Behind Lies Eternity

As the end of the summer break neared, Harry found himself stalled in his plans. From the break of dawn to the fall of dusk, he buried himself in various mundane subjects, all under the watchful eyes of tutors. He took exams in academic disciplines to prove his readiness for the fifth year and never found a moment alone—even at night. Claudius-Vincent hounded him incessantly, keeping track of him at night with blood amulets. All Harry could do was bide his time, awaiting his return to Hogwarts and hoping that Claudius-Vincent would be barred from entry. Had he been of age, he might have simply run away, but at only sixteen, and with Aurors closely watching him, he remained at Selwyn Manor. There, he dutifully mastered the art of waltzes, minuets, fencing, and learned the names of all those garments that purebloods changed into several times a day for even the most trivial of reasons. Harry had once thought that the wizards of his era were excessively pompous and hopelessly outdated in their fashion sense. Now, he realized that everything had been quite normal in his own time. In 1942, wizards were still wearing those freaking pantaloons! Their conservatism and stubborn reluctance to accept anything new were explained by their incredibly long lifespan. With some living up to three or four centuries, it was no wonder that lace on a shirt remained at the height of fashion. Harry harbored a sincere loathing for all these wardrobe changes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but he found he could endure them. What he hated far more was the constant craving of his body, a yearning for release. Everything within him ached with a sharp need to consume something sweet, to quench his thirst, to extinguish the relentless heat in his groin. That latter desire posed real problems. Harry still could not engage with Gordy’s body in that particular manner. The photographs discovered in his hideaway featured only men, without a single woman to be seen. And his body, accordingly, responded only to them. It remained unresponsive when a pure-blooded witch with enchanting curls and firm breasts joined them for dinner or when a beautiful witch pressed against him in dance, her perfume bewitching. But the mere sight of a handsome wizard caused Harry a dissonance. His body tensed, transmitting very specific signals, while in his mind, he screamed in horror, frantically attempting to visualize dead kittens. Gordy’s body felt a unique attraction to Alphard: tall, manly, with broad shoulders and a deep, already mature voice. Like all purebloods, he was graceful, flexible, and adept at engaging in conversation. This masculinity bewitched Harry, compelling him to steal glances and agonize over his yearnings. How had he sunk so low: lusting after a fifteen-year-old boy! Though they got along reasonably well, they hadn’t yet grown close, not even to the point of casual correspondence, and Harry urgently needed an ally at school. His body’s reactions held him back from winning Alphard’s favor; he feared his own desires and carefully avoided Alphard at galas and formal dinners. The Blacks were frequent visitors at Selwyn Manor, and over time, Harry had come to recognize the various familial connections, discerning cousins, sons, and brothers. It seemed the perfect opportunity to befriend Alphard, but even here, Harry managed to stumble into difficulty. “Look who I’ve brought to dinner!” Lord Pollux Black boomed, flinging open the double doors to the Selwyns’ dining room without ceremony. He generally behaved as if he were at home. He and Marius were friends, despite a notable age difference. “Alphard, dear, how glad I am to see you,” Lady Selwyn exclaimed with joy. The trio at the table—Lady Selwyn, Harry, and Marius—were dining in tense silence, and the unexpected visit from Lord Black and his son was a welcome diversion. Although Lady Selwyn tried not to invite guests too often to prevent Harry’s blunders from being noticed, she always made an exception for the Blacks. From what Harry had gathered, Lord Black was exceedingly wealthy and influential. “Hello, Gordian,” Alphard greeted everyone, unreservedly taking a seat next to Harry. “I grew a bit tired of Walburga and convinced my father to change the scenery.” “The women of the Black family have the temperament of Valkyries,” Pollux proclaimed with pride, taking a seat next to Marius. “We wanted to take a break from them.” “You’re always welcome,” Marius fawned, causing Harry to turn away in disgust. Usually a haughty and arrogant cousin, Marius transformed into a cheerful puppy wagging its tail beside Lord Black. Harry felt the urge to make a sarcastic comment but had learned to hold his tongue, not least due to that detestable ring. Harry wasn’t skilled at maintaining polite conversation. The table talk revolved around the latest gossip, new works of art, and recent discoveries, and Harry found himself staring at his plate, trying not to gaze at Alphard. “Hey, do you want to go flying later?” Alphard’s whisper suddenly seared Harry’s ear, and he jolted, feeling heat pulsate between his legs. In his mind, he began to envision various horrors like Inferi in the lake, but it didn’t help much. Alphard’s perfume smelled divine, and his hands were utterly mesmerizing: well-groomed, textured, as though they were something out of an illustration in a fetish magazine. It was beyond abnormal. In his own body, Harry had never been aroused so quickly by such trivialities as hands. But in Gordian’s body, every sensation seemed a hundred times more acute. “I…,” he stammered, blushing. “I don’t feel very well; sorry.” “Are you still having those seizures?” Alphard asked with sincere concern, placing his hand on Harry’s palm that was resting on the table. Harry leapt up, and his chair fell to the floor with a deafening crash. “I’m sorry! I feel unwell. I’ll leave you, if you’ll please excuse me,” he stammered in apology and rushed to his room. This was crossing all boundaries. Harry was no prude, but Gordian’s body demanded the impossible from him, Harry Potter. He couldn’t look at Alphard this way; he couldn’t desire him. He was an adult man, seven years older, heterosexual, a future Auror. He simply didn’t want to feel this way; it was revolting. The problem had to be solved by any means, and as soon as possible. “We are going to Diagon Alley today, Vincent,” Harry told the guard the very next day, trembling with anticipation. “And I will not accept any objections!” he raised his hand as the guard was about to tediously object and list when and where Harry’s tutor was expecting him. “I’ll run if I have to! I need to go to the apothecary, and I will get there even over your dead body!” In the morning, Harry awoke on wet sheets, again aroused. He could no longer bear this indecency. “Very well, Master Gordian,” sighed the guard, not even objecting to being called Vincent. “You’ll do as you please anyway.” “Has it finally sunk in?” Harry smiled cheerfully at him. Teasing Claudius was the only sort of amusement in this house. He even began to feel sympathy for him. In the evenings, they often played gobstones and exploding snap, and Harry felt that only this prevented him from losing his sanity amid the surrounding formality. All the entertainment in the manor amounted to endless visits from numerous relatives and friends, gossip over tea, strolls through the garden, shopping trips, and galas awash with alcohol. Harry tried to skip them, using school preparation and fear of disgracing the Selwyns with poor manners as a cover-up. On the one hand, there was the lecherous Hector Rosier, leering at him with an unpleasant oily gaze at every encounter, and on the other, there was Alphard, whom Harry himself now eyed with longing. The only relief in the whirlwind of aristocratic existence in a foreign body of Gordian Selwyn for Potter was his somewhat dim-witted guard. He turned out to be a loyal man for whom decent treatment meant much more than a purse tightly stuffed with Galleons. And so, they found themselves at the edge of Knockturn Alley, hidden under disillusionment charms. Harry, of course, had no intention of entering respectable establishments where some Selwyn acquaintances might recognize him. Moreover, the potion he wanted to purchase was rather… unusual. “Master Gordy, you cannot go in there,” whined Claudius-Vincent, following Harry with a raised wand. “You’ve completely lost your mind! Your cousin will be furious and disinherit you!” “He never intended to leave me anything anyway,” Harry brushed him off, making his way further and further into the dark alleys. The inhabitants of this place watched them with malevolent eyes, but the burly Claudius with a wand in hand made them tread carefully. “But there are tracking charms on you…” “Tracking charms don’t work like that,” Harry snapped at him. “You think someone sits in front of a map all day watching where I go? Idiot! Watch your step; I don’t want to get into trouble again. Oh, here’s what we need!” Harry saw a familiar sign that now looked brand new and didn’t even creak as it swung in the wind. “Master Eliot’s Potions” had existed in Harry’s time. They mostly dealt in contraband, so Harry was well acquainted with Mr. Eliot’s grandson and had often smashed his impudent face into the wall during arrests. Harry confidently pushed the door and entered the dark room, filled with the scent of entrails and potion fumes. “Would you be so kind,” Harry smiled at the stocky, plump wizard behind the counter. “I need this potion,” he slid a piece of parchment with its name over to him. The wizard glanced at the name, rolled his eyes, and snorted. “Mordred’s brats,” he croaked, rummaging on shelves filled with various bottles. “Here, take it, lad. A Galleon from you.” The price was clearly inflated, but Harry paid without complaint for several bottles and quickly left the apothecary. “Master Gordy, what kind of potion is this?” Claudius-Vincent whined again. “It’s dangerous; I must tell Master Selwyn…” “Hush now,” Harry hissed at him. “Even the walls have ears here; be quiet!” He uncorked one vial and dropped exactly one droplet of the potion onto his tongue. “The Unfaithful Wife” potion had been popular throughout the ages. It lowered a wizard’s libido and prevented arousal from consuming the body. Harry had heard that, in the Middle Ages, pureblood husbands would stuff their wives with this potion. Claudius-Vincent certainly didn’t need to know about it, and Harry’s cousin even less so. They crept through the same dark nooks and crannies, and almost at the exit from Knockturn Alley, Harry suddenly spotted someone he hadn’t expected to see at all. First, he felt a foreign, sticky fear, and then he saw a pale boy, face white with terror, pressed back against a grimy brick wall. Above him loomed two vile wizards in tattered robes. They were poking at him with their wands and laughing mockingly. Harry tugged at the thin, ringing thread in his chest and felt the boy’s utter desperation. He was afraid to use magic outside of school, scared that he would be expelled if he did anything to them. But he hated them so intensely that he felt he could explode from rage at any moment. Harry shook his head, feeling something resonate in his heart. Something old, long since healed, yet still sharp. Once, he too had been cornered like this in an alley. And he had been just as afraid to use magic for his protection. But he hadn’t felt such all-consuming loathing. The boy’s hair was tousled, his robe covered in dust as if he’d been dragged through filthy walls, and a bright scratch crossed his pale cheek. He was trembling with fury and hatred. So that’s what that dream was. Harry had thought it was his memory, for that evening he had seen Tom Riddle in the room at the orphanage. Apparently, that very night Riddle had run away to Knockturn Alley and had been living there ever since, without magic, money, food, or a roof over his head. “Gentlemen!” Harry clapped his hands sharply, drawing attention to himself. Two swollen, dirty faces turned towards him. “Is there a problem?” Riddle stared at him with a look that almost made Harry recoil. In the wide-open, almost black eyes, there was a frozen expression of sincere surprise and bewilderment. “Has anyone ever helped him?” Potter thought, suppressing the urge to rub the aching spot in his chest where their connection seemed to pulsate with life. He felt so miserable. “You’re in trouble now, sugar pie. Do you want to suck..?” Behind Harry, Claudius-Vincent loomed large, and the wizard quickly shut his mouth. “Let’s go,” he nodded to his friend, and they quickly disappeared among the twists and turns of Knockturn Alley. “Hey Riddle, what are you doing here?” Harry noticed that his lip had already healed. The boy looked like a desperate stray cat, and Harry’s famous nobility and compassion came to life. “Selwyn?” The other boy managed to part his pale lips. “Didn’t you… disappear?” “I’m back,” Harry shrugged, still examining him. “Are you alright? Did they curse you?” He never thought that his first conversation with young Voldemort would turn out like this. But Harry, unlike him, wasn’t an evil bastard and couldn’t just walk by, leaving someone in trouble. Riddle looked at him with confusion, then at Claudius, and suddenly his lips twisted into a wicked smile. “Why do you care?” he spat. “Want to finish what they started?” Harry remembered Walburga’s story of the enchanted fireplace and patiently replied, “No, I want to make sure you’re not hurt, and then get out of this dump and shower five or six times.” The boy didn’t believe him; it was apparent from the look in his bewildered eyes. They smoldered on his snow-white face, sending chills down Harry’s spine. Harry reached for their connection and felt Riddle’s hot, sincere hatred. He detested Gordian Selwyn. He expected a trap, a stab in the back. “Riddle, I’ve lost my memory,” Harry decided to clarify the situation. “I don’t remember what our relationship was. But Alphard showed me his school album because I will be studying in the same year as you. I know you are Tom Riddle, my future classmate. That’s enough for me to help. And even if you were a stranger, I’d still intervene, for it’s the duty of any worthy wizard not to leave others in distress.” “You are right, Master Gordy,” Claudius-Vincent rumbled. “It’s a noble act.” “Thank you, Vincent,” Harry smiled at him. “I’m Claudius.” “I know,” Harry rolled his eyes and turned all his attention back to Riddle. The latter suddenly stared at him and the guard as if they were resurrected mummies. “Clean him up; he can’t be seen in Diagon Alley looking like this. You know cleansing charms, don’t you?” Claudius-Vincent nodded and quickly waved his wand over Riddle, who had shrunk back in fear. Riddle’s cloak became clean; the folds and wear vanished, his hair looked as though he had just visited a salon, and the bruises and scratches on his face disappeared. But he still looked too thin and emaciated. His sharp cheekbones seemed like they were about to pierce his thin white skin; his lips were cracked, and dark circles lay under his eyes. “Vincent, you’re a pro!” exclaimed Harry, studying Riddle, who no longer resembled a stray cat. “Thank you, Master Gordy,” Vincent rumbled contentedly. “Don’t you dare point your wand at me,” Riddle hissed, recovering slightly from his shock, with such hatred that Harry could almost taste it. “I don’t know what you’re plotting…” Harry shook his head again. He shouldn’t care for the devil’s spawn; he planned to kill him, but his heart still clenched with sharp sympathy. “As you wish,” he shrugged, gesturing to the guard. “Come, my brave knight, it’s time to return. By the way, Tom, I advise you to leave this place. I saw two witches trading human nails, and it seems they were watching us.” He and Claudius-Vincent left a stunned and bewildered Riddle behind. Harry slipped his hand into his pocket, pretending to pull out a handkerchief, but actually hooked a bag of Galleons with his fingers and dropped it on the pavement. A heavy wave of melancholy washed over him. He wanted to go back and ask what Riddle was doing in Knockturn Alley, why he looked so forlorn, why… Had he even eaten? Slept? Seeing Voldemort so pitiable and tattered was unexpected. How he quivered with hatred and fear of being expelled from school! How his eyes blazed! Helping him, showing that not everyone behaved like scoundrels, felt natural, as if Voldemort hadn’t committed all the horrors that had led Harry here. Harry sincerely thought that if he saw someone torturing Riddle, he would walk by. But Dumbledore was right - there were still remnants of that noble little boy in Harry. Deep down, he pitied the wicked bastard and tried to drive this feeling away as much as he could. Voldemort was unworthy of sympathy and compassion; he knew that. But still, he could not walk by and let him die in a dirty alley. How would Harry have the heart to kill him? He must do it, for the sake of all others. But what will become of him afterward? Will he be able to look at his reflection in the mirror without feeling disgust?   ***   As returning to school loomed in the near future, Harry’s spirits lifted slightly. He dreaded going back to Hogwarts, but the weight of the Selwyn manor was pressing on him. Nightmares from his past, inexplicably interwoven with the present, haunted him, and a sense of gloomy tension lingered in every corner. Neither guests, nor galas, nor formal dinners could lighten the mood. When the guests departed, the manor was enveloped in darkness and an eerie, thick silence. Harry sought refuge in the garden, spending all his free time there. He had taken a liking to a grand fountain adorned with a statue of a mermaid, defiantly waving a spear, and often found himself seated on the lacey marble bench, enjoying the shade and coolness with a book in hand. The gentle rustle of the bushes and the rich, fragrant aroma of the flowers had a calming effect on him. Were it not for Claudius-Vincent always trailing him, Harry might have said he felt at peace in this heavenly spot. The Selwyn library housed many rare and intriguing books, and Harry availed himself of it at every opportunity, diligently preparing for his return to Hogwarts. He had a plan, and there were certain spells he needed to research to execute it. He also hoped to discover something that could give him an insight into how to sever his connection with Riddle. Gordian’s grandmother was content. She believed he was earnestly preparing to re-enter high society. Harry chose to quietly humor her misconceptions, and Vincent no longer interfered in his personal matters or ran off to report what he was doing. “Mr. Selwyn, are you waiting for me?” Harry started, pulling himself away from the book. A tall, well-toned man with chestnut short hair and a beard stood before him. “Is it time for our lesson already?” Harry wondered, extracting his chain watch from the vest pocket. “Indeed it is. I apologize, Mr. Gorbovich, I was engrossed in reading. Vincent, why didn’t you remind me?” He turned and caught sight of the guard perched on the edge of the fountain, blinking in a daze. “I didn’t want to disturb you, Master,” he gruffly replied, feigning innocence as if he hadn’t been caught dozing shamelessly on duty. “Oaths and rituals?” the tutor glanced at the cover and arched an eyebrow. “An interesting choice.” “Yes, I just grabbed the first one that caught my eye,” Harry smiled, setting the book aside on the bench. “Let’s head to the training hall. Vincent, head to the kitchen and ask the house elves for some coffee. You need to wake up. You already know I’m safe with Mr. Gorbovich.” “No, Master, I will stay,” the guard declared stubbornly, frowning and taking up his usual “I’m on my watch, enemies beware” stance. Harry merely shook his head and turned away. “Your dedication to your job is commendable, Claudius,” Gorbovich chuckled. “You know, I think the weather today is far too splendid to confine ourselves to a dark hall,” he said, winking merrily at Harry. “Do you think Lady Selwyn would be very upset if we were to stage a small duel in her garden?” “She won’t even notice,” Harry snorted. “She rarely visits the garden. In fact, I’ve never seen her stroll here.” This observation suddenly struck him as strange. The garden was vast and utterly magical. House elves regularly trimmed the bushes, creating a massive green maze, and attended to the flowers and trees. Harry enjoyed wandering the stone-paved paths, lost in contemplation of his future. “In that case… Expelliarmus!” the tutor attacked without warning, and Harry eagerly engaged in the duel. He could have defeated the man with ease, but he deliberately let many spells hit and refrained from exploiting his tutor’s mistakes. Gorbovich was not a particularly skilled duelist; his talents mainly lay in transfiguration and charms. But as the Selwyns were keen on keeping up appearances, they didn’t hire separate instructors for each subject, and Gorbovich was teaching him everything except dance and etiquette. They chased each other around the garden, attacking and sparring until the man was gasping for air. “You are a very talented wizard, Gordian!” he exclaimed, collapsing onto a bench, flushed and sweating. “I think you need a teacher in real combat magic; you have potential, I see it.” “Perhaps next summer,” Harry replied, sitting next to him and conjuring a glass of water for each of them. Their duel had damaged some rose bushes and created a gaping hole in the maze wall. “Sir, why did you choose this occupation? You’re a good teacher; you could work at Hogwarts…” Melancholy washed over Harry, as he hadn’t been able to fully immerse himself in the heat of battle and unleash his magic. He was so tired of pretending to be Gordian… “A Hogwarts teacher must have at least one academic degree,” Gorbovich laughed. “I never obtained mine. My son was born back then, and I had to quit my studies and start working. He’s your age, by the way. You’ll be studying in the same House.” “It’s a shame you couldn’t get the degree. What’s your son’s name?” “His name is Rut,” pride resonated in the man’s voice. “A very talented boy; he’ll likely earn multiple degrees and become a respected professor.” Harry mused that Rut might not even want to become a professor with multiple degrees. Just as Harry himself didn’t truly want to be an Auror. Yet all he heard was how proud his father would be of him, how brave and just he would be as a law enforcement representative, and so Harry had simply followed the path laid out by others’ expectations and the memory of his parents. He longed so much for his mother and father to be proud of him… Well, in the years that had passed after the war, they must have seen so much from heaven that it would be hard for them to remain proud of him. “You are a good father,” he said, his smile strained. “I’ll make sure to befriend your son.” “Thank you. I hope so,” the tutor replied, smiling equally tensely. He probably thought that Gordian Selwyn would never befriend a half-blood, especially one who had not been taught manners, dance, etiquette, and fencing. But Harry made a mental note: befriend Rut Gorbovich. The tutor left, satisfied with the result, while Harry remained on the bench, gazing blankly into the distance. “Master?” called Claudius-Vincent. “It’s time to change. Miss Abigail will arrive soon for the etiquette lesson.” Harry gloomily observed the grand manor with its blue tiles and remembered the cozy, welcoming Burrow. At that very moment, he missed his former life, his friends, and his loved ones so intensely. Now it seemed foolish that he had tried to avoid them. He had already missed so much. How was Marie-Victoire? How was George? How was Mr. Weasley managing his new position as Head of the Muggle Artifacts Department? He did not know. And now… now they hadn’t even been born yet. “Claudius,” Harry called to the guard. “Sit down; I have a question for you.” “I am not… Oh. Yes, Master,” Claudius started to snap back but then realized he was being called by his real name. This seemed to throw him off, and he sat down without complaint. “Do you remember that boy from Knockturn Alley?” asked Potter, staring at the withered petals of peonies on the path. “Tell me, if you knew he would grow up to kill your family and friends, and many, many more wizards, could you kill him now to prevent it?” Claudius thought carefully about the question, not even asking how such a thought had come to Gordian’s mind. “If I knew for sure that he would do it, then yes, Master. I would kill him,” he answered in his dull manner. “But it’s impossible to know what the future holds. My seer grandmother always said the future is not carved in stone. There are thousands of probabilities, and even the most skilled seer cannot know what will really happen. If I were foretold that someone would kill my family, I would meet them and try to understand what would drive them to such a terrible deed. And I would be on guard.” Harry closed his eyes, greedily inhaling the fresh air. “But wouldn’t it be simpler to nip the threat in the bud?” he whispered. “To be absolutely certain that nothing bad will happen? So that there’s not even the slightest chance of losing your loved ones?” “What if you try to kill him, but fail, and that failure becomes the catalyst for his revenge against you?” Claudius answered, surprising Harry with his wisdom. “That would be a self-fulfilling prophecy, Master Selwyn. They speak of such things in divination. If you hadn’t heard the prophecy, you wouldn’t have acted to prevent it, and it wouldn’t have come true. Therefore — no. I wouldn’t take such a risk.” Harry sharply exhaled, recalling another prophecy of this kind. About him and Voldemort. Hadn’t Tom acted precisely as Harry now wanted to? Hadn’t he sought to kill a child to eradicate the slightest chance of defeat? But… there was no prophecy now. It was left in the past, and it was his duty to… “Thank you, Vincent,” he whispered, looking at the guard’s round face. “Maybe we’ll skip the etiquette lesson and run off to Hogsmeade for a drink?” “I’m not Vincent, I’m Claudius,” he smiled broadly. “And we’re not going to run away to Hogsmeade. We will attend the etiquette lesson.” “I didn’t expect you to agree,” Harry warmly smiled back at him. “Let’s go.” “Gordian? Did you hear me?” Harry startled and looked up at his cousin. They were having dinner in the large dining room, in the company of Marius’s friends, and Harry’s thoughts were far away, at a family dinner at the Burrow. “I’m sorry, I was lost in thought,” Harry said, forcing a smile. His cousin shot him a dirty look but feigned tenderness in his smile. “You’ve been so distracted lately,” he drawled. “I was saying that Hector could assist you with Transfiguration practice.” “And I won’t take a single galleon, unlike that know-it-all Gorbovich,” Rosier joked, sitting right across from Harry, but his smile did not reach his cold, gray eyes. Everyone giggled and began to gossip about Harry’s mentor’s arrogance, lamenting the loss of pureblood dignity. But Harry himself was not in the mood for their idle chatter. He kept casting quick glances at Marius’s friend, and with each passing second, his anxiety climbed higher, its long tendrils strangling his heart. Hector Rosier was the heir to the pureblood House of Rosier, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. A man slightly over thirty, he was well-built and attractive in his own way, but something in his gaze unsettled Harry greatly. He sensed that Hector was a dangerous predator, paying inappropriate attention to his friend’s younger brother. “I wouldn’t dare waste your precious time,” Harry told him, defiantly looking into Hector’s haughty face. “My affairs are already in order.” “Glad to hear it,” Hector replied dryly. “But should you need help, my doors are always open to you.” “Oh, Hector, you’ve always been so kind to my grandson!” cooed Mrs. Selwyn. “Thank you, but I’ll be leaving for school soon,” Harry responded with a forced smile. Rosier did not seem dismayed; he appeared to offer his services out of politeness, and Potter was reassured. He knew his tendency to see enemies where there were none all too well. “Are you, perhaps, frightened of returning to Hogwarts?” asked Idwig Prince, Marius’s other friend. He was thin and dark-haired, with an imposing nose and sharp features, reminding Harry of a vulture. He presumed this was Severus Snape’s grandfather, though he might have been mistaken. Purebloods had many family lines. “Not at all,” Harry answered calmly. “I’ve prepared well…” A modest dinner was organized in an almost familial setting in honor of his imminent departure. Harry was indeed well-prepared, but not in the way those around him anticipated. “And so, during your preparation, you didn’t remember anything at all?” Hector arched an eyebrow. “Nothing?” Harry almost recoiled again at his gaze. “I remembered school material, spells, dates, but not people,” Harry feigned deep sadness at this. “What a shame,” the corners of Hector’s thin lips dropped, hinting at his genuine regret. “You’ll remember in time,” interjected Idwig Prince. “My niece Walburga will watch over you at school; she’ll explain who you can associate with and who you cannot.” “Oh yes, whatever you do, don’t be friendly with the Weasleys; they were so offended that they were included in Cantankerus Nott’s Pureblood Directory of the Sacred Twenty-Eight!” the grandmother chimed in. “Imagine this! Many would do anything to be in that book, and these…” Harry shuddered, hearing the familiar surname. “They are nothing but blood traitors”, Marius sneered. “They flaunt their ties with mudbloods! Just like the Urharts. Don’t even think about conversing with their heir, Elphinstone. He ended up in Gryffindor, breaking a centuries-old tradition!” “If a mudblood dares to touch you, don’t challenge them to a duel,” Idwig instructed sagely. “It’s beneath our dignity to fight them as equals. Simply curse them like you would a house-elf.” Harry listened to their advice with a stony face, choking back the urge to fire back something sharp. They wouldn’t understand anyway, they were simply… deranged lunatics! “And don’t parade your… interests,” Marius drawled significantly. “All secrets should remain secrets. If you tarnish our family’s reputation, I’ll burn your name off our family tree and disinherit you.” “Marius, honestly! Gordy won’t be cursing mudbloods publicly anymore, he promised me!” the grandmother exclaimed, and Harry gritted his teeth. He looked directly into Marius’s blue eyes and realized: he knew. He knew about Gordian’s perverse inclinations, and didn’t give two hoots about the mudbloods Gordy had cursed. “That definitely won’t happen again,” Harry stated firmly, only looking at his cousin, who slightly relaxed his shoulders and nodded. Yes, it wouldn’t happen again; the “Unfaithful Wife” would bear silent witness. But what Harry intended to do at school would be much worse for Marius’s reputation. Much, much worse.   ***   The platform was buzzing with life, wizards in all manner of attire, though primarily simple robes and hats, thronged the area. Harry had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be among normal people, those who didn’t bedeck themselves with jewelry befitting a queen long dead three centuries ago, and didn’t strut as if parading down a catwalk. He observed them with satisfaction, content that not everyone in this time was as unhinged as the Selwyns. Gordian’s grandmother, resplendent in robes from Paris’ finest boutique and a black veil festooned with a large chrysanthemum and feathers, held a handkerchief delicately near her face. Her other hand, clad in a silk glove, gripped Harry’s elbow firmly, as though fearful the questionable society around them might sully him. Ahead of them, Claudius-Vincent plowed through the crowd with his broad shoulders, while his perpetually displeased cousin brought up the rear. Harry felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up as he met the shocked gazes of Muggleborn students and their parents. His procession had indeed created quite a spectacle! Once again, Harry was dressed like a life-size porcelain doll. Thankfully, he didn’t have to endure the discomfort of a frilled shirt for his daily appearances. He cast envious glances at the other wizards’ monochromatic robes; they were a bit tight and unfamiliar but at least they didn’t scream, “Look, I’m loaded and I can’t help but show it off!”. The strict school uniform was somewhat of a relief to him. The Black family, equally dressed to the nines but looking more at ease, was already by the carriage. Walburga was bickering with Alphard, Orion was half-listening to his mother Melania’s instructions, Pollux was in a loud argument with Arcturus, Irma was comforting four-year-old Cygnus in her arms, and Lucretia, Orion’s sister, stood a bit away, gazing tiredly into the distance. Harry sighed heavily. He found it hard to bear the Blacks, not just because they brought back memories of Sirius, but also because everyone—aside from Alphard, Lucretia, and little Cygnus—were vehement Muggle-haters. The Selwyns courteously greeted the family and inched closer to the carriage. “Oh, darling, please take care of yourself!” Mrs. Selwyn kissed the air next to Harry’s cheek, holding his face tenderly. “If you remember anything, be sure to write! And don’t leave the school grounds under any circumstances!” Harry solemnly sweared that he wouldn’t step foot outside the castle grounds. When it was time to say goodbye to his cousin, he pulled Harry aside and whispered in his ear: “Watch out, Gordy. No more of your usual theatrics! We need to find you a new fiancée or fiancé. Let everyone believe you’re not damaged goods.” “A fiancée or fiancé?” Harry echoed in confusion. “Did you think I’d keep carrying you?” His cousin snorted, glaring at Harry. “Find a suitable spouse, Gordy, or I’ll find one for you. You’ve always excelled at…” His eyes swept over Harry. “Leading the virtuous astray. Make use of that talent.” His lips came even closer as he whispered almost inaudibly: “If you manage to snag Walburga, I’ll hand you half of the gallery. Better still, Alphard.” He clapped Harry on the shoulder and grinned, as if they were two brothers sharing a pleasant secret, then slipped his arm through his grandmother’s. They strolled off the platform, pausing occasionally to exchange pleasantries with acquaintances. Harry spent a few minutes trying to comprehend his cousin’s words when he noticed that Claudius-Vincent was still standing nearby, looking out of place. “Master Gordy,” the guard sniffled. “Farewell. I’ve already signed a contract with another family.” “Oh, Vincent,” Harry felt a sudden wave of affection for the big oaf, surprisingly realizing he’d miss his goofy mug. “You were the only pleasant company around. Thank you!” “I am Claudius,” the man said with a satisfied smile. “But I do like Vincent.” “I told you it suits you much better,” Harry responded, his smile touched. Perhaps his farewell to the guard had been the most genuine moment since he landed in this world. They shook hands firmly, and Harry headed for the wagon, fearing that Walburga would latch onto him and wouldn’t let go until they arrived at school. After finding an empty compartment, Harry locked himself in and allowed himself to relax. He yanked off the ridiculous lavaliere from his neck, used it to tie his hair back, and quickly changed into his school uniform, shoving his fancy clothing as far away as possible into his suitcase enlarged by an expansion spell. Without the tight waistcoat, he could breathe easier. Let them break down the doors; Harry desperately needed some alone time to mentally prepare for returning to a castle full of teenagers.   ***   Harry spent the majority of the journey in blissful silence. He dozed off, had lunch on the pasties Molly had prepared for his trip, practiced some magic, and was about to read his Transfiguration textbook when the compartment door rattled under the pressure of someone’s magic and swung open with a loud bang. Harry quickly drew his wand and cast a curse faster than he could think, but it was blocked by someone’s shield. “What are you doing?” someone demanded harshly. “Lower your wand!” Harry gripped his wand tighter and shook his head to clear it. “Selwyn? What’s going on?” A familiar voice pierced his consciousness. His vision focused on a pale face with fiery, bottomless eyes. “What are you doing?” Harry’s head spun, and he sank onto the seat, pretending that this was what he had intended all along. “Why did you barge into my compartment?” Riddle was practically glowing. The orphanage rags had been replaced by a new school uniform, his neatly trimmed hair fell nicely onto his shoulders, and a prefect badge sparkled on his chest. He held his wand firmly, and it seemed as if life had returned to him along with his magic. Harry was even taken aback by the contrast between that miserable, pitiful orphan and this self-assured young man. The dark circles under his eyes, the cracks on his lips, and the scrapes had all disappeared. He was still too thin, but no longer seemed vulnerable. “The Blacks have alerted all the prefects,” Riddle’s anger quickly turned to politeness. “They’ve lost you. It seems your abductor hasn’t been found yet? What a… shame.” Harry couldn’t understand the emotions Riddle was experiencing, so he mentally visualized their connection, this thin golden thread, and gently pulled it towards himself. But he met a thick brick wall. “So you broke the door because of this?” Harry asked, barely managing to conceal his disappointment. He had placed a lot of hope on this connection, believing it could aid in his tricky dealings with Riddle. But even at fifteen, the little jerk was a proficient Occlumens. It seemed as though Harry could only penetrate his shields during moments of emotional turmoil or when catching him off guard. “Considering you could’ve been bound and tortured?” Riddle asked, sounding politely puzzled. “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t have bothered you and your abductor, but this carriage is under my jurisdiction. I wouldn’t appreciate explaining to the headmaster how a corpse ended up in my assigned area.” “Sure, of course,” Harry rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Thanks for the rescue, my savior. Would you mind informing the Blacks which compartment I’m in?” “I’m your prefect, Selwyn, not a messenger,” Riddle retorted, his bottomless eyes narrowing akin to the slits of the future Voldemort. This indicated anger, though his younger self managed to maintain a far better poker face. Harry couldn’t resist the urge to provoke him. He wanted to irritate Riddle, to revert him back to the irate, ruffled boy from the alley, simply because this composed, arrogant version of Riddle was eerily reminiscent of his future self. “Bow to your death, Harry…” “Where are your manners?” “Master Selwyn, Prefect Riddle,” Harry drawled, lips curling into a smirk. “Where are your manners?” Riddle’s jaws tightened, his cheeks hollowing out, and his bottomless eyes flared with hatred. “You’re not an heir, as far as I’ve heard. Therefore, the title ‘Master’ is inappropriate for you,” he said, his voice remarkably calm despite his visible anger. “It was pleasant chatting, Selwyn, but I must be going. Please do me a favor and fix the door.” His robes flapped like a bat’s wings as he made a sharp turn on his heels and marched regally out of the compartment. Watching Riddle leave, Harry felt a pang of regret, taken aback by such a reaction. At fifteen, Harry had a poor understanding of other people’s emotions. He was entirely focused on himself and his mission, missing a great deal of the typical teenage experience. However, at the academy, he quickly made up for what he had missed. Riddle reminded Harry of his own fifth-year self: brimming with volatile emotions, impatient, yet Riddle had mastered the art of hiding them far too well. Harry had a feeling that they could understand each other. If it hadn’t been for his mission, if Tom hadn’t turned into the person he became, they really could have… “Bullshit,” thought Harry, quelling the rise of misplaced pity within him. Fair is fair, he should make Riddle’s fifth year as unbearable as Riddle had made his. “The Chamber of Secrets, huh?” he muttered. “You’ll get jack, not the Chamber of Secrets, you dipshit! Ouch! That’s not even a swear word!” Regardless, the damned ring still stung him. “Gordian?! Where have you been? I’ve been searching everywhere for you!” Walburga burst into the compartment, followed by a measured entrance from Orion and Alphard. Harry flashed them a strained smile and steeled himself for his new life. Hogwarts in ‘42 didn’t differ much from Hogwarts in ‘92. The people - yes, the people were completely different, but the ancient walls, those silent witnesses to the Founders themselves, hadn’t changed at all. With a heavy heart, Harry observed the castle, pushing away unwanted memories. He hadn’t managed to visit the castle after the war. He had donated towards its restoration, but had avoided every gala or ceremony hosted by McGonagall. The fear of being confronted by ghastly flashbacks of dead bodies strewn across the courtyard and corridors was simply too great. Seeing the castle from the past was marginally easier. Riddle - the architect of all the destruction, rode in an adjacent carriage and hadn’t yet managed to usher a single soul into the afterlife, since he certainly couldn’t see the Thestrals. One of them lifted its head, staring directly into Riddle’s eyes while he was scolding a third-year girl for not wearing a uniform. Along with other students, Harry stepped into the Great Hall, experiencing a familiar thrill like the first time he saw the enchanted ceiling and the grand tables of the Houses. He braced for nostalgia, a yearning, a flood of memories, but… Nothing came. Students in unfamiliar robes, teachers with unknown faces, quiet conversations… Even the smell was different! It felt as if Harry was starting anew, from scratch, and nothing could mar his bittersweet excitement. Almost nothing. When he took his seat at the Slytherin table next to Alphard and Walburga (Orion had to join his own year), he immediately noticed the Gryffindor table. The students in their red-and-gold ties were cheerfully greeting each other, hugging, laughing, covering their mouths with their hands, and whispering amongst themselves. If Gordian’s eyesight was as bad as Harry’s, he could’ve taken off his glasses and pretended that he was back in his sixth year, that everything that happened afterward was just a horrible dream. “Oh, look, the beast is back,” Walburga drawled, yanking Harry out of his pleasant daydream. “I was almost hoping he would croak in the wilderness where he belongs.” The students sitting nearby muffled their laughter, their cups filled with some mysterious red liquid. “Stop it,” Alphard whispered to her, leaning over Harry and pressing his chest to his back. “You’re a future lady!” Harry immediately regretted agreeing to sit between them. “I am a Black,” Walburga retorted. “I can speak however I please!” Curious, Harry observed the others, watching them lower their eyes in quiet submission. He hadn’t met all of them yet, but he recognized Druella Rosier (the future mother of Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Andromeda, and Hector’s younger sister), Marcius Nott (whom Walburga accused of being chummy with Riddle without any evidence), and the twins, Riedale and Moru Travers. All of them were fifth-year students, invited to the Selwyn estate so Mrs. Selwyn’s grandson could “forge connections” with his new friends. Naturally, their families were part of the “Sacred Twenty-Eight”. Obviously, Harry had not managed to befriend any of them. The rest of the faces were unfamiliar, but he quickly understood that only the “purest” and “most worthy” were granted seats next to the Blacks. The blond on his left was undoubtedly a Malfoy - that hair color was a rarity outside of Draco’s lineage. And the girl with the squashed nose and chubby cheeks bore an uncanny resemblance to a taller, red-haired version of Pansy Parkinson. Instinctively, Harry found himself searching for Riddle. He wasn’t seated in the center with the Blacks and other pure-bloods but was closer to the exit. He was surrounded by other fifth-year students who hadn’t been as fortunate with their lineage. Harry noticed a familiar boy, whom he had seen in Slughorn’s memories, whispering something into Riddle’s ear. “Marsius was in that memory too,” Harry recalled, sneaking a glance at Nott. “As were Riedale, and Abraxas. All these boys sitting near Walburga and Alphard will later join Riddle’s inner circle. But how could that be?” “It’s disgraceful,” Alphard, still pressed against Harry’s back, continued to squabble with his sister. “Is this the tone you wish to set for the new school year?” Images of what Mrs. Selwyn might say about this dispute involuntarily flashed through Harry’s mind, causing him to shudder. “I’m the eldest!” Walburga hissed, not unlike a wyvern. “I will be the head of the family! You have no right to argue with me!” “Enough,” he said, his tone quiet but firm, as he looked at her. “Stop this at once.” It seemed he had learned well from his mentor, Auror Johnson, because the Blacks did fall silent, turning away from each other like petulant children. “But just look at that beast at the Gryffindor table,” Walburga grumbled, giving Harry a nudge. “How on earth was he allowed into civilized society?” Harry looked up, only then noticing Hagrid. Hagrid sat at the very edge of the table, almost merging with the shadows, towering over everyone else by at least three heads. His short, curly chestnut hair stuck out in all directions, and his wide face with tiny, beetle-like eyes radiated childlike joy. A pang of recognition and sorrow shot through Harry’s chest. He’d completely forgotten that Hagrid had been a schoolmate of Riddle’s, and had suffered from his machinations. “What makes us superior to Muggles if we judge a wizard merely for being different?” he found himself asking aloud. “Merlin!” Walburga hissed at him. “What are you talking about? He’s a half-breed! They’re dangerous!” Harry’s gaze softened as he looked at Hagrid, remembering how he had fussed over Norbert with oven mitts on his hands. “He’s half-giant,” he corrected her without turning his gaze in her direction. “Some of us inherit the worst from our parents, while others only the best.” “Absolutely!” Alphard, who had been eavesdropping on their quiet conversation, laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Well said, Gordy!” “You’ve changed, Gordian,” Walburga clucked. “I hope your memory returns soon…” “Harry,” Potter cut her off loudly. “I want you to call me Harry.” All hushed conversations around them ceased as a dozen pairs of eyes stared at him, as though he were an alien. “So, you’ve decided to become a commoner?” Miss Black asked sweetly, stroking his other shoulder—free from her brother’s hand—as if he were seriously ill. “No,” Harry smiled at her. “I’ve started a new life. I think it would be symbolic to mark this change with a new name. From now on, I want to be Harry.” “That sounds perfectly reasonable,” Riedale chimed in before Walburga could respond. “When my Uncle Gregory was attacked by a dementor and lost half his memories, he too changed his name. Although he chose to be called Lucien. We haven’t invited him to Christmas since.” “That does sound great - Harry…” Druella excitedly chimed in. “Like Harry Blackwood, the hero of Sir William’s saga! Remember, the one who saved maidens from unhappy marriages?” “How vulgar, Druella,” Nott grimaced. “You and your romance novels!” A heated discussion broke out around the table, but overall no one seemed surprised by his sudden desire to change his name. The news was swallowed by the teenagers who began to savor it, like hungry kneazles. “If that’s what you want, Gordy,” Alphard whispered into his ear, barely holding back laughter, “then I’ll call you Harry. In that case, you can call me Ali, I’ve always wanted a simple name.” “Sod off,” Harry laughed, nudging him with his shoulder. “Ali! You’re far too pale and wide-eyed to be an Ali.” “So you’re also discriminating against people based on their looks, just like Wal? I might look different from other Alis, but deep inside, I’m bearded and love to smoke a hookah!” Alphard clutched his heart dramatically, causing another burst of laughter from Harry. The Sorting Ceremony got underway, and a hush fell over the hall, eyes fixated respectfully on the newbies. Slytherins were placing bets on who they believed would join their ranks, then subsequently sighed as they quietly passed lost Sickles and Knuts to the victors under the table. Harry found the teachers’ table more intriguing. Horace Slughorn held court in the Headmaster’s seat, his face a beacon of sheer joy. He radiated happiness to such an extent that even his bushy mustache seemed to gleam. His keen eyes darted from one first-year to another, and Harry had a sneaking suspicion that the professor was making his own wagers on the young blood. Next to him sat Dumbledore—the Dean of Gryffindor and his deputy. The professor offered a gentle smile to the first-years, his expression as cryptic as a sphinx’s—his thoughts inscrutable. Harry didn’t recognize the rest of the faculty, but he was taken aback by their number—significantly more than in his day. He tried to mentally tally all the subjects, but the count fell short—there were simply too many professors. Either Harry had forgotten some of the courses, or this era had added a few. First-years put on the Sorting Hat and, upon verdict delivery, bolted to their designated tables. Harry caught many familiar surnames but couldn’t ascertain whether these kids were kin to his contemporaries—identifying familiar features proved too challenging. However, the Blacks or Malfoys were an entirely different story; family was recognizable even without the aid of a surname. At last, the ceremony concluded, tables groaned under the weight of the feast, and Harry found himself staring blankly at his empty plate. His appetite had waned, superseded by a full helping of experiences. His sole desire was to curl up in his bed, invisible to all, and rest for a while. “Gordy, meet Clementine Bulstrode, one of our old classmates,” Walburga resolutely introduced him to everyone nearby, vehemently disregarding his new name and palpable reluctance to socialize. “And this is Gaspard Crouch. He’s not worth your time.” “We were roommates, Gordian,” a blond boy with exquisite features grinned affably. His left eye was partially obscured by a sleek black leather half-mask terminating above his ear. “And we were friends. I hope we can rekindle that bond.” “In your dreams,” Walburga snorted. “Gordy, this is Sylvester Burke. You and he…” “You and I were never on good terms, Selwyn,” Burke interjected haughtily. “And I hope that remains unchanged.” “Bigmouth!” Walburga grumbled. “Don’t mind him, Gordy. And this is…” Harry’s gaze drifted to the far end of the table, and he missed her next words. Riddle and his cohort were having a hushed conversation, casting occasional glances their way. Harry discreetly checked the opposite side and noted Druella was also eyeing Riddle. She slowly dropped her dark lashes and then subtly nodded her head. “Wal, I’ve heard rumors that your family fervently supports Grindelwald?” Rosier blurted out, a dangerous twinkle in her dark eyes. Alphard tensed next to him, but before he could speak, Walburga interrupted: “Absolutely! He wants to annihilate all Muggles! The only place for such filthy creatures is the slaughterhouse,” she declared, her chin raised in pride. At that moment, Harry suddenly realized she was… simply naive. There wasn’t a deep narrative behind her words; she was only echoing others without comprehending the severity of her assertions. “Wal!” Alphard snapped at her. “Not here!” “Walburga, quiet down,” Harry whispered in her ear, but Miss Black was too far gone to stop. “Really? But he’s killing purebloods too,” Rosier remarked with a delicate smile. Harry glanced at Riddle and saw that he was closely observing the unfolding drama. “He only kills those who side with Muggles,” Walburga asserted, disregarding Alphard’s frantic attempts to signal her. “Is that so? So, did the German branch of the Abraxas family deserve to die?” Druella asked innocently, making Harry shudder. In that moment, she looked disturbingly like her future deranged daughter, Bella. Malfoy sat frozen, his gaze fixated on his plate. “No, I don’t think…,” Walburga stammered, glancing at him. “He must have made a mistake. The Malfoy family is among the most esteemed, and they couldn’t have…” “He didn’t make a mistake,” Abraxas declared amidst the heavy silence that had fallen over the table. “He killed my cousins and a little niece because my uncle refused to fund his madness.” “My condolences to your family,” Alphard muttered, kicking a stunned Walburga under the table, accidentally hitting Harry as well. “Don’t listen to Wal, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Thankfully, Miss Black didn’t press further. She quietly offered her condolences to Abraxas and stared at her plate. A quick glance from Harry noted the subtle exchanges among the other perplexed observers and the resumption of whispers in Riddle’s group. “The Blacks are in charge now,” Harry realized. “And that demon spawn needs to topple them to seize their throne. It seems you need to watch what you say in this environment.” He had never experienced such an oppressive atmosphere at the Gryffindor table. Here, amongst the Slytherins, even the air seemed charged with plots, intrigues, and hidden implications. Students whispered, exchanged glances, and watched each other covertly. It was nauseating. He wanted to get up, go to the red-gold table, and strike up a friendly chat with Hagrid. But Harry knew that wouldn’t make things any better for anyone, himself included. Quiet conversations resumed at the table, but Walburga remained silent, prodding at her plate. “Why did they appoint Professor Callahan as our new Dean?” grumbled Burke. “He’s,” he lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper, “Irish!” “What’s wrong with the Irish?” a freckled, pale, bright red-haired boy shot back, chin jutting out defensively. “I apologize, Broderick, I overlooked your lineage,” Burke hastily backtracked. “Irish people can undoubtedly become deans. But he’s a half-blood!” Harry nearly choked on his grape juice. How on earth did they all keep track of each other’s origins and bloodlines? His gaze drifted towards the teachers’ table, falling upon Professor Callahan, the one that Burke had rudely pointed out. He was a tall chubby man in his forties, with a soldier’s posture and reddish-chestnut hair secured in a neat ponytail. As if sensing Harry’s gaze, he lifted his head, offered a slight smile and acknowledged him with a nod. Harry decided this man was not suited to be a dean: he seemed far too kind. He lacked the cunning of Slughorn and the sarcastic assholery of Snape, both of which were essential for managing haughty, cunning teenagers. “Riddle would wrap him around his finger, just like Slughorn,” Harry thought apprehensively. As dinner ended, Harry, sandwiched between the Black siblings, was swept up in the tide of students streaming towards the dungeons. “How could you blurt out such a thing?” Alphard seethed at Walburga. “Father mentioned the Malfoy deaths thrice, were your ears stuffed with cotton?” “But he didn’t care about some insignificant branch, and I thought…” “You shouldn’t even try to think, Wal! You’re out of your depth! Do you want to create a rift between us and the Malfoys? At a time like this?” “No! It’s all Druella’s fault! I told you she sided with Riddle, but you wouldn’t listen!” “Why don’t you hiss at each other a little louder, the first-years might not have heard,” Harry said, wearily covering his eyes with his hand. Merely minutes in the company of two Blacks was enough to give anyone a splitting headache. Longingly, he kept stealing glances at the receding bright corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower until it disappeared from view. The sting of homesickness pierced his heart particularly deep as they ventured into the dank, claustrophobic dungeon, dutifully descending the stairs. “I almost forgot,” Alphard murmured in his ear. “I couldn’t persuade Callahan to room you with me. He’s horribly principled and doesn’t accept bribes.” “And who am I rooming with then?” Harry inquired, his brow furrowing. He had assumed that the Slytherins, like the Gryffindors, lived in shared quarters. “That’s the problem. I’m not certain, but you might be paired with Riddle. He’s the only one in our year with a separate room since no one wanted to share with him in the first year. Slughorn would have gladly helped us, but Callahan isn’t Slughorn. He might just stuff you in with that maniac.” “Thanks for the heads-up,” Harry perked up. If he were to share a room with Riddle, tracking his movements and machinations would be so much easier! Of course, he would need to ward the entire room with protective spells, but it would be well worth the effort. The Slytherin common room was exactly as Harry remembered from his second year: dark furniture, a sickly greenish light, and high ceilings. The room was distinctly chilly and uninviting, sparking a desire in him to light more lamps, ignite all the fireplaces, and banish the gloomy semi-darkness. The students assembled in a semicircle, arranged strictly by year — with the first years up front and the seniors at the back. Professor Callahan then stepped into the center of the circle. “I am honored to take on such a significant role,” he began, his voice surprisingly pleasant and melodious. It was hard to reconcile his kindly demeanor with his evidently strong principles. “Like all of you, I graduated from this esteemed house, making it a tremendous honor to serve as its headmaster. However, you must all understand that with the respected Headmaster Slughorn’s departure, many traditions will be changing. I will not tolerate scandals, internal divisions, or bullying among students. Our reputation must be unblemished; we need to stand as a united front and not let malicious rumors or gossip tarnish our name. I will fight fiercely against segregation, favoritism, and harassment. Has everyone understood?” Alphard softly whistled into Harry’s ear, a sound drowned out by the rising murmur of discontented whispers. “Who does the Irishman think he is,” Walburga murmured. With a wave of his wand, the professor silenced the whispers, continuing his speech now aimed specifically at the first years. The youngsters gazed at him with great fondness — his presence had a calming effect, hinting that he was someone they could approach with their problems, someone who would listen. Despite this, Harry was now convinced that his initial impression was incorrect. Callahan seemed determined to stick to his course, and it seemed unlikely that Riddle would be able to manipulate him. Consequently, he could be an ally in Harry’s fight against Riddle’s criminal organization. “Selwyn, you’re in room thirty-four, with Riddle,” the sixth-year prefect announced, handing him a key before hastily moving on, deliberately avoiding eye contact. “Unthinkable!” Walburga exclaimed and dashed after her. “Cornelia, wait! There must be some mistake!” Harry, however, simply smiled at the puzzled Alphard and clutched the key tightly in his fist. Today, he felt extraordinarily lucky!