Behind Lies Eternity

Harry regained consciousness right where he had fallen. He lay still, eyes closed, listening to the sounds around him, when he distinctly heard footsteps approaching. “This time, farewell forever,” a faint whisper reached his ears. The voice belonged to a man, but it was definitely not Riddle’s. The stranger grabbed his hand and yanked him forward, as if he were the carcass of a deer taken in the hunt. Harry cautiously lifted his head and opened one eye. In the dense twilight, he could only make out a gloved hand. Suddenly, a loud snap of an Apparition spell sounded, something flashed brightly, and the man’s hand disappeared. “Oh no, Master Gordian!” came the voice of his bumbling guard, Claudius-Vincent. Harry almost swore. What an opportunity he had to catch the bastard! But Vincent was the typical Vincent of his time — capable of ruining everything, even the unruinable. “I’m fine,” Harry growled, rising from the path. “What the everloving fu… ow!” His family ring stung him sharply. “What are you doing here, Vincent?!” “My name is Claudius…” “Who cares! How did you find me?” “My amulet signaled that you had run away!” the oaf wailed, enveloping Harry in a monstrous embrace. “I Apparated to the coordinates and saw this criminal dragging you like fresh-killed prey. But you are alive, Master Gordian! You are alive! What a relief, indeed!” He lifted Harry off the ground, swaying him slightly. “How could you run away? He could have killed you!” “Because I’ve possessed a corpse, Vincent, my soul is not anchored to this body, and Avada doesn’t work on me,” Harry thought to himself, smirking inwardly. This was promising. He wondered: what would happen if his head were cut off? Would his soul have nowhere to return, and would it take over another body? Or would he be cast out into the universe he’d shaped with his intervention? Harry definitely didn’t want to find out. “Easy, I can still choke and die,” Harry pushed Vincent away, glancing around. “Did you see him? The person who was dragging me?” How had the abductor even known where Harry was? “I’m sorry, Master Gordian, I didn’t get a good look!” Vincent exclaimed. “He immediately threw something that blinded me and vanished. I’ll call the Aurors now.” “No!” Harry barely managed to contain the panic in his voice. “No,” he repeated, more calmly. “I’ll handle this myself. You understand that we don’t need a scandal? If Marius finds out that you let me slip away…” “What were you doing here, Master?” Suspicion suddenly crept into Vincent’s face. It seemed as if he might indeed possess some common sense. “I was… visiting a mistress nearby, ha-ha,” Harry nervously laughed. “I swear, if you tell anyone about this, there’ll be a scandal, and you’ll be fired. You failed to watch over me; do you think anyone will hire you after that?” Vincent furrowed his brows, looking down at his feet, then raised his eyes to Harry. “Master Selwyn warned me that you might want to escape in search of pleasures,” he said gravely. “But he asked me to guard your life. And your life was just threatened. I must tell the Aurors; it’s my duty of honor. Your life is more important than secrets and my reputation, Master Gordian.” Harry almost wailed. He had somehow never thought that Crabbe’s grandson could possess honor, conscience, or a sense of duty. But Claudius was depressingly noble. It was both awe-inspiring and infuriating at the same time. Oh, how the tables had turned! Harry pulled a watch from his breast pocket and was horrified to see that twenty minutes had already passed. His speech was to begin very soon! If the Auror Department saw that he had died and resurrected again, a crowd of Aurors would appear any second. “I swear, Claudius, I’m in a situation now where only you can help me!” he exclaimed, grabbing the guard by the lapels of his cloak. “I can swear on my magic that I have everything under control. I just need to get home and deliver my speech, and then we’ll return here and take the magical signature of the attacker. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. We can’t call the Aurors; they’ll only ruin everything. They haven’t caught him so far.” “But why?” Claudius furrowed his brows, much like his grandson Vincent. “Because I have reason to believe that there’s a conspiracy,” Harry lowered his voice, nervously glancing at his watch. “You swore to preserve my life, did you not? Now try to do it!” He had only seven minutes left, and he knew that the Aurors wouldn’t find anything. If the criminal had taken care of all traces, burying Gordy’s body, and then even managed to track him down the moment he was outside the safety of the wards, nothing would be found now. But Harry would have to gain the trust of the crazy Selwyn family to sort out all the problems, and Merlin forbid they suspect that he’s no longer Gordy. Harry would very much not want to be stuck in the Department of Mysteries forever. Claudius lowered his head, shook it, sighed heavily, and then delivered his verdict: “Very well, Master Gordy. I will believe you.” Harry nearly jumped for joy on the spot. “Excellent, Vincent! Now let’s Apparate to the manor, and I’ll deliver this fu… awkward speech that I’ve been rehearsing for the past week. Then we’ll get to the truth!” “Very well, Master Gordy,” the guard rumbled. “Only my name is Claudius.” “Merlin’s pants… oh!” Neither of them noticed the piercing gaze directed at them from behind the glass of an utterly dark window with an open casement. ***   That evening, Tom was particularly restless. He had always been sensitive to changes in the weather and could predict a storm a day before it began. But today, he felt a numbing sense of dread, as if a hurricane or even a tsunami were bearing down on them. Something was about to happen, and Tom could only pray to all the magical deities that it wasn’t another blitz, which would surely be the end of him. He had been lucky last time when the bombings began; he had just left for Hogwarts. They had started on the seventh of September in ’40 and lasted until May of ’41. Tom returned to London and was horrified by what he saw: destruction was everywhere, and people were digging through rubble and pulling out bodies for months. He, too, had to engage: the orphanage had lost its sponsors, and to survive, they all had to work hard just to earn their keep. The younger children were taken to the countryside and placed in some camp, while the older ones were left to work in the city. Tom recalled those times with a shudder. He often had nightmares featuring crushed, rotting bodies in the heat, dead eyes, and the unbearable stench of decay. If he had been capable of crying, he would have wept every day, so unbearable was the task to clear the rubble and wait for a bomb to fall from the sky, reducing his body to the same pulp as all the others. To become just another piece of crushed meat. But he had nowhere to run, and he had forgotten how to cry since the time he was first hit across his cheek. Dippet never allowed him to stay at school. Nobody cared for Tom; he had no friends, nobody in the whole world. He could only harbor his anger and hatred and dream of revenge on those who had put him in this position. The candle smoldered and crackled; reading in such light was very difficult. Tom’s eyes were already watering and aching, but he had no other choice. Electricity, of course, hadn’t been restored, and it wouldn’t be for some time: a bomb had fallen on a nearby station. He was also fortunate that the shelter had survived, for otherwise, he would have had to live with other homeless people in aid stations. It was not a trivial matter — almost one and a half million inhabitants were left without shelter. Tom hated it so much that it made him tremble. Absolute helplessness and vulnerability were driving him insane. For the hundredth time, he got up and approached the window, searching the sky for the lights of Luftwaffe planes. But the cloudless sky was rapidly darkening, the full moon shone brightly, and there were no planes in sight. Yet the sense of impending doom did not go away. The smell of the old cheap candle made Tom start to sneeze and scratch his hands, but that seemed trivial compared to the gnawing hunger clinging to his back. He had to read to distract himself from the hunger and anxious unrest. Had they found him out? Would they come for him precisely today? Yesterday, he had been careless: he was caught and soundly thrashed in an attempt to sneak into a warehouse with humanitarian aid and steal some food for himself, but he managed to escape. How could they find him? It was simply impossible. Even if they had tracked him down, why would they come in the dead of night? To kill him over a pathetic piece of cheese? He inadvertently ran his tongue over his cracked lip and grimaced. His wounds would heal quickly; everything on him healed with monstrous speed. He never fell ill, never broke anything, even when pushed from a third-story roof or beaten by a mob, left to die in a locked cellar. Tom always recovered quickly. But the taste of his own fresh blood in his mouth drove him to uncontrollable rage. How dare these pitiful creatures think they were his equals! He was above them all, more significant, more powerful! They were unworthy to draw his blood! Only he himself could… “Nonsense,” Tom reassured himself. “Why would they want that?” Moans sounded from behind the wall, the bed creaked, and Tom clenched his teeth, persisting in his reading. Those who had lost their homes had moved into the empty rooms. Tom’s new neighbor wasn’t too picky about taking even ugly old men to her bed if they had money, and Mrs. Cole turned a blind eye for a few coins. Tom hated them all and hoped that the dirty whore would soon catch something quick and deadly. Sometimes her clients would go to the wrong room and peek in at him. Some offered him money. Tom had hit one man so hard that he’d broken that bastard’s jaw. He knew for certain that many of the children he’d known since childhood would have given in, and he hated them even more for it. Only worthless Muggles were willing to trample themselves into the dirt just to prolong their pathetic existence. But Tom was a wizard and preferred to take everything by force or cunning. The moans ceased, and he closed his eyes with relief for a moment. Those sounds… They haunted his nightmares as well. He felt them turning him inside out. Loud, shrill, fake moans. If he wasn’t under close watch, Tom would break the whore’s jaw too, so she could never again open her filthy mouth. Unwillingly, he recalled his own experience, and the urge to destroy something became unbearable. He dug his fingers hard into his forearm, fighting the desire to use magic. Even wandless, even just for a moment… In the ensuing silence, a rustling sounded outside the window, and Tom stood up. The book thumped dully onto his lap, and his sixth sense wailed like a siren. He quickly approached the window and flung the latch open: the yard, bathed in moonlight, was empty at this late hour. If they had come for him, why would they hide? “You are imagining things; now is not the time to lose sanity,” Tom told himself, desperate to hear something other than the pounding of the pulse in his ears. He returned to his bed and clenched his book once again. The disgraceful feeling of fear clung to Tom; he wanted to tear out his damned heart and crush it in his fist to stop it from thumping against his ribs. “They can’t find me. And why should they? It’s just the wind. Just the wind,” he assured the emptiness around him. He laid his wand on the bed, knowing he wouldn’t dare use it. He had already received two warnings from the Ministry; a third would certainly lead to expulsion from Hogwarts. It was not that simple to prove that he was defending himself, as the wizards’ concept of “defense” was quite different from that of the Muggles. If a twelve-year-old child cursed a Muggle who tried to drag him into the bushes, it wasn’t seen as defense but as an attack. Curses were not considered defensive magic. Tom’s hatred for this was so intense that he felt he might simply explode from all the rage boiling within him. From powerlessness. From despair. From the damned FEAR. No one heard him. No one even wanted to hear him! He pressed on his forearm again, right at the center, but it wasn’t enough. “Things will change one day,” he reassured himself, but still got up and approached the window again. And froze. The empty square in the moonlight before the gates was clearly visible. One dark silhouette emerged from behind a tree and approached another, flared brightly with green light, and the latter fell onto the road. Tom waved his hand, and the candle went out. Everything happened so quickly that Tom couldn’t comprehend what had occurred, for it was far away, and a tree partially obstructed his view. There was a crack, then something exploded in golden sparks, a second crack, and then the figure lying on the path rose, only to be embraced by another, three times larger and much taller. Tom slightly turned his ear toward the window but only heard distant voices: one sharp, the other dull and low. He caught intonations, something like the name Vincent, and then they Apparated behind the trees. Tom ran into the street and immediately examined the clearing beneath his window. Sure enough, there were gypsum crumbs and boot indentations on the grass. He rushed to the gates, tightly gripping his wand. They were wizards, undoubtedly. That flash… Tom knew only one curse that had a rich, almost emerald green shade. It was Avada Kedavra. But a wizard couldn’t survive a direct hit, yet that one rose and walked away on his own two feet. On the gravel before the gates, he could see remaining indentations; a couple of pebbles were stained with tiny droplets of blood, the trunk of a tree was slightly charred, but otherwise, it looked as if nothing had happened at all. Deafening silence lingered. Tom could stand it no more. Let him starve, sleep under a newspaper, freeze, anything at all, but he couldn’t bear staying in the orphanage any longer. He had to run to the magical street and hope that neither bombs nor wizards, who were for some reason following him, would find him there. He would fight, cling to life with all his strength, bite with his teeth if he had to. But he would not die. He would never, ever die. ***   Harry had barely managed to straighten his clothes when Mrs. Selwyn literally flew onto the balcony, following fairytale witch traditions, only lacking a broom. “Gordian Cecil Selwyn, have you lost your mind?” she exclaimed in a loud whisper. “You need to give a speech!” “I’ve only lost track of time, I’m sorry, Grandmother,” Harry sheepishly smiled at her. “You’re covered in blood again!” She waved her wand, and only then did Harry realize that everything that had happened to him was real. He remembered how he had failed to kill and had been killed himself, relatively speaking. How many more times would he visit the platform before Death herself came to him and said that he’d worn out her patience? Mrs. Selwyn grabbed his elbow and dragged him to the guests, scolding him along the way, and Harry was relieved to realize that he’d gotten lucky: she had understood nothing. He barely remembered the speech. He mechanically spoke the memorized words, his blind gaze sliding over the bright crowd, his thoughts lingering at the orphanage. “When one door closes, another opens,” Professor Dumbledore had said. But so far, Harry saw no other door in front of him. How could he break his connection with Riddle? And how could he protect himself from the unknown pursuer? Next time, the assailant might simply cut off his head. “Well done, this time you didn’t falter once,” praised Grandmother, leaning toward him. Harry blinked and realized that the guests had already applauded him, and were now gathering in circles, no longer divided by gender. Liquor flowed like a river, guests laughed and danced, ate, and gossiped. Jewels glittered in the bright light, heavy dress hems rustled, and the click of heels echoed on the polished-to-a-shine parquet. It was as if Harry had found himself in a Cinderella tale. By the will of a fairy godmother, he, a poor boy wearing his cousin’s rags, had landed at a grand ball. Only, the godmother turned out to be a mad bitch, and the ball—a vanity fair. The suffocating scent of expensive perfume, alcohol, food, and dancing bodies caused a bout of nausea in him. It made his head spin so much that even looking at the drinking guests became terrifying. He involuntarily imagined Riddle in his tight, dark room that smelled of mold and rancid oil, with scraped walls. In his thin shirt and patched trousers that were clearly too short for him. “Irma, Pollux! How glad I am to see you!” Grandmother tightly squeezed his elbow, and Harry stared with a petrified gaze at a family with all-too-familiar features. “Gordian doesn’t remember anything, so let’s start the acquaintance anew!” A tall, dark-haired man with blue eyes and a chin just like Sirius’s stood before him. His wife also slightly reminded him of his godfather. And when the others were introduced, Harry experienced a small choking feat. “This is Walburga Black, your classmate,” a tall girl with a beautiful face, looking as haughty as her portrait in old age held her chin high and looked at everyone with disdain. Harry couldn’t believe he was seeing Sirius’s mother. He wanted to simply rub his eyes to make sure this surreal experience was indeed happening to him. “This is Alphard Black. You’ll probably be in the same class now since you’ve missed a whole year!” Harry shook hands with the tall boy, striving not to betray his excitement. Alphard resembled Bellatrix: the same wavy hair, large, deeply set eyes with heavy lids, the same curve of plump lips. Only, the impression he gave was entirely different. He seemed ready to laugh and pull a prank at any moment, just like Sirius. “And this is Orion, Walburga and Alphard’s cousin,” Harry’s eyes fixed on the thirteen-year-old phlegmatic boy. He was painfully aware that he was seeing Sirius’s father, knowing his fate but unable to change it. For to change it meant that Sirius would not be born. Orion was doomed to suffer alongside the crazy Walburga, who would quickly bring him to heel and then to an early grave. Having reintroduced himself to all the Blacks and quickly become entangled in the degrees of kinship (who was Arcturus the third’s brother? How was Regulus related to Pollux? There were far too many Blacks), a bewildered and off-kilter Harry allowed his peers to lead him to the beverage table. “I understand that you remember nothing,” Walburga said haughtily, towering over him by half a head. “But I must warn you.” “Wal, so soon?” Alphard quipped, arching an eyebrow. “Give Gordian some time to adjust to your bitchy aura.” Walburga hissed at him, and Harry barely stifled a smile, instantly feeling a pang of sympathy for Alphard. As far as he remembered, it was Alphard who had helped Sirius when the rest of the family turned away. “How rude, Alphard, you really shouldn’t be allowed in polite society!” “Neither should someone else. Orion, hide the drinks before Walburga leaves the guests without spirits!” he loudly whispered. “I did it by accident! You know I didn’t mean to; you just left me no choice!” “Didn’t mean to? From the side, it looked like you really wanted to. You guzzled mead so quickly, I was afraid you’d been replaced by our cousin Phineas!” “Don’t you dare compare me to that… that…” “He’s an alcoholic, Wal. Can’t you say your diagnosis out loud?” Harry stood, utterly dumbfounded by this quarrel, blinking stupidly, trying not to burst out laughing. “Get used to it, Selwyn,” Orion said phlegmatically. “These two put on a show at every opportunity. — Hey, enough, you two! Gordian has lost his memory, probably to forget your unbearable squabbles.” The Blacks came to their senses and stopped snarling at each other but still exchanged hostile glances. Harry was basically cooing over them, as one might when seeing sweet little puppies nipping at each other’s short tails. “So what did you want to warn me about?” Harry inquired curiously. “Ah yes. I received a letter from Sinistra, Marsius Nott’s sister. She says she read his diary, and yes, I know it’s very improper, but… From the diary, it appears that the disgusting half-blood Riddle and his minions are planning something this year. How did he know this? And why didn’t he tell us? I think Marsius is with them now!” Walburga’s face reddened with agitation, and her eyes sparkled, making her look quite sweet. “He doesn’t remember who Riddle is,” Alphard reminded her. “Ah, yes!” she dramatically pressed a gloved hand to her forehead. “Riddle is the dragon pox of Slytherin house. A filthy mudblood and an orphan, unworthy of even licking our boots. He should have been strangled in his cradle!” Harry nearly gaped in an unseemly manner. He only refrained because he was used to hearing such curses from Walburga’s portrait. Such words coming from a young and beautiful girl sounded surreal. The magic of meeting his godfather’s mother dissipated, and Harry felt a growing dislike for Walburga Black. “Oh, Mother Magic, Wal, stop recounting your romantic fantasies,” Alphard rolled his eyes. “Tom Riddle is my classmate. Yes, he’s a half-blood, but that’s not the issue. He’s a real plague. He conquers the minds of our classmates and makes them do something… horrifying. You and Wal actively opposed him, but after your disappearance, everything became much worse. Much worse.” “He’s bewitched Druella Rosier! And Marsius Nott! How can they listen to him, this pitiful, unworthy filth…” “Yes, yes, we get it, you’re fantasizing again. But you can’t prove it,” Alphard interrupted his sister. “Gordian, we just want to warn you that the school dynamics have changed, and due to your memory loss, you might find yourself in an awkward position. Stay close to us, and we’ll explain everything.” “Alright,” exhaled a bewildered Potter. There were so many questions that he didn’t even know where to begin. He thought Riddle had been something like Draco Malfoy in his house—an uncrowned prince, a leader, and a trendsetter. But both Blacks compared him to a contagious disease. He hasn’t opened the Chamber of Secrets yet, Harry remembered. No one knows that he’s the Heir of Slytherin. “I’ll reintroduce you to everyone,” Walburga gleefully said. “And I can say that you had a real feud with that stupid Crouch, not trailed after him like a Sniffer after a Galleon.” “In any case, we’re glad you’re back,” Alphard cheerfully slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s a real pleasure to see you so bewildered and uncomprehending.” “What was I usually like?” Harry cautiously asked. The smile on Alphard’s handsome face dimmed, while Walburga, on the other hand, smiled broadly. “You were a true Selwyn!” she dreamily exclaimed. “Menace to the mudbloods, the nightly terror of all the unworthy! Once we enchanted the fireplace in the common room so that it spat sparks at all the mudbloods. It was so hilarious! Riddle had to be taken to the hospital wing—the fire roasted him like a fine slice of bacon! They barely saved his pretty little face.” Harry only managed not to bug his eyes out at this statement thanks to his Auror training. And he had thought Draco Malfoy was obsessed with pureblood culture. Being near Sirius’s mother suddenly became unbearably unpleasant. “Roasted like a fine slice of bacon.” A child’s face. Because his parents weren’t purebloods. Harry felt a sudden urge to bury his face in a pillow and scream. “That was a very childish and cruel act,” Alphard frowned, nudging his sister slightly with his shoulder. “You can’t harm someone just because you don’t like them.” Orion snorted loudly, and Walburga forcefully shoved Alphard back. “But he’s a Mudblood!” she hissed. “Showing them their place is our duty as the descendants of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Tell him, Orion!” “Alphard, stop talking like our grandfather,” Orion obediently said. “Selwyn will faint at your speeches. Don’t embarrass our company with your… innovative thinking.” “Am I the only one in this family who has at least some grasp on reality?” Alphard was visibly upset, his face expressive. “It’s alright,” Harry reached out quicker than he realized. “I like you.” He squeezed his hand in a gesture of support, as Sirius often did, but quickly realized it looked simply absurd and withdrew it. All three Blacks stared at him as if a second head had sprouted from Harry’s shoulders. “Mother of magic, Selwyn, what have they done to you all this time?” Walburga was the first to come to her senses. “What do you mean?” Harry asked awkwardly, as the pause stretched on, as if she, Orion, and Alphard were indeed waiting for an answer from him. “You’re MY friend, not his!” she exclaimed emotionally, ignoring the curious glances of other guests. “You don’t even like him!” “You didn’t have to discuss this in front of Alphard himself, cousin,” Orion blushed in embarrassment. “As if I was unaware,” Alphard rolled his eyes. “But now that Gordian has lost his memory, I have a chance to win him over to my side, right, Wal?” “Just try to take my friend away!” she hissed with hatred, her appearance taking on a ghastly resemblance to the portrait in Grimmauld Place. “He’s standing right there, and he’s not deaf,” Alphard reminded her. “Um…” stammered Harry. He was greatly taken aback by the aggressiveness of the Blacks. All the wizards he had met in this time were constantly beating around the bush, never daring to make such categorical statements. “I’ll sort things out. In time.” “You’ll sort ‘things out’?” Alphard frowned. “What does that mean? ‘I’ll sort things out.’ It sounds odd.” Harry mentally cursed, glancing warily at the ring, but it responded only to verbal expletives. “I’ll figure out who’s a friend and who isn’t, on my own,” Harry corrected himself. He was utterly at a loss as to which expressions were common for this era, often stumbling over his words. “It greatly troubles me that I cannot remember my friends and foes, but I intend to find out anew.” “Oh, Gordian, how I’ve missed you! Everything will be fine, just wait and see,” Walburga exclaimed emotionally, almost knocking over the goblet of a nearby wizard. “I apologize, Professor Dumbledore, I got too carried away with the conversation.” Harry stared in astonishment at his future mentor, instantly forgetting about the Blacks. “No harm done, Miss Black. I’ll let you in on a secret: I would gladly do away with this suit. Too conservative, don’t you think?” Dumbledore smiled mischievously, looking nothing like his future self. Harry gawked at him, unable to believe he was seeing Dumbledore. Just half an hour ago, he had seen him as an old man with gray hair and a long beard! And when he visited Riddle’s orphanage, he already had a beard, though not as long and still ginger. Clearly, fashion kept changing in the wizarding world, as for now, Dumbledore’s chin was clean-shaven, his short pale ginger hair neatly arranged. The robe with stiff shoulders accentuated his stature, and the blue vest highlighted his eyes, not yet hidden behind half-moon glasses. “The professor was a handsome man,” Harry thought to himself. How old was he now? He looked about forty-five, but wizards never looked their age like Muggles. Harry tried to calculate but lost count. He didn’t know the year his mentor was born. Was it in the last century? Walburga responded with something, haughtily tilting her chin; Alphard laughed, and Orion rolled his eyes. Harry heard nothing. It seemed only now did he realize he was up shit’s creek without a paddle. Young Dumbledore! His mentor, his teacher. He had witnessed his death! He still remembered the green flash of the curse that struck his chest; he had conversed with his soul not long ago. The dissonance was too great. Harry’s legs buckled, turning into mere crutches, and he almost fell, but Alphard, standing nearby, reacted like a trained Auror: he quickly caught him and held him close, preventing a fall before everyone’s eyes “What happened?” “Are you feeling ill?” “Mr. Selwyn, are you all right?” Harry was bombarded with questions, all of them whispered, as if his weakness should not spoil the party for everyone else. “Forgive me, I have… sometimes I suffer seizures,” Harry awkwardly answered, leaning on Alphard. “My legs give way. It’s nothing serious.” “Poor Gordian!” Walburga reached out and squeezed his wrist. “How horrible!” “Strange,” Professor Dumbledore frowned, but immediately banished the puzzled look from his face. “But you’ve suffered a tremendous shock…” “It’s fortunate that he’s with us at all!” Walburga rudely interrupted him. “Alphard, help him. We don’t want anyone to see… this.” Harry awkwardly clung to Alphard’s blue robe, struggling to stand on unsteady legs. Alphard wrapped his arm around Harry’s waist and pressed him to his side, as though they were simply chatting, hugging each other like old friends. Gordian’s body immediately reacted to this embrace, and not in a friendly way at all. Potter inwardly cursed at Gordy’s damned hormones. He hated feeling lust while in a body that wasn’t his own. “Professor Dumbledore,” Harry looked into his mentor’s blue eyes with a plea. “I need to speak with you privately.” He felt a true sense of terror. The entire plan was unraveling before his eyes: he had almost been killed, failed to kill Riddle due to compassion, people were gone because he meddled with time, and Slughorn had become the Headmaster! He again felt like that fifteen-year-old Harry who had learned of the prophecy. He yearned for guidance from someone wise and experienced, longing to know what he should do with all this mess. The professor’s soul could no longer aid him, but the living, breathing Dumbledore would surely figure it out… “Well, of course, Mr. Selwyn, I am always available,” the man’s smile had an utterly foreign, non-Dumbledore quality, and Harry wanted to throw a hissy fit, something he hadn’t felt for years. Too much. It had all become too much for him. “And here’s my student!” an unexpected guest burst into their conversation: Professor Slughorn. His lush mustache, tucked with pins, hadn’t yet grayed, and his corpulent belly had not yet tried to escape the patterned vest to lead an independent life. “Gordian, welcome home! I was so worried about your fate, my boy.” Harry nearly ground his teeth. He had nothing against Slughorn, but he now saw him as an annoying hindrance, a blunder. Because of Harry, he had become the Headmaster instead of Dumbledore. “Thank you, Headmaster,” he faintly smiled, unable to make his face take on the proper degree of respect. “I have fully recovered and look forward to returning to Hogwarts.” He cast another pleading glance at Dumbledore and noted that the man was looking at him with genuine interest rather than polite curiosity. Harry had learned to distinguish his gazes during the six years they had known each other. “Good, good,” Slughorn clapped his chubby hands. “Then allow me to leave you to your friends, so you can catch up on lost time. Oh, to be young! Professor Dumbledore, would you accompany me? I’d like to ask you about your recent research on the qualities of dragon blood…” Dumbledore courteously agreed and, throwing one more interested glance at Harry, simply walked away. Harry was beside himself. Mordred’s beard, why was it so hard to have a private conversation in this world?! “Why do you need to talk with that Muggle lover alone?” Walburga asked, looking utterly puzzled, as soon as the professors were hidden behind other guests. “You can’t stand him.” “I?” Harry retorted stupidly, although he understood it wasn’t about him. “Nobody in decent society can stand him. What’s he even doing here? Has your cousin lost his marbles to invite him?” asked the future mother of his godfather, bewildered. “Walburga, don’t project your misconceptions onto others,” grumbled Alphard, still clutching Harry’s unsteady body to his own. Warmth and reliability emanated from him, much like from Sirius, making Harry feel a sharp pang of shame for Gordian’s bodily reactions. “Professor Dumbledore is a great wizard. One day a street will be named in his honor, and they’ll release a chocolate frog card for him, while you’ll still be grumbling and gnashing your teeth.” “You scoundrel!” Walburga snapped, offended. “I will not listen to you anymore! Come, Orion, we need to speak with many to sway them to our side. Gordian, till we meet again. Marius’s birthday is soon; we’ll see you there.” She waved her hand dismissively, and Orion, after bidding farewell, trotted after her like an obedient puppy. “Is she really my friend?” Harry inquired, relieved to find his legs obeying him again. He stepped away from Alphard and wiped sweat from his brow with a glove. “Friend is a strong word,” Alphard crookedly smiled. “You are more like… partners in crime. There aren’t many descendants from the Sacred Twenty-Eight at school, so Walburga instantly took a liking to you.” He spoke candidly, so Harry decided to ask a provocative question. “What if I no longer wish to torment Mudbloods? What if I now find it intolerable?” Alphard’s brows crawled up, his eyes widened. “Then I’ll say you can count on my friendship and support,” he slyly smiled, revealing protruding front canines, just like Sirius’s. “But prepare for war. Wal won’t let this go easily.” “How fortunate that I have no fear of war,” Harry smiled darkly, observing the elegantly dressed guests. All these people… long dead, yet alive simultaneously. Harry did not fear them. He feared only one thing—that he would ruin everything. The ball carried on, whirling Harry in its vivid vortex. He smiled, danced with witches, acquainted himself with peers, and tried not to think that the bodies of most present had long since decayed, leaving only bones behind. He met the Minister for Magic, Spencer-Moon, a very pleasant and intelligent man, and his grandmother’s friend—the widowed Lady Rosier, so frail that dancing with her was terrifying: Harry might step on her foot, and she’d crumble. He was also introduced to the very same Crabbe Senior whom Marius had threatened to sell him to. Vincent Crabbe’s ancestor (great-great-grandfather? Harry was so confused) was a tiny, thin old man with such a repellent expression on his face that Harry simply wanted to hide from him. Black eyes glittering, he darted around the hall, inviting young witches to dance. Harry thought once again that his guard Claudius certainly gave a helping hand to the Crabbes in perpetuating their family line. “How did you find the ball, dear?” Lady Selwyn asked, as etiquette dictated that Harry dance all evening, and at the very end, invite the Lady of the manor for a dance. They leisurely twirled at the center of the room, closing the evening with a waltz. “Exhausting,” Harry said, faintly smiling at her. The elderly woman vaguely reminded him of someone. Her piercing brown eyes would sometimes spark with a certain fire, then dim, making her seem quiet and absent-minded. “You handled yourself well,” she said this time, sounding distracted. Her wrinkled, delicate hands reminded Harry that she was indeed of advanced age. “But we won’t present you in society just yet. Stay home until school starts, and I’ll tell everyone that you’re unwell and not ready for balls and galas.” “What balls and galas? I thought there would only be one? This one,” Harry frowned. “Oh, you silly boy,” she chuckled softly. “The summer season is in full swing. Pollux’s birthday is soon, then Marianne’s. After that, the annual gala at the Malfoys’, and then the Thestral races. It’s a shame we can’t present you. Now that you don’t have a fiancée, I fear Marius might have something… less than promising in mind for you. Please don’t provoke him.” “If you would tell me what I’ve done to offend him, I would try to make it right,” Harry again attempted to uncover the family’s secrets. The woman flinched, her mouth twisting for a moment as if she might cry, but then she quickly composed herself, her gaze becoming unpleasant and sharp. “Don’t, Gordian,” she said in a completely different tone. “Don’t delve into the past; it’s for your own good. Trust that I am protecting you.” “From Marius?” Harry narrowed his eyes. “From everyone,” she snapped. The dance ended, and he had to escort her to the table. Harry struggled to determine what to think of Gordian’s family members. He showed respect and put forth effort, owing it to the dead boy, but with each day spent near them, it became increasingly difficult. The elderly lady was not quite right in the head, Marius was utterly detestable, and their friends were just as unpleasant, as sick and twisted as any purebloods could be. “Hello. It’s a shame I didn’t get a chance to invite you for a dance,” one of Marius’s friends approached him. It was a short, dark-haired man in his thirties. Harry didn’t remember his surname, but he did recall the oily, sleazy look in his grey eyes. He eerily reminded Harry of someone from the future. “I was in high demand,” Harry awkwardly smiled, glancing at the hovering pile of champagne flutes. He was dreadfully thirsty. “I’m afraid your name escapes me?” “Hector Rosier, heir to the House of Rosier,” the man bowed his head slightly. “It’s such a pity you haven’t remembered anything.” “Yes, the healers say my memory might not return,” Harry shrugged, taking a tiny step back. He disliked how close to him Rosier was standing. “Let’s hope for the best,” Rosier smiled thinly, and Harry could have sworn he quickly checked him out, looking from head to toe. “You’ve grown up. It suits you.” “Yes, a whole year has passed. A year in captivity,” Harry couldn’t resist the jab. Rosier’s face momentarily twisted, his eyes closing as though he felt pain. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you,” he said sincerely. “If only I could help catch the criminal. What do the Aurors say?” “They have leads,” Harry decided to lie to gauge his reaction, but Hector didn’t even blink. “I have tracking charms on me and I am in constant contact with Captain Shacklebolt. If he makes an appearance, they’ll catch him immediately.” The trick didn’t work; Rosier just nodded and patted Harry’s shoulder with a heavy hand. “That’s good. If you need help, any help at all, reach out to me.” He stressed the word “any” so that Harry involuntarily latched onto it. He distinctly disliked Rosier. “Certainly. Excuse me now, I must go,” he also slightly bowed his head and quickly moved away from the buffet table, feeling Rosier’s gaze burning the back of his neck. He would steer clear of this man. A person like Marius could not have normal friends. The guests began to leave. Marius, Lord Black, Crabbe, and a couple of other notable figures retreated to the study to play cards and gossip, leaving Lady Selwyn and Harry to bid farewell. His cheeks ached from polite smiles, his legs buzzed, and were growing unresponsive. Once the last guests had gone through the fireplace, he barely made it to his room and collapsed onto the bed in exhaustion. Even undressing felt too taxing. “Master Gordy, have some mint tea,” the house-elf Molly appeared, with a tray in hand. “Mistress commanded you to drink it all so you sleep soundly. Tomorrow you have a portal to Paris; the mistress wants to visit the local boutiques.” Harry groaned but obediently accepted the tea from Molly’s tiny hands. The relentless old woman couldn’t leave him in peace. She prevented him from leaving the manor for London but seemed to think that the mysterious abductor wouldn’t reach them in Paris. Not that Harry didn’t want to go; he had never been to Paris before, and the grandiosity of the manor weighed heavily on him. But he understood all too well that “visiting the local boutiques” meant nothing more than being dressed in various expensive clothes and twirled in front of a mirror, like a doll. So, he drank all the tea and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, utterly exhausted by his emotions and new experiences. That same night, he dreamt of the memory, the details of which he wanted to forget more than any others. But Harry Potter wouldn’t be Harry Potter if his luck didn’t walk hand in hand with tragedy, poisoning his soul in a way that no dark magic had ever succeeded. The tea kept him from waking, and he was forced to watch the memory to its end. Then came another memory, but it was not his own.   *** He found himself in a dark alley. It was pouring rain, and he sat under the old awning of a closed shop, windows shut, staring at the brightening gray sky, arms wrapped around his shoulders. It was cold; his teeth chattered, he shivered, but remained in place. Inside, his hatred was growing, its black roots so strong that it was unbearable. “Hey, you!” The windows of a neighboring house swung open, and an ugly old hag with a huge wart on her chin suddenly poked her head out. The rain didn’t reach her pointy hat with broad brims. “What are you doing sitting there? Come here, get yourself warm. It’s cramped, but you can make yourself comfortable.” He pulled a wand from his pocket, although he knew it was useless. “I don’t need your help. Come any closer, and I’ll burn your stupid fucking face and throw your body to the dogs,” the hatred and malice in his voice scared the hag. She screamed and slammed the rickety windows shut, cursing at him as a parting gesture. ***   Harry awoke early in the morning, gasping, the taste of blood in his throat, tears in his eyes. Coughing and spitting red saliva onto the floor, Harry growled, pressing his dirty face into the snow-white pillow. He had seen Tom Riddle again. There was so much malice and desire to tear everyone apart with his bare hands that it caused Harry physical pain. It was no coincidence that he saw a recollection of that memory from his academy days in his dream. It was a lifelong lesson, and he had failed to learn from it again. How many times would he repeat his mistakes? How many?! There was no room for compassion in life. In the case of Riddle, compassion was not a gift but a curse. He had to sever their connection and kill the bastard as soon as possible; otherwise, all the sacrifices would be in vain. And then, when the world was rid of Riddle’s poison, he could try to change things peacefully, as Professor Dumbledore had wanted.