Power He Knows Not

Towering Talks

This one was kicking my ass. But here y'all go.

Oops. Meant to post earlier, hella forgot today was wednesday

As November bled past, gray clouds dominated the sky and it seemed that snow fell endlessly, covering the grounds and forest, laying a blanket of soft, slippery white.

As Gryffindor continued to practice for their next Quidditch match, Harry was forced to use one of the school brooms, as his own Nimbus two-thousand had met an irreparable fate against the Womping Willow, when he'd fallen from it during the first match of the season.

The school brooms were all rickety, and slow and several had splinters sticking out of the handles and tail twigs missing or broken.

Oliver Wood, their Quidditch captain, was near hounding him to get a new broom, but Harry was loathe to replace his broom so soon. It was a silly thing, but it felt a bit like he'd lost a friend; the Nimbus had been a gift, and he'd had it since first year.

The weekend before the end of term was a Hogsmeade weekend, and with no impending deadline to occupy him, Harry found he was upset he would be left behind. He tried not to let it show though. It wasn't his friends' faults his uncle didn't sign his permission slip. There was probably several ways he could've faked Vernon's signature, but as he had already handed in his blank form, Mcgonagall would hardly let him fiddle with it.

So when Saturday came, and everyone third year and above were excitedly chatting about their impending trip, Harry found solitude at the top of the Astronomy tower.

The rails were frosted, and a cold breeze sent snow swirling off the roof in a miniature storm. It was serene; the mass of students walking down the lawn towards the front gates looked like ants marching, their footprints indistinguishable from so high up.

Harry sucked in a deep breath, focusing on the sting from the cold. It had been almost a month, and Riddle was still absent. Before, Harry always knew he was there, even if he didn't say a word. Now he was alone in his own head, once again.

"I don't understand what he sees in you."

Harry jumped as the familiar voice spoke from a few feet away. Turning, he found Tom Riddle leaning against the rail with his arms crossed, watching him. He looked older then the Diary Riddle, about his late twenties; his face was much more unnaturally pale, and his eyes tinted red.

"What? Forgot about me already?" He asked, raising one slender brow.

Harry let out a huff of breath that swirled in front of him, visible in the cold,

"Diary didn't turn up quite so literally." He said, wondering if he was going mad and seeing things.

"You aren't going mad. Not anymore than you were, at least. I merely chose to be metaphorically free of you, for the time being."

Harry rolled his eyes, not surprised Diadem had chosen to address his thoughts rather then his words. It was rather on point for Riddle to try and make him feel unbalanced in the conversation. Harry had more fixable problems to focus on.

"What happened to Diary? I haven't heard from him since Samhain."

Diadem Riddle sighed soundlessly, turning to lean his forearms against the railing instead.

"He is resting. Taking control for so long drained him greatly, and as he foolishly has decided not to eradicate your consciousness, he will be unable to muster much strength for awhile more."