Behind Lies Eternity

Tom had picked up the knack for noticing the little things back in first grade at the church school. If the handwriting teacher tapped his fingers briskly on the edge of the table, it signified a foul mood, and any eye wandering away from the chalkboard might be met with a cane. When the orphanage’s caretaker, Lisa, averted her eyes, it often meant food was scarce, and Tom would likely be first to go hungry. It was best to get on her good side early, ensuring she’d save a bit for him. If Mrs. Cole’s cheeks shifted from a light blush to a deep burgundy, and her eyes seemed distant, it was almost certain that Tom would find himself locked in a closet, accompanied only by a prayer book. Indeed, Tom had developed an eye for details most five-year-olds missed. And as the years passed, his observations only sharpened. By age eight, he recognized that the older girls from the orphanage had scraped knees not from playing tag at all. And they had money—usually stashed under mattresses, occasionally tucked in crannies beneath window sills or hidden within piles of clothes. The thought of hiding their money OUTSIDE the orphanage never seemed to cross their minds. At nine, he discerned from mere glances and demeanors who could be tricked, whose pockets were ripe for the picking, and whom he’d have more luck begging from with a pitiful face. By ten, he could quickly size up anyone he encountered. The distinguished gentleman in the tweed suit and his wife, clad in a conservative black dress with long sleeves, who showed interest in adopting him, were clearly unhinged. There was a menacing undertone behind the man’s broad smile, a chill in his gaze. He held onto his wife a bit too tightly, and she would shrink from his sudden gestures, always yielding to him as though he were a deity and she, merely his devout slave. Tom observed them closely, catching a glimpse of a faint bruise beneath the woman’s sleeve as she bent to pat his head. With a charming smile, he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “If you adopt me, I’ll slit your filthy throats while you sleep.” The woman jerked back, her hand over her heart and her eyes dilated in fear. Tom, with feigned innocence, stammered, “Ma’am? Are you okay?” The deranged couple fled from him as swiftly as the previous twenty. Or was it thirty? Tom lost count after the tenth. He was undeniably handsome. Out of the swarm of urchins, he was always the one chosen. Mrs. Cole would invariably start praising his academic achievements and his quiet temperament, conveniently omitting everything else. And every time, Tom made sure they forgot about him. Initially, he didn’t want a foster family because he still held out hope that his own would return. But as he grew older and realized no one would ever come for him, he decided he didn’t need another family. While the pathetic little Muggle pests tried to impress the adults, Tom did everything to keep them away. The older Tom got, the more families there were who wanted to take him. And looking into their faces, Tom understood clearly that it wasn’t parental love they had in mind. Tom had narrowly escaped being taken by a portly, wealthy gentleman in a luxurious car with a private chauffeur. The man had been undeterred by Tom’s audacious threats of nighttime gutting. He’d simply licked his thin, dry lips, eyeing little Tom with eager anticipation. Tom had encountered these small signs in adults before. This time, he realized his luck was running thin. That was when Tom first self-inflicted harm. He mercilessly slashed his own face, rendering it a bloody canvas. Mrs. Cole had fainted at the sight of him. The portly gentleman had been briskly escorted from the orphanage, and a constable had interrogated Tom extensively afterwards. Knowing precisely what to say and how to behave, Tom saw to it that the man’s own relatives committed him to the asylum. To survive, Tom had had to hone his observation skills. His face healed in a week, leaving no scars, but Mrs. Cole no longer sang his praises to prospective guardians and tried her best not to look him in the eye or raise her hand against him. The portly gentleman disappeared. These minuscule details had come to Tom’s rescue more than once. So, when he encountered Gordian Selwyn on Knockturn Alley, he instantly knew he was an imposter. Tom was well-versed in the memory charm, Obliviate, and the aftermath of memory erasure. He understood that basic habits, pre-existing knowledge, and personality nuances remain unaltered. The man masquerading as Selwyn was as distinct from the original as a bear is from an earthworm. Tom could never bring himself to hate Selwyn; he simply considered him unworthy of anything beyond contempt. A flighty pureblood boy, superficial, foolish, haughty, and utterly worthless. He excelled academically, dressed impeccably, danced well, had good manners, led a leisurely lifestyle, and occasionally astonished Tom with his sheer triviality. He served as a lackey to his queen Walburga, willingly indulging in her schemes, shadowing her like a devoted puppy, and all but literally nosing around his slippery friend Crouch. The man who had rescued Tom in the alley was different. He bore so little resemblance to the authentic Selwyn that Riddle could not comprehend how others failed to see it. He carried himself differently: warily, as if ready to fight at any moment. He held his wand differently, moved differently, spoke differently. And his eyes? Where Selwyn’s were vacant and cow-like, this man’s burned with intensity. His sharp gaze was alert, fierce, and wholly un-Selwyn. It was as if the former Gordian Selwyn had been an empty house with dark, gaping windows, now inhabited by someone dangerous. That was Tom’s perception, at least. Yet it seemed as though everyone had turned a blind eye. Tom felt the urge to approach Slughorn and ask, “Professor, who exactly did you let into the school? We’ve got a full-fledged werewolf here, minus the fur and lunar cycle.” He was petrified. Not like back at the orphanage when he feared a bomb might drop on him any moment. This was a different kind of fear, reminiscent of when he’d read spine-chilling tales of ghosts and ghouls in his childhood. Back then, all he had to do was stash the book under the cabinet and his fear would vanish. Selwyn had been abducted a year ago, only to be replaced by this stranger. A man who would scale the cornice at night to observe Tom. Tom had caught glimpses from his window; it was unmistakably Selwyn and his bulky sidekick, Claudius-Vincent. Their silhouettes, their voices – Claudius in particular, was inimitable. Yet Tom noted how Gordian observed the others: blankly, with no hint of recognition, not even for his dear Walburga. But Tom? Oh, Tom he recognized. He studied Tom, likely assuming he was being discreet. Had Selwyn been their first target, and Tom was next in line? He couldn’t pinpoint who “they” were, but nightmarish scenarios haunted his thoughts. And now, here stood the imposter, right in Tom’s very room, staring with that same intense scrutiny. Sadly, Tom couldn’t just stash him under a cabinet. The bloody Irishman had intentionally paired Tom and Selwyn together, thinking it might bridge the divide between their quarrelling factions. And that stubborn fool wouldn’t be swayed. He would refuse to believe that Selwyn had changed. Nobody would believe Tom. Tom came to understand that few noticed the little things. If they did, they’d rationalize them with the most basic explanations. “Oh, the poor thing! Memory loss! Naturally, he’s not quite himself.” “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Tom. He’s always spoken that way.” “He’s starting anew, of course he’s a tad different. He can’t recall a thing!” His friends couldn’t fathom why Tom was so agitated. They seemed ready to believe anything, anything but the evidence before their damned eyes. “Hello, roommate,” Selwyn’s voice was markedly different. No longer did he draw out the vowels or emphasize particular accents. Instead, he seemed to cut his sentences short, hurling them at his listener. Tom opted for silence. He wished he could block out Selwyn, retreat, or, metaphorically speaking, slam a door in his face. Despite the room’s size, with its towering arched ceilings and prominent central column, their presence was painfully apparent to each other. Tom had always been solitary: in the orphanage and at school. This room was his sole sanctuary, the one place he felt truly safe, where he could be himself. The presence of an intruder in this refuge ignited an urge in Tom to expel him. He was in no mood for niceties; the rush of emotions was just too much. “I gather you’re not particularly pleased with our living arrangements,” the newcomer seemed to read Tom’s mind. “The feeling’s mutual.” “This is temporary,” Tom retorted, picking up his suitcase and systematically placing his things on the shelves. “I’m sure you’ll be itching to move in with your friends soon.” This was his territory. He held the reins here. And if Callahan decided to be uncooperative, Tom would ensure he didn’t have any other option. He wouldn’t tolerate living beside an imposter, especially one who had peered at him from the very window of his room back at the orphanage. “I don’t remember my friends. Three years isn’t exactly an eternity,” Tom observed from the corner of his eye as the imposter retrieved a small cauldron from his bag and set it on the floor. “However, we should aim to make these years nice and peaceful for both of us. Perhaps we might even become friends?” He proceeded to take several bottles out of his bag. The irony wasn’t lost on Tom: the man was casually discussing peace while pouring unknown substances into a cauldron. Tom swiftly reached for his wand. “What are you up to?” he demanded, pointing his wand directly at the other’s forehead. “Relax. I’m merely ensuring our shared space remains safe,” the imposter replied dismissively, turning his back on Tom. Despite everything, Tom detested sucker punches. In direct confrontations, he preferred to abide by the dueling code, so he refrained from attacking. The intruder then removed a black ribbon from his hair, coiled a lustrous lock around his fingers, and with a flick of his wand, snipped it off at the base. Tom observed, bemused, as the hair was tossed into the cauldron. The mixture reacted instantly, frothing and casting golden sparks onto the floor. The fake Selwyn lifted the cauldron, seemingly unfazed by the hot sparks, and hurled its contents towards the door. As the potion made contact, it began to sizzle, seeping into the woodwork, walls, and stone beneath their feet. A palpable magical energy emanated, forming a golden barrier around the room. Tom felt a weight on his shoulders, the pressure of the encroaching magic. “What have you done?” he demanded, wand at the ready. “As I mentioned,” the imposter replied, casually brushing the newly shortened hair from his face. “I’ve made our living arrangement a tad more agreeable. Within these walls, you can’t harm me. Think of it as saving you from any urges to curse or poison me. You can thank me for potentially avoiding a trip to Azkaban.” With swift precision, Tom flicked his wand, hurling a particularly vicious curse. However, it merely sparked and vanished, failing to reach its target. This act only solidified Tom’s suspicion that this was not the Selwyn he once knew. But it also kindled his insatiable curiosity; Tom was always a sucker for new branches of magic. “What kind of magic is this?” Tom inquired, touching the barrier with his wand. As he tried to penetrate the magical shield, it shimmered and pulsed. He tried a few counter-spells and took a moment to analyze the energy; the protective charms were purely defensive, yet impressively resilient. “Family recipe,” the imposter smirked, observing Tom’s efforts from the bed where he had casually sprawled out, his head propped on his elbow. “It won’t shield against the killing curse or dark magic, but using those at school would be instantly detected,” he winked at Tom. “Don’t fret, if I attack you, your magic won’t perceive it as aggression, ensuring you a form of safety too. You have the right to defend yourself. It’s lesser-known, but a wizard’s hair is one of the most powerful ritual ingredients. The magic amassed in it over years is practically…” “I’m aware,” Tom interrupted. The Selwyn visage appeared rather distinct on this imposter, even though it was technically unchanged. The short haircut further highlighted the difference from the genuine noble heir of an esteemed family. Tom confidently moved to the room’s center, beginning his incantations. Hell would freeze over before he shared a room with this stranger. He’d chase him out and then serve him up to the beast once he located the Chamber of Secrets. Falling prey was not in his plan. He’d picked up these spells last year, concerned they might pair him with one of the refugees streaming in from the continent. Tom had already endured this at the orphanage, fully aware that the German war impacted not just Muggles. That meant blocking off his access to the toilet and bathroom since they were on the imposter’s side, but that didn’t bother Tom much. He could use Regulus’s facilities or the communal one; it was always deserted. The imposter merely stared in puzzlement, observing Tom’s protective spells. He muttered something inaudible, flicked his wand, and a curtain illuminated in a blue hue appeared before Tom. “What’s this?” the curtain’s glow mirrored in his radiant blue eyes. “A real security measure,” Tom tapped the invisible barrier with his finger, making it undulate. “I bet this is more effective than your parlor tricks.” He could no longer keep a straight face. Without casting his roommate another glance, he exited the room, exuding pride, and headed straight to the communal bathroom at the far end of the dormitory hall. It was a rare sight to see anyone here since each room had its own. Alone at last, Tom locked the door and exhaled a sigh of relief, leaning against it. He retrieved his wand and placed it on his left forearm, precisely over a prominent black bruise. “Vespa aculeo,” he murmured. Intense pain immediately pierced his hand, and his sight dimmed. Tom clenched his teeth on the thick rubber tourniquet, coiled multiple times around his right wrist, and descended to the floor with a soft groan.   ***   Harry watched in bewilderment as that bastard Riddle paced his side of the room. Riddle had split the room down the middle with a glowing blue line that barred Harry from crossing, but it wasn’t a major concern since Riddle couldn’t step over to Harry’s side either, where the bathroom happened to be. Harry was struggling to make sense of it all. Riddle moved with a chilling calmness, acting as if Harry wasn’t even there: he wandered about the room, neatly placing his belongings, meticulously straightening the messy bed, and organizing his textbooks on the desk shelves. However, when Potter probed their connection, he felt a rush of emotions from Riddle: fear, panic, anger, and horror. The distress was so palpable that Harry could sense it effortlessly. This was peculiar. Harry hadn’t anticipated that his little cauldron stunt would affect Riddle so deeply. He’d found that ritual in the Selwyn library when preparing for school. Though it looked flashy, it wasn’t particularly protective. If Riddle had the urge, he could attack Harry easily, whether by knife or curse. The ritual was more of a power play and, frankly, a good excuse to cut off Gordian’s irksomely long hair. From the strands clogging the drain, one could fashion an entirely new Gordian Selwyn. But Riddle’s reaction puzzled Harry. Riddle outwardly seemed to be giving Harry the cold shoulder, but inside, he was a whirlwind. Riddle’s spells were unfamiliar to Harry, but effective. The only weakness was near the door, allowing them both to leave. Did Gordian Selwyn cast such a long shadow? Why was Riddle so wary of sharing a room? Why deny himself bathroom access just to assert territory? These questions shifted Harry’s viewpoint. Harry had thought he understood Voldemort, having seen a few of his memories, but the truth was, he didn’t really grasp the complexities of Riddle’s psyche. He knew Voldemort’s grim end, glimpsed the sinister highlights, but didn’t really know the full story. That night, with unease gnawing at him and Riddle nowhere in sight, Harry took extra precautions with his bed. Given Riddle’s erratic behavior, it seemed wise. Despite his concerns, sleep claimed him quickly. Come morning, Riddle’s bed was untouched. If not for a shifted curtain, Harry would’ve thought the jerk never came back. “Well, I’ll show you, drama queen,” Harry grumbled, pinning a poster above his desk that read, “No man rules safely who cannot rule himself.” © Publilius Cyrus. It seemed that both he and Dumbledore had seriously underestimated Riddle. Both the professor and Harry had been under the impression that Riddle’s malevolence was intrinsic, that even at eleven, he was a cold and calculating fiend. To an outsider, it would seem exactly that way! But the bond that laid bare Voldemort’s emotions to Harry told a different tale. Through it, Harry saw a scared, pitiable boy consumed by anger and hysteria, ready to lash out like a cornered manticore. Be it at the orphanage, in the alley, or now, Riddle was overwhelmed with intense feelings of anger and desperation. This realization unnerved Harry. He found himself troubled by the fact that he was the cause of these emotions, and even more so by the realization that underneath it all, Riddle was just a scared kid. “You’re too soft, Potter,” mentor Johnson would often chide. “Folks like you don’t last. You’ll burn out like a strand of hair over a flame. How did you ever defeat Voldemort with such mush in your brain?” Yet, no matter how hard he tried, Harry couldn’t shake off this unwanted empathy. He felt guilty, trying to reassure himself that Riddle had brought this upon himself. The bond between them had to be severed, and soon. Because, as past events indicated, it was a two-way street. If Riddle ever figured it out, there’s no telling what thoughts might swirl in his chaotic mind.   ***   Harry barely made it through the first day of school. He was being introduced to teenagers who either sought his favor or openly despised him, new teachers, and shown the castle’s layout, all of which was draining. He had to keep a low profile to avoid exacerbating an already complicated situation, but that proved challenging. The curious students bombarded him with questions about his memories, suspicions, political views, musical tastes, Quidditch team, and opinions on silly books. Moreover, there were far more students in this pre-war era compared to his time. In Slytherin’s fifth year alone, excluding Harry, there were seventeen students: seven girls and ten boys. They were distinctly divided into three groups: one led by the pureblood Alphard, another by Riddle, and then the independent students who didn’t align with any particular group. Riddle had as many sycophants around him as Alphard did. The most conspicuous of them all was Regulus Lestrange, a sturdy boy with ears that stuck out. He wore his loyalty like a badge, sitting proudly next to Riddle, a smug grin plastered on his face. Others, like Marsius Nott and Druella Rosier, were more discreet in their allegiance. Some simply gazed at Riddle with adoration, ready to execute any order he issued. “Glendale, did you bring the books I requested?” Riddle inquired politely, addressing a lanky blonde boy sporting a Ravenclaw tie. Riddle was slouching in his chair with the grace of a pureblood heir.  “Yes, Tom!” Glendale eagerly rushed over from across the classroom, a fanatical gleam in his eyes, offering up books, money, and even candies. Riddle generously distributed the sweets among his circle but refrained from partaking himself. This spectacle was very distasteful. It reminded Harry of his elementary school days when Dudley reigned supreme, bullying the younger and more vulnerable kids into performing demeaning “favors” for him. Yet, Riddle’s minions didn’t serve out of fear; it was pure admiration. There was no denying that Riddle looked dashing in his pristine school uniform, brandishing his wand. It wasn’t just about his striking features; there was an intangible allure about him. He emanated a bewitching energy that drew others to him. Half-blooded Glendale hovered around Riddle, desperately seeking a morsel of his attention, oblivious to the knowing smirks of their classmates. “What a pathetic loser,” Alphard muttered disdainfully, having witnessed the scene. He turned away, signaling his clique to follow suit. Riddle promptly shifted his attention to discussing summer assignments with Abraxas. Open confrontations were rare. These Slytherins behaved much like their house mascot, lurking in the shadows, ever watchful for vulnerabilities in others. Such behavior might have irked any Gryffindor, but Harry bit his tongue. He reassured himself of the greater purpose behind his mission and tried to decipher the complex dynamics at play. While Riddle boasted a dedicated fan club, Alphard might not have had devotees, but he had the allegiance of most purebloods, lending an air of unity to their group. Alphard’s protective stance towards Harry inadvertently lumped him in with this faction. The Ravenclaws, sharing most of their classes with the Slytherins this month, also took discernible sides, gravitating either towards Riddle or Alphard. They’d engage in polite banter under the watchful, often envious eyes of the rival faction. Riedale would then whisper bitterly, counting the deserters. Harry felt like he was navigating an entirely different school. He found himself thinking about the antics of the Gryffindors. The fifth-years of ’42 displayed impeccable discipline and maturity for fifteen-year-olds. Tardiness was unheard of. No one dared to set off firecrackers in the absence of professors, and showing up to class with a wrinkled tie or without a cloak was simply unthinkable. Everything felt so… off. The attire, the people around, the stories they shared—it was all not how he remembered. When he closed his eyes, he was transported back to his school days. Gone were the negatives, only the cherished memories remained. Like Seamus always managing to cause small implosions, Lavender’s talent at blowing gigantic bubblegum bubbles, Ron’s iconic clashes with Malfoy, and Hermione’s endearing bossiness. Malfoy of this world was nothing short of a gentleman. Ironically, it was Riddle acting high and mighty, reprimanding anyone for loose hair. Still, the silver lining was that lessons here were engaging. Harry was genuinely keen to get to the bottom of these new subjects and questions. With a second shot at school education, he was determined to make the most of it. Ron and Hermione’s absence was a void, but thankfully Alphard filled some of that space. Thanks to the potion, Harry now could communicate with him without any undesired effects. And Alphard, considering where he came from, was a decent sort.  He evoked memories of evenings Harry had shared with Sirius by the fireplace in Grimmauld Place. For Harry, he was a tether to his former life. Even the ever-nagging Walburga was oddly comforting. Her morning scoldings over Harry’s shaggy hair bore an uncanny resemblance to Mrs. Weasley’s maternal nagging. But while he held a filial fondness for Mrs. Weasley, he often wished he could slap Walburga and suggest her to be more polite. He actually enjoyed classes like Herbology with Professor Beery and Charms with Professor Babbing. Everything seemed to make sense, especially with the insights from Gordy’s memories. The day was fairly normal, with no unexpected surprises like discovering the Chamber of Secrets or being thrown into the Triwizard Tournament.  The only buzz around was about the upcoming Quidditch season and scouting for new talent. With Alphard leading the Quidditch team, he was in the limelight. So, most of the focus shifted to him. After a point, the students grew tired of Harry’s evasive answers.  In fact, he overheard a student suggest that his memory ordeal might’ve knocked a few screws loose. But in true Harry Potter fashion, he fumbled during the final lesson of the day. Defence Against the Dark Arts was taught by a strict woman named Galatea Merrythought. Contrary to Harry’s mental image of an elderly, bent instructor leaning on a cane, Merrythought — nearing retirement — was an imposing figure: tall, vigorous, with cascading gray curls and an upright posture. She bore an uncanny resemblance to his mentor Johnson from the Auror academy. Consequently, Harry instinctively listened to her every command, a behavior ingrained from his time under Johnson’s tutelage. “Selwyn, step forward!” Her voice, authoritative and demanding, echoed through the room. “Let’s see if you’re up to our standards!” Without thinking ahead, Harry dutifully moved forward. She lunged at him without warning, not affording him even a split second to draw his wand. Relying solely on instinct, Harry tipped an unoccupied desk for cover and, from this vantage point, unleashed a flurry of Auror spells: Fumos, Stupefy, and a binding spell. Caught off guard, Merrythought momentarily faltered. Seizing this window, Harry cast an explosive spell toward her desk. As she hastily raised a protective barrier, Harry, on a verge of casting a binding spell, was jolted back to reality. “Strategic thinking was never your forte, Potter!” Johnson’s booming voice echoed in his mind. Choosing to feign a clumsy stumble, Harry allowed himself to be disarmed. Yet, as Merrythought’s piercing brown eyes sized him up, he could tell she knew he held back. Harry mentally kicked himself, cycling through every language he’d picked up over time. Raising his head felt like the last thing he wanted to do. Only he could botch things up this spectacularly! Gorbovich had taken a swing at him before, but never posed a legit threat the way Merrythought just did. And Harry walked right into it. “Selwyn,” she mused, giving his wand a twirl with her weathered fingers, “I didn’t expect to see that kind of agility coming.” Gathering himself, Harry tried to sound convincing, “My family got a tutor for me, ma’am. You understand, after everything, I needed to learn how to defend myself.” “Understandable. And I’m truly sorry about what you went through,” said Merrythought, her lips thinning. She chucked his wand back across the classroom, which Harry snatched out of the air effortlessly. “Who was this tutor of yours?” “A retired Auror, ma’am,” Harry replied, praying she wouldn’t ask for a name. After all, Gorbovich wasn’t an Auror and definitely had a different fighting style. She didn’t press him further and let him slide back to his seat, but Harry felt a lingering unease. Wizards with experience, like Merrythought, could pick up on different fighting techniques. It just didn’t add up for Selwyn to master Auror moves in mere months. Heck, even rookie Auror Potter knew that. Back at his desk, Harry threw a quick glance at Riddle, but he was all eyes on the professor, not showing any signs of being impressed by what he saw. The connection was closed and unresponsive. “That was amazing!” Alphard whispered excitedly in his ear. “Who was your tutor? We’ll hire him too! I need to catch up with you!” Harry’s mentor wasn’t even born yet, so he just winked mysteriously at Alphard and started listening to the lecture for OWLs. He had left too many splinters behind. If he didn’t fade into the background soon, things were going to spiral. And that just couldn’t happen. Yet after his impromptu performance, the scrutiny was undeniable. No one came right out with it, but the glances… Oh, he recognized those. The whispers, the curiosity, the thirst to get to the real story behind the printed news. Some things never changed. Harry couldn’t shake the realization of just how reckless he’d been, letting his instincts run wild. Alphard was pretty much glued to his side these days. On their first day back, there were tryouts for various school clubs. And guess what? Hogwarts had fencing, duelling, and something that sounded suspiciously like Auror training – they called it “patriotic education”. The sudden surge in faculty now made sense. These wizards were dead set on turning kids into mini warriors. Harry had been clueless about such activities at Hogwarts. He’d had some training in fencing and duelling over the summer, but chalked it up as just another rich people’s fancy. “You have to try out for duelling,” Black nudged him during lunch. “And PE too, you’ll show them all up, Gordy!” “Harry,” Potter corrected automatically, slowly chewing his lunch. Students were eyeing him with interest, an undoubtedly bad omen. As much as he would’ve loved to vent his pent-up energy and join a real battle, he couldn’t take the risk. “Fine, if you want Harry, you’ll be Harry,” Alphard exclaimed impatiently, then lowered his voice. “But… you must wipe the floor with Riddle. He’s the best in every discipline, and it can’t stay like that. I can see you’d easily best him. It would bring him down a peg or two. His rating would plummet!” “No,” Harry cut him off, calmly continuing his meal. The news of Riddle participating in all the martial disciplines didn’t surprise him. Upon hearing about the patriotic education and duels, he instantly discerned who their star pupil was. There was something familiar about Riddle: his movements, his way of holding the wand, the manner in which he surveyed his surroundings. Ordinary students didn’t possess such behavior. Now it all made sense. Riddle had been trained in battle magic from a young age and stood head and shoulders above his peers. “But Gord… Harry!” Alphard protested. “You’re so much better than him! If you don’t want to reveal who trained you – fine. But please, make him fall flat on his face!” Harry’s gaze settled on Riddle. Tom ate meticulously, with his portion noticeably smaller than those of his friends. He was gaunt and pale, sparking in Harry an almost maternal urge to feed him, perhaps sneaking a few juicy pieces of chicken onto his plate. Harry’s mind wandered back to the orphanage with its worn walls, the dim light from a melting candle, threadbare clothing, and a young boy’s hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. He recalled the chilling cold at the Leaky Cauldron, arms wrapped tightly around himself, and the simmering rage paired with an intense drive for self-preservation. “No,” he said again to Alphard, his voice firm. And Alphard didn’t dare to press further.   ***   Walburga had decided to throw a party in honor of Gordian’s return. Harry had anticipated such a move and even concocted a convenient excuse about the increased difficulty of his homework due to his memory lapse. But Walburga was having none of it. Immediately after classes, she whisked him away and instructed him to dress up, her grin so wide it nearly closed her eyes. She also, as Harry discovered, possessed surprising physical strength. Choosing not to pick a fight, Harry began to get ready. He still needed to discern more about Gordian Selwyn to anticipate potential threats. So, he donned a black ruffled shirt and fastened the thrice damned lavaliere around his neck. As he was selecting a vest, sifting through the garments strewn across his bed from his suitcase, Riddle reentered the room. “Hi, neighbor,” Harry ventured, hoping to bridge the palpable tension. Knowing the extent of Riddle’s unease in his presence, Harry sought some reconciliation. Although, that jerk had it coming. Riddle silently emptied his bag of textbooks and began stuffing it with parchments. “Do you think black goes well with purple?” Harry tried to exude a relaxed vibe. He held up the vibrant vest against his shirt and grimaced. “Does it look decent enough?” In the mirror’s reflection, he caught Riddle’s face. Tom’s gaze briefly settled on him before quickly averting his eyes. “Come on, can’t we at least talk?” Harry persisted. “I’m here for the long haul. Get used to it.” It was unwise, but Harry couldn’t remain silent. He knew he shouldn’t engage with him because it would only complicate matters later, but the silence was suffocating, making him uneasy. Harry was willing to engage in trivial banter just to avoid the stark reality that this gaunt boy’s days were numbered. Riddle exited the room without so much as a glance in his direction, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Planning had always been a hurdle for him; typically, Hermione orchestrated the strategy, while he acted on impulse. Now, he was at a loss. How does one coexist with a person they intend to kill? Should he foster trust? Or maintain an air of disdain, ensuring he felt no remorse for feigned camaraderie? Yet, Harry found it hard to hate this version of Voldemort. He despised the older, noseless form of the Dark Lord. But Tom Riddle, the haunted boy? He felt compassion. “Merlin, I’m losing my grip!” Harry lamented, clutching his head. “I should despise him! No sympathy! Get it together, you idiot!” A couple of sharp slaps to his cheeks helped to ground him. *** The party took place in Walburga’s and Sofia Greengrass’ room. Naturally, only the elite students from the upper grades were present, but they weren’t numerous. “The same old names…” Harry mused somberly as he met the school’s head boy, Gideon Crabbe, the heir of Lord Crabbe and descendant of the disgusting old pervert he remembered for his dance floor escapades with younger witches. The head boy, skinny with curly hair reminiscent of his grandfather, reminded Harry amusingly of Vincent Crabbe and his guard Claudius. “Welcome back, Selwyn, we’ve missed you,” Gideon pronounced loftily, raising his glass. “We hope your memory swiftly returns. The nation faces turbulent times, and all purebloods must unite…” The gathering listened with rapt attention, no one daring to interject. Apparently, he was the unspoken leader of the purebloods present, even surpassing Walburga in influence. A Crabbe commanding the Blacks — who would’ve imagined? Harry patiently withstood the many toasts in his honor, which invariably centered on his memory’s recovery and aligning with their nebulous cause. When music began, he retreated to a corner. The room had been transformed, with beds replaced by plush couches, one of which Harry occupied. The students eagerly partook in wine, danced risqué dances (by Mrs. Selwyn’s standards), and indulged in magical games. Walburga played the perfect host, ensuring peace and sobriety prevailed. The atmosphere diverged significantly from typical Gryffindor festivities, where raucous fun reigned. It bore a striking resemblance to the galas at the Selwyns’ manor. “Rich people and their quirks,” Harry mused gloomily, recalling the festivities at the Burrow and the school’s intimate gatherings. Oddly, in his original time, he hadn’t thought much about them. He had never been fond of loud gatherings. Yet now, he was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of melancholy, longing to return home, to see his friends, embrace Molly, and play with Teddy. How thoughtless he’d been over the past two years, causing so much anguish for his loved ones… His introspection was interrupted. “Bored?” A recognizable figure in a mask settled next to him, their thighs brushing. “No, not at all, uh, Crouch,” Harry stumbled, momentarily forgetting his name. All he could recall was that this person had once been his roommate. “My name is Gaspard,” the man gently corrected. “Oh, Gordian. I’m so sorry…” Gaspard took Harry’s hand. “I was terribly worried about you. After they found you, I tried reaching out, but that insufferable old woman and your obnoxious cousin didn’t even let me through the Floo. You must’ve felt so isolated, and none of these people even tried to comfort you. I am sorry I haven’t been there for you. It feels like my whole world crumbled. I’m sorry…” Gaspard released Harry’s hand, turning away slightly. Harry noticed the glistening of a tear in Gaspard’s only visible eye. Harry pondered how he would’ve felt if Ron or Hermione had lost their memories of him. The pain would’ve been unbearable. Gaspard was the only one who had shown him any genuine empathy. “Gaspard,” Harry began, placing a reassuring hand on Gaspard’s shoulder. “I truly am sorry. While I don’t remember our past, we can still reconnect. And there’s always a possibility that my memories might return, right?” Gaspard nodded hesitantly, quickly wiping away a tear, and managed a smile. A tension built up inside Harry. He found himself drawn to Gaspard’s features, admiring the sharp collarbones and slim waist. Gaspard was striking, his mask complementing his unique look: honey-toned hair, pale freckled skin, a defined chin, and soft pink lips. Harry’s potion hadn’t taken away his capability to feel attraction. “We were more than just friends, weren’t we?” Harry ventured. “Yes,” Gaspard responded, leaning in, hope evident in his eyes. “Did you remember something about us?” “No, it was just a hunch,” Harry replied. Now, Harry felt like he was unintentionally reopening old wounds. “You understand that it can’t be the same between us, right?” Drawing closer, Gaspard whispered sultrily, “Are you certain, Gordy?” Never had Harry been approached this way by another man, and he hadn’t anticipated how enticing it would feel. “Merlin, help me!” he thought, pulling back from Gaspard. “Absolutely certain!” Harry replied, perhaps too loudly. Gaspard chuckled softly, leaning back gracefully. “Darling, I know your needs,” Gaspard murmured, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, though they also hinted at lingering sadness. “Just know, I’ll always wait for you. I won’t lose you again.” Harry’s gaze darted around the room, finally landing on Alphard, who seemed to be enjoying the show, giggling in his wine glass. “Um, Alphard needs me,” Harry said hurriedly, making his way toward Black as if he were escaping a looming threat. His heart pounded like a frightened virgin bunny caught in the headlights. Ron would have doubled over laughing if Harry had shared his current predicament. At the moment, Harry felt the urgent desire to hop on the next train to Kings Cross. A boy, head over heels in love with him, had just shed tears and attempted to seduce him! What unsettled him the most was that Harry’s body seemed to reciprocate the attraction. “Stop laughing!” Harry snapped at Alphard, grabbing his wine glass. He was on the brink of taking a sip when he caught himself and refrained. “I can’t help it, sorry,” Alphard replied, barely containing his mirth. “I was eagerly anticipating Crouch jogging your memory of your illustrious romance. Merlin’s beard, you should have seen your face!” “You could have given me a heads-up! Can you fill me in on our history?” Harry implored. “I don’t know all the details,” Alphard admitted with a shrug. “You two were inseparable, like Slughorn and his crystallized pineapples. You kept your relationship low key, but Walburga and a few others were in the loop. Your father despised the Crouches, and so did your cousin. You were engaged to Sophia, he was promised to Clementine Rosier. Now that Sophia’s betrothed to Broderick, just be wary—your cousin might not take it well.” “That chapter is closed,” Harry interrupted, shifting his gaze to where Gaspard was engaged in conversation with a prefect. “Let’s move on.” “So, you’re not into… say, chasing other people’s snitches?” Alphard inquired with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’m not in the mood to chase any snitches right now,” Harry replied, passing the glass back to Black. “What else should I be aware of?” Alphard seemed deep in thought for a moment. “Um…” he began hesitantly, “Nothing crucial, I guess.” Harry sensed Alphard was withholding something but chose not to push. He’d picked up on the fact that Alphard’s willpower rivalled Walburga’s; extracting information against his will would be futile. Harry needed a subtler strategy, and he had just the one in mind. “I want to leave, would you cover for me?” he requested. “It’s too early to leave. Have you even memorized half of the names?” Alphard retorted, holding onto Harry’s elbow to stop him. “These people mean nothing to me,” Harry confessed with frankness. “Every second here is torture.” Surrounded by strangers who rubbed him the wrong way was too unpleasant, all Harry wanted was the comfort of a blanket and the book on magical bonds he’d taken from the Selwyns’ library. He longed for home. “You need to watch your words, Gordy… I mean Harry,” Alphard corrected himself. “I get that this is hard for you, but you have to consider your future. Don’t rely on your cousin or his reputation. Stand on your own two feet. Forge bonds, establish friendships. Do you honestly believe any of them will reach out first? Think they’ll come to your rescue?” He gestured to the table where a group was engrossed in a card game. “They moved on the minute you disappeared. You weren’t particularly popular to begin with. Here’s some friendly advice: make an effort to change their perception. You’re a different person now.” Harry blinked several times, slowly realizing that indeed, no one had approached him for a chat or to offer sympathy. Guests had given their toasts, as protocol required, then returned to their own conversations, like he wasn’t even there. Even Walburga was deep in chatter with her friends, sparing him no attention. His novelty wore off in less than a day. Once they figured out he wouldn’t spill any details about his absence, they promptly dismissed him from their minds. “You’re right; I am different,” he acknowledged, shaking his head. “I don’t need them, nor my cousin. I don’t want this life anymore.” Carefully extricating his hand, Harry walked away, leaving a startled Alphard behind. He exited the party without any interference and, with profound relief, retreated to his room. “Merlin’s beard, what a nightmare!” he exclaimed, leaning against the door. He angrily yanked the tie from around his neck, tossing it on the floor. The continuous intrigues, secrets, and omissions grated on his nerves. Harry prized honesty and straightforwardness, detesting deception and subterfuge. Yet, he realized he’d been doing both for years and he was terribly tired of it all. He’d lied to his friends, pretending everything was okay. He lied to the Selwyns, masquerading as their kin. Now he was misleading the students and posing as Alphard’s friend. When had he painted himself into this corner? “Just complete the mission, go home, and life will come back to normal,” he whispered to himself. “Yet, even then, you’ll need to lie and pretend,” a voice, which sounded like a part of his brain responsible for critical thinking, pointed out. “No one will be aware of Lord Voldemort’s existence. You’ll resume on the life of a happy little boy Harry and taint his memories with your own.” Groaning, Harry clutched his hair, slowly sinking down the door. He was desperately craving alcohol. “Merlin! I can’t take this anymore!” A mischievous giggle echoed close by, evolving into hearty laughter. “Stop mocking me,” Harry said. “I just want things to go back to how they were. I am begging you!” “Only by attaining what you desire will you find peace,” a distant, faint voice responded. “I want to be happy!” Harry shouted, pounding the floor in frustration. “Can you not hear me? Return me to my friends, to my family. I’m tired, so tired… I’m such an idiot.” He rested his head against the door, giving it a few despondent taps. “I’m not Hermione. I’m not Ron. I can’t do this alone. I don’t know what to do…” His facade had been crumbling for some time, but he kept pretending everything was fine. He believed he was just whining too much, that he needed to pull himself together and endure. In reality, everything was falling apart! So much so, that he found himself transported to the past, plotting to kill a young Voldemort who was yet to experience life. “Get a grip,” Harry murmured, giving his cheeks a couple of brisk slaps for emphasis. “Get a grip!” He felt slightly better. Riddle was absent again. After taking a relaxed shower and dressing, Harry was about to dive into bed with a book when an unusual movement from his blanket caught his attention. He withdrew his wand, cautiously approached the bed, and flung the blanket back. “Well, hello there,” he burst out laughing. His bed was teeming with snakes. Large boas, grass snakes, and other non-venomous creatures writhed on the mattress. The colorful bunch hissed and shifted, clearly disliking the bright light and making their displeasure known. “Well, aren’t you a menace?” Harry chuckled, hearing the confused snakes wondering what was happening. “Trying to scare me? That’s so predictable. I even left money for you so you wouldn’t starve, and that’s how you repay me?” Such a sight might have truly frightened someone like the real Gordian Selwyn. But Harry found it amusing. He attempted to levitate a snake to the other side of the bed, but it wouldn’t budge. Only when the snake slithered to the floor on its own did it move freely. “Head to your master; he’ll feed you,” Harry told them in a hiss. The dim-witted reptiles, sensing a meal, began moving towards Riddle’s territory. They slipped under his bed, the table, and into the closet, coiling into clusters on the floor. Harry cleared his bed and settled down to read about magical bonds, the consistent hissing of Riddle’s hungry pets in the background. This little trick did wonders to lift his spirits. He read until one in the morning. Riddle never returned. Though Harry was exhausted, he eagerly anticipated his roommate’s reaction. Slipping under the blanket, he pulled the canopy, leaving just a small gap, and lay waiting. By two in the morning, he drifted off without even realizing it.