There was a soft rustle and then a thump, as a cloth bag full of heavy books hit the gray stone floor. The room was vacant, full of shadows and gloom, as if mocking the current mood that Harry was in at that instant.

It wasn't depression that he was filled with. Instead it was a dark anger, one that poured into every part of him, filling him up until he thought that he would burst. Unlike the random outbursts of anger that overcame him occasionally, this one had a dangerous hint to it, as if it would take itself out on anyone unlucky enough to pass it. Even though it was only aimed at one person in particular, the Gryffindor had felt that he needed to get away from all of the people around him; he didn't want to hurt them involuntarily. And besides, this burden was his to deal with and his alone.

The source of his anger, the source of his current obsessive thoughts and dangerous desires, was none other than Voldemort. The reason why he was an orphan, the reason why he was a legend, and the cause of all of the troubles that he had faced. It seemed like countless times that they had fought, ages that they had been enemies, and such a scale of hatred for each other that it seemed that it could cover the entire country of Britain. At that second, what Harry wished for more than anything was to encounter Voldemort, if only so he could send the man to an untimely and painful grave.

Is that so?

As if the voice were a cue that he had been waiting on, Harry spun around, holding his wand aloft for both light and protection as he looked around the seemingly empty stone chamber.

"Who's there?" he called, his breath turning short and quick, and his heart starting to race from excitement.

The voice didn't answer, but Harry had already placed its amused, cold and strangely familiar tone.

"Voldemort," he breathed, his eager and suspecting inquiry more a statement of fact than a question of any sort.

In a manner of speaking…

Harry's eyes flitted around the room, looking for the person that was speaking to him, but already doubts were forming in his mind. Maybe Voldemort wasn't actually there at all, but was manipulating him into thinking that he was, using the ever powerful connection between their minds to fulfill whatever malicious purpose he had planned for him. Harry took a step back to see the shadows in front of him more clearly. Though he suspected that it was a trick, he didn't want to give up on the notion of Voldemort's physical presence just yet.

"I am here."

This time the words came to him in parseltongue. Harry felt a mouth against his ear as the lips grazed his earlobe, speaking in the strange hisses that only the two occupants of the room could understand. On his back he could feel the close body heat of the person who was currently standing behind him.

For the third and final time that evening, the Gryffindor turned around. This time, his wand didn't swoosh through the empty air as it swung; it met a hard and solid arm. Harry faltered as he stared up at the boy in front of him, mouth opening and his wand hand dropping ever so slightly. He took a step back.

"Tom Riddle?" Harry blinked and frowned in disbelief and confusion. "But I killed you in my second year."

Tom's hard stare bore into him. "Death has many forms."

There was a split second's pause, and then both of the boys moved at the same time, Harry raising his wand up to Tom's neck, his mouth already forming the first syllable of a deadly spell on its lips, and Tom grabbing Harry's wand hand and his other arm, forcing the boy against the wall.

Harry struggled but was unable to move, his hand crushed in Tom's fist, his back already starting to hurt from the pressure with which it had been forced against the wall. They stared at each other, Tom's expression having dissolved into a sort of fierce hunger, Harry's face filled with anger and loathing. Suddenly Harry found Tom's teeth biting into his lower lip, droplets of blood rolling down his chin. The boy's hands slid down his waist, increasing their strong grip as they went, and Tom pressed his body closer to him, the actions evident of his strong desire.

Harry collapsed into a fit of uncontrollable shivers, the intensity of Tom's craving both frightening and exciting him. Tom's hands were urgent, insistent, and demanding, their force making all of the anger that had been building up inside of him for weeks turn into something much different: lust. He suddenly felt the urge for distraction, all of his emotions slipping under the threshold of his consciousness, his focus being shifted to only the current situation at hand. The passion of Tom's desire was something entirely new, and he had to admit, it turned him on. Part of him was completely sickened by what was happening, and that he was even considering giving in to his archenemy, the boy who had become Voldemort of all people. However, he found himself slipping into the other teen's ministrations and he couldn't resist. He had to have him.

His wand dropped from his grip as he wrapped his arms around Tom's neck, pulling him closer and crashing their lips together for a quick and barely satisfying kiss. He felt the Slytherin's nails dig into the small of his back, and he couldn't help but make a sound, half a whimper of pain and half a plea for more.

He felt, rather than saw, Tom's knowing smirk on the underside of his chin, as layers of his clothes came off, allowing the teen more access to his bare skin. Soon he was covered in small scratches and bites, bruises and drops of blood. Stifled cries and moans occasionally escaped his lips, piercing the still air around them, and their sweat and heat created a tangible aura between them. Snatches of parseltongue were whispered to each other, tongues flickering with the words, teasing and taunting them both. Once there was a small break in their affairs, long enough for Tom to tell him that he wouldn't hurt him, unless he wanted him to. Nevertheless, a glint in Tom's eye gave away the fact that he knew well enough he was already causing Harry pain. It came with a slight moan, a look of intense longing, and a frown of slight irritation at the fact that they had stopped in the first place, that Harry assured Tom that he wanted him to do everything to him, even if it hurt.

And everything, they certainly did. Even the things past the point where Harry wasn't entirely sure if he should go farther or not, and the things he wasn't sure that he wouldn't regret later. By the time that they had ended, Harry was panting and lying against a wall speckled with droplets of his own blood, and Tom was standing over him, his eyes passing over Harry's body in thought and approval. It took a lot of effort and a bit of time for Harry to finally stand up straight, get dressed, and get his head sorted out. He picked up his bag and walked out, rather stiff, walking strangely from the legs that were still asleep from standing on them in a strange position for so long.

He only looked back as he was closing the door to the Room of Requirement, enough to see Tom standing there, looking at him with an amused expression on his face, fully knowing the only reason why Harry would ever use the room from then on.