~The Final Hiding Place~

Summary: Left alone with Dudley's computer, Harry googles "Tom Marvolo Riddle" on a whim. Perhaps he shouldn't have done that... HP/TR romance.

Warning: Manipulative!Dumbledore, conspiracies and dark secrets, and slash (same-sex romance) between Harry and Tom Riddle. Be warned: This story is quite a bit darker than the ones I usually write.

Rating: M

...

Finally!

Harry peered out of his bedroom window and smiled to himself as the Dursleys' gleaming car vanished in a cloud of exhaust down the quiet suburban street. Five years after Dobby's unexpected arrival at Number Four, Privet Drive and the unfortunate pudding incident, the Masons had finally recovered enough to invite the Dursleys to dinner. Harry knew that it had taken years of insincere flattery on Uncle Vernon's part to get back in Mr. Mason's good graces. Aunt Petunia has been all aflutter with excitement when she learned that the whole family (minus Harry, obviously) would spend an evening at the Masons'. Dudley and Uncle Vernon had been squeezed into matching dark suits and tasteless ties and doused with vile after-shave, and Aunt Petunia herself had reminded Harry irresistibly of... well, a petunia in her fluttery pink chiffon dress, smelling faintly of expensive perfume.

Three hours of freedom for Harry! Or maybe four, if Mr. Mason had the good sense to offer Uncle Vernon brandy and a cigar after dinner... And hadn't there been some talk of vacation pictures from Majorca as well?

Harry grinned to himself at the prospect of many long, delicious hours of complete liberty - well, almost complete. The Dursleys had of course taken good care to lock the front door behind them before they left so Harry wouldn't be able to leave the house and inflict any magical mischief on their impeccable neighborhood.

But still - several Dursley-free hours!

As soon as the Dursleys were out of sight, Harry headed straight to the pantry and wolfed down as much food as he could manage. He knew the routine by now: The instant the Dursleys were all out of the house, he would eat any food he could find that wouldn't be missed until he was safely off at school. Drawing on years of experience in the fine art of staving off starvation, Harry focused on nutrient-dense items that would keep him fortified for at least another week or so. He quickly consumed his forbidden feast of sardines, condensed milk, tinned peaches, blackberry jam and cured ham. The flavors were a little odd together, but his stomach soon felt pleasantly full.

Now what? A wide array of forbidden pleasures had suddenly opened itself up to him. Television, video games, or Dudley's computer? Harry hid the empty tins behind an unopened container of bird seed in the pantry and pondered his options for a moment. The computer was probably his best choice. He didn't really share Dudley's taste in alien mutilation enough to enjoy the video games all that much, which left the television and the computer. And he knew that if the Dursleys returned home suddenly, he might get caught watching television downstairs, which would result in an inevitable beating. But if they came back while he was playing on the computer in Dudley's room, Harry would have enough time to turn off the machine and slip into his own room before they came upstairs. The computer it was, then!

Dudley's computer soon flickered to life, and Harry noted, with some amusement, that his cousin had been in the process of googling "How to attract hot girls". Harry knew that Muggles could look up all sorts of information on Google - Hermione had described the search engine to him in almost lyrical terms once - but Harry doubted that even Google could help Dudley with that.

"You are going to need some real magic for that, Dudley," he whispered to himself. "More than you can find on Google!"

Perhaps Harry should look up something too while he had the chance? The only problem was that the information he needed was not likely to be found on Google. How do I bring someone back through the Veil that separates the living from the dead? How do I defeat a Dark Lord? What is the best strategy for surviving a death eater attack?

Harry's fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment. Then he shrugged and typed in the name that was always hovering at the back of his mind these days: "Tom Marvolo Riddle". He knew enough about computers to realize that it would probably respond: "No results found for 'Tom Marvolo Riddle'. Did you mean to search for 'Tommy's Marvelous Riddles'?" or some such, but there was something illicit and strangely satisfying about typing the name of a Dark Wizard into Dudley's Muggle computer. Uncle Vernon would probably burn the computer if he knew it had been used for such sinister purposes, mused Harry happily to himself.

But to Harry's great astonishment, the computer didn't ask him any questions at all; instead, it immediately displayed the first of three pages of results. Tom Marvolo Riddle, dealer in fine antiques. Tom Marvolo Riddle, reclusive philanthropist. Tom Marvolo Riddle's scholarship fund for orphaned children...

What? What?

Harry stared at the screen. A sudden dark tingling ran through his blood. Was he hallucinating? Surely, this couldn't be the Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Dark Lord? But how could there be another person in the world with a name like that?

There was a spot on the screen to click if you wanted results for "Images". Harry moved his cursor slowly over. No. No, this couldn't be the same Tom Riddle... Could it? Of course not. Just a bizarre coincidence...

Harry clicked on "Images", and several small pictures of a man's face filled the bright screen.

Harry sat frozen for a long moment, staring in complete incomprehension at the faces on the computer screen. Then he moved his cursor over and clicked on one of the images to enlarge it.

The man's face filled up the whole screen now, and grave grey eyes stared out at Harry from the backlit surface.

Tom Riddle.

Harry felt faint. Tom Riddle? Yes, the face on the screen was definitely Tom Riddle's. He looked older now than when Harry had seen him as a shadow in the Chamber of Secrets or as a memory in Dumbledore's Pensieve, but those hypnotizing eyes were still the same. How old was he? Thirty years old, perhaps, or forty? No, that was absurd! Tom Riddle had been a student at Hogwarts in the 1940s - he should be McGonagall's age by now! Even if wizards were known to age more slowly than Muggles, there was no way Tom Riddle could look like this. And yet it was Tom Riddle. There was no mistaking those luminous silver-grey eyes, fringed by dark lashes, or those sculptured features, or those full lips that curled in a half-ironic smile...

Tom Riddle-?

But how could that be? This didn't make any sense!

Tom Riddle had long since lost that human beauty that he had once possessed. He had become Voldemort! Those bright quicksilver eyes now gleamed scarlet, and that lovely face had become distorted into something monstrous and inhuman.

Voldemort. Harry stared at the image of the man before him, and he realized with a strange sense of chill that this was Voldemort's face. Yes, he could see something resembling the familiar face from his nightmares in the contours of those chiseled features and in those mesmerizing eyes. This was Voldemort, and yet not Voldemort at all. The man on the screen was Tom Riddle as he would have been if he had never turned into a monster. This man was still human, and still disturbingly lovely to look at, like an unfallen angel...

Harry clicked frantically back to the previous page and brought up the list of search results. Tom Riddle, a well known antiques dealer, appeared to own a shop in one of the better parts of London. Tom Riddle was listed among the donors to various charitable causes, including a generous scholarship "in memory of Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop of Wool's Orphanage". Wait, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop? Harry felt a shiver at the nape of his neck. Weren't they the children Tom had hurt in that cave, long ago?

Harry rubbed his eyes. Was he dreaming? He must be dreaming! Surely, this must be some terrible mistake? Perhaps someone had planted all this false information about Tom Riddle on the Internet, in order to... In order to what? Deceive the Wizarding World? But most wizards never even used computers! Why would someone put a false image of an older Tom Riddle out there, when nobody who knew him was likely to see it?

What if this was the truth, then, and everything else was a lie? What if the grave silver-eyed man on the screen was the true Tom Riddle after all? But if this was Tom Riddle, then Tom Riddle could not be Voldemort. And if Tom Riddle was not Voldemort after all, then...

Then what? Then everything must be a lie. Every word Dumbledore had ever told him, every memory Harry had seen in the Pensieve, everything he had been taught about the Dark Lord... All lies. But why would Dumbledore lie to him? Or perhaps Dumbledore himself was mistaken? Had someone managed to outwit the entire wizarding world, including Dumbledore himself, and made them believe in a Dark Lord who was not real?

No! The monstrous Voldemort himself was real - Harry had seen him, felt the searing pain of his touch. Yes, The Dark Lord was all too real. But what if he was not Tom Riddle, but merely someone who looked like him?

Or perhaps the man in the picture was someone who had used Polyjuice potion to make himself look like the man the Dark Lord could have been? But why would someone do such a thing?

With a trembling hand, Harry hit "Print", and Dudley's printer whirred and spit out a solitary sheet of paper.

Harry took the paper and stared down at the few lines of text. The home address of Tom Marvolo Riddle in London. The man who might not be Voldemort after all...

Harry folded the piece of paper and stuck it inside his pocket. Then he deleted his browsing history, turned off the computer, and headed downstairs.

He grabbed a fistful of Aunt Petunia's emergency cash from her secret stash behind the cookbooks in the kitchen. Then he reached for a heavy chair and used it to smash his way out of the dining room window. Shards of glass rained down on the Dursleys' impeccable lawn, small fragments of Harry's latest transgression, left there for the Dursleys to find upon their return. Harry checked his pocket and made sure his wand was still there.

There was going to be hell to pay for that broken window later, and the theft of the cash would probably earn him a savage beating and a month in the cupboard when it was discovered. But right now, Harry didn't care what the consequences were. He was going to London to find Tom Marvolo Riddle.

...

"May I help you, sir?" Somehow, the man at the reception desk at the elegant apartment building managed to make the word "sir" sound like an insult.

Harry swallowed, painfully aware that his oversized hand-me-downs probably made him look like something the cat had dragged in. "I'm here to see Tom Riddle."

The concierge managed to communicate with a miniscule lifting of his left eyebrow that he considered this outcome exceedingly unlikely. "Is Mr. Riddle expecting you, sir?"

"No." Well, not unless this was an elaborate trap. Why hadn't that idea occurred to Harry before now? Was this a clever ruse, devised by Voldemort himself in order to lure Harry away from the safety of the Dursleys? No, no one could have predicted that Harry would google "Tom Marvolo Riddle". Harry had chanced upon an inexplicable mystery, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

"May I tell Mr. Riddle what your business is?" The concierge studied Harry with an expression of distaste. He lowered his voice and breathed in a mock-confidential whisper: "I believe Mr. Riddle only donates to established and reputable charities, sir."

"I am not here to ask for money." Harry could feel his cheeks burning. "I'm here to talk to him about..." About what? Harry groped for a name, something that would have some meaning to this unfamiliar Tom Riddle. Somehow, he did not think he would be admitted if he said: "I am here to ask him about a Dark Wizard named Voldemort", so Harry settled for "I want to talk to him about... Albus Dumbledore. It's very important."

The concierge frowned. "Albus Dumbledore? Is that one of the artists whose work Mr. Riddle collects?"

Harry nodded silently, imagining the recently deceased headmaster of Hogwarts as an obscure artist, surrounded by paints in bright purple hues. It was a rather pleasant image.

The concierge sighed and picked up the phone. He pushed a button. After a brief pause, he said: "I do beg your pardon, Mr. Riddle, but there is a... a boy here to see you. He says it's about a Mr. Dumbledore, sir." A pause followed. "Yes, I believe he said "Dumbledore", Mr. Riddle." The concierge looked towards Harry to confirm the odd name, and Harry nodded quickly. "From the orphanage? Yes, I believe he could be from the orphanage, sir." A long pause followed. Then the concierge said, a note of utter disbelief in his voice: "As you wish. I will send him up, sir."

The concierge put the receiver back and said, with distinct regret in his voice: "Mr. Riddle has kindly agreed to see you. Take the elevator to the seventh floor. It's the first flat on the left. Make sure you do not wander about the corridors, or I will call the authorities."

Harry nodded briefly and headed over to the elevator, clutching his wand firmly inside the pocket of his jacket.

...

For a moment, Harry wondered, absurdly, if Tom Riddle, the antiques dealer, would remember him. Surely, he would be able to sense somehow that his dark shadow self was the mortal enemy of he Boy Who Lived? But there was no recognition in the silver-grey gaze of the man who opened the door a moment later.

"So, you are the boy who wants to talk about Albus Dumbledore." Tom Riddle's voice was calm and pleasant. Was this Voldemort's voice? Harry couldn't quite decide. "How very unexpected." Riddle's bright silver eyes grazed Harry's shabby clothes for just a moment, and then he stepped aside and motioned to Harry to enter. "Come in, then."

Harry hesitated for a brief instant, a sudden icy fear flickering through him as he gazed at the handsome, half-familiar face of the older Tom Riddle. But then he took a deep breath, closed his fingers around his wand, and followed Riddle into his flat.

The flat was spacious and beautifully furnished, but surprisingly messy. The walls were lined with ornately carved bookcases filled with what Harry assumed were rare and valuable volumes, but wobbly stacks of old leather-bound books had spilled over to the low tables and deep armchairs as well. Antique glass-fronted cabinets were filled with curiosities: old astronomical instruments, Egyptian scarabs, obscure maps, bronze figurines of ancient inscrutable gods, silver daggers and jewel-encrusted cups, all jumbled together. Centuries-old books were flung on tables and chairs and carpets, open to fantastic illuminations of medieval beasts, saints and sinners, all equally beautiful in the eyes of the long-ago artists. Harry suddenly recalled that Dumbledore had once referred to Tom Riddle as a collector, and a collector he seemed to be, albeit a charmingly disorganized one.

"I am Tom Riddle." The tall grey-eyed man offered his hand to Harry. "What's your name, then?"

Harry shook the outstretched hand, half expecting to feel the familiar searing pain at the touch. But there was no pain, and Tom Riddle's handshake was firm and surprisingly warm.

"Harry Potter," he said quickly. He studied Riddle's face closely as he spoke, marveling at the unfamiliar humanity of his features. There was still a trace of Voldemort in his face, but an utterly different Voldemort, as if the familiar monster had shed its hideous skin and emerged human, fragile, beautiful... Behind Riddle, Harry could see the darkening London skyline through the large bay windows, and the sun was setting in blood and fire at the horizon.

"Sit down, Harry." Riddle indicated two deep armchairs by the fireplace. "Please excuse the mess; I was busy reading. Would you like something to eat? You look hungry."

"No, thank you."

Harry sat still for a moment, wondering what to say next. What do you say when the world has stopped making any sense at all? Harry could feel those unsettling quicksilver eyes linger on his face, and he wondered what Tom Riddle was thinking.

"You are a wizard," said Riddle suddenly. "I can sense it, Harry. There is a magic about you."

Harry took a deep breath and met the bright gaze. "Yes, I'm a wizard, Mr. Riddle. Are you?"

Tom Riddle was silent for a moment. Then he said softly: "No, I'm not, Harry. Not any more. I used to be, but that's a long time ago."

"How long ago?" whispered Harry.

Riddle smiled. "Longer than you think, perhaps. I am a great deal older than I look. Perhaps I have aged so slowly precisely because I no longer use my magic. Since my magic can find no outlet through spells and curses, it burns like a flame within me and keeps me young instead... They never taught us about that side of magic at Hogwarts, but then I don't suppose it's something that a lot of wizards know about. Most wizards like to use their magic, every chance they get."

"When... When did you last use your magic, Mr. Riddle?" Harry tried to keep his voice steady.

Tom Riddle looked down. "I have not performed magic since I was sixteen, Harry. Not since the day I accidentally unleashed a monster that killed an innocent girl." There was a slight trembling in his voice. "It's a dangerous thing, magic. Which is why I prefer not to use it."

Harry stared at him. "Killed an innocent girl? Myrtle, you mean?" Accidentally? He relased the basilisk accidentally?

Tom Riddle nodded. "That's right. Poor little Myrtle McGrew. You know about the horrible act I committed, then, when I so thoughtlessly set the basilisk free. I expect people talk about it still, even after all these years."

Harry swallowed. "They do, but everyone assumed that Hagrid was the one who unleashed the monster.

Riddle looked startled. "Hagrid? The large boy with all the pets? I remember him! But why on earth would people think he had anything to do with it? Surely, Dumbledore would have set them straight?"

"Dumbledore?" Harry could feel his head spinning. "He.. he may have suspected that you had something to do with the opening of the chamber, perhaps, but I don't think he knew..."

Tom Riddle's silver eyes widened. "What? Oh, but you are wrong about that, Harry! Of course Dumbledore knew! I went and told him about it right away, as soon as the tragedy happened! I confessed to Dumbledore the horrible thing that I had done, and I also informed him that I would save headmaster Dippet the trouble of expelling me; I would pack my things and be gone by the morning. I left Hogwarts that night, after I had seen what dark and terrible things my magic could do, and I have never used magic since."

"You have never used magic since?" Harry gazed at Riddle in wonder. "But... But you went on to kill your own father with the Avada curse! And several other innocent people, including my parents-"

"What?" Riddle's face was ashen. "Where are you getting these strange ideas from, Harry? I killed my father? And your parents? Who told you that?"

"Albus Dumbledore," whispered Harry.

"Albus Dumbledore." Riddle's voice was almost inaudible. "He told you all these things? But I don't understand... Why would he say such a thing? Has Dumbledore gone mad in his old age? Surely, you must have listened to the delusions of a madman. Where is he now, Harry?"

"Dead," said Harry, his words catching in his throat. "Albus Dumbledore died a few months ago. He was murdered by the Hogwarts potions master, Severus Snape, a servant of the dark wizard Voldemort."

"Voldemort?" Tom Riddle stared blankly at him. "Another dark wizard, like Grindelwald?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. But I don't understand... You see, Voldmort is you, Mr. Riddle."

"What?" Another look of blank incomprehension. "Me?"

Harry looked closely at Riddle, but he could see no deception in his pale, sculptured face, only confusion and alarm. "Yes, you. According to Professor Dumbledore, and the other Hogwarts professors as well, like Slughorn, you became Voldemort. You unleashed the basilisk, murdered your own father and grandparents, created several horcruxes and became the Dark Lord Voldemort. I have seen Voldemort; he has tried to kill me. I know that he is real, and that he is terrifying beyond belief. And according to Dumbledore, there is a prophecy that says that I have to be the one to kill Voldemort in the end, unless he kills me first..."

Tom Riddle sank down in a chair, his face whiter than snow. "Oh, good God, Harry! There is some great evil at work here, there can be no doubt of that! But I do not understand any of this. I never wanted to have anything else to do with the magical world again, but since Dumbledore has chosen to involve me personally in this, I may not have any choice. And he has dragged you into this, too, by the sounds of it - a mere boy who reminds me of the neglected schoolboy I once was... " Riddle sat in silence for a long moment, staring at Harry. Then he whispered: "Harry, you had better tell me everything, from the very beginning. Then, perhaps, we can begin to understand who or what this monstrous Voldemort is."