Behind Lies Eternity

In the morning, there was no sign the room had been filled with snakes. Harry woke to his alarm’s blare, and for a split second, believed the reptiles had been a mere dream. That notion vanished when he noticed one nestled inside his slipper, making him shudder. He had so wanted to see the look on Riddle’s face when he discovered his prank had backfired. But that infuriating little twerp had outsmarted him yet again. This led Harry to ponder: when did Riddle sleep? Or did he even? Did he shower? Use the bathroom? Was he truly human? With those thoughts pushed to the background, Harry set out for his classes. If Hermione witnessed his newfound passion for studies, she’d likely tear from joy. Even Harry was taken aback by his zeal. His hours spent engrossed in books back home, trying to unravel what exactly happened at Kings Cross initially, were clearly not wasted. More than ever, Harry yearned to comprehend what he was experiencing. However, he felt his knowledge was too limited to piece everything together. Entering Transfiguration class with renewed vigor, he momentarily overlooked that his once-mentor was teaching it. As a teacher, Dumbledore surpassed McGonagall. His knack for simplifying complex concepts made understanding them seem effortless. Harry observed, captivated, scribbling notes with fervor. He held immense respect for McGonagall, of course. But under her tutelage, grasping Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration remained elusive, even though she’d explained it repeatedly. It really wasn’t that complex. Had he become more astute, or was Dumbledore genuinely that exceptional? Either way, Harry resolved to speak with Dumbledore after class. But as the classroom emptied, confronting the professor—a younger, more formidable version than he recalled—he was struck dumb. This wasn’t the wise old man he remembered seeking guidance from. They hadn’t really met. How could he relay his story? Moreover, why burden Dumbledore further? “Mr. Selwyn,” Dumbledore, spotting him, greeted warmly. “I believe you expressed a desire to converse with me over the summer?” “Yes, um,” Harry faltered, searching for words. “Professor, is it possible for an average wizard, one not particularly gifted, to grasp a concept previously understood by none?” Dumbledore seemed momentarily stunned. Settling into his chair and steepling his fingers—a gesture Harry found endearingly familiar—he gestured for Harry to sit. With a sudden rush of emotion, Harry felt his eyes brimming with tears. “Given unwavering dedication, Mr. Selwyn, one might surprise even themselves,” Dumbledore began thoughtfully. “I once knew a man, unremarkable in many respects. Good-hearted, yet often absent-minded, with middling grades. A grave injustice befell him: his mother’s wrongful imprisonment. In his anguish, he was resolute in establishing her innocence. And he did, emerging as one of the finest lawyers I’ve known. Today, he stands as the head of our Ministry—Leonard Spencer-Moon. A Hufflepuff, an ordinary student, but an exceptional man.” “Really?” Harry gasped, momentarily at a loss for words before regaining composure. “Sir, does that mean that dedication and drive surpass innate talent?” Harry had always felt confined by his perceived limitations. He believed he lacked Hermione’s intellect and discipline. He yearned to delve into the complexities of magic, but often felt disheartened when he struggled with basics that Hermione seemed to grasp effortlessly. “One might argue that way,” Dumbledore responded, a trace of wistfulness evident in his voice, his eyes wandering to the window where the brilliant hues of early autumn were on full display. “There exist individuals blessed with prodigious talent, yet devoid of the drive to refine their abilities. Conversely, there are those of average skill whose true strength lies in perseverance, discipline, and commitment. However, when raw talent dovetails with dedication and ambition, it can yield results that aren’t necessarily beneficial for the greater good. Do you grasp my meaning? Often, it’s more desirable to be an ordinary wizard, methodically pursuing modest aspirations. It’s even preferable, less heart-wrenching.” Harry nodded, fixated on his own clasped hands, absorbing the profound implications of Dumbledore’s words. While Dumbledore may have slightly digressed, his insights clarified several perplexing aspects for Harry. Why, despite his vast knowledge and influence, had Dumbledore never become the Minister of Magic? Why had he chosen a more reclusive life within the school’s walls? Because he wished to avoid the temptations that had ensnared Grindelwald. He resisted the urge to exert his unparalleled talent and diligence over the nation. It seemed like cowardice, an unwillingness to take on the responsibility he had imposed on Harry, who was himself an average wizard but highly motivated. Yet, this talented, intelligent, diligent wizard couldn’t defeat his former student — a scrawny, abused boy who grew into a true tyrant. Instead, he had tasked Harry with this challenge. And Harry had delivered. “Thank you, sir. I understand,” he said, rising and slinging his bag over his shoulder. The compulsion to confide in Dumbledore had waned. The time had come for Harry to cease seeking guidance from wiser wizards. He needed to trust his own judgment. ***   Alphard had become distant since the party. He was still courteous, taking a seat next to Harry in class, but the tension was palpable and he seemed reluctant to converse. Harry refrained from pressing him, being engrossed in his new lessons and subtly observing his classmates and Riddle. An undercurrent was evident. Everyone was exchanging knowing glances, whispering among themselves, and casting cautious eyes at Alphard. Seizing an opportune moment, Harry pulled Malfoy into an empty corridor for questioning, seeing him as the most level-headed after Alphard. “They had a major disagreement with Walburga at the party after you left,” Abraxas explained, his expression turning grave. “Walburga proposed a rather audacious scheme. They argued, and… she ended up throwing champagne in his face. The prefect was livid and immediately ended the party. It was a disaster, Gordian,” he sighed, evoking memories of Draco. “Her inaugural party! If she persists in this manner, I doubt she’ll be seen as a fitting leader post-Gideon’s graduation, especially after her remarks about my family during the welcome feast. We need your intervention,” he whispered into Harry’s ear after a quick glance around. “Speak to Alphard; you two have bonded well. He must take the reins. As Alphard immerses himself in Quidditch and his ongoing disputes with his sister, Riddle is plotting against us!” Harry leaned back against the cool stone, exhaling wearily. He could’ve dismissed it as “childish drama,” but he was aware of the gravity of the ongoing affairs. “Hear me out,” he began, massaging the bridge of his nose to alleviate the pressure. “Alphard might not step in. And Walburga isn’t suited for leadership. Have you considered taking the mantle yourself?” “Me?” Malfoy recoiled, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Challenge the Blacks?” “Not challenge! Collaborate!” Harry quickly clarified. “If Walburga is unfit, someone else should lead. Why not you?” Abraxas gave Harry a reproachful look. “You misunderstand. To go against the Blacks is treason. They’re the most noble House. Walburga would only concede to her brother, and that could spell disaster. Discuss it with Alphard.” With that, he departed, leaving Harry to his contemplations. What was going on here? *****   Tom’s scrutiny of the imposter was yielding more questions than answers. This stranger wasn’t acting like a professional spy, and Tom Riddle was quite versed in such machinations. Instead, he often appeared clumsily out of place. He would often try to blend into the background, but then unexpectedly demonstrate remarkable abilities, like exhibiting exceptional dueling skills. Tom grudgingly admired his handling of the overturned desk situation. Who could achieve such a feat? Perhaps only a character in a novel. A typical individual, especially a student, wouldn’t naturally respond in such a manner. But the imposter, it seemed, had such skills ingrained. And the snakes? Tom couldn’t comprehend how they’d been smuggled past the barrier. Imperiusing each one would have been impossible within the school’s confines. Among the many spells he knew, that barrier was one of the most impressive. The simple-minded reptiles offered no clues; they just pleaded for food. The imposter was a puzzling figure, and Tom, as with most mysteries, became consumed with the need to unveil his true identity. The idea of him being an Animagus was swiftly dismissed — Tom had observed firsthand that no hourly potions were consumed. Disillusionment spells were also eliminated from the list — with Marcius Nott’s assistance and his network, Tom found out that the pseudo-Selwyn was monitored by aurors’ charms. Basic transfiguration and charms wouldn’t have fooled the aurors. This led to one conclusion — the imposter was a metamorphmagus. But why assume the identity of Gordian Selwyn? The imposter’s behavior was certainly peculiar. While he unmistakably recognized Tom and had been near the orphanage that day, peering at him through a window, the question remained: what truly occurred during that encounter? Was Tom the primary target? Or was it just happenstance? Someone had attacked him; Tom remembered a blinding flash, the sight of the man collapsing. Shortly after, his guard arrived and whisked him away. Tom was driving himself mad over this. He was desperate to unearth all of Gordian Selwyn’s secrets. “You mentioned your father’s acquaintance with Theseus Scamander?” Tom casually asked Lestrange as they settled into their usual spots in the lounge for their studies. “Yes, they’re on friendly terms. They play Quidditch together every Wednesday,” Regulus responded, not even pausing from his essay, as though being chummy with the Head Auror was commonplace. Tom still marveled at the realization that his new associates, due to their wealth and clout, could easily liaise with figures as prominent as the Minister of Magic himself. Regulus had caught Tom’s eye in their first year. Vain, prideful, and easily slighted, Regulus hadn’t actively bullied Tom, but neither had he defended him, unlike saint Alphard Black. Instinctively, Tom saw in Regulus a prime candidate for his inner circle, understanding that his rise to power would be catalyzed through alliances with purebloods like Lestrange. Especially since Regulus seemed to be searching for a role model, having tailed his cousin from his third year, emulating and practically worshipping him. Tom was familiar with such behavior. Creating a rift between them was almost too simple. Tom was acutely observant. He recognized the potency of gossip within the magical world. In such a close-knit society, wizards reveled in it: speculating about romantic liaisons, familial ties, and scandalous escapades. This penchant for gossip spanned from first-year students to their educators. Tom swiftly won over their main gossip girl, Shion Park. Coming from a pureblood lineage, yet of humble origins, she was indifferent to Tom’s bloodline. Sharing with her a “significant secret,” he relayed an alleged comment from Lestrange’s cousin mocking Regulus’s fervent idolization. By the time this gossip reached Regulus, it had been twisted to suggest that his cousin merely endured him for familial advantages, holding him in contempt. Tom didn’t fabricate these details; people’s imaginations filled in the narrative. Observing the public animosity between the cousins, Tom struggled to mask his amusement. Regulus, blinded by emotion, rejected any voice of reason. His heated tirades met with equally fierce comebacks from his cousin. In this spectacle, Tom masterfully dismantled the deep love Regulus once felt for his kin. Surely, Tom managed to convince Slughorn to pair him with Regulus immediately. That was a piece of cake. The professor had been utterly charmed by him from the very first lesson. Gradually, Tom wormed his way into Regulus’s mind using flattery and manipulation. At first, Regulus was resentful of being paired with a mudblood, but he became increasingly ensnared in Tom’s web. By the end of their first year, when Tom spoke to a snake right before Regulus’s eyes, he became hopelessly entangled. Tom had an exceptional talent for mind games. It was a triumph. Regulus was the cornerstone of his empire, the most crucial piece. After him, Tom secured Carrow, then Dolohov, and eventually, he was joined by Marius Nott and Druella Rosier from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. But his collection was still incomplete. “Could you ask your father about Selwyn?” Tom drawled lazily, continuing to write his essay. “It’s a strange case. I wonder why his family didn’t pay the ransom immediately?” “That puzzled everyone,” Regulus remarked, his dark eyes glinting. “I’ve been to their manor. It’s filled with antiques! Just one statue at the entrance is worth thousands of galleons. Maybe the kidnappers wanted something valuable from their collection? You should see Selwyn’s widow—she’s obsessed with her ancient trinkets. She’d sooner part with her grandson than an old painting or vase. That’s the only explanation I can think of since they have more money than even my father could dream of.” “Yes, peculiar,” Tom mused, biting his lower lip thoughtfully. Perhaps he had gotten everything wrong? Maybe the imposter wasn’t interested in him at all and was just infiltrating the Selwyns to claim the title and inheritance? It made sense. But then why was he at the orphanage? And how did he recognize Tom? Tom didn’t have acquaintances outside of school. “I’ll have my father look into it,” Regulus winked conspiratorially. “And how is your…” He didn’t get to finish because suddenly there were loud cries of outrage nearby. Gideon Crabbe and his lot had gathered on a couch by the fireplace. They usually conversed quietly amongst themselves, but something had clearly ruffled their feathers. Gideon was wildly waving a letter, exclaiming, “This is preposterous! Absolutely unthinkable!” The seventh-year students vocally agreed with him. “Spencer-Moon has lost his mind! Half of England could be thrown into Azkaban at this rate!” “What’s happened?” someone shouted. “Today they’ve passed a law on the confiscation of first-class dark artifacts!” Gideon waved the letter in the air. “If they find them in your house, they could send you straight to that island with the Dementors!” “About time,” Gorbovich said calmly. “First-class artifacts are typically used for ancestral curses, vengeance, and murders. Such items shouldn’t be in the hands of regular wizards.” “Shut your mouth, you filthy mudblood!” a classmate of Crabbe’s snapped. “You and your pathetic kind know nothing of family honor! Artifacts passed down through generations are our grand legacy! And they just want to snatch it from us!” “Merlin, the purebloods and THEIR GREAT FAMILY HONOR,” a sixth-year student laughed. “Most of you are either sadists or victims of incest, obsessed with blood purity. Trusting you with such artifacts is madness.” “You say that again, I dare you…” “Hey, I’m a pure-blood too, and I think the law makes sense…” “You goody two-shoes light wizards always fall in line, standing on all fours and bending over backwards for the Ministry!” A full-blown argument erupted. Slytherins shouted at each other, and soon, duel challenges flew about. “They have a point,” Regulus murmured, watching the fracas from a safe distance. “Our family relics are being taken as if they’re worthless. They’re trying to erase our traditions to please the mudbloods. I’m losing track of what’s going on.” The quarrel almost turned violent, but Prefect Crabbe suddenly remembered his status and dispersed the crowd. The most fervent ones had to be locked in their rooms. “Ever since the beginning of our era, there has been an increasing number of mudbloods in power,” Tom said to Lestrange. “They’re like Roman conquerors, altering their surroundings for their benefit. They don’t care about your values, honor, or traditions. Remember that. But we can resist,” Tom’s voice dropped to a seductive whisper. “If only others recognized my strength, my legacy. Just imagine our potential, led by a single leader, whose ancestor bequeathed him the mission to end the war once and for all.” Regulus looked at him with a mix of reverence and desperate hope. Tom’s words, like the sweetest poison, seeped into his mind, lulling rational thought. “You’ll convince them!” he exclaimed passionately. “These fools can’t achieve anything on their own except bickering. We’ll make them see you’re the worthy leader! How’s your project on…” He waggled his eyebrows, leaning in closer. “I’ve already begun the search,” Tom assured him. In reality, he had no time for the “Chamber of Secrets” project, even though his future depended on it. Tom had been made a prefect, and his duties piled up. The start of the school year was always chaotic. Plus, Selwyn’s imposter landed on his plate, requiring defense from him. Seeking ways to attain immortality was even more pressing. He had to return to war-torn London by year’s end. Tom slept just three or four hours a day, still failing to find time to search for the chamber. He wished to go without sleep altogether, but his frail human body begged to differ. The common room door slid open, and in came the aforementioned Selwyn with Crouch. Crouch whispered something, touching Selwyn’s shoulder. The imposter grimaced but smiled politely in return. He tried to leave, but Crouch said something and the imposter obediently sat next to him on the couch. Tom had never been interested in Gaspard Crouch. He was always hovering around Selwyn like a mother hen, and Selwyn looked up to him like a devoted puppy. But now, Tom paid attention and was surprised at how blind others were. Crouch acted oddly, not like a friend. He clearly wanted something from Selwyn. After observing a bit, Tom carefully rolled up his finished essay and bid Regulus goodbye. His next move was risky but vital, even if it meant sacrificing his precious free time. He exited the common room and cast a disillusionment charm, the source of his pride and joy. Not all adult wizards could master it, but he did. Waiting for a group of students, he slipped back into the common room behind them. He then cautiously approached the entrance to the living quarters, frequently checking if the imposter was watching. But the imposter was too engrossed in his game of pretense, talking tensely with Crouch. Tom knew this Selwyn imposter was a skilled combat wizard who had inadvertently exposed himself. But Tom had the element of surprise and intelligence on his side. Tom had deliberately summoned snakes a few days ago. He wasn’t trying to scare the imposter out childishly. He did it for cover. A couple of snakes remained, and the imposter kept stumbling upon them. Not knowing the banishing spell, he’d pick them up and release them at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The snakes were not smart enough to spy for him, but Tom wasn’t bothered. After all, he himself was a snake. Becoming an Animagus had been an easy feat for him: Tom had managed the transformation spell by the end of his second year and since then, used this form for espionage. He hadn’t seen himself from the outside, but he suspected he was a venomous variety, small yet highly dangerous, as mice bitten by him would die in agony. Initially, he was frustrated with his diminutive Animagus form, but over time, he saw its advantages. So, right there in the room, he transformed, slithered under a wardrobe from where he had the best view of half of Selwyn, and waited. Even if the imposter noticed the snake, he wouldn’t be alarmed. He didn’t have to wait long. The imposter burst into the room, slamming the door behind him. “Fucking little pervs! Ouch!” he hissed in irritation, then shouted, clutching his right hand, and pulled out his suitcase. “Fuck!” Swearing coarsely, entirely unbecoming of an aristocrat, he retrieved a small vial from the suitcase and poured a few drops onto his tongue. “Ah, that’s better,” he nodded to himself, sinking wearily onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. After sitting silently for a moment, he suddenly threw his head back and yelled into the void, “You find this funny? Laughing at me? Take me home!” Had Tom been in his own body, he would have been chilled to the bone with horror. Of course, no one answered him. The imposter stashed the potion in his bedside table, put away his suitcase , and with a lamp illuminating his desk, settled into his homework. Every now and then, he would mutter curses and wince, as if each swear word brought him physical pain. Tom stayed put. In his Animagus form, analytical thinking was challenging; he felt hungry and cold, but he patiently waited for an opportunity to escape. After some time, there was a knock on the door. “Alphard?” The imposter opened the door. “Are you alone?” the visitor asked hurriedly. The imposter nodded and let him in. Black looked around Tom’s half of the room with curiosity, gave a snort, and sat on Selwyn’s bed. “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he began. “You know, maybe you’re right. We cling so much to connections, family traditions, and values that we forget who we truly are. I don’t want to attend those parties either. I don’t want to mingle with Muggle-haters. I don’t want to hear about family honor and legacy. I just want… to play Quidditch, travel the world, and find someone who loves me for me, not because I’m a Black.” It seemed Black had been deeply affected by the argument in the common room that the imposter had missed. He sat down next to him, taking his hand. “So, what’s stopping you?” the stranger gently probed Black. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Maybe it’s the fear of becoming an outcast. I despise my family; sometimes, I just want to tell them to go to hell and flee. It feels like I’m a hostage in my own home, you know?” Tom couldn’t believe his ears. Black wanted to run away from home? From a wealthy, influential family?! And why was he confiding in Selwyn? “I understand it, sadly,” the imposter said with a bitter smile. “Look, you don’t have to run away or sever ties. We don’t get to choose our families. But you don’t have to follow their path either. Just be yourself, Alphard. Finish school, live where you want, do what you love. We don’t have to become what our family, or our long-dead ancestors want us to be. It’ll be tough, but it’s better than living a life others have decided for you.” “Thanks, Harry,” Black squeezed his hand. “It meant a lot hearing this from someone in the same boat as me.” Harry? So that’s the imposter’s name! Did Black know his true identity? “I can’t imagine what you’re going through, not remembering your past life, but… Would it be selfish to say I prefer you this way?” No, he didn’t. “Pretty selfish, yeah,” the stranger chuckled. “But I can’t blame you. I see things differently now; the old Gordian is gone.” Tom was ecstatic. There was no longer any doubt in his mind — the real Gordian was dead, replaced by a wizard with starkly contrasting views. “So, you want to separate from your family? What about the inheritance?” Thankfully, Black was asking all the right questions for Tom’s benefit. “I couldn’t care less about the money,” said this Harry. “My cousin wants me to charm you or Walburga and arrange an engagement. Needless to say, I’m not keen on that idea.” He whispered so softly that Tom had to lean forward to catch the words. “Me or Wal? He is smart,” Alphard seemed slightly flustered. “You know… Thank you for sharing. I appreciate it. And so… You should know, your cousin’s broke. The gallery’s afloat thanks to the Blacks’ money. He’s borrowing significant amounts, hoping to bounce back. That’s why I suggested you build connections.” “Ha!” the imposter exclaimed, leaping from the bed. “So that’s why he wants me to blend in with your family! They don’t want to sell off their collection. They want everyone to think they’re still rich when in reality…” “Maybe that’s why they couldn’t pay the ransom?” Alphard ventured, but the imposter waved him off. “Don’t be daft, Alphard. There was no ransom.” He seemed to realize he’d said too much and shot a wary glance at Black. “It’s… complicated. Just forget it.” Tom strained to hear their hushed conversation. “I can’t share. It’s not my secret to tell,” Harry sighed. “But you’ve given me a solid lead. Thanks.” That’s when Black spotted Tom. “There’s a snake!” he cried out, clambering atop the bed, feet tucked in. “Look at that, a bloody snake!” Tom cursed inwardly but froze, trying to act like a typical reptile. “Oh, pay it no mind,” Harry snorted. “Riddle gave me a late-night concert by tossing a bunch of snakes into my bed. A couple got away and have been slithering out from the oddest places.” “You’re just casually mentioning this? What if they’re venomous!” Black squealed, his bravado evaporating. “Riddle’s mad! You need to tell Callahan!” “Snakes don’t bite me,” Harry grinned, locking eyes with Tom. “Isn’t that right, beauty? You wouldn’t bite me, would you? I can’t help you as long as you’re on Riddle’s side, but if you come to me, I’ll release you into the forest.” “Do you think it understands you?” Black asked warily. “Not right now, no,” Harry said with a cryptic smile. “Hide.” Tom felt a shiver from Harry’s gaze and retreated under the cupboard. It was only moments later that he realized ‘hide’ was spoken in Parseltongue. “Riddle’s a monster,” Black whined on. “What if he drops a venomous snake into your bed while you’re asleep? What if he forces it to bite you?” “He can’t cross the line,” Harry casually gestured to the bright blue stripe on the floor. “Plus, I’ve taken precautions. Don’t worry, I can handle him.” “No, you don’t get it,” Black lowered his voice to a loud whisper. “Riddle could do something truly dangerous. Last year… The seventh-year prefect who, alongside Wal, tormented him, suddenly went mad. He saw ghosts everywhere and stuttered so badly, they had to send him to St. Mungo’s. And before that, another girl took her own life. Everyone knew she was head over heels for Riddle, trailing him, showering him with letters and gifts. Then, during the holidays, her mother found her in the bath with slit wrists and a smile on her face. I’m sure he told her something, messed with her head like he does with everyone. Regulus, Druella, and now Marcius! He whispers something and they turn into Inferi! Be careful, Harry, please, don’t underestimate this maniac.” Tom snorted in silent indignation. Sure, he’d punished the prefect. Just a strand of hair and a trip into the Forbidden Forest for a ritual with unpleasant consequences, and the already fragile mind of the boy had snapped. Tom knew he had been treated at St. Mungo’s before, so no one suspected anything other than a complete breakdown. As for Vivien, she was just collateral damage, used as payback against another jester who had tormented Tom in his second year. She was his sister. So, Tom first made her fall for him, then fed her nonsense about their relationship being impossible due to his blood status. The fool was so impressionable that she took her life, and her brother, who had by then graduated, reportedly nearly did the same out of grief. Tom was still amazed at how it all panned out. He hadn’t believed someone could actually end their life over a relationship. At most, he had expected a scandal when Vivien revealed to her brother that Tom had taken her virginity. But it had turned out even better. That didn’t make him a psycho. “I don’t underestimate him, trust me,” Harry said grimly, pulling Tom from his fond daydreams of revenge. “I know what he’s capable of. But he’ll break his teeth trying to get to me, rest assured.” “Oh, really?” Tom chuckled silently but held his tongue as the imposter continued. “He’s defensive. I see fear and hatred in him, and it’s so… I pity him, you know. When I learned what Walburga and the others did to him, I couldn’t help but feel compassion. With their bullying, they created a monster by their own hands. Riddle is very… vindictive. And he has this obsessive need to prove that his Muggle father’s blood doesn’t make him inferior.” Tom froze, taken aback. “— I understand, a lot of the blame does fall on us,” Black admitted, hanging his head. “I tried to protect him, honestly I did, but you know how Wal is. I think she’s infatuated with him. But his blood status stops her from showing that love. She despises him because she’s fallen for someone like him. All day, every day, all I hear is: Riddle, Riddle, Riddle. If it wasn’t for her twisted love, no one would have tormented him. But Walburga — she’s a storm. She drags everyone close to her into her whirlwind and infects them with her ideas. How can we ever make this right? It’s too late now.” Had Tom been in his own body, he would’ve choked on air, coughing till he teared up. “Merlin’s beard,” Harry buried his face in his hands. “Hatred breeds so much more hatred! Dumbledore was right. Someone has to break this vicious cycle. This pureblood ideology—it’s just smoke and mirrors, a deceitful distraction from what’s really important. What truly matters is inner strength, self-control, and discipline! That’s it! Nothing else!” Tom hung on Harry’s every word, captivated as if under a spell. The conviction in Harry’s voice was undeniable, and its strength irresistibly compelling. Tom longed to be seen as pureblooded, to witness respect and admiration in others’ eyes. He despised the Muggle blood of his father and yearned to be accepted by the Gaunts—the heirs of Salazar Slytherin. “You know, many believe that pure-bloods are more magically powerful,” Black mused, shaking his head. “They embrace that belief because they want it to be true. I’ve observed my relatives, classmates, and other students. Yet, I’ve never seen proof. My second cousin struggles to cast a simple Incendio, while our Muggle-born classmate, Marie, excels astonishingly in Transfiguration. There are countless examples like this. Marsius can hardly perform any magic; he’s almost a Squib. Walburga is formidable, especially in duels, while Lucretia prefers runes over combat. Some are better, some worse—just like everyone else: half-bloods and Muggleborns. It’s a baseless belief, this senseless hatred, this notion of inherent superiority.” Internally, Tom seethed. He had observed that purebloods weren’t necessarily superior, but he so desperately wanted to be one of them. To be proud of his roots, his family! Idiotic Black was willing to renounce his ancient lineage because he never knew what it was like to be a complete nobody—to be akin to a flea-ridden kitten, discarded in a cardboard box by the side of the road! “Empires are built and crumbled on such ideas,” the stranger whispered. “When there’s division, someone will always exploit it. Grindelwald does now, and later… someone else will. If only we could eradicate the very idea…” “But another would spring up,” Black interjected. “They might start praising the Muggleborns. Wizards just need a scapegoat for their problems.” “Spot on!” Harry ruffled his hair in exasperation. “Why can’t we just live in peace?” he murmured almost inaudibly. “We need more Dumbledores.” “What?” Black asked, puzzled. “Just thinking out loud,” the imposter grumbled. They went on, expressing gratitude for their candid conversation, but Tom found it dull. He had to wait a few more hours for the imposter to finish his homework and go to sleep. Then, quickly reverting to his human form, he darted from the room, completely disoriented and off-kilter. One question played on loop in his mind: “WHO THE HELL IS THIS HARRY?!” Lestrange was still laboring over his essay, along with some other less-accomplished students. Tom sat beside him, mumbling something about a forgotten book, then lost himself staring into the fireplace, biting his lip. The dots just wouldn’t connect. He didn’t care about the Selwyn inheritance; there wasn’t any inheritance. No one had kidnapped Selwyn for ransom. He’d spoken to someone unseen, pleading to return home. He wasn’t here willingly! And he knew Tom. He knew his father was a Muggle, even though Tom had only found that out a few months prior and had told no one. Somehow, he knew of Tom’s… vindictiveness, his need to prove himself. He was eerily perceptive. And the snakes? How had he swayed them to Tom’s side without magic? “Do you think it understands you?” “Not right now. Hide.” Once more, Tom felt a haunting terror and an engulfing anticipation. He was convinced “hide” was spoken in Parseltongue. The stranger spoke it, just like Tom. That was the only explanation for how he’d managed to send the snakes over to Tom’s side of the room, bypassing the spells. Tom had already deduced he was a descendant of Slytherin. But he’d never met the Gaunts. Who were they? Why did they hide from the world? What secrets did they possess? Why was he born alone in the Muggle world? Could Harry be from his family? Was he planted in Hogwarts to spy on Tom? Did they want to gauge his worthiness? Harry wasn’t a Muggle-hater, and he genuinely felt pity for Tom. Could the Gaunts be not as vile as other pureblood snobs? They had cast out his mother for her relationship with a Muggle, but perhaps they’ve softened over time. Did they now want to see what Tom was like? Or had his mother simply fled from home, and now that the family knew about Tom, they wanted to bring him back? “You look as if you’ve just won a million Galleons,” Regulus’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. Tom only responded with a cryptic smile. Harry had come to his orphanage. Harry had found him in Knockturn Alley and saved him. Could he have possibly dropped that money on purpose? Initially, Tom had thought it a mere accident and, without a second thought, pocketed it. That serendipity had greatly assisted him in dressing well for school and renting a place. But losing a heavy pouch filled with Galleons wasn’t an everyday occurrence. Harry had never shown aggression. It seemed like he wanted to converse—why else would he start a chat about the color of the waistcoat? And now, he had protected Tom from Black. He hadn’t retaliated for the snakes, nor tried to attack, even though he was clearly a powerful duelist. Tom felt the weight of fear and hatred in his chest lessen slightly, and in its place emerged something fragile, like a thin silk thread. He clung to this new sensation, attempting to comprehend it, and found himself feeling warmth and an unfamiliar calm… As if he was no longer a kitten left in a box. Harry was from Tom’s family. His real family, not some Muggle parody. “A million Galleons?” Lestrange was still staring at him, prompting Tom to reply, “No. Money can’t replace blood.” Could he possibly have other brothers and sisters? Cousins? Not that Tom desired it—he preferred being an only child—but it would be intriguing to observe them. Perhaps his mother hadn’t really died? Sometimes, Tom imagined his entire life was a form of grooming, designed to strengthen him to ensure he became a worthy heir. Nobody truly knew about the lives of the Gaunts; they had disappeared from mention over a century ago. Harry had impersonated someone else, remaining undiscovered by both St. Mungo’s and the Auror Department. This suggested that the Gaunts possessed unimaginable magical knowledge. “Riddle, have you finally realized that nothing can cleanse your dirty blood? Bravo!” So lost in thought, Tom hadn’t noticed Walburga, accompanied by Sofia, at the neighboring table. The common room had fallen too silent, and she’d overheard him. Tom slowly turned, sizing her up with an intrigued look. Beauty or ugliness of others didn’t concern him, but by general standards, he recognized that she was a classic beauty: symmetrical face, lush well-kept hair, slender waist, and ample bosom. Under his gaze, Walburga blushed. “What are you staring at, scum?” she hissed venomously, her eyes flashing. His lips effortlessly curled into that signature smile that had once charmed Vivien. Tom believed he noticed everything, but he was often mistaken. There was always more to discover, and he relished learning. “Your rudeness and aggression only highlight your sinful allure,” he remarked slyly, biting his lip before sharply turning away. Walburga was silent at first, processing what she’d heard and from whom, before hurling insults. Tom simply smiled smugly. He was adept at using one’s desires against them. Regulus looked genuinely shocked, but Tom just smirked and resumed gazing into the fireplace, tuning out the room. He hadn’t considered that Walburga might be bothered by repressed feelings. He had never thought of bringing her to his side; she was too stubborn and resolute. But Alphard’s admission had changed everything. Touching someone repulsed Tom. Even recalling the fake moans and the bedframe knocking against the wall made him feel sick. After Vivien, he’d scrubbed himself in the bathtub until he bled. He’d played the caring lover role to get what he wanted, but the aftermath was harsh. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to endure that again. Purebloods were quite prudish about intimacy. For Walburga, passionate glances might be enough. Back in his room, Tom peered through a gap in the canopy. By the dim light of the faux moon, he studied the relaxed face of the newcomer. The man was unaware that in his Animagus form, Tom could easily cross the line. “Who are you?” Tom pondered again, observing the man’s furrowed brows in sleep and the sad curve of his bright lips. “Brother? Uncle? Cousin?” For the first time in ages, Tom went to bed early, feeling completely at peace, anticipating a new day, new intrigues, and investigations, without the constant fear of looming disaster. Somehow, he felt his life was about to change for the better. This feeling was intoxicating, bringing forth genuine smiles and a warm, cozy sensation in his chest, right beneath his ugly birthmark. ***   Remembering that he was supposed to meet Mr. Gorbovich’s son, it only dawned on Harry on his fourth day at school. Amidst the whirlwind of meeting classmates and enduring Walburga’s lectures on who was and wasn’t acceptable company, he’d nearly forgotten that there were also ordinary wizarding children in Slytherin. “Hi, you’re Rut Gorbovich, right?” Harry bumped into a boy in the schoolyard and instantly recognized the familiar facial features; Rut was the spitting image of his father. “Yes?” The fellow student seemed taken aback. Until this point, Harry hadn’t given him a second glance, nor had Rut approached him. Perhaps he’d assumed that Gordian Selwyn remained the same old Muggle-hater. Rut was a stocky, not very tall boy with dark hair and warm brown eyes. Beside him stood a pretty girl, also staring at Harry in confusion. “Your father mentored me,” Harry smiled at them. “I know we haven’t spoken before, but I’d like to make up for lost time. Gordian Selwyn, but you can just call me Harry.” He extended a hand, and Rut looked at it in surprise. “Is this some sort of joke?” he asked. In that moment, Harry felt like a first-year Draco Malfoy, who had similarly offered his hand in friendship. Looking around, he realized nearly every student in the courtyard was watching. “No, it’s not a joke,” Harry frowned. “I just wanted to get to know you. After my memory loss, everyone’s a stranger to me.” “Well, let me give you a hint,” Rut replied with a sarcastic smile. “I’m a half-blood. And Joanna here is Muggleborn. You shouldn’t be talking to us, lest, God forbid, the shadow of our tainted blood dims your shining rear.” “I have nothing against Muggleborns or half-bloods,” Harry’s frown deepened. He was increasingly uncomfortable with how much attention a simple introduction and handshake had attracted. “Your father is an honorable wizard; I enjoyed our conversations. That’s why I approached you. I don’t see the drama here.” The girl next to Rut theatrically gasped and rolled her eyes. “The prince condescends to mingle with mere mortals!” she exclaimed dramatically. “Rut, we must become his vassals now. Bow, quickly!” “No, I’m serious…” A flustered Harry blinked, watching the amused friends. “If I wronged you before, I apologize. I’m truly, deeply sorry.” “Gordian, what are you doing?” Walburga swept into the courtyard accompanied by Sofia, halting immediately upon seeing him. “Stay away from these.. mongrels.” “The queen has arrived, the queen!” Joanna chirped, laughing even louder. “Bow down, everyone!” Many of the watching students erupted in laughter, though some simply turned away in disdain. Harry was flustered. He had just approached to introduce himself! “Gordian, come,” Walburga didn’t even glance at Joanna. Seizing Harry’s arm, she attempted to pull him away. “Stop it, all of you!” Harry bellowed, yanking his sleeve free from her tight grip. “What’s all this fuss? I just wanted to meet Rut!” The laughter died down, and students stared at him, shock evident on their faces. “Gordian, darling, I did explain who you shouldn’t be talking to,” Walburga cooed condescendingly, patting him on the head as if he were a child. “Shall I write it down on parchment, so you don’t forget?” “And make sure to hang it in the living room, so everyone knows exactly who to befriend,” Joanna giggled. Both she and Rut were clearly amused by the unfolding drama. “Walburga,” Harry growled. The patronizing head pat ignited such anger in him that he blurted out, “I need neither your parchments nor your moral lessons. Stop acting like a spoiled little brat immediately!” A drawn-out “Oh!” rippled through the crowd, echoing like a mountain’s call. Harry cursed his impulsiveness. He’d only lasted four days! Walburga was driving him mad even faster than her portrait had. “What did you say?” she hissed like an angry cat. “I won’t tolerate being treated this way,” Harry said in the iciest tone he could muster. “I’ll decide for myself who I can and can’t talk to.” “So that’s how it is,” her blue eyes narrowed into slits. “I’ve been wondering why Alphard has been acting so oddly lately. It’s all you… Filling his head with nonsense and telling him he’s right!” “Because your brother has a right to his own opinion. He doesn’t want to mindlessly echo your parents’ words, and you’d do well to try the same,” Harry snapped back. He didn’t want to clash with the pure-bloods, but Walburga was practically asking for a dressing-down. “Well, let’s see how brave you are when you’re left all alone,” she sneered, and with a dismissive wave, as if beckoning a pet, called, “Sofia, let’s go.” Sofia shot a nervous glance at Harry before hurrying after Walburga. It was clear: the queen and her entourage. “I hope this isn’t because of me,” Rut chuckled awkwardly, rubbing his neck. “Sorry, Selwyn, I didn’t mean for things to…” “No, she had it coming,” Harry sighed deeply. Students eyed him with a mix of intrigue and curiosity. “Don’t fret, I can handle it.” “Well then,” Rut extended his hand, gripping Harry’s firmly, “Nice to meet you. I’m Rut Gorbovich.” “And I’m Joanna Collins,” Rut’s friend beamed, practically bouncing with excitement. “You’re my new hero. Calling Black a spoiled little brat! Merlin’s beard, you deserve your own plaque in Hogwarts’ hall of fame.” “That was uncalled for,” Harry grimaced. “She is a girl. I shouldn’t have insulted her.” “Walburga is no ordinary girl. She’s a dragon,” Rut laughed, patting him on the shoulder. Harry resisted the urge to facepalm and groan. He was the center of attention again! Though there was a silver lining: he wouldn’t have to endure the barrage of slurs and insults from Walburga every time she opened her mouth. “I forgive you on behalf of all girls,” Joanna grinned widely. “So, are you going to greet us now?” “Yes?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Are you implying I’ve never done that before?” He recalled his school years and realized it was true. Kids like Malfoy never greeted their half-blood peers. “Of course not,” Rut chortled. “In your circles, it’s considered treason. You’ve met Black and Crabbe; did you really think you could just stroll up and chat with us? Perhaps they’d overlook me, but I’m with Joanna. To them, it’s as if they’ve dirtied themselves.” Harry frowned again. No, he hadn’t thought of this. When he listened to others talk, he tried to filter out all the negative chatter because hearing “Mudblood” constantly was unbearable. Conversations remained just conversations for him, and seeing the reaction in reality was startling, though it shouldn’t have been. What else had he expected from Sirius’s mother? She disowned her own son because of his beliefs. “What a mess,” he sighed. “Joanna, I’m sorry if I ever treated you that way. I’ve changed, I swear.” “I hope you’re sincere,” the girl smiled warmly. “Nothing’s better than knowing another sensible wizard has come around. I detest this segregation.” Suddenly, Harry’s gaze met with Dean Callahan’s. The man was lurking in the shadow of a gallery pillar, clearly observing him with Rut and Joanna. A sudden chill ran down Harry’s spine at the stare. “An opportunity!” he quickly realized. “Alright, I need to go. See you,” he said, quickly bidding his goodbyes. He made a beeline for the gallery, trying to appear unhurried, just strolling. But Callahan turned and briskly headed for the castle’s entrance. “Professor, good day,” Harry called out. “A moment of your time?” “Mr. Selwyn?” the professor glanced over his shoulder. “I’m in a hurry. Is it urgent?” “Um, well,” Harry hesitated. “I’m struggling to adjust in the castle, and I was hoping you could help me…” He had to almost jog to keep up. “Hasn’t your roommate been assisting?” Callahan asked without looking back. “Riddle? No. We’re… not on good terms.” “Then speak with Mr. Black,” the dean’s voice turned icy, and he slammed the door right in front of Harry. “Damn,” Harry muttered under his breath. It seemed like none of the reasonable folks actually liked Gordian Selwyn. With that kind of reputation, becoming the dean’s favorite was off the table.