely unable to meet Riddle's eyes for more than a split second. "I blame this on you being trapped in endless adolescence. And that you're a smartarse, highly sought-after, pretty tiara. And that you hate me and want to see me suffer."

"Ah, yes, I did get the impression I wanted to do terrible things to you," Riddle said. "Relax. I'm simply teasing you. I know who you are, I know why your body's other passenger is sending you after us. I preserve the memory of Tom Marvolo Riddle in 1945. A pleasure to meet you, at last, Harry Potter. I've heard so much about you."

"You... too..." Harry said, trying to soothe the fire in his cheeks.

"As it happens, I heard your request earlier. Unfortunately, my connection with Lord Voldemort is tenuous at best. Attempting to communicate would likely end in tears - yours. We can share feelings, images, basic suggestions, that sort of thing. But only if I initiate. He's entirely oblivious to my well-being. Should I die, he would feel nothing." Riddle sighed, resigned, and shrugged lightly. "So, no, we can't carry out any meaningful conversation." He frowned, plush lips turning down into a mock-solemn pout. "I do hope this hasn't put you off me. I suppose I could try to send him something, but your connection is far more powerful."

"Are you- the polite one?"

Riddle laughed. "Old habits die hard. This small sliver of my soul was embedded here when it was still necessary that I appear unnoticeable. So to speak. I'm meant to charm."

"None of the others I've met have even tried. Except the Diary, but he tried to kill me as soon as I stopped being useful."

"Why, I could never waste such a pretty face. You'd at least have to have your portrait painted first."

"Ha. Ha. Anyway, no, this hasn't 'put me off' you. I'm still curious. Your body looks pretty young, but I got the impression you've been in the Room of Hidden Things a while. How old are you? Are you more like Voldemort or Tom?"

"I took a long break, from the looks of you. I am the Horcrux directly before you, Harry. You could say we're quite close. But I was still in my thirties when I was created. Not yet out of my prime."

"You did age well, didn't you? Looking something like a decade younger in your thirties? You don't even have a laugh line on y-"

"Yes, I'm sure you can imagine I haven't had reason to laugh all that much, Harry. But I thank you for the compliment. I find it warms my heart."

"Oh, you have one?"

Riddle smiled pleasantly. "If anyone could warm it, you'd be the first I'd pick."

"Oh, Merlin, is that how you got into Hepzibah's knickers?"

"I was far less forward with her," said Riddle. "Not proper in those times, to say such things to a lady."

"Are you saying you're trying to get into my pants more than you did Hepzibah's? Well, okay, there's only so much you could stomach with her, I guess. But look, I'm already a Horcrux, so there's no point."

"I don't want anything from you." Riddle watched him with lidded eyes. "Mm. Even just looking at you is enough. You flush so prettily, not like the others. And you don't dissolve into some whimpering mess." He smirked. "Not within the first few seconds of talking to me, I should clarify. Given a little time, I'm sure I could have you whimpering. That's the sort I enjoy."

"You're thirty-something! You're actually a giant snake-man hybrid. You hate me! If anything got you hot and bothered, it'd probably be hearing me whimper in pain. Wait, no, I'll never be able to face Voldemort again, I retract all of that, and I'm going to lock it away in a Pensieve-"

Riddle shook his head. "He doesn't feel that way about you anymore. None of us feel that way. I want to make you scream, Harry, but not like that."

"Fuck, you're the flirty one. Tom's the sarcastic one. The Diary was the friendly one. And Voldemort is the angry one. Why'd I have to get the flirty one on my first go?"

"I can't help it," Riddle said. "Your reactions are just... irresistible."

Harry desperately tried to school his face into something more presentable. "Right. While you're at that, then, can we talk about the more important things? Like keeping you from Dumbledore, making sure you don't die, and I'll figure you'll want to talk to the other Tom, the Horcrux part of me."

"I think you'll find I can blend into the shadows well enough. Don't go around wearing me on your head, don't act suspicious, and Dumbledore won't have reason to go sniffing around his golden child. As for killing me, well... you'd have a hard time succeeding there." Riddle began to count on his fingers. "Don't stab me with another Basilisk fang or anything covered in its venom, don't burn me in cursed fire, and, no, that's about it. In regards to the shard of my soul inside you, I can talk to him if you summon him within a dream. But the limited communication we have outside your mindscape is enough to get by. Only an extremely pressing matter would warrant calling for him. Unless you truly wanted us to talk, I suppose."

He noted there were discomfitingly little ways to end a Horcrux's existence. Did that resilience also apply to him? Or were intentional Horcruxes the only recipients? "How am I supposed to carry you around?"

"Your robes are adequate. Besides, I don't imagine you'll be staying at the school long, will you? I'm the only Horcrux to reside here, and you've found me already."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Dumbledore knows where one is. He's going to take me there."

"Your friends can guard me while you're away. But don't take that as a free-for-all. I should like to stay with you as long as it's possible. And only you."

"Why me?"

Riddle's face made it clear this question was supposed to have an extremely obvious answer. "You've done a fantastic job taking care of one piece of my soul already. You've the practice to ensure my safety, like no-one else. Not even my physical body. He went to the trouble of hiding all of us, and yet here you are, under Hogwart's nose, with a part of Voldemort inside you. Two, now."

"You're not inside me."

Riddle hummed. "Do you want me to be?"

"Okay, I think I'd like to wake up now-"

He chuckled. "Don't let me scare you off, my- no, pet doesn't appeal. All the rest seem too overused. My..."

"Cuddle Muffin," Harry finished, dryly.

Riddle immediately scowled. "I'd prefer the cursed fire."

You suggested it! Even in eternal stasis, Voldemort was still intent on changing his mind every few seconds. The Forever-Hypocrite. "Baby?"

"Certainly not."

Harry began chewing his lip to keep from bursting into sobbing laughter. The past weeks were a blur; this wouldn't even mark the first time he'd decided to mess with the Dark Lord. Not even the second time, really. Which was a title few could claim. Official Annoyance to Voldemort. He deserved at least a medal, if not a lifetime of therapy and an entire castle-full of firewhiskey. "Honey Bunny? Pookie? Snookums? Pudding? Sugarplum?"

"No to all."

Harry held his chin in his hands, nodding his head every so often. Watching anyone else attempt theatrics seemed to sour Riddle's mood completely. Harry was enthralled. "Pumpkin?" he asked, eventually. "Very complicated business, this. I'm stumped."

"Cherished." Riddle seemed to settle considerably. Something appropriate and dignified enough for his highly-respected name, and one that wouldn't make him beg for death. But Harry was still ticking off his mental list. "I do, in fact, cherish you."

"Cherry Pie? Sweetiecakes?"

"I can't kick you out," Riddle said, patiently. "Implying I'd lower myself to calling you 'snookums' isn't going to help you disappear any faster. Only you can do that."

"Ah, but didn't you just technically call me snookums?"

"Maybe I do want to kill you after all." His eye, bleeding red, was twitching. His hands were smoothly directed into his robes, likely so he could clench them into fists without making a show of himself. "Darling."

Harry wanted to cry. "See, at least then things would make sense."

"Harry." Riddle came to sit by him, folding neatly into crosslegs and tucking his book into his pocket. "Life will never make sense. We are all desperate to find order in this disordered universe. But the only order we have must first be created by our own hands. My cherishing you does make sense, since you are so integral to my continued existence. But you are also unique." Riddle rested a hand on his shoulder, spindly fingers falling against his clavicle and drumming against his skin. "If the Prophecy had chosen the Longbottom boy, I may have simply let myself die instead, you know."

"I'm not any more or less able to do what Neville can." Harry shook his head, messy fringe falling into his eyes, which Riddle swiftly brushed away. "For all we know, he'd be a better Boy Who Lived than I ever could be."

Riddle looked disgusted at the mere implication. "He hasn't a quarter of your talent."

"He's four quarters more resourceful."

"And more pathetic. He is weak."

"And I'm not?"

"No," said Riddle. "You are not. And I'm willing to debate you on this for as long as you please, so don't even hope to out-wait me."

"You only say that because I'm a part of you, or the other way around, or whatever this is." He gestured between them. "Besides, I could be a genius, and I'd still fuck up around Voldemort. This connection basically removes my self-control."

"What about his self-control?"

"What little exists? He doesn't need it. A couple well-timed curses and I'm dead meat."

"But it does erode it?"

"Yeah. Thinking about it, it's probably why you've been flirting so outrageously. For starters."

"There you have it," said Riddle. "Though, I'd like to clarify I'd be 'flirting outrageously' regardless of the state of my self-control."

"Are you saying I should take advantage of that?"

"Of course." Riddle scoffed. "We expect no less from you."

"Right," Harry said. "I'll have a chance to try it soon, anyway. Next time I fall asleep, I think I'm going to run into him. It's been too long already."

"Ah." A calm stare. "Well, you'd better get to the Horcrux Dumbledore's found as soon as possible, hadn't you?"

"Oh, shit," he swore. The realisation hit him like a tonne of bricks, raising his heart into his throat, pulse beating wildly, stomach flipping as if he were tumbling down a flight of stairs. He'd failed to even consider that Voldemort would be going after his own soul. It was the sort of oversight that may not ever lead to his own death, but could easily lead to the deaths of others. The first time he'd tripped up like this was one too many. "What if he's there first?"

The smile on Riddle's face was haunting. Beautifully unaffected. Not a hair on his head out of place. It was the dead-eyed look Harry had seen in Slughorn's memory, and he found himself shuddering. "You'll have to find that out yourself, won't you? Wait and see, Harry. I have a feeling we'll be meeting in person again soon either way."

Author's Note: Heh. Sixty-nine. What is maturity? evidENTlY not sOMETHING I'M AWARE OF

The actual Horcrux hunt makes an appearance! Miraculous! And yet I STILL dissolve into philosophical rambling. Seriously, take overanalysis away from me, STAT ;A;! bEFORE I WRITE SOMETHING WORSE THAN DICK JOKES

there is nothing worse oh god

this is what happens when the premise of your fic includes "voldemort accidentally gets harry's sense of humour because sOUL OSMOSIS" wtf the fuck

me, rereading chaps in thsi fic: voldemort's flirting turns harry into the fiendfyre instead dude. how many times has he blushed his face off again lmoa?