Behind Lies Eternity

“Try this one: holly and phoenix feather, very…” “No,” Harry recoiled from the box with the wand, nearly crashing into the table in the middle of the shop. Both Ollivander and the guard looked at him with puzzled expressions. “Do not fear, master,” the guard said calmly. “This wizard will not harm you.” “I had no intention of doing so,” huffed Ollivander. “This wand…” “I simply don’t like it,” Harry haughtily informed his guard. “Bring another; I don’t even want to touch this one. Phoenix, ha! As if!” The guard obligingly nodded and gestured to Ollivander. This lumbering man, hired by his cousin Marius, was tall with light hair and utterly colorless fish-like eyes. He shadowed Harry around the garden, the house, and the shops, stopping just short of following him into the toilet. Harry planned to escape as soon as he got his wand, having already convinced his grandmother that he could cast spells and needed a new one. His previous wand had never been found. Thus, he found himself in the shop of a still-young Ollivander. And Ollivander, as he would in the future, once again discerned something in him and presented a box with his very own wand. Harry couldn’t comprehend—how did he manage this? What magical insight was hidden in that shaggy head? “Young man, the wizard does not choose the wand; the wand chooses the wizard,” Ollivander mysteriously murmured. But without wrinkles or a beard, the effect was much weaker than it would be in the future. “He who pays the piper calls the tune,” Harry scoffed, channeling his inner Draco Malfoy. “Bring another one.” He didn’t want to deprive his future self of the opportunity to buy this wand. They lingered in the shop for another hour and a half, and finally, Harry chose a wand made of hawthorn wood and thestral hair. It didn’t feel as familiar, didn’t seem like an extension of his hand, but they still got along. Probably because, by this point in his life, Harry had already lost hope for the best and all his purity of soul. He even feared for a moment, wondering whether his own wand would recognize him. But he immediately dismissed the concern. In the future, it had obeyed him, so it would recognize him now. But it was better not to touch it. “Thank you,” he smiled at Ollivander as kindly as possible, as though apologizing for his behavior. “Come along, Vincent!” “But I’m not Vincent,” the guard mumbled. “I’m Claudius.” “Trust me, Vincent suits you much better,” Harry assured him. Claudius’s surname was far removed from the famous Crabbes, but he was the spitting image of Vincent Crabbe—Malfoy’s only surviving friend. Harry even began to suspect that this was his real grandfather. A secret one, of course. Mrs. Crabbe’s infidelity, as they say, was evident. “Now go home. I need to take a walk.” Without his wand, Harry could not defeat Riddle, but now he was determined to do so as soon as possible and return home. The less time he spent here, the better. “It’s not allowed, young master. Master Selwyn ordered me not to leave your side,” Claudius replied monotonously. “We won’t tell him,” Harry said, pulling a bag of Galleons from his pocket and smiling at the guard. “It’s not allowed,” the guard stated, not even glancing at the money. “I’m responsible for you with my life.” Harry became nervous. He surveyed Diagon Alley, which looked far more colorful and lively than in his time, and nearly cursed. Wizards were everywhere; there wasn’t a single secluded corner where he could take Vincent and stun him—if he could manage that at all, of course. In ‘42, wizards had a particular fashion of strolling down the main street with their entire families, continually greeting friends and inviting them to breakfast or lunch at charming cafés scattered throughout the alley. It was like the finest streets of Paris. Most shops had been pushed out of Diagon Alley, so the pleasant pastime wasn’t marred by the stench from apothecaries or the loud voices of owners of op shops. Everything was so… respectable. Harry could find no other word when he saw yet another family dressed as if for a photoshoot. Little boys in shorts and pullovers, girls in long robes with satin ribbons in their braids, women in hats with stuffed animals, mustached men in colorful vests and narrow tweed cloaks. What shocked Harry most were the mustaches. Mustaches! They did not wear beards, but they did curl and even powder their mustaches. It seemed quite absurd. Diagon Alley glittered and gleamed in the rays of the bright morning sun. It was experiencing its bright youth, full of beauty and strength. It was even sad to remember how old, unkempt, and withering it had become at the beginning of the twenty-first century. “It’s time for you to go home,” Claudius-Vincent rumbled. “You have a tutor in half an hour.” He pulled out a pocket watch on a chain, which protruded from the pocket of his vest, like all respectable wizards of this time, and shoved the face of it under Harry’s nose. Harry gritted his teeth but nodded. He was unsure if he could overcome a professional guard until he had tried to cast properly in this new body. It sometimes stumbled and refused to obey its master’s commands. The body was causing Harry significant problems. It was flexible and agile but lacked strength. Moreover, it was easily excitable and very sensitive. Unlike a werewolf, where only the appearance changes, all the physical characteristics remained in this body. Harry was desperately compelled to keep moving, to do something, to occupy himself, to eat sweets, and to seek physical pleasure — the latter, predominantly. And even though it became much easier for him to memorize information, think, and solve puzzles, this desire spoiled all the advantages. Harry categorically refused to touch this not-his body. He even tried not to look in the mirror and constantly mentally apologized to Gordian. Only one thought saved him: this was temporary. “Gordian, what a meeting!” cried a witch in a frilly blue robe, pressing her hand in a white glove to her heart. She held a chubby boy of about five who was wearing a blue suit and an incredibly cute little robe. “Lucinia said you were still recovering; I’m glad to see you’re better!” Of course, her cry drew attention to Harry. He hid his face, lowering it and pulling his cauldron-hat down as far as possible, but he was recognized anyway. And why were hooded robes not in fashion this year?! “Let’s go,” he snapped at Claudius. “What, master?” the latter asked with a puzzled look on his dense face, looking even more like Vincent. “Apparate me home, you oaf!” Harry whispered in panic, watching in horror as the witch and child approached. It seemed he really began to understand Malfoy. With such friends, anyone would become bitter, sharp, and irritable. “A-a-ah, hold on,” Claudius smiled, and delicately hooked Harry by the elbow, as though Harry were a tremulous young lady. From a bystander’s perspective, it must have looked exactly so. Granny Selwyn couldn’t walk by without making Harry “spruce up.” She had no granddaughter, whom she had longed for according to Marius, so she took it out on poor Gordian, turning him into something of a transvestite. Harry himself shaved once a week and visited the barber only when the Minister began to cluck disapprovingly at his grown-out sideburns. Polishing nails and plucking eyebrows in someone else’s body was a very, very strange experience for him. But suddenly, it shook him up. He had moved into another world, and now he played by its rules, leaving behind the familiar routine. Nobody expected anything from him; his only duties were to learn the names of all the dining utensils, properly tie the lavalier tie, and not confuse Mrs. Selwyn’s gorget with her cape. Of course, he still had to somehow escape from a manor that resembled a fortress and kill a teenager, so… In his list of irritating things, ties and etiquette stood at the very last place. At least the newspapers didn’t flash headlines like “Harry Potter Buys a Golden Cauldron — Has The Chosen One Become Conceited?” There were a couple of articles about Gordian, but naturally, nothing that cast a shadow on the honor of the noble youth from an influential House. Claudius and Harry returned to the manor, and Harry involuntarily relaxed. Though its atmosphere resembled a mausoleum, it indeed felt safe here. The protective charms on the house could rival those of Gringotts, for the Selwyns greatly feared that all their treasures might be stolen someday. Harry wanted to free himself from surveillance, but he soberly assessed his chances of resisting an unknown criminal as nil. A frail body and a lack of practice in magic could lead him to the same fate as Gordy—straight into an unmarked grave under an oak. And Merlin forbid he should suffer what that boy did before he died. “Gordian, where have you been?” Lady Selwyn paced the drawing-room, nervously crumpling a handkerchief in her hands. “I was buying a wand,” Harry reminded her. She appeared to be about eighty, but wizards rarely looked their age. She might have been a hundred, or even a hundred and fifty. “It took long!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “I was so worried!” Harry still couldn’t understand how a loving person could neglect the health of the subject of their affection so much, but he had no loving relatives, so he decided that he was obliged to somehow support the poor lady. After all, she would soon lose her grandson forever. “It was hard to choose a wand; they wouldn’t obey me at all,” he awkwardly responded to her embrace. On one hand, she paid no attention to how he felt, showed no interest in his condition, and behaved as though he was just one of the statues in her collection. On the other hand, she began to get nervous and fret when he was away, tried to protect him from her cousin, and clearly showed that he was her favorite. Aunt Petunia never cared even that much. Harry had no idea how to deal with all of this and tried to be patient simply because he had brazenly taken her grandson’s place. “When we catch that villain, we’ll return your wand, dear,” she theatrically sobbed. “But now you need to train quickly. People are starting to ask questions; we need to organize a ball in your honor as soon as possible.” “Ye-es,” Harry drawled sourly. In fact, he was looking forward to this ball. On that day, a crowd of people would come to the manor, and he would have the chance to escape unnoticed and deal with that bastard Riddle. But Claudius would be dogging his heels, Grandmother would be watching closely, cousin Marius would be irate, and the guests… He had to somehow endure meeting long-dead people and not change anything with one careless word. Harry was planning to take a risk, but he was very afraid that something unforeseen might happen, and he would only worsen an already bad situation. “I will invite the new headmaster—Horace Slughorn,” Mrs. Selwyn confided in a whisper. “You, of course, don’t remember your dean, but he wasn’t very fond of you. Now that he’s the headmaster, you simply must make a good impression on him, darling. His connections will be useful to us.” Harry recoiled from her in surprise and nearly slipped on the shiny parquet. “Slughorn is the headmaster?” he exclaimed. “What about Dippet?!” It couldn’t be. Dippet had been the headmaster in the seventies; Harry remembered that distinctly. Slughorn had never been the headmaster. That spider should never have been given so much power. “He’s gone,” Grandmother gracefully said, waving her hand dismissively. “The day you were found, there were problems with time. He simply vanished right from his office. The new school year is about to begin, so the board appointed a new headmaster. Do you remember him?” Harry pressed his back against the banister of the staircase, trying with all his might not to swear. Headmaster Slughorn—it was a complete catastrophe! Dippet had gone missing because of Harry. Who else had vanished that day? What had he managed to destroy? A soft giggle wafted through the hall like a gentle breeze, Harry’s legs gave way, and he fell, spasmodically trying to bring his disobedient muscles under control. An image of a portly gray-haired man standing across from a young, handsome boy appeared in his mind. “Professor, have you heard anything about the Horcruxes?” Blood dripped from his nose, and Harry wiped it with the sleeve of his white shirt peeking out from the robe’s cuff. How could he have forgotten about the Horcruxes? “Darling! What’s the matter with you?” “Master!” Claudius and Mrs. Selwyn helped him to his feet, but Harry barely felt them. It was as though he was standing on wooden crutches. Gordian’s body was betraying him, not for the first time. “I just… remembered something,” he whispered, his bloodless, unresponsive lips forming the words. “Dean Slughorn.” A piece of the jigsaw clicked into place, and Harry became sharply aware that he didn’t remember everything he should. Memories were returning with pain and blood, gradually. “How wonderful!” exclaimed Grandmother, pretending to assist him to his feet, though Claudius did all the work. “That means, in time, you’ll remember your manners as well!” Harry couldn’t help but look at the guard with an expression as if he had heard the most unfunny joke of his life. The latter, despite his dullness, seemed to understand Harry and barely visibly grimaced in response. “Manners are everything,” Potter said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Don’t be impudent,” the woman slapped him on the shoulder and quickly changed the subject, with the same elegance with which Harry’s aunt Petunia would see off unwelcome guests. “Of course, what matters most is your ability to perform magic. How fortunate you haven’t lost that skill. You need to change for your lesson with Mr. Gorbovich; hurry up! Claudius, take him.” The stunned Harry was grabbed by the elbow by the guard, and they went upstairs. He hadn’t thought that the disappearance of people would concern anyone he knew. What a fool he had been! Playing with the past was a dangerous game. “Damn it!” Harry mentally cursed, looking anew at the surrounding luxury. He had taken this all as yet another adventure. He was a secret agent who had been implanted into the enemy’s camp under cover. He hadn’t taken seriously all these etiquette lessons, cousin Marius’s endless lectures , or Mrs. Selwyn’s feelings. To him, they were just… Illusions. Shadows. What if he stayed to make up for his mistake? It would cease to be an adventure. It would become too much like… Gordian Selwyn’s real life. “Dumbledore!” Harry remembered his mentor. “He must surely know what to do!” This thought placated him greatly. This world’s professor hadn’t yet become a great wizard, but he had always been a genius. He must offer advice. After all, Harry simply couldn’t stay here. He had friends, responsibilities, his own life. But how to meet him? Harry had no intention of returning to school. He could write him a letter, but would he believe it? “Vincent, while I’m in class, will you pass on a request to my grandmother?” Harry almost slapped himself on the forehead. A solution! He could simply invite Dumbledore to this house. “My name is Claudius.” “I know,” Harry snapped. “Tell her that I want to invite Professor Dumbledore to the ball. I need help with Transfiguration, and it’ll be a great chance to persuade him.” “I cannot leave you alone with Mr. Gorbovich,” he monotonously replied. “Grrr!” Harry almost cursed but quickly corrected himself. Swearing caused him to be punished by a stinging curse from the family ring that Marius had forced him to wear after a couple of unpleasant incidents when Harry had been particularly colorful in his expressions toward him. The massive gold ring with a huge emerald stung all the more, the coarser he swore. Worse than in prison. There, at least, they didn’t punish you for inappropriate language. At the academy, Harry had become accustomed to swearing, for without strong words, it was merely impossible to exist there. The Aurors communicated with each other exclusively in profanities, and Harry found it intolerably difficult to converse with aristocrats using their code language. He felt like a stupid monkey trapped in a circus. Another memory of the academy bred pain at the back of his head. Harry tried to remember something meaningful, but he couldn’t, only fragments of lessons, practice duels with his mentor, and exhausting exams. “After the lesson, you have dance classes scheduled, then a visit to the healer. Then you may see Lady Selwyn,” Claudius-Vincent stated, checking his watch. “We live in the same house, Merlin’s beard!” Harry wailed. “Can’t I see my own grandmother without prior scheduling?” “Lady Selwyn has a meeting with a buyer in twenty minutes,” Claudius-Vincent informed him, checking his watch. “Then, at two-fifteen, tea at the Rosier house. After…” Harry took a deep breath, trying to subdue his fury. “Fine!” he cut off the tedious reading of the schedule. “Let’s go to the lesson.” Sweet Merlin, living in this time and with this family was simply unbearable. The days leading up to the ball flew by one by one, like the landscape outside the window of the Hogwarts Express. Harry awoke at six in the morning and immediately plunged into the whirlwind life of the Selwyns. He sincerely loathed the etiquette, dancing, and fencing. He hated the purebloods’ fashion even more, especially the ridiculous knee-length trousers. But at the forefront of his disdain was Marius, of course. His cousin watched him so closely that Harry sometimes felt as if he was never alone, even in the restroom. Marius nitpicked Harry’s clothing and behavior, constantly lecturing him and looking at him with such anger as though Harry were the cause of all his life’s failures, of which, it turned out, there were plenty. One consolation was that magic obeyed Harry as before. Gordian was exceptionally agile, flexible, and enduring, and having practiced dueling from childhood, Harry quickly adapted and restored his skills to what they once had been. He didn’t dare attack Claudius-Vincent at the estate, but he had already discerned his fighting style by asking for his assistance with the duels. Captain Shaklebolt didn’t have good news either—Gordian’s killer hadn’t been found, and they couldn’t even pick up his trail. The killer had meticulously destroyed all evidence before burying Gordian. Therefore, Harry was under tracking spells, maintaining constant surveillance. After two weeks of this new, surreal life, Harry awoke in the middle of the night and suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen his godson, Teddy, in two months. Blood from his nose stained his nightshirt, his head throbbed, and he broke down in tears, suddenly aware that he had a godson whom he had simply… forgotten. He saw much in his dreams. His own memory filled Gordian’s body, causing unbearable pain. It was as if he was slowly moving his belongings from his old dwelling to a new one, settling in, cleaning it out, becoming accustomed. He feared what he might learn in the next moment. So, all things considered, Harry awaited the ball in his honor with both eagerness and trepidation, already envisioning how utterly satisfying it would be to launch a curse at Riddle’s fucking head and return home, to his own body. Oh, sweet dreams! Perhaps because he constantly thought about it before sleep, to soothe himself into slumber, he saw on the night before the ball what he believed had been left in the past forever.   *** The room seemed even smaller since its occupant had grown considerably since he was eleven. A tall dark-haired boy with pale skin barely fit in a chair that was too small for him. On the writing desk lay an open journal, its dark cover painfully familiar. In the dim light of a nearly spent candle, the lines appeared blurred and overlapped. With a quill, he etched the letter “D” one after another on the pages. Some were too straight, others leaned to the right, some protruded beyond the line. The boy bit his lip and started all over again. Beyond the gray wall, with its patches of peeling plaster, raucous laughter and stomping could be heard. The boy glanced in that direction several times, feeling a sharp anger: they were disturbing his concentration. The next “D” came out entirely crooked, and in his anger, he struck his own fingers with a small rod lying next to the candle. “You can do better,” he hissed under his breath, looking at the red scratches on the back of his hand. “You must be better.” And he returned to his lines. ****   Harry awoke at dawn, breathing heavily. Wiping his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his nightshirt, he stared at the canopy of the bed, trying to make sense of all he had just seen. “Well, hello again, Voldemort,” he muttered. “Who would have thought that I’d find myself in your twisted mind once again?” Wiping the blood from his lips and chin as he had grown accustomed to doing, he spread his arms, looking at the ceiling. He had already forgotten this, and it might have been better had he not recalled it. Their connection… How much pain, how much suffering he had witnessed through the eyes of this monster. He had rid himself of it, but it was all in vain. Why did he see through his eyes again? Was it due to the residual link of the Horcrux? Watching Riddle painstakingly etch embellishments on the letter “D” was far better than watching him kill the Muggle Studies professor, but it was still unsettling. His mind couldn’t reconcile this diligent youth and the red-eyed malicious maniac as the same person. Who would have thought that his handwriting wasn’t perfect? Harry remembered that handwriting from the diary in his second year, remembered admiring it. The embellishments on the letter “D” were perfect. It turns out that not everything came naturally to Riddle. He had invested much effort into self-improvement. “But one day his self-improvement turned into self-destruction,” Harry thought with somber irony. “Master Gordian, rise quickly, today is the big day!” An elf from the Selwyn household appeared in the room with a soft pop—big-eared Molly, very young and quite fussy. Harry took an instant liking to her, as she reminded him of Dobby. “I’m getting up, Molly. Will you help me fasten my shirt?” The house-elf sadly dropped her ears. “Master forbade, Master Gordy,” she squeaked and fell to her knees. “Master said you must learn yourself! Oh, you have blood again! I will clean!” “That son of a bitch!” Harry thought. He never thought it was possible to have a cousin worse than Dudley. Never say never. “It’s alright, Molly,” Harry crawled out from under the thick down comforter and stretched luxuriously. One upside of Gordy’s life was the magnificent bedding. Harry had never before fallen asleep so soundly. “He’s right. If you want something done well, do it yourself, isn’t that so?” He winked at the house-elf, who promptly clapped her ears in delight. Before, he had never been given good clothes, only Dudley’s hand-me-downs. To complain now would be simply inexcusable. “Master Gordy has become so wise! And kind!” she squeaked. Harry grimly looked at himself in the mirror, noting that the spark of madness in his blue eyes on his doll-like face looked truly frightening, and he smiled with just a hint of his lips. “Yes, Molly. Master Gordy has changed quite a bit…” Breakfasts at the Selwyn house were a compulsory affair. All inhabitants of the house were to descend into the grand and pompous dining room by nine in the morning, and oversleeping was not an option. They sat at the long table, the three of them: Lady Selwyn, Marius, and Harry. “Don’t put your elbows on display like that, Gordy,” Lady Selwyn, despite her age, had a very loud, firm, and mannered voice. Harry obediently fixed his posture and sat up straight. “Oh, when will you ever learn?” she sighed disconsolately. “I can’t even invite friends over for breakfast. Marianna Rosier insists on inquiring after you, and I hate deceiving her.” “Then invite her,” Harry, already tired of the constant nagging, said, irritation growing. “What kind of friend is she if she doesn’t understand that your grandson nearly died and lost his memory, and doesn’t give a damn about all these forks and spoons?” “Don’t you dare speak in that tone!” Marius snapped. “You brainless, good-for-nothing…” “No need to argue, boys,” Lady Selwyn exclaimed. “We only have each other left; can’t we live in harmony?” Harry glared menacingly at Marius, who returned the glare in kind. They could not live in harmony. Harry sensed with every fibre of his being that Marius was rotten to the core, vile and immoral, and his cousin responded in kind. As an Auror and a naturally curious creature who poked his nose where it didn’t belong, Harry had, of course, explored the entire estate and the Selwyn family’s biography. It turned out that Lady Selwyn had two sons: Gordian the elder and Cecil. Marius was the son of Gordian the elder, while Gordian was the son of Cecil. Names in this family did not exactly run to variety. Both sons had died young, along with their wives, leaving only two boys: Gordy himself and Marius. As the eldest, Marius inherited the title, and until he had children, he was supposed to announce Gordian as the heir apparent. But he did not only refuse to do that; he openly stated that he would rather make a beggar from Knockturn Alley his heir before his cousin. Harry couldn’t help but wonder what had caused Marius to hate his brother so intensely. He tried to dig up information about Cecil’s death but found nothing. Lady Selwyn was silent, questioning Marius was futile, and the family’s Estate manager, Mr. Siemens, didn’t even regard Harry as an intelligent being, merely cooing and trying to offer him sweets. If Harry had a little more free time and enthusiasm, he would have surely delved into an investigation. But he had no time; his days were scheduled down to the hour, and he didn’t intend to stay in this time. So he simply snapped back at Marius’s every insult and tried not to upset the elderly woman, who was soon to lose her grandson forever. “I apologize, Grandmother. I was inexcusably rude,” Harry sighed heavily. All these pleasantries drove him nuts. “I’ll try to make more of an effort.” Marius sneered disdainfully. His blue eyes expressed contempt, reminding Harry of Lady Malfoy, who similarly grimaced on the platform at King’s Cross. These pureblooded pretensions had become insufferable in just a couple of weeks. He tried to regain memories of his own life, which caused his head to ache constantly and blood to drip from his nose. From morning till evening, he was stuck in ridiculous classes on dancing, manners, and refinement. Cultivate good taste! Harry couldn’t even distinguish between shades of color. Where others saw dusty rose or perhaps fuchsia, he saw pink and nothing more. He was a battle wizard, not the heir to a wealthy, respected house, yet for some reason, he endured and followed these alien rules. It was as if Gordian’s body demanded it. Harry couldn’t help but contemplate the physical aspect of his presence in another body. He seriously disliked everything that was happening around him, but still obediently followed the rules, as though he was used to obeying. “It’s only temporary,” he reminded himself. Soon he would forget all this, like a fever dream. Some day, sitting in the company of his friends, he would recall it with a smile: Marius, Lady Selwyn, and lessons in manners. How Hermione would be surprised when, at the next dinner in some charming little restaurant, he would order snails and ask for a special spoon! Or better yet, tell Ron not to put his elbows on the table. Imagine their shock! These thoughts served as a welcome distraction from the surreal surroundings. The ball at the Selwyn manor became an event of grandeur and magnificence. Harry expected something epic, of course, remembering the victory celebration balls at the Ministry of Magic. But reality far exceeded his expectations with all the elaborate hairstyles, tables adorned with taxidermied swans, sparkling diamonds, and social chatter. Witches, wearing expensive dress robes, gracefully inclined their heads toward each other, giggling coquettishly, their hands in white satin gloves grasping goblets of fine wine, adorned with rings and bracelets worn over the gloves. Wizards in formal tailcoats (Harry couldn’t call them robes, try as he might) lazily discussed business, casting glances now and then at the fashionable, beautiful ladies. Some twirled their bushy mustaches with tiny golden clips, indulging in hors d’oeuvres and drinks, while others promenaded through the hall, engaging in conversations. Yet no one approached the opposite sex, as if it were forbidden by law, and the perpetrators would be thrown into Azkaban. “Mother of magic, Gordy, be quiet!” his grandmother snapped at him when Harry asked her what all this meant. She glanced around to make sure no one had heard. “It’s etiquette! We must let the guests get some break from each other! What were you doing during your lessons? Go to Marius, pretend everything is fine!” Harry went to his cousin, as commanded. Claudius-Vincent wasn’t with him this time; his position didn’t allow him to be present at such events, and Potter planned to take full advantage of it. His speech was scheduled for exactly ten o’clock in the evening because his cousin thought it better to let the guests drink first so they wouldn’t worry too much about his unfortunate fate. Then the dancing would begin. This meant that Harry had a whole forty minutes to slip away unnoticed and return in case of failure. “Ah, here’s Gordian!” his cousin smiled at him too tenderly for it to be sincere. “You, of course, don’t remember my dear friends. Allow me to introduce them.” Harry stoically endured the introductions to the same pompous, polished, and haughty snobs as Marius—Hector Rosier and Idwig Prince. They inquired about his health, but the conversation faltered since he had nothing to discuss with them: according to his legend, he remembered neither his studies, his passions, nor even his dreams. “Get the hell away from here,” Marius hissed in his ear with the same tender smile. “Stay near Grandmother.” “It’s time for me to go; I was delighted to meet you again,” Harry smiled charmingly in response, catching a sleazy, open stare from one of Marius’s friends—Rosier, it seemed. No one had ever looked at him like that before. It was disgusting. He slipped away from the company, hid behind the statue of yet another Greek goddess, and cast disillusionment charms on himself. His absence would be noticed in fifteen to twenty minutes, meaning he had to hurry. Harry slipped from the reception hall to the balcony, then down into the immense garden, deftly grasping the molding’s protrusions. He ran at full speed, not stopping until he reached the gates, hospitably flung open for guests in honor of the celebration. Latecomers were still arriving, greeted by house elves, and Harry, concealed by disillusionment charms, slipped unnoticed into freedom. He had already tried to apparate in his new body, so without further ado, he envisioned the familiar two-story building and stepped forward. In his world, this building had to be demolished; wizards constantly came to fire curses at it, resulting in an infestation of dark creatures that even the Forbidden Forest couldn’t have dreamt of having. But in the year 42, it was an unremarkable building, like the other houses on this street. “Wool’s Orphanage” was engraved on a plaque by the gate. Having cast a disillusionment spell on himself back in the garden, he glided into the orphanage’s grounds through the bent bars of the fence, keeping in mind that he could use magic only once, and then only in an extreme case for attack. Thanks to his Auror training, Harry knew that all Muggleborn students’ homes were registered. If someone used magic within the registered perimeter, it would be immediately attributed to the student living there. One could later clear up and prove their innocence, but usually, the children were the ones to cast spells. For Harry, it had been a great shock to find out that he could have freely used magic when visiting the Weasleys, on the train, or in Diagon Alley. He had been a naive child, never once thinking why Hermione could use magic to fix his glasses without consequences during their second year when he got lost in the Floo network. If he were to take down Riddle with a tripping jinx, the warning from the Department of Education would be addressed to Riddle himself. Only when he failed to return to Hogwarts would the truth emerge that the spell wasn’t used by him. Slipping through occasional bushes and trees, Harry approached the orphanage’s walls, drawn by the windows’ faintly glowing warm light. At such a late hour, the streets were devoid of life. Harry had seen this building many times, as Auror interns were regularly sent here to dispel curses until the orphanage was demolished. He knew Riddle’s room well: the orientation of the windows, the placement of the furniture. He had even seen the etching on the wall at pillow level, “Flight of Death.” Though painted over and over again, it shined through, no matter how many coats of paint were applied. He twisted his hair into a tight knot and fastened it with his wand, then grabbed a drainpipe and quickly climbed up, striving to make minimal noise. Luckily, the pipe was quite new, and it was securely attached to the wall. His formal shoes and tailcoat constrained his movements greatly, but Gordy’s body was astonishingly flexible, so Harry quickly reached the second floor and stepped onto a broad ledge, pressing himself tightly against the wall. A step, another step. Plaster crumbled beneath his right shoe. His heart pounded as though it would leap right through the silly frilled shirt and golden vest. His fingers found the window opening, and with a final effort, he pulled himself up to it. Holding his breath, he peered inside. Riddle was in place, seated on his wobbly bed with his back to the wall, reading something in the dim light of a thick, drooping candle. Harry swallowed hard, studying him greedily. Fifteen-year-old Voldemort looked entirely innocent: scrawny, pale, dressed in tattered gray orphanage rags - he looked utterly sickly and emaciated... just like a child. He had a huge scrape on his left cheek and a dark scab on his split lip. His brows were furrowed in concentration, as if the text he was reading stirred strong emotions within him. Despite himself, Harry felt… sympathy. The boy looked so pitiable, and Harry could never gloat, not even over Malfoy. Not even over Dudley. To believe that this boy, sitting unnaturally straight on the bed with a thin gray cover, would one day become a noseless monster was difficult to fathom. Riddle suddenly lifted his head, opened his mouth, and sneezed loudly. Then he snuffled and returned to his reading. Harry nearly cursed aloud. Riddle did not make his task any easier with all this sniffing, his thin fingers, torn knuckles, and untamed, curled hair. It would be so simple—to covertly break the leg of the massive oak cabinet so it would collapse onto him, crushing him to death, smashing his skull and bones. Or to make a piece of the ceiling fall on his head with a bang, and Voldemort would be no more. Harry carefully pulled his wand from his hair, letting it cascade over his shoulders, and aimed it at the cabinet he could see through the glass. Riddle’s life now was just like Aunt Petunia’s delicate porcelain cup: one sharp movement, and no magic could restore it, leaving only dust behind. How many wizards had died in agony at the hands of this scrawny little shit? How many had gone mad, seeking his love and approval? This frail facade concealed a true Satan, merciless and insane. Within a year, he will kill Moaning Myrtle, and then his father, grandfather, and grandmother. He was already poisoned. "Come on, come on! Do it!" Potter was attempting to convince himself. Time passed, and he still stared, unable to utter the two necessary words. Riddle was quickly turning the pages of the book, reading with incredible speed. It was the way Hermione usually read, as if swallowing whole paragraphs at a time. He sneezed from time to time and wiped his hands irritably, and Harry was surprised to realize he had an allergic reaction. He became morbidly curious about what might be the cause of it. There was hardly anything in the room besides furniture and books. Perhaps book dust? Harry had read about such a thing before. Leaning slightly out, Harry caught sight of the book’s title and nearly fell, jerking too sharply. The wooden frame creaked unpleasantly, and bits of the old ledge crumbled under his shoe. A noise caused Riddle to lift his head sharply, and Harry recoiled back, pressing his entire body against the wall. The window latch struck the wooden frame with a loud thud. Harry heard his breath: uneven, restless, and then saw his dark shadow in the window. “You are imagining things, now is not the time to lose sanity,” a confident, strong voice suddenly said, entirely unlike the voice of the creature that had emerged from the cauldron in the graveyard. It hadn’t yet lost the ring of adolescence and hadn’t become as sickly sweet and mocking as the voice from the Diary. It was the voice of an ordinary teenager, one who was not trying to be something he was not. Just like Ron at the same age. Like Harry himself. Only more resonant, more proper, as if he had been taught in London’s finest school, not in a shabby orphanage. Harry felt a pull in his chest, like when he had crawled from the grave, as if he were hooked like a fish: it snagged, yanked, yet it was entirely painless. Had Harry not felt this before, he would not have understood what it was and would have ignored it. But something like this had happened to him before, and that time it had saved his life, so his eyes closed, and all his senses sharpened. The boy standing just a foot away, hidden behind the wall, was frightened. Harry felt it as if he were in the boy’s place. He had been told that the connection between them was something more profound than the Horcruxes. But he had forgotten, and only now did he remember it at a completely inappropriate time. Blood gushed from his nose, trickling down his chin onto the pristine shirt and golden vest, his head burning with a familiar and much-loathed flashback. “This connection has existed for so long that I cannot see the moment of its creation,” Harry recalled, disgusted by how the otherworldly guest had unbuttoned his shirt. The connection was still within him: just as frightening, inescapable, and powerful. Harry’s scar on his forehead had long healed, but he once again felt Voldemort’s emotions. It was no longer as if barbed wire was being pulled through the scar on his forehead. Now it was different: a subtle, barely perceptible vibration in his chest. All it took for him was a mental reach, an embrace with invisible fingers, and the connection exploded with bright, burning colors like hot wax. He felt fear, anger, expectation, resolve. Harry nearly fell from the onslaught of foreign emotions. He had sensed Voldemort before, but in the future, it was always anger. An irrational, unfounded anger, as if he could feel nothing else. Now, though, Tom Riddle was afraid but still determined to fight and win at all costs. Harry hadn’t believed it was true then. But in the face of irrefutable evidence, all his barriers crumbled, revealing the gruesome truth: their connection existed independently of the Horcruxes. The floorboards creaked, and the dilapidated springs of the bed groaned mournfully. Harry breathed out a barely audible sigh of relief, wiping the blood with his sleeve. The window was still open, so he could hear Riddle muttering to himself, just as Harry did. “They can’t find me. And why should they? It’s just the wind. Just the wind.” Harry bit his lip, striving not to think that he too had talked to himself in just the same way, if only to hear a voice. Loneliness was driving him mad. But Riddle had been insane from birth, so that didn’t mean he was experiencing the same thing as Harry. He was simply… Riddle. And the book “How to Make Friends and Influence People” practically screamed that it was already too late for him. “Hermione read it too, and was there anything terrible in it?” Harry reminded himself. The realization that Voldemort and Hermione had read the same books gave him a slight shudder. It wasn’t a bad book; Harry had even taken some tips from it for himself. But it was one thing for Hermione and him, who would use advice for the benefit of others without attempting to deceive. Riddle was a whole different story. He would surely use it for deception and brainwashing. It was absurd to imagine that he merely wanted to make friends. He never had any, because he didn’t need them; he had said so himself. He cautiously peered into the room again. Riddle had returned to the bed, but his posture was tense, and beside his left hand on the cover lay a magic wand. He clearly felt something but could not understand exactly what. Harry focused, visualized the hook digging into his flesh, and pulled at it again. And to his surprise, gradually, as if peering into murky river water, he could feel faint echoes of Riddle’s wariness. As if Riddle were not in his room in the orphanage but in the tent where Harry had hidden from him for so many months: he felt apprehension, fear, tension, and a wild determination to do everything to save himself. Looking at him, so gaunt, frightened, in tattered gray trousers and a shirt yellowed from multiple washes, beaten, with a book on his lap, Harry realized that he couldn’t whisper the needed spell. His lips couldn’t part; his throat was parched. No matter how diligently Auror Johnson had tried to drill the nobility out of him, no matter how much horror he had seen, deep in his mind were etched Dumbledore’s words: “Everyone deserves a second chance.” Sweet Merlin and Morgana! Why was he so empathetic?! There was no place for pity on the battlefield; if you spared an enemy, he would surely plunge a dagger into your back. Who knew this better than Harry?! But looking at the pathetic boy, he knew he wouldn’t kill him. He couldn’t raise his wand against him. Not when he could feel the fear coursing through his veins, the trembling determination to defend himself to the very end. Despite himself, Harry thought that killing Riddle now wouldn’t solve the main problem — their connection. Everything would repeat, again and again, endlessly. Memories, so timely now, screamed that he should think long and hard before killing the wretched child. Was it worth it? He’d already ruined thousands of lives because of his personal issues. Maybe it was time to end it once and for all? There had to be a way! “Dementors,” his memory helpfully suggested, and Harry was horrified at his own thoughts. No, he wasn’t like that. He’d find another way. “I must break our connection,” he understood clearly. “And then strike the final blow.” Perhaps this was what fate was pushing him toward: to rid himself of Riddle once and for all? If he waited until Riddle created Horcruxes, it would mean that Harry had sacrificed others’ lives. If he killed him now, they’d meet again under different circumstances. But if he broke this connection… No prophecy. No devastating consequences for him and everyone he loved. They might never meet at all. Considerably agitated by his realization, Harry began to sneak back to the pipe, trying not to even breathe. Time was pressing, and he couldn’t risk staring at the young Voldemort and pondering his own professional ineptitude. Yes, he had messed up. He had let the enemy live. But it was definitely for the best! He just needed to find a way. He cautiously slid down the pipe and darted into the shadows, realizing that he’d made too much noise, and Riddle would surely look out the window again. Thoughts raced like wild jarveys; his heart felt like it was leaping out of his chest. Somehow, he made it to the gap in the fence and slipped out with a quiet groan of relief. Here was the boundary for underage wizard tracking; he could apparate back to the Selwyns. “Avada Kedavra!” Harry was too slow to dodge it. A green light blinded him; pain constricted his chest, and he fell onto the gravel path just outside Wool’s Orphanage. It seemed that he’d barely had time to close his eyes when darkness gave way to a bright light. “Come on!” he exclaimed, rising from the bench. “I didn’t die again, did I? Hey! Are you there?” His voice echoed across the empty platform, swallowed by a milky-white fog. In the distance, the sound of trains was audible. “You’ve embarked on a dangerous adventure, my boy,” he heard from behind him and turned sharply. “Professor?” exclaimed Harry, staring in shock at his former mentor. Dumbledore stood before him, unchanged, with a long beard down to his waist and half-moon spectacles. Sadness shimmered in his eyes. “I’m your guide,” he said gently, smiling faintly. Harry wanted to talk to him, and he had come, though not quite as planned. “I’m dead again, am I?” Potter asked, dismayed. “Or rather… This is a station. I’m not dead, just… lost.” “Yes, my boy. You are most certainly lost. But sometimes only by getting lost can one find the way home,” Dumbledore said enigmatically. “Home… way home?” Harry asked, puzzled. Suddenly, right in the middle of the platform, a massive black door appeared with a peeling gilded handle. Somewhere in the fog, an ugly cackle echoed. “You’ve meddled with dangerous magic,” the headmaster shook his head, gesturing toward the sound of the cackling. “Higher beings enjoy playing games, and their games can be very cruel to mere mortals. Look.” “Is she here?” he asked, frightened. “No,” Dumbledore reassured him. “She can’t come here.” Harry looked apprehensively into the fog and again heard the laughter. “I hope,” he hesitated a bit, then strode decisively to the door, grabbing the icy handle. “So… What’s in there?” he asked, not daring to open it. “Look, Harry. You’ll understand,” the director said sadly. Through his translucent figure, the columns and platform shone, making Harry wary. What if this wasn’t the director at all? “I am always me, whoever I might be,” Dumbledore seemed to hear his apprehension. “You’ve mixed up time, disrupted the balance of magic, and these are the consequences, my boy.” A cold wave of terror and fear nearly made Harry panic. He clung tightly to the handle, staring at the worn matte material, recognizing the door for what it was. The door swung open noiselessly, and he stepped into the beautiful, spacious living room of an unfamiliar house. The interior, in shades of blue and azure, was pleasing to the eye, filled with cozy trinkets like vases with flowers, frames with moving photographs, and small statues. Harry approached the large marble fireplace and looked at the pictures. “What?” he whispered, but no sound escaped his slightly parted lips. A deafening silence enveloped the room, as if sound had never existed there. The hands of the clocks were still, and the tongues of flame froze in their dance, while a bright spark hung in the air, having bounced off the logs in the fireplace. In one of the moving photos was his father. Mature, composed, wearing an expensive robe, he sat in a deep chair with a carved back. Beside him stood a beautiful dark-haired woman. On his lap squirmed a boy of about ten; the child fidgeted and pouted, obviously wanting to get down from his father’s knees, feeling too grown-up. James was holding him by the waist, beaming with a mischievous smile, while the woman softly smiled, looking at them. Harry recoiled and looked at other pictures. They were everywhere: the boy with his Hogwarts graduation diploma, as a toddler, and alongside Sirius, Pettigrew, Ron, Neville, and other unfamiliar faces. In one picture, the grown boy was embracing Ginny Weasley by the waist, and she was laughing and kissing his cheek. The inscription in golden ink read: “Charles Potter and Ginevra Weasley, engagement, 2001.” There was no Lily Potter, Hermione Granger, or Remus Lupin. Charles bore a striking resemblance to Harry, only a taller and more masculine version, and his eyes were brown like James’s. And his forehead was unmarred by a scar. Harry examined the living room more carefully, seeking signs of other discrepancies. On a low table by the couch, he noticed several newspapers and magazines, but his hands passed right through them. On the front page of the “Daily Prophet,” the headline read: “New Education Reform! Headmaster Riddle Fully Supports Minister Malfoy!” Harry recoiled from the newspaper and suddenly saw a thin golden thread, stretching from his chest upwards. He barely touched it with his fingers, and the space dissolved, and in an instant, he was standing by a bed with a green canopy. There, covered with a light quilt and leaning against pillows, was Charles Potter. A night light burned on his bedside table, and a book hung in the air, having failed to reach the blanket by mere inches. His eyes were wide open, his mouth agape in a scream. The golden thread stretched from Harry’s chest to Charles’s; it became dense, tightened, and seemed to call to him, drawing him in. “It’s me,” Harry suddenly understood. This was the moment from which he had been transported to the past. And the moment he could return to now, to continue living as Charles. He had changed the past, and now his father had married another woman, and they had Charles instead of Harry. Slightly different but still his body, bearing the same soul, was pulling him with a terrible force. That’s why Avada Kedavra had no effect on him: Harry’s real body, to which his soul was tethered, existed far in the future. He was not connected to Gordy’s body. That’s why his legs sometimes refused to obey him; his soul was constantly being pulled to a different body. Harry was struck with realization, as if by a bolt of lightning. His appearance in this world had created time anomalies, leading to Dippet’s disappearance. Instead, Slughorn had become the headmaster, as Dumbledore had not yet gained fame for defeating Grindelwald. And who did Slughorn adore above all? Riddle. Slughorn would surely have appointed him as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. With his full support, Riddle could do as he pleased. He became the headmaster, as he had always dreamed, brainwashed generations of wizards, and now had his own puppet minister. Only Merlin knew how the wizarding world lived. In the wizarding photographs, there was not a single Muggleborn among those Harry knew. His mother was an unfamiliar woman. “No!” he mentally screamed, struggling as if walking along the bottom of a lake, moving away from Charles’s body. This wasn’t what he wanted! No sooner had he thought it than he found himself at the black door again. Without looking back, Harry flung it open and leaped back onto the platform. “Do you understand now?” asked Dumbledore serenely. “I will fix everything,” exclaimed Harry. “I will destroy Riddle, and everything will be alright!” Dumbledore simply shook his head, his whole demeanor conveying the thought, “Harry, you’ve gotten yourself into trouble again.” “When did you become like this, my boy?” he asked sadly. “When did taking someone’s life become normal for you?” Harry involuntarily felt guilt and shame, again feeling like the little first-year who had been brought to the headmaster’s office. “When I saved an eight-year-old girl from a werewolf?” he answered, overcoming his shame. “The one that attacked her right before my eyes? When I was faced with the choice: kill or be killed?” With each word, his voice gained confidence and resolve. “We live in a terrible world, Professor. People kill other people; it’s inevitable.” “Is that not why Tom Riddle became who he became?” the professor’s voice was still soft, and Harry hated himself for feeling relief that the professor did not appear disappointed. “‘Kill or be killed’ philosophy starts a new cycle of hatred and pain. It will continue until one of you stops and tries to find another way. He’s dead, Harry, but you still could not let him go and returned to the past, unafraid of the terrifying consequences, and now you want to start the cycle again.” “I want to fix what he’s done!” Harry exclaimed. “You don’t know how the war has affected people! Discrimination has started again in the world, only now it’s reversed—against the purebloods. It’s only a matter of time before a new war erupts! If he’s not there, the balance between Muggleborns and purebloods will remain normal!” “And instead of becoming Minister and trying to settle everything peacefully, you chose to go back to the past and commit murder?” Dumbledore looked at him like a foolish child blowing bubbles from his nose. “I…” Harry faltered, not even understanding himself why he ever thought he could fix everything this way. “I just wanted to figure it out,” his shoulders slumped, and he lowered his head. “I don’t know why I came back here; I changed my mind, but she… somehow heard me. I wanted to kill him, but I couldn’t.” He remembered the broken lips, the worn shirt, the scratched hands, and Tom’s fear. It wasn’t about the connection at all. “Deep down, you know that murder is not the solution,” Dumbledore nodded understandingly. “I’m glad I could reach you, even though we have so little time in the world of the living.” “Forgive me,” Harry bowed his head in shame. “I… Because of me, people have disappeared. Do you know where they are now?” The truth was what he feared the most. “I suspect they are where they are needed most,” the headmaster said, smiling enigmatically. “Time dislikes interference. It strives to restore its flow by any means necessary to avoid disrupting the balance of magic. It’s a matter of give-and-take.” Before, Harry would not have understood these words. But he had become wiser since then. “If Riddle didn’t become the Dark Lord in this world, then many wizards stayed alive,” he murmured, “thus breaking the balance of the universe. And did magic simply… remove other wizards from the world to restore itself?” “I wouldn’t be so categorical,” the professor sighed. “We don’t know how our world operates, my boy. And we can’t know what consequences meddling with the secrets of our existence might lead to. Life is the greatest mystery, with an infinite number of possible answers.” Harry recalled the stories from the mirror’s guests and agreed with the professor. “You know, I was simply… obsessed with the very possibility, but then something clicked, and I realized that one mustn’t meddle with time. But it was too late. I’m so sorry…” “Don’t blame yourself, Harry,” Dumbledore smiled kindly. “Even more experienced wizards have been deceived.” A giggle in the fog sent a chill down Harry’s spine. “She specifically created that mirror, Professor,” he suddenly realized. “The one that made me obsessed with finding her. Why does she do this?” “I suppose there’s not much entertainment in confinement,” the other mused. “I’ve known wizards who have gone mad for less.” Harry glanced at the fog, feeling a tiny pang of sympathy. He knew what it was like to be locked away. He knew it all too well. “Your heart hasn’t lost its greatest talent,” Dumbledore’s face went from thoughtful to joyful. “Or your main weapon.” “Which is?” Potter didn’t understand. “Compassion.” Harry shrugged, wanting to tell the headmaster that he was no longer that naive boy, that he was disappointed in everything: himself, other people, and even his mentor. But somehow, he didn’t want Dumbledore to be upset because of him. He wanted him to keep believing in his convictions. “It didn’t help me much today,” he grumbled, recalling his last raid when empathy cost him… an unimaginable price. “When one door closes, another opens,” the professor said in his usual enigmatic manner and sat down on a bench. “It’s time for you to go, Harry; your train has arrived.” “Yes, it’s time,” Harry said regretfully, spotting the gleaming carriage of the Hogwarts Express. “We’ll meet again.” “I have no doubt,” Dumbledore nodded. “Your door is still here, and as long as it is—so am I.” Harry walked to the carriage but looked back at the last moment: the headmaster was still sitting on the bench. “Professor!” he cried. “Do you… Do you already know where you will go next?” Dumbledore smiled dreamily. “I want to be where my family is,” he simply said and dissolved into the foggy air. Harry stepped into the carriage, feeling a sharp, piercing longing. They all wanted to be where they once felt happy. Perhaps Riddle was no exception.