Behind Lies Eternity

His body was being crushed from all sides, devoid of both air and light. He attempted to scream, but something suffocating and bitter entered his open mouth. His body convulsed, his lungs struggled for nonexistent oxygen, the chest burned and contracted, and something like a hammer struck his ribs, creating a hole. “No!” echoed in his terror-clouded mind. “I can’t die!” It was like his insides were churned in a grinder, pain was everywhere, in every particle of his body; it was as if he was made of pain alone. “No! NO!” Something reached out from the hole in his chest, like Devil’s Snare sensing its prey: upwards, upwards, faster. The grip on his arms and legs released, and he jerked, trying to escape the trap. He crawled upwards, driven by necessity, feeling pulled as though a barbed hook were embedded deeply in his flesh, just like a fish. Fish are usually pulled from their familiar habitat and killed, a thought he couldn’t afford to dwell on. The pain pulsed in his temples, multiplying the agony, making him squeeze his eyes shut. The bright light seared his corneas, causing him to cough as air rushed into his mouth and tore at his throat. With one final surge of willpower, he pushed his body upwards and laid his head on the soft earth. Gradually, his mind began to clear. He heard the loud chirring of cicadas, the rustle of leaves, and the distant cries of seagulls. He felt a warm breeze on his face and tasted the bitter earth on his tongue. Opening his teary eyes slightly, he saw the dense crowns of trees above him, with the bright light of the setting sun piercing through them. He coughed harder, spitting out the remnants of earth from his mouth. Mucus and tears streamed down his face. He felt an overwhelming thirst, as if he had spent a week in the desert without water; his tongue felt like a dried-out sea sponge. Struggling, he wiped his face with dirty palms, and then he strained and pulled himself entirely out of the pile of earth. He observed his naked, slender legs with darkened spots and thin arms bearing a palette of bruises from yellow to violet. His exposed groin showed traces of dried blood, and his belly was sunken. “He tried to curse, but nothing came out. His tongue was swollen and unresponsive. ‘Hr-r-r!’ he managed. Struggling to stand, he held onto a tree trunk but immediately collapsed back to the ground. His head was right in front of his trap, and he finally realized where he had just emerged from: it was a grave. A small mound of fresh earth lay directly under the spreading oak tree, adorned with a wreath of chamomile flowers. ‘Ah, you-r-r-r!’ he growled, attempting to get up. ‘R-r-r!’ The wreath was still fresh, and the grave in the woods told a story. It seemed he had seen something like this before, and he knew he was in great danger. Therefore, he crawled, fueled by fierce determination, despite his disobedient body. Far away from here—that was all he could think about. Animalistic, uncontrollable terror gripped him, along with a thirst to survive at any cost. ‘They always come back to check or simply to relive and derive pleasure from the memories,’ he thought. He forced himself to drag his elbows, barely feeling the pain of the torn skin against the forest floor, as his entire body burned with agony. It was a pain akin to the sensation of a severely frozen body sinking into a hot bath—initially unbearable, but gradually something you get used to. He crawled, losing consciousness, then regaining it and crawling again. Time seemed to suffocate him, standing still and entwining him, then accelerating, racing the sun across the sky. It felt like two or three days had passed when he finally crawled out onto the road, but the sun still leaned towards the horizon, as if he had just freed himself from his grave. The new asphalt smelled intoxicatingly wonderful. On all fours, he conquered the last inches separating him from the white markings and blissfully closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against the road surface warmed by the day. Who was he? Vague images swirled in his mind, and on the verge of sleep and wakefulness, he recalled a loud female scream. “Harry!” some girl was shouting, addressing him. Exactly. He was Harry, Harry Potter. Now he could rest. “Poor child,” was the first thing he heard when he regained consciousness. The voice belonged to a young girl who seemed on the verge of tears. “Who could do such a thing, Mary-Ann? Only the Antichrist!” Harry felt a soft mattress beneath him and a comfortable pillow. The smell of medications filled the air, like in the clinic where Aunt Petunia took him when he broke his arm. It smelled like the Muggle world. “I don’t know, Dolly,” replied an older woman to the girl. “I locked Justin and Ellie at home. I won’t let my children out on the streets until they catch this monster. The boy survived by the skin of his teeth!” Harry listened carefully without opening his eyes. His brain struggled to function; he couldn’t grasp where he was, and it frightened him. Muggles… a Muggle hospital? And who was he? “Ladies, allow me to introduce myself—Bureau of Special Investigations, Captain Shacklebolt,” a deep, masculine voice interrupted the quiet conversation between the two women. The women began to gasp and exclaim, questioning the captain, and Harry tensed up. With his whole being, he felt that a wizard was nearby. And the surname… a familiar surname… “Kingsley!” flashed in Harry’s mind, along with a stabbing pain. He recalled a tall, dark-skinned wizard with an earring. “The Order. Can trust,” he thought, and his exhausted body immediately relaxed. “We’re taking this child; he needs special assistance,” he heard a reassuring bass voice say before blacking out once again. When he woke up again, he was in a familiar room. The air was filled with the sickly smell of Skele-Gro and blood-replenishing potions, and lemon-colored walls were adorned with portraits of old men and women in pointed hats. There was no sound of car engines outside the window. “He’s awake!” The white door swung open, revealing a slender witch in a lemon cloak. “Master Shafiq, he’s awake!” Harry closed his eyes, shielding himself from the bright sunlight. His body no longer burned, and he didn’t feel thirsty anymore. The hole in his chest seemed to have healed, covered with a thin film of new skin. He frantically searched for his wand with his hands, but it was nowhere to be found. “Who… are you?” he managed to say, panic rising. His body felt so disobedient, as if he had turned into a heavy puppet on hinges. “He’s speaking!” the witch exclaimed. “Thank Merlin!” joined in another voice, male. “Zoe, bring Potion Number Five!” “I’m on my way, Master!” Loud clacking of heels followed, stopping by Harry’s bed, and he managed to open his heavy eyelids a little. “Welcome back, Mr. Selwyn!” smiled an elderly wizard with a short ginger beard and kind brown eyes. “You’re remarkably lucky, you know?” “Mr. Selwyn?” Harry croaked, vaguely remembering a plump woman with a velvet bow on her head. “Yes,” the healer’s smile faded. “Gordian Selwyn. Do you recall that name?” Harry’s thoughts swirled in confusion. He was Harry, wasn’t he? He distinctly remembered his name being Harry Potter! But who was Gordian Selwyn? “No?” Harry coughed from the tension, and Shafiq quickly conjured a glass of water for him. “It’s alright. It happens sometimes,” Shafiq said soothingly, and Harry truly relaxed. “Your injuries… No one survives such wounds. It’s not surprising that your mind chose to forget everything.” “Forget?” Harry stammered, confusion clouding his eyes. Did he forget something? “Prophecy has been made about you…” “You’re a wizard, Harry…” “The fear of the name only increases fear of the person who bears it…” “I’m afraid so,” Shafiq touched Harry’s forehead, waved his wand, and muttered something under his breath. “Your name is Gordian Selwyn. You disappeared over a year ago, young man. Do you remember anything about it?” “No,” Harry stammered. “I remember… the earth. It was filling my mouth and nose. I crawled upward, then I broke free. There was… a grave. With a wreath. And I knew that…” Memories rushed in like a turbulent stream, embedding cold waves into his brain: the Auror Academy, Ginny, the new home, the mirror. Harry screamed in pain as if a swarm of wasps had invaded his head, stinging so intensely that he wished for a quick death. Blood gushed from his nose, staining the blanket with crimson blotches. “Merlin, what is this? Easy, easy,” he heard Shafiq’s gentle voice. “It’ll be alright. Here, drink this.” A viscous bitterness spread across his tongue. Harry struggled to swallow the potion and moaned with relief. Gradually, his thoughts fell into their rightful places, like puzzle pieces in a vast mosaic. He was Harry Potter. And this time, he had truly gotten himself into some serious mess. “Poor child,” Shafiq said with evident compassion in his voice. “I will help you, I promise. Everything will be alright, do you hear?” He cleaned the blood from Harry’s pajamas and bed, then waved his wand over his head, looking puzzled. Harry nearly screamed, gripping his hair with his hands. Is this for real? Is this actually happening? Then where the bloody hell is his own body?! “I don’t want to remember,” Harry shut his eyes, trying to play his part. Hermione had always said he was a lousy actor, but now the context had changed. “Please, I don’t want to!” His mind was a dreadful jumble of memories, images, and voices. They pressed from within, tearing at the walls of his skull, itching under his scalp. Harry truly didn’t want to remember everything all at once. It was excruciatingly painful. “S-shh, of course, I won’t do anything against your will. Nothing,” the healer repeated, enunciating each syllable. “If you don’t want to, nothing will happen, Gordian. You are safe.” The unfamiliar name grated on his ears. Gordian. Who would name their child that? Harry had lived in the magical world long enough to recognize pure-blood pretensions. “I don’t understand anything,” he said plaintively, and with his new soft voice, it sounded genuine. “Who am I? Where are my parents? What year is it now?” His hands, resting on the gray blanket, looked very delicate, almost childlike, but the size of his palms indicated that he was no longer a child. Harry wished he could conjure a mirror to see his appearance, but he feared he might faint again. Panic grew, pressing down on him like a hundred-pound block of ice. Where had his own body gone? Who was this child? What in the world was happening here? “Your name is Gordian Selwyn,” Shafiq gently replied. “You are sixteen years old. Your family will be here soon; we’ve already informed them that you’ve regained consciousness. You’re a very intelligent and talented young man, studying in the Slytherin house. It is now the fifth of July, nineteen forty-two. What is the last thing you remember?” Harry still couldn’t believe it. Everything that was happening seemed like a surreal hallucination from his exhausted and inflamed brain. “I don’t know,” Harry furrowed his brows, just like Marie Weasley did when she asked for another toy from her kind Uncle Potter. “I’m so bewildered… I remember being very unwell and in pain. Nothing more.” “Do you know what this is?” the healer showed him a magic wand made of light wood. “It’s a magic wand,” Harry answered quicker than he had time to think. “Very good!” Shafiq smiled warmly. “Do you remember any spells? How can I fill this glass?” He pointed to an empty glass on the nightstand, and Harry realized he was treading on thin ice. He pretended to ponder intensely, then exclaimed: “Aguamenti!” “Good. And how can I light up the room?” Harry understood that the healer wanted to test his memory, but he was at a loss. He did not know how to convincingly feign memory loss. “Hey, are you alright?” The healer noticed his state and raised his wand, causing Harry to instinctively recoil, attempting to grab his own. He couldn’t stand it when someone unfamiliar pointed a wand at him. “It’s alright, Gordian. I won’t harm you,” Shafiq said, slowly raising his hands, and Harry was reassured. The questioning continued. Harry purposefully refrained from answering some questions from the school curriculum but eagerly responded to questions about surrounding objects, trying to confuse the healer. Eventually, he grew tired of the interrogation and exclaimed: “Tell me what you know, Mr. Shafiq! What happened? I need to know at least something!” The healer, like a true professional, betrayed nothing with his facial expression. He continued to smile warmly, but in his eyes, Harry saw genuine pity. “You should rest now, Mr. Selwyn,” he replied evenly. “Your family will be here soon, and you’ll need all your strength to reacquaint yourself with them. Do you agree?” Harry had no choice but to comply. Extracting details from family would be easier than from a professional with an excellent education, who was accustomed to avoiding distressing topics and might uncover something Harry wished to conceal. He quietly acquiesced, accepted all the potions offered, and prepared to wait. Sleep no longer beckoned; it seemed as though he had slept enough for years to come. Therefore, he merely closed his eyes, pretending to rest, while keenly observing his surroundings from beneath his lashes, trying to ascertain whether he had gone mad, as Hermione had once forewarned. He couldn’t remember any Selwyns from his own time, though something nagged painfully at the edge of his consciousness. Could it be someone related to Ron? Their family tree included the Blacks, Crabbes, and Rosiers. The Selwyns also seemed to be pure-blood notables, for no one with a Muggle upbringing would name a child Gordian. This much Harry had managed to remember, along with the fact that all the Blacks were named after constellations. The thought of Ron and the other Weasleys struck his heart like an icy shard. What about them? Did they still exist? How did all of this even work? Harry, of course, wanted to change everything, but not in earnest. It was the desperate desire of the foolish boy, Harry, quashed by the thoughts of Harry James Potter nearly graduated from the Auror Academy. So what the hell was he doing here, in the year 1942, in the body of a pure-blooded boy? He hadn’t found the shop; he had even changed his mind about looking for it. But no matter how much he pinched his arm or tried to shake off the daze, it was all in vain. The room, the bed, and his new body were as real as the smell of burning wood, the missed spot of blood on the sheet, and an overfull bladder. Struggling not to panic, Harry tried to devise a plan of action, which was quite difficult as his head still heavily harbored a burning salamander. The year was 1942. Tom Riddle would have been in his fifth year at that time, and in the summer of ‘43, he would create his first Horcrux. All Harry needed now was to kill, crush the vile creature, and return home. But how? He still didn’t know who Gordian Selwyn was or what had happened to him. Whose body had he so brazenly taken? As an Auror, Harry soberly assessed his chances. He understood perfectly that normal parents would hardly leave a sixteen-year-old boy with memory loss alone, and escaping from them would not be easy, especially since he couldn’t remember anything about Gordian’s life. His only chance was to pretend and lie—everything he sincerely despised. But he had already gone so unimaginably far that a lie seemed a mere trifle. He needed to gather more information, not panic like the fifteen-year-old fool who ran to the Ministry to save his godfather and caused his death. He would manage. He simply needed to act as if on a mission. Gain their trust. So when an elderly witch, draped in jewels like a mannequin in a jewelry store, and a young man in a rich coat entered his room, he quietly moaned and reached out to them. “Gordy!” the elderly lady theatrically sobbed, darting to his bed with the agility of a young gazelle. “You’re alive, my boy! Mother Magic, thank you for this miracle!” “Be careful, Mrs. Selwyn, he doesn’t remember you and is very frightened,” Shafiq followed them closely. The witch clasped Harry’s hand, looking at him with tearful eyes, dark brown and gripping, despite her advanced age. Her gray hair was smoothly combed and gathered into an elegant bun, her thin lips adorned with subdued lipstick. “What do you mean, ‘doesn’t remember’?” she asked peevishly. “My grandson will never forget his grandmother, will you, dear?” “I…” Harry mumbled, trying to seem bewildered. “Your face is familiar. But I don’t remember… Are you my grandmother?” “Oh, Mother Magic!” the elderly lady sobbed, squeezing Harry’s hand with unusual strength for her age. “What have you done to him? Gordy! Can’t you remember me?! Incompetent fools, you’ve ruined my child! I’ll speak to my lawyer!” “Grandmother, calm down,” the deep voice of the young man in the coat cooled the lady’s ardor. “Gordian has endured something terrible, and the healers have done all they could. Am I right, Mr. Shafiq?” “Certainly, Lord Selwyn,” Shafiq replied, appearing detached and composed. “Your cousin miraculously survived, and memory loss is not the worst that could have happened. The areas of the brain responsible for storing memory are selectively damaged, and we do not know how this occurred; it doesn’t resemble Obliviate or any other spells. He talks, remembers many spells, phenomena, and objects, but not his life, family, or what happened to him. Frankly, I’ve never encountered such a phenomenon; his mind appears tampered with by a novice Legilimens. You are very fortunate, for usually, after inept erasure and alteration of memory, wizards revert to an infantile state. It will be a long process to restore his memory; we need to gather the best specialists, so I advise transferring him to the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s to…” Harry immediately thought of Lockhart and Neville’s parents. On the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s, they would figure him out right away; he couldn’t allow that! “No!” he exclaimed, almost hysterically. “Grandmother, I want to go home!” “Oh, my dear! Of course, you’ll go home!” the elderly lady reassured him, squeezing his hand again and shooting an angry glance at Shafiq. “Lord Selwyn?” the healer inquired. The man, with an utterly inscrutable face, looked at Harry as if he was not his ailing cousin but rather a log that he had been asked to saw and remove from the road. “What’s the prognosis?” he asked dispassionately. “Will the memory recover on its own, without help? And how much will his treatment cost?” Shafiq nearly held himself back, but Harry managed to catch a look of disgust on his face towards the newfound cousin. “The treatment will amount to a substantial sum,” he calmly said. “But without it, the memory may not return at all. We can’t guarantee anything; the case is too complex. If he starts to remember on his own, without assistance, then… We don’t know what he has endured, but the injuries speak for themselves. It’s dangerous. If you’re concerned about the amount, we do have an interest-free installment plan for treating minors…” The cousin thought for a moment, then impassively nodded, stating unequivocally: “Money is not a problem for our family. But it will be better for my cousin not to remember all these horrors. We will take him home.” “That’s exactly right,” agreed Gordian’s grandmother. “Memory rarely recovers on its own. It’s better that my boy doesn’t remember what he went through. Merlin, he must have suffered so much sorrow!” She stroked Harry’s head with a gloved hand. Harry almost snorted skeptically. Both the cousin and the grandmother seemed utterly indifferent to their relative’s health, but that suited him just fine. “It is your right,” Shafiq bowed his head, skillfully hiding his dissatisfaction. “I will write a prescription, and you may take the boy home. Lord Selwyn, Mrs. Selwyn, may I have a moment with you?” The relatives followed the healer out of the room, and Harry immediately lunged for the folder left on his bed by Shafiq. It seemed he had been so flustered that he had forgotten to take it with him. Harry quickly opened it, cutting through the medical jargon, and finally discovered what had befallen poor Gordian. “Mordred’s saggy…” he cursed aloud, poring over the slanted lines of the report. “Oh, lad, I’m so sorry,” Harry said, looking at the ceiling as if hoping that Gordian was watching him from his new world. “No one deserves such torment.” Perhaps that’s why Harry had taken over this body? Gordian may have wished for peace, and he had received it. Harry carefully read all the parchments from the folder and returned it to its place. None of this would be swept under the rug. He would surely be questioned, and the main thing in this situation was to prevent legilimency. No one must suspect that Gordian was no longer Gordian. No sooner had he thought this than Shafiq entered the room, followed by a tall, dark-skinned man in an Auror’s robe. “Hi, lad,” Harry immediately recognized the deep voice he had heard in the Muggle hospital. “My name is Captain Shacklebolt, and I would like to ask you a few questions.” Harry was surprised to realize that he was looking at Kingsley Shacklebolt’s grandfather. The man was clearly no longer young: his short curly hair had taken on a salt-and-pepper hue, deep wrinkles had settled around his mouth and on his forehead, and his eyes revealed a man who had seen it all. “Certainly, Captain,” Harry replied with a faint smile, finding it incredible to encounter someone whose descendant he knew well so quickly. He immediately felt a sense of sympathy for the man. “Will you not leave us alone?” the Captain addressed Gordian’s relatives, who had also entered the room. The cousin haughtily raised his sharp chin and looked at Shacklebolt with contempt. “My cousin has endured a real nightmare; do you really think I would leave him alone with someone who doesn’t belong to the family?” he spat out. “You already did, didn’t you?” Shacklebolt revealed his pearly white teeth in a smile that had a hint of mockery. “The boy was kidnapped while he was out walking with someone you didn’t know if I remember correctly?” The cousin’s nose crinkled almost imperceptibly, but he chose not to argue. “Come, Grandmother,” he said, turning sharply on his heels, and walked away with the dignified bearing of a king who had condescended to a servant. When all the extras had left, Shacklebolt took a seat on the chair beside Harry’s bed and winked at him as if they were old friends. “Your brother is quite something, isn’t he?” “That’s for sure,” Harry nodded, restrained. “I’ve known him for only ten minutes, but I’m already… Impressed.” “So you remember nothing at all?” Shacklebolt clarified, and Harry shook his head. “No surprise. You’ve been gone for over a year, boy. Your family tried to have you declared dead, but our artifacts showed that you were alive. And only a week ago… Do you remember how you woke up?” Harry understood what Shacklebolt meant. The artifact had shown that Gordian had died, only to miraculously come back to life. Harry hadn’t displaced anyone from the body; he simply occupied the vacant shell, from which the soul had already fled. What a horrifying thought! His skin began to itch, and he thought he detected a faint trace of the stench of decay. “Hey, are you alright?” the captain called, and Harry jolted. He recounted everything to Shacklebolt in detail, including his visions of the sun, recalling everything that had surrounded him. Harry was desperate for the culprit to be caught. He was entirely certain that Gordian had still been alive when he was buried because when he had clawed his way out, he saw that blood was still flowing from his wounds. Rage bubbled up in his thin chest, and he wanted to tear the villain to pieces. “I’m afraid those weren’t hallucinations,” the Auror said gravely, jotting down all the testimony in his notebook. “The day you gained consciousness, something strange was happening all over the island. Time anomalies, most likely, and they probably saved you. You hadn’t died completely.” “Time anomalies?” Harry said to himself, frozen in horror. “What… How can that be?” “In some places, time slowed down; in others, it sped up. People vanished simply by stepping into another room. No one knows where they are now. The whole Ministry has been in an uproar for a week, still trying to figure it out,” the Auror eagerly explained. “I’m certain that you were meant to die, buried alive, but due to the slowing of time, you managed to escape and find help. You’re a lucky one!” Harry drew a sharp breath into his lungs. He was to blame. He’d been warned that tampering with time was dangerous. How many people had disappeared? Where were they now? In parallel worlds? Or simply erased from existence? “Hey, lad, you’ve gone pale,” Shacklebolt leaned closer. “Shall I call Shafiq?” Harry shook his head, feverishly trying to figure out what to do next. “Don’t worry; you’re safe now,” Shacklebolt said gravely. “You’re alive — that’s what matters, right? And the one who did this, we’ll find him, I promise.” “What about those people? The ones who disappeared?” Harry whispered. “Will they return? How many were there?” “I shouldn’t have told you,” the Auror’s face darkened. “They’ll be found, don’t worry. Time anomalies have happened before; it’s not uncommon. Likely some mishap of the Department of Mysteries.” “Happened before?” Harry exclaimed. “Of course!” Shacklebolt smiled paternally. “Wizards can never sit still. They’ll figure it out. Focus on yourself for now. I’ll place a tracking charm on you just in case, but you must also be cautious. The villain will soon learn of your return and will surely make a move. Be on guard, alright?” Harry grunted something in affirmation. “Shafiq said your cousin is taking you home and doesn’t want your memory restored, correct?” the Auror continued to question. “I think he’s being selfish, and he doesn’t care about my health,” Harry replied mechanically, his thoughts drifting far away. “Well, thank you for your answers, Gordian. I’ll do my best to keep you informed,” the captain said, beginning to gather his things. He handed Harry a round badge. “If you remember anything else, contact me. Simply speak your name and request, and I will hear it.” He left, and Harry finally had a chance to grab his hair and give in to his emotions. What had he done?! “Do you hear me?” he cried. “Undo it all! Reverse it! Those people… They’ll never be found, will they?” In response, he heard only a faint giggle at the edge of his consciousness. He had played too much. He’d been warned, but he didn’t listen! “Gordian, get ready. I’ve brought your things,” Mrs. Selwyn peeked into the room and handed Harry a bundle of clothes. “We’re waiting for you at the welcome witch’s desk. Oh, dear, do tidy yourself up. Your hair looks like a bird’s nest.” She waved her wand, and a large mirror appeared in front of the bed. In complete dejection, Harry slowly climbed out from under the blanket and looked at his reflection. He had to admit, the boy was quite handsome. No wonder he had been kidnapped. Like all aristocrats, he was fine-boned and elegant, of medium height, with magnificent posture and a regal manner, much like his cousin, even in the way he held his head. Harry couldn’t even slouch as he normally would; it felt uncomfortable, and his neck began to ache. Long wheat-colored hair framed a narrow face with a sharp, feminine chin, enormous blue eyes, and plump lips. If not for the thick dark blonde eyebrows and sharp cheekbones, Harry would have taken himself for a girl. But they certainly added balance and made it clear that Gordian was a boy. Incredibly beautiful and aristocratic. “Poor kid,” Harry shook his head, passing his hand over what was now his own cheek. “They say that beauty is a curse. I’m deeply sorry this happened to you.” Everything was completely different from what he had envisioned. His head was buzzing, and the surrounding world seemed unreal. He didn’t even remember how he had gone to bed the night before, what he had eaten, or what he had read. He only remembered that he had firmly decided that he couldn’t risk the lives of his loved ones, that he couldn’t return to the past. And now, here he was, standing before the mirror, seeing an utterly foreign face reflected back at him. He began to change out of the hospital pajamas into the clothes Mrs. Selwyn had brought: black trousers, a white shirt, an undershirt, long knee-length underwear, suspenders, a black vest made of shiny fabric with patterns, a strange stiff cloak, a long black shimmering scarf, socks, and pointed-toe boots. Harry was at a loss. Everything felt dreadfully unfamiliar and uncomfortable: the shirt was too wide, the trousers came up to his navel, and the vest resembled a clown’s costume. The cloak had rigid shoulders like a jacket and reached to mid-calf, but it did not meet in the front. He somehow pulled it all on, nearly going mad with all the buttons, frills on the shirt, and hooks. He never figured out where to tie the thin black ribbon, so he just tucked it into his pocket. The white frilly shirt strongly resembled Ron’s dress robes, and he hoped he wouldn’t be shoved from the hospital straight to a ball. Harry looked at himself in the mirror and rolled his eyes. He looked like a crazed fashionista in this outfit. Or like Draco Malfoy. “Do they even know the Victorian era is over?” he muttered, trying to wrap the cloak around his chest to hide the frills. “Darling, are you ready?” Mrs. Selwyn peeked into the room and gasped loudly. “Mother of magic, what have you done?” “What?” Harry asked apprehensively. “The press is waiting for us! Do you want to disgrace our House?” she shrieked, rushing towards him. “Why have you put your suspenders over your vest? And what’s with the shirt? Why is it sticking out?! And where is your tie? Darling, I understand the difficulty of your situation, but I think Shafiq may have given you a couple of extra potions.” She quickly began to wave her wand over him. The shirt tucked itself into the trousers, the suspenders went under the vest, the cuffs of the cloak rolled up, and the scarf tied itself into a bow with long ends under his collar. “I don’t remember how it’s supposed to be done…” Harry stammered by way of apology. “Oh, never mind. You’ll remember it all,” she continued to wave her wand, now over his face and hair. “I’ll hire you a tutor to refresh your knowledge, and you’ll return to school just like your old self! So much to do, so much to do!” Harry wanted to ask if they shouldn’t rather be curing a child in St. Mungo’s instead of reteaching him, but, of course, he kept silent. “There,” she said, satisfied at last after twenty minutes. “Now you look like a Selwyn heir, not a tramp from Knockturn Alley.” Harry looked at himself in the mirror and was horrified. He looked like a porcelain doll, not a human being. She had curled his eyelashes, glossed his lips, darkened his brows, and added rosy blush. His hair now lay perfectly, shining and shimmering in the sunlight. The ridiculous bow at his neck and the contrasting cloak, highlighting his piercing blue eyes, only intensified the effect. Harry was tempted to say: “Indeed, grandmother, I was kidnapped a year ago; let’s do everything to make that happen again!” He knew the logic of such criminal scum: if they see a well-groomed, beautiful person who tries to look good, they think it’s a sign. Every one of them then justifies that the victim was asking for it. He felt an urge to respond with something biting, but Harry held back. What was he expecting? She was wearing emerald earrings the size of a fingernail. Harry had never even seen such things up close before. They descended the stairs, where their cousin awaited them, and left St. Mungo’s through the main entrance to meet the press. Harry was immediately reminded of his sincere hatred for the journalists but managed to maintain his composure, striding proudly, flanked on both sides by his cousin and Gordian’s grandmother. “A true Auror must be able to adapt,” the voice of his mentor Johnson appeared sharply in his mind, causing a pang. The journalists were yelling, interrupting one another, and trying to break through to them. The cousin responded reservedly to the boldest ones, the grandmother beamed with a smile and clung to her grandson when the lenses of the wizarding cameras were directed at them, while Harry simply stared into space, trying to detach himself from the commotion. He hated it; he loathed it! These flashes reminded him of others, ones that made the air tremble with magic and the walls crumble. He automatically clutched Mrs. Selwyn’s hand, urging his mind to calm down. “Is it true that a dark wizard held you captive, intending to take over your body?” shouted a young, sharp-nosed sneak in a bright orange robe. “Have you gone mad?” the cousin disdainfully drawled, and the crowd obligingly tittered. “My cousin was the victim of blackmail. We paid the ransom, scraping together every penny over the course of a year, and now he is with us once again!” Harry glanced at his face, nothing like Gordian’s, and almost snorted. “But you never spoke of a ransom before!” the orange-clad journalist persisted. “The whole country was concerned for Gordian’s fate; we could have helped with the money!” The young man was certainly not easily cowed. “We cannot disclose all the details of the case to protect my brother’s life,” the cousin replied imperturbably. “I ask you to understand and do everything to make him feel comfortable returning home. It is our duty, as true Englishmen. We never beat down a victim of circumstances like some Germans would.” The crowd hummed in approval, and Harry looked at his cousin with concealed astonishment. He appeared young, maybe twenty-five to thirty, but conducted himself like Draco Malfoy’s father. Harry had not often had the chance to observe how grown, pure-blooded, wealthy wizards behaved, so he was genuinely surprised now. This man seemed as if he had always been a celebrity, knowing how to please the crowd and make it react as he wished. Mrs. Selwyn, though at least a hundred years older, kept silent and stood aside. The cousin gave a few more grandiose comments, and they finally apparated home. Harry found himself in an immense hall, resembling a museum: everywhere there were vases, statues, swords in transparent cubes, paintings in massive frames hanging on the walls. “Welcome home, dear!” the grandmother patted Harry on the head with such a sad expression that he felt quite sorry for her. But this feeling didn’t last long, as she immediately dragged him along, exclaiming, “Oh, there’s so much to explain, help me, Mother Magic! Marius, are you sure his memory cannot be at least partially restored?” “It’s impossible, Grandmother, you know the mind healers!” the cousin exclaimed, flinging his gloves onto a low table near the fireplace. All his calm and unflappability vanished as if by magic, and Harry saw a very angry, infuriated man. “They will undoubtedly discover all our secrets. If you hadn’t acted as you please, none of this would have happened, Gordian!” he barked at stunned Harry. “They will examine every part of his memory and will surely see what they should not see. If anyone learns our secrets, that will be the end of us!” “Welcome home indeed,” Harry thought with irony. “But he remembers nothing at all; he couldn’t even dress himself!” the woman exclaimed, gripping his elbow. “What if he can’t use magic? How shall we introduce him to society? He will disgrace us!” “We’ll tell everyone that he’s still unwell,” Cousin Marius began pacing before the fireplace, twisting a ring on his ring finger. “We’ll find tutors who won’t gossip and teach him anew. Shafiq said he recalls some spells. The main thing is that no one thinks he’s become a Squib; the rest is trivial.” “But…” “Do you want us to be ruined?” he yelled at the elderly woman. “If anyone finds out what has happened, no one will even want to speak with me! Our gallery will go under! We’ll become pariahs! Outcasts! You’ll have to sell this house and all your collection and move to the outskirts! And if they delve deeper…” Harry silently listened to the family feud, absorbing the information. “Mother of magic, no,” tears welled in the grandmother’s eyes. She staggered, and Harry had to embrace her. “You’ve always been nothing but trouble,” Marius growled, accusingly jabbing a finger at Harry. “You might as well have died, you wretch!” “Don’t you speak about Gordy that way!” the grandmother brandished her wand. “You may be my grandson and head of the family, but I won’t hesitate to curse you!” “You won’t do that,” he hissed. “We both know it. And if you threaten me, I’ll marry off your precious darling to Crabbe’s father!” “No!” she gasped, clinging to Harry. “You wouldn’t dare!” “Oh, but I would,” Marius smirked maliciously. “Considering what’s been done to him, he might even like it.” “You’ll regret those words. I’m sure deep down you’re not as cold as you wish to appear,” she pulled Harry along and left the gallery hall. The grand double doors with gold trim swung open before them, and Harry saw a vast hall with a magnificent staircase carpeted in red. The banisters were adorned with intricate carvings and gargoyle sculptures. “Don’t listen to him, dear,” the grandmother sobbed and pressed Harry to her chest. “He loves you; it’s just a challenging time for us now. After what your father did, we find ourselves in a rather delicate situation. But everything will be fine! You’re home now, and I won’t let him sell you off to some… Crabbe.” “I believe you,” Harry reassured her, patting her back. “But what did my father do?” As ever, others’ secrets intrigued him terribly. What had Gordy’s father done to make them now fear even consulting the mind healers? “He… He made a mistake,” the woman sniffled. “You don’t need to know, dear, it’s for the best. Come, I’ll show you the house and your room.” Harry had to retreat and comply. Though curiosity gnawed at him, delving into family secrets seemed very improper and shameful. It wasn’t his business. The Selwyn house turned out to be enormous: from the outside, it looked like a genuine fairy tale castle with pointed turrets of white brick and blue roof tiles, complete with a vast garden, a fountain, and a real labyrinth of shrubbery, much like in the Triwizard Tournament. Inside, it was quite bright and spacious. Mrs. Selwyn had good taste and had furnished the house so that even Harry, unaccustomed to such dwellings, liked it. But still, something about the house made the hairs on his neck stand up. Perhaps it was the motionless, non-magical statues, whose blind eyes seemed to follow from their niches in the walls. Maybe the paintings, from which emanated an unclear, unheard whisper in unknown languages. Or perhaps it was Mrs. Selwyn herself, speaking too quickly, jumping from topic to topic, sometimes losing her train of thought and staring into space. “Your great-grandfather Simon built this fireplace,” she narrated, like a seasoned tour guide. “See these inscriptions? These are tablets from excavations in Palestine. And this statue — it’s the very statue from Salisbury, lost in the nineteenth century! Just look at this exquisite work. It’s as if it’s alive! They say that… Well, no matter what they say, right? Just look at these scabbards! Goblin work!” The scabbards left Harry indifferent, but the statue provoked an acute sense of unease and sent shivers down his spine. It was too detailed, too frightening. Black marble or some other material shimmered strangely. The sculptor had depicted a creature resembling a human being in a vivid and lifelike way, with sharp ears, a slightly elongated, handsome face, and a powerful body clad in a mesh shirt. A crown encircled its head with an empty setting for a gemstone. The sculptor had managed to chisel even the smallest nuances: a bead of sweat on the forehead, cracks on the lips, long flowing hair, and a strange triangular amulet around its neck. Harry felt as though the statue was watching him with lifeless eyes, so he turned away and moved further from it, towards other exhibits. Nearby, in a glass case, lay several charred books with pages darkened by time, opened in the middle so anyone could read the old Latin text. Harry strained his memory and deciphered a few familiar words: “Salisbury weighs down on me, I suffocate… all my fears have come alive. I… an ominous premonition…” A label on the display case stated that it was a 13th-century diary belonging to a monk. He mentally calculated the value of each artifact and was genuinely amazed. He was surrounded by millions of Galleons. Where had all this gone in the future? Why had none of the Selwyns lived to the end of the century? Why did no one even remember them? “Our family has been dealing in works of art for time immemorial,” Mrs. Selwyn explained, blissful pride on her face. “In the 15th century, our ancestor Cecil Selwyn traveled the world collecting all these things. We have our gallery now. Soon, you’ll finish school and join the business. If Marius allows it, of course. But I’ll figure something out, don’t worry.” Finally, the torture of family history was over, and Harry found himself alone in Gordian’s room. He was terribly tired, his legs barely obeying him, his head buzzing. He felt uncomfortable in this body, as if it were rejecting him. Yet he found the strength to search the room. The interior in purplish-gold tones did not at all correspond to someone who had studied at Slytherin. There were many sofas, low carved tables with trinkets on them, and even a painted changing screen. Beige carpets with a long pile adorned the floors, and numerous different books stood on the shelves. In a grand, carved dressing table, hundreds of jars and bottles with multicolored labels were found, along with several boxes of precious jewelry and an entire array of perfumes. Gordian’s wardrobe occupied a whole separate room with neat rows of bright fabrics. Had Harry not seen Gordian’s wizarding photograph on the mantel, he might have thought an aging Hollywood starlet resided here. Seriously, there were five silk robes in a Japanese style and a lamp in the shape of a heron! Harry felt out of place in this lavish yet vulgar setting, like an uneducated street boy on a tour to observe how the Bohemia once lived. He longed to return to his new home with its cozy veranda chairs and numerous potted plants, to curl up in bed and forget all that had happened to him. Instead, he had to scour the desk of a deceased teenager for something that might ease his temporary life in this body. He at least hoped to return home after defeating Riddle, as that was how intention magic worked, according to his mirror guests. In the desk drawer, he found several letters from Gordian’s friends. Harry skimmed them but found nothing of interest. Mostly, there were essays, homework, and various drafts covered in arithmantic formulas — nothing more intriguing. A large bed with a golden silken canopy stood on a podium, resembling yet another piece of art. The carved posts gleamed with varnish; lions, sphinxes, and manticores glared from the headboard. It was even frightening to lie on; perhaps a king had died of gout on this bed in the thirteenth century? “Where do teenagers usually hide their secrets?” Harry suddenly wondered, looking at the bed. Perhaps Gordian had grown up in luxury, but he was still a boy. And all boys keep something forbidden under the bed. So Harry crawled under and began to tap on the parquet. “Aha!” a ringing knock from one of the boards confirmed his suspicion. “Let’s see!” It felt slightly awkward to invade a teenager’s life like this, but Gordian was dead, and Harry needed to know what he was up against. There was a small niche in the floor, sparkling with magic, but it allowed Harry’s hand to enter. He pulled out everything he felt and crawled out from under the bed. “Merlin’s left tit!” Harry barely adjusted to the light when he saw what he was holding and flung it away. “Fuck!” Wizarding photographs were scattered across the floor. In them, young men were engaging in acts that made Harry feel nauseous. Their bare bodies moved in characteristic ways; some pictures had three individuals, others two. On most of them, the participants wore black masks with white crosses where their eyes should be. From horror and disgust, Harry nearly screamed, but then his body… He looked down, staring in shock at the bulge between his legs. “What the hell?” Harry asked the ceiling. “Are you a pervert?” A giggling sound rang out again, and an invisible tail playfully smacked his legs. “What a mess!” Harry exclaimed, dumbfounded. His mind was his own, but the body… The body was foreign, and it reacted the way it was accustomed to. He gathered the photos into a pile, careful not to examine what was happening in them, and stashed them back into their hiding place. He wasn’t ready to study them; he found them too repugnant. “You ain’t getting it,” he told his dick firmly. “We have new rules here now, understand?” The mere thought of touching the organ of a dead boy, whose body he had so unceremoniously borrowed, recalling those images, caused a sickening, slimy revulsion. The thought seemed to take root in his body, and it calmed; the erection subsided, leaving a nasty sensation somewhere in his gut. Harry collapsed onto the bed, threw his arms behind his head, and tried to figure out what to do next. Clearly, he was not going to be sent back to his time in order to fix what his appearance had wrought. People were gone forever. Moreover, Gordy’s kidnapper might reappear, his real monster of a cousin might sell him to some old man, and apparently his body had a high libido and penchant for perversions. “Are you satisfied?” he yelled into the void. “Are you having fun? This is not fair!” The giggling echoed through the room again, now louder and more mocking. “Bitch,” Harry muttered and hugged a pillow. Only he could be so “lucky”: his secret desire had come true, though his mind seemed to protest. And he still hadn’t figured out what to do with it all. Until recently, Harry’s life had been quiet and steady. He would wake up at six, go for a run, shower, have breakfast, and head to the Auror Academy. With only a couple of months left until graduation, Minister Shacklebolt was already rubbing his hands together, eagerly talking about how Harry would someday take his post. He seemed unfazed that Harry had just turned twenty-one, that his grades were less than stellar, and that he wasn’t considered particularly bright. “You’ll be the youngest Minister of Magic,” he declared proudly, patting Harry on the shoulder. “When my term ends, we’ll move your candidature forward, and those ultraliberals will drown in their own tears. People will vote for you, Harry, that’s certain.” “But I don’t understand anything about politics,” Harry protested, throwing up his hands. “I didn’t even finish school; how can I become Minister? I only know how to fight.” “That’s unimportant,” Kingsley dismissed. “Few people truly understand. You’ll have me, Percy, and Bones. We have five years; we’ll teach you. What’s crucial is that you’ll be the face of our Order. Who would dare criticize a law passed by Harry Potter himself?” “Yeah,” Harry agreed listlessly, though in truth, he didn’t care at all. He had plenty of opponents. The nasty articles by Skeeter had left their mark, and wizards would constantly reference them, attributing to his instability, volatility, and a propensity to lie. Everyone wanted to profit from his name: some praised him, others concocted conspiracy theories, while a third group shamelessly promoted themselves, printing nonsense and tarnishing the hero’s image. Harry remembered that he had come to terms with this. He could do nothing about it, so he simply stopped paying attention to people who thought they knew something about him. But even Kingsley wanted to use him for his own purposes, to exploit his heroic image. He did not hold himself as confidently as one might expect in the position of Minister. After the war, the purebloods went quiet, and liberals of all kinds emerged, who had previously feared the purebloods. Some demanded the repeal of the Statute of Secrecy, others proposed seizing all the property from those families listed in the Sacred Twenty-Eight (which, incidentally, included the Shacklebolts and the Weasleys), while a third group suggested burning any books that even vaguely mentioned Voldemort and Dark magic. Contempt and disdain toward the purebloods had become fashionable. Not a day went by without another scandal involving the pelting of old manors with dung bombs, indelible paint, or worse. Domestic hate-fueled crimes had become commonplace. The world had swung from one extreme to the other. Muggle-borns held sway, being accepted into positions of power, regardless of competence. One form of discrimination replaced another, and Harry watched in horror where it was all leading. He didn’t want to live like this. He didn’t want to be a symbol of the new regime. Everyone expected something from him, but Harry wanted just one thing — to be forgotten. Yet who cared about his desires? He had only his duty. The last two years had merged into one endless day in his memories: an alarm clock, a jog, breakfast, the press, the academy, fans and foes, lunches with the Minister and other important politicians, an exhausting endurance run, a solitary dinner listening to Kreacher’s muttering, reading books in a dark dusty library, and having fitful sleep full of nightmares. Over and over again. He lost track of weeks and months. Why keep track when it all seemed meaningless? He was rocketing towards graduation from the academy at lightning speed, and what lay beyond was already decided. He was no longer a person; he had become a function. His mundane routine was brightened only by rare meetings with Ron and Hermione. They got their own apartment, struggled to establish life together without killing each other, built careers, and naturally had little time for Harry. Ron was busy in George’s shop; Hermione was working hard as an intern in St. Mungo’s and writing articles for scientific journals. Harry tried not to impose on them. He understood they had enough of their own problems, and he was a constant negative mass of dark energy. But all this left him utterly alone and to his own devices. His only companions were the gloomy, dusty Black manor and Kreacher, who had become completely deaf and gray, rarely venturing from his nest in the closet. Harry knew that Kreacher would die any day now, and he didn’t know what he would do then. He knew little about even the magical world’s simplest things. He had no idea how he would maintain the manor, or even go about a day without Kreacher when all the doxy-infested rooms, boggart-filled closets, and moldy attic would crash down on him like a dead weight. Ginny had been right. He should have left the house to its own devices and bought something without so much emotional baggage. Ironically, Harry recognized her wisdom two years too late, when it was already too late for him and Ginny. And then, one nondescript morning, going down the stairs past the severed house-elf heads, where he, with a heavy heart, added the head of the deceased Kreacher to honor the memory of the Black family’s most loyal servant, he tripped over a protruding step, rolled down the stairs, nearly breaking his legs, and realized: the time had come. Time to change something in his life before the only appealing scenario became a bottle of firewhiskey and a drunken fall down the bloody staircase to a certain death. So Harry bought that fucking house. It all started because of it! It had managed to evoke in Potter nearly forgotten feelings: childlike delight, trepidation, hope. Small, with white walls and a red-tiled roof, this house was a replica of one that little Harry had once seen in a dollhouse shop. Aunt Petunia had scolded him then, telling him that such toys were only for girls, and Harry was a future man. But he still preserved in his heart the warmth, joy, and admiration he felt looking at the little house. “Congratulations, Mr. Potter, a very fortunate choice indeed!” the elderly witch from the real estate agency handed him the keys. “The previous owner, as soon as he found out who the buyer was, decided to give you a discount! Wonderful, isn’t it?” Harry distinctly remembered clenching the keys in his fist and genuinely smiling — for the first time in those long, bleary months. He rushed forward to examine the flower pots and well-maintained bushes under the window. When he worked in the Dursleys’ garden, it was the only thing that brought him joy: caring, nurturing, and growing something beautiful. Then he got his own garden. For the garden’s sake, and for the red roof, Harry was willing to ignore the size of the house that was too big for him alone. This mansion needed a family, which he might never have. But Harry decided he had to fulfill a childhood dream, so he bought it without hesitation. And so, with the purchase of a new house, began the most fantastic story of his life, one that was to culminate in the killing of one Tom Riddle.