Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any characters from the series by J.K. Rowling.I also don't own the brief excerpt from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, directly quoted from the book. If you sue me, all I have is sock flint.

Author Note:

This is a brief one – the longer will be at the bottom. This is a REDO of my early version called Tom Riddle Lives. This is going to go in a COMPLETELY different direction than my original fic, so I'm leaving the first one up for those who enjoyed it. It's still going to be OOC, but I'm hoping that in this revamp, there will be evident improvement in the plot and presentation. Being a Lit Major, I will warn you that nothing I mention is accidental. If something seems irrelevant now, I promise that it will come to mean something sooner or later. Enjoy!

Sonnet 18

Rough Winds Do Shake the Darling Buds of May

I hate you.

Rolling his eyes, Harry slammed shut the battered diary that lie open upon his bed. If Riddle wanted to be moody, he could be moody by himself – Harry had enough to worry about, what with going back to the Dursley's tomorrow and everything. Looking over the edge of his bed, where his trunk stood readily packed, he mentally double-checked that he would be able to wake-up, stuff himself at breakfast, then go without fear of leaving anything behind. Though there was one thing he wouldn't mind leaving…

I hate you. The diary had flipped itself back open, presenting page 35, near the middle. Riddle's usually precise handwriting, slanted slightly to the right and curling with artistic flare, was sloppy and jagged – his tantrum coming through his writing. Of course, Harry could understand why Riddle would have cause for being upset. Honestly, he wouldn't much like being trapped in a banged up old book by himself either.

"I could have let you die, you know," Harry muttered at the book, while drawing the curtains around his bed. "I didn't have to save you."

Riddle didn't answer. By now, Harry knew that Tom could hear him through the pages… that writing wasn't necessary to communicate with the young Dark Lord. Not that Harry was foolish enough to try a quill – after learning how Ginny had come to be possessed, he certainly wasn't going to risk the same fate, brought on by sheer stupidity. Hermione would be fairly proud.

Sighing, Harry firmly closed the diary again, using an old sock to bind it shut. Tucking it under his pillow, where the weight of his head could hold it down if need be, he warily laid down to rest for his last night in Hogwarts as a second year. "'Night Tom," he muttered, half to spite and half to soothe to seething disembodied youth.

"Mwa?" Ron's sleepy mutter came from beyond the red curtains, obviously already half asleep.

"I said, 'Goodnight Ron,'" Harry lied, listening for his friend's accepting murmur, followed by steady snoring. It was a small lie, but Harry found himself wondering how many of these lies he would have to tell in order to protect what should likely be destroyed.

--

--

He raised his wand-

Then, in a rush of wings, Fawkes had soared back overhead and something fell into Harry's lap - the diary.

For a split second, both Harry and Riddle, wand still raised, stared at it. Then, without thinking, without considering, as though he had meant to do it all along, Harry seized the Basilisk fang on the floor next to him and plunged it straight into the heart of the book.

There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink spurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over Harry's hands, flooding the floor. Riddle was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing, and then-

Green eyes met green eyes.

As Riddle thrashed and screamed, Harry was again struck by the similarities that existed between them – how their eyes were the exact shade of green… how Riddle's hair was a much neater version of Harry's own locks. Inexplicably, Harry thought about what it must have been like for the older teen, trapped between the musty pages of an old diary – waiting for someone to come along and set him free. Then, when Ginny Weasley had finally done so, what did it matter that she was only a silly young girl? What chance would Riddle have again to finally be alive… to not merely exist? Though Harry knew that he would never accept murder as the proper means for anything, he felt that he could truly understand his foe. It was all there in those eyes…

Harry didn't know what compelled him to do what he did. Numbly, as if working from behind an invisible barrier, he wrenched the basilisk fang from the diary while ripping off a piece of his shirt to stem the flow of ink. Vaguely, it reminded him of staunching a bleeding wound. Fawkes, somehow understanding the intentions of the-boy-who-lived, swooped low to the chamber floor – his talons still glinting with fresh basilisk blood.

Riddle was still screaming, clenching his eyes shut tightly from the pain. Harry was surprised, for he could barely hear the cries of the fading youth, for the weaker that Riddle's image became, the further away his voice seemed to travel – as though he were at the bottom of a very deep well and drowning while trying to speak. He took no notice of Fawkes when the phoenix hovered over his form, craning his neck so that the pearly tears fell into his opened, gasping mouth. Neither did Harry, who was occupied with holding the diary in place – it had begun to shake violently, as if on the verge of tearing itself apart.

Gradually, the diary ceased to move and the ink stopped flowing. Removing the cloth scrap, Harry prodded at the gaping hole uncertainly, frowning when there was no reaction. Cautiously looking across the floor, he saw Riddle's form – solid again – unmoving amidst the slime and dirt that made up the Chamber's floor. Barely noticeable, the head boy's chest rose and fell evenly, signaling that he was still alive.

A terrible thought then came to Harry. "Ginny!" he exclaimed, forcing his weary legs to support him as he ran to his best friend's sister. Falling to his knees at her side, he carefully placed his fingers at her pulse point, sighing in relief when he felt a steady beat. Convinced that she would be fine, he carefully moved closer to Riddle, whose screams still echoed in the back of Harry's mind.

The young Dark Lord looked deceivingly innocent in this comatose state. His face was quite handsome when not contorted into a sneer or grimace – there was a deceivingly angelic quality to his features that spoke of youth and innocence. Scoffing, Harry shook his head at his own thoughts. What was most important was finding a way to carry both Riddle and Ginny out of the Chamber of Secrets, lest any other creatures be lurking in the dark.

On its own accord, the diary slipped from between Harry's fingers and flipped open to a page in the back that the fang had not ruined. A white light emanated from the spine, encircling Riddle's prone form before retreating back into the diary – taking Riddle with it. For the briefest of moments, Harry felt sorry for the thwarted young man before reminding himself that there was someone else that needed looking after. Gathering Ginny in his arms, and plopping the Sorting Hat on his head, he held tight to Fawkes' tail while readying a story in his mind.

"And you're sure, Harry?" Dumbledore prodded for the umpteenth time. "That is everything that you can recall happening in the chamber?" The headmaster's gaze was intent as he stared into Harry's eyes.

Harry had managed to tell the truth - for the most part. When he reached the part of his tale after having stabbed the diary with the basilisk fang, he had taken a creative liscence to the conclusion. It had been difficult to tell Dumbledore that he had watched Riddle die, when Harry knew full well that the youth was alive and healed within his prison of a diary. If Riddle was indeed awake or aware, he smartly remained quiet as Dumbledore examined the stab holes in the leather front, apparently believing them to be proof of Riddle's ruin.

From his seat across the desk, Harry forced himself not to squirm when Dumbledore's eyes seemed to be looking for something more within his tale. "Yes, sir," he confirmed quietly. "Fawkes took us all back and that was the end of it. Well… maybe not the end since Malfoy-"

Chuckling, Dumbledore nodded while popping another lemon drop into his mouth. "Quite, quite… and I'm sure that you will have a good and faithful friend in Dobby." Leaning forward, the old wizard's face became serious again. "Just remember, my dear boy, that old saying – 'keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.'" Satisfied, Dumbledore beamed again, his eyes twinkling merrily. "For now, I'm sure that you are more interested in the state of your friends. Miss Granger is most eager to see you in the Hospital Wing."

Smiling in gratitude, Harry took the dismissal for what it was and bid the Headmaster a goodnight. On the way out of the office, he could not help but to clutch the diary in his pocket, as if Dumbledore would come after him and demand that he hand it over. It had been tricky to get it back from the wise wizard, who had been intent on inspecting it. When the opportunity for Dobby's freedom had arisen, Dumbledore had had no qualms about allowing Harry to use the diary as a means of achieving that liberty. Now that it was done and Harry had no reason for holding onto the cursed book… well… he hoped that Dumbledore would be too concerned about what had taken place in his school to recall that the diary was suspiciously missing.

--

--

Tom – Harry refused to keep calling him Riddle – had said or written nothing before the time had come to leave Hogwarts. When Harry had removed the binding sock that morning, he had half expected for the cover to fly open so that Tom could spell out all of the foul things that he doubtlessly wanted to shout aloud. To Harry's surprise, the diary had remained innocently closed and quiet. Even stranger was that he couldn't manually open it – no amount of pulling or prying could make the edges of the binding separate. That was fine by Harry, though… if Tom wanted to act like a sulky child, he could. Not that Harry pretended to understand what Tom Marvolo Riddle was up to in there. For all he knew, the youth was plotting a way to possess him so that he could carry out his dastardly deeds through Harry. The last thought made Harry snort into his butterbeer – who used the word 'dastardly' anymore? – earning sharp glances from his friends seated on the other side of the compartment.

"Alright, Harry?" Ron queried while stuffing Scabbers with Bertie Botts.

"Fine," Harry assured lightly while wiping Butterbeer off of his nose.

"You do realize that you're supposed to drink it – not inhale it," Hermione said crossly while hunching over her book. She had mentioned something about having a full schedule for third year, when they got on the train, and was already reading up on some of her subjects.

"I didn't, but thank you," Harry teased, knowing that she was too submerged in her text to hear anyway. He was about ask Ron if it was healthy to give a rat so much sugar when he felt a burning sensation over his chest. Actually – not so much a burning as it was warm… almost as though he had taken a piece of fresh toast and stuffed it down his shirt... not that he would admit to having experienced that at any point in time. Feeling the inner pocket of his robe, he could trace the outline of the diary – the source of the heat. "Well, that's too bad," he murmured under his breath, crossing his arms over the concealed bump. "You could have said something this morning – now you'll have to wait until we get to the Dursley's." Wrinkling his nose, he felt his spirits plummet at the thought of going back to his relative's house again. Seeing as he had broken out, with Ron's aid, the summer before, he doubted that he was in for a warm reception.

"You sure you can't just stay with me, Harry?" Ron was watching him carefully, watching his facial expressions.

"That obvious, huh?" Harry asked sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head.

"You get this look," Ron explained, gesturing with his hands, "like you just ate a big bite of flobber worms mixed with dung topped off with Snape's hair." Blanching for a moment, he made a gagging sound. "Great… now I feel sick too."

"With a description like that, it's no wonder," Hermione chastised without looking up. "How you manage to come up with such things..."

Rolling his eyes in a long suffering gesture, Ron chose to ignore her for the moment. "Anyhow, it's your Dursley look. You don't do it anytime else."

"I never paid attention," Harry said offhandedly. "Dumbledore's orders though… I have to go back. Otherwise, I'd love to stay at the Burrow."

Brightening, Ron shoved a handful of Bertie Botts into his own mouth. "Weawy?" he asked in a muffled voice as he chewed. "Ah wos 'fwaid ew'd tink eh wos oo smel."

"'Course not," Harry reassured, grinning at Hermione's disgusted grimace. "It's not small at all – I think it's brilliant."

Appeased, Ron unwrapped a chocolate frog before thinking better of it after chewing a disagreeable Bertie Bott. "I'll still write, of course," he promised, "especially since there shouldn't be any house elves getting in the way."

Smiling, Hermione hummed in agreement. "That was a wonderful thing you did for Dobby, Harry…it makes me wonder if there are other house elves-"

"Fifteen minutes!" the trolley witch's voice shouted down the aisle. "Fifteen minutes until King's Cross Station, London!" Lumbering past the compartments while pushing her cart, she repeated the announcement while Ron's eyes wistfully followed the pastries that had not yet been claimed.

"I wonder if those just get thrown out in the end… it would be a pity to waste them," he lamented while cleaning up his mess. Hermione was reluctantly packing her books, carefully placing them so that nothing would mar the covers or pages.

Harry made no comment, more concerned about changing out of his robes without revealing the diary to his friends. He knew that he should tell them… that someone should know that Tom was still alive, in case something happened over the summer. He knew, though, that Ron would insist on his telling Dumbledore and only after he tried to destroy Riddle's remains himself – it had, after all, nearly cost Ginny her life. Hermione would only lecture him about how dangerous such an artifact was and how it would be best for everyone if it was put away somewhere where it could do no harm. That's how Harry justified keeping it a secret for himself. He already knew what the others would say, so… there wasn't really a point to showing it to them.

He still didn't really know why he was carrying it around with him – why he didn't just do his good deed, then turn the thing over to Dumbledore. In the back of his mind, he knew that he should have done that right from the off… but there was this feeling that insisted that something important would come of his keeping Tom close by. Even if Harry couldn't explain it, after two years of surviving Hogwarts, he knew better than to question his instincts.

When the Hogwarts Express pulled into platform 9 and ¾'s, Harry wistfully watched Ron and Ginny's family reunion – the latter blushing furiously every time she looked over at her 'savior.' Hermione's parents looked about with an air of delight, obviously tickled at the notion of a secret platform being hidden in the middle of a muggle train station. Leaving his friends to their loved ones, he heaved his trunk onto a trolley and fetched Hedwig's cage before working his way to the front of the station.

The Dursley's were nowhere to be found. That wasn't very surprising… Uncle Vernon was probably pacing back and forth between the car and the front door of the house, debating on whether it was worth it to pick up his wayward nephew. The same thing had happened when Harry had come home from first year, so he knew that it would probably be early evening by the time his relatives chose to find him – and Kings Cross was a dodgy place around that time of night.

Ignoring the odd looks he received, he left the trolley at the front of the station – he wasn't a thief, after all – and dragged his trunk along as he worked his way toward Euston Street. There was a pub not too far off that Uncle Vernon tended to favor, when visiting London – doubtlessly the first place he would go before looking for Harry. Fitzroy Tavern, on Fitzroy Street, was a clean, well lit place… at least he could sit down to a nice bowl of cottage pie while he waited for summer to begin.

Shouldn't you be in bed? Tom's writing was tidy again, setting Harry on edge. If Riddle was going to try something in public…

"I'm only four years younger than you," Harry reminded the diary, lowly. Once he had claimed a booth, the book had started to act up from where he had shoved it down his pants pocket. A group of girls had twittered hysterically, making Harry blush furiously while wrestling to extract the cursed object. He had unceremoniously plopped the diary on the table top, where it promptly opened itself up.

A technicality… besides, I wouldn't want the precious boy-who-lived to be deprived of his sleep.

"It's only six," Harry snapped, glancing around for any sign of his uncle. "Besides, you said that you hate me… so go back to the silent treatment."

The journal remained blank for a few moments. Tom made no response to Harry's statement, nor did write one of his own. Endsleigh was the only word the appeared briefly across the page before sinking back into the parchment. Raising a quizzical eyebrow, Harry wondered what in the world that could possibly mean before he saw a rather large form making its way to the bar. Inwardly sighing, he slammed the book shut before resolutely approaching his uncle.

Fingers carded through Harry's messy hair, drawing a contented sigh from his lips. It felt nice to wake-up this way, with a hand gently messaging his scalp. Tilting his head back a little, he enjoyed the petting as consciousness came on slowly. Aunt Petunia had never woken him so gently before.

Aunt Petunia wouldn't ever be this nice, he thought wryly. When the reality of the thought took hold in his mind, Harry felt his muscles tense as panic spiked through him. Someone was standing behind his bed, watching him sleep, touching him while he was vulnerable. Slowly, as though reluctant to do so, the hand slip back and away, returning to its owner. Bracing himself, Harry clutched tightly the wand beneath his pillow and flipped himself over to face -

No one.

Casting a suspicious glance at Riddle's bound diary, he ran a shaky hand through his mussed hair and resolved to convince himself that it had only been the last vestiges of a dream.

Author Notes:

Obviously, this is the fic that won the poll! To Cry as a Phoenix will be the next to undergo extensive reconstruction… very exciting. For any additional information about this fic or others, visit my profile, where each fic will have its own info section.

I have to warn anyone reading this that I am seriously ill. I'm not going to die, and I'm able to function well enough, but I cannot promise specific dates for when an update will occur since I never know when my illness will get in the way. I will try to have something ready once a week. Try.

I'm also a full time college student and intern, so I'll do my best to balance fiction with school. I'll post a notice when I have something major coming up that will slow down my updates. The speed of my updates is directly related to the interest I see via reviews or e-mails – otherwise, I'll work on my original plots. Try to refrain from flaming, though I do love constructive criticism. In all honesty, I'm going to have to work to keep motivated for this since this isn't what I'm primarily drawn to write. So… help me rekindle the flame!

I will be updating all of the fics that I have posted and I think you all will be surprised to see what I have in store. Please don't be shy to check me out on Facebook or to e-mail me!