Behind Lies Eternity

The first month at school whizzed by for Harry like a golden snitch, fluttering its vibrant wings before dissolving into the gloomy October sky. It felt like just yesterday when he had crossed the threshold of Hogwarts, heart pounding loudly, and now he found himself calmly having breakfast and chatting with Alphard about Slytherin’s Quidditch prospects for the year, all while diligently ignoring Gaspard’s angry glances. Crouch struggled to accept the loss of a friend and lover and persistently sought Harry’s attention, unabashedly playing on pity and guilt. Harry quickly learned to avoid him, especially given his sparse free time. Night after night, he sat in the library until curfew, scouring for any information about his connection with Riddle. Dodging Crouch in the vast room was a breeze: Harry was a master of disillusionment charms and knew a few secret nooks where he could comfortably immerse himself in reading, undisturbed by hormonal teenagers. Riddle, too, had been surprisingly well-behaved; no setting snakes loose, no cursing objects, doors or windows. He barely greeted Harry during their rare encounters in the room and overall behaved like an absolute angel. The two rival groups had similarly quieted down, as though lying in wait for something. Harry sensed this serenity was a ruse. His connection with Riddle had gone silent, indicating that Riddle had gained control over his emotions and was now hatching some plan. Riddle’s piercing gaze started to haunt Potter in the empty corridors. In the midst of this “classes-library-food-sleep” routine, Harry still managed to turn heads. Merely speaking to half-blood and Muggleborn peers in front of others was enough to ignite ridiculous rumors throughout the school: Gordian Selwyn had rejected his family’s views, now supported Minister Spencer-Moon, and was planning to marry a Muggle girl from a village near his manor. Following the scandal, Walburga ceased speaking to him. Malfoy remained impeccably polite but conspicuously avoided sitting beside him in classes. Riedale scowled disdainfully and demanded apologies, and Alphard… Alphard had defected with him to the outcast camp. Their estrangement from the group of purebloods was abrupt, as though a switch had been flipped. At some point, Harry noticed that invitations to sixth-year parties had stopped, Prefect Crabbe no longer offered morning greetings, and the obnoxious Burke took pleasure in elbowing him in the corridors and loudly maligning him in private conversations with friends. Remarkably, this didn’t ruffle Harry in the slightest. He forged strong bonds with Rut and Joanna, developed an unlikely friendship with Elphinstone Urquhart from Gryffindor—whom the Selwyns loathed—and unexpectedly found common ground with Alphard’s cousin Lucretia, who sided with Gordian and Alphard in the Walburga scandal. They inhabited an entirely different world—one without divisions based on blood purity. Rut simply twirled his finger at his temple in response to Walburga’s antics, dismissing her as a “spoiled, brainless girl.” Elphinstone cared for nothing beyond his Quidditch career, while Lucretia fiercely guarded her independence, allowing no one to dictate her life. She had even arranged her own engagement to Ignatius Prewett, forsaking the Black family’s inheritance. With warmth in his heart, Harry observed Ignatius and Lucretia, his thoughts drifting to the Weasley family. He understood why Molly had chosen Arthur Weasley, defying convention. Like Lucretia, Molly too bristled at others dictating her beliefs. The mother and daughter were remarkably similar. In Hogwarts, there was also a Weasley: Billius Weasley, a fourth-year Gryffindor. He was an incorrigible rascal, a prankster, and a sleazebag. Harry recalled the twins, Fred and George, recounting outrageous stories about their uncle. Billius, who lived to a ripe old age, was infamous for producing a bouquet of flowers out of his ass at a family wedding. Little wonder that Lucretia and Ignatius had no patience for the Weasleys. Following that pivotal conversation, Alphard had markedly withdrawn from his social circle, dedicating more time to Quidditch and, unexpectedly, to art. As it transpired, drawing was a source of deep tranquility for him. Harry realized that his words might have altered Alphard’s destiny. But when Black came to him, utterly lost and broken, Harry could not remain silent. Walburga would cast him out and erase him from the family tree regardless. What did timing matter? Harry wished him happiness, knowing Alphard’s eventual fate—a solitary life. Wouldn’t life be better lived on his own terms, free from a toxic family of dark-wizard fanatics? Pollux, Harry believed, would continue to love his son and never disown him. Alphard never reconciled with Walburga, and she, too proud and haughty, never took the first step toward mending their relationship. Instead, they observed each other from afar, chins held high in stubborn defiance. Harry, an only child, could only guess at the emotional toll this estrangement took on them both. He couldn’t help but wonder—how would he feel if his own sister championed blood purity and dark magic? He’d likely be devastated but would continue to love her deeply. Isn’t that the essence of family? It’s not a matter of choice. Harry had even found it in his heart to forgive the Dursleys, recalling them with a deep, melancholic feeling despite their years of mistreatment and abuse. Oh, how he yearned for a family of his own—even if they were cruel, stubborn, and narrow-minded, as long as they loved him as deeply as Alphard and Walburga, Orion and Lucretia were loved. As deeply as Mrs. Selwyn loved Gordian. It was a perplexing, damaging, and contorted love, but it was love nonetheless. These were the poignant dreams of a boy who once lived in a cupboard under the stairs. Harry, who understood little of love and family, could only imagine himself in another’s place, a perennial outsider. He couldn’t even maintain a lasting relationship with a fiancée. His enduring struggle was maintaining any long-term connection—he still felt like an outsider, a freak. Day by day, his past and present were converging, blurring into one. He found himself caught in a whirlpool of fresh experiences, clutching at remnants of his former life, which seemed to be disintegrating more rapidly, leaving nothing but ancient scars in its wake. Nightmares had once again become Harry’s unwelcome nightly companions. He dreamt of battles, chases, fights, and attacks, waking in sweat-soaked sheets, his heart racing, reliving the deaths of Sirius, Remus, and Tonks time and again. His memories had fully resurfaced, along with his old habits. Harry had become himself again, and it unsettled him. It was easier to face Alphard when Harry couldn’t recall the expression on Sirius’s face as he fell through the veil. Conversing with Lucretia was less painful when he could momentarily forget Molly Weasley’s anguished scream upon seeing her son lifeless. And then there was Riddle. Harry found it far more tolerable to share a room with him when he couldn’t remember how Lord Voldemort had murdered his mother in cold blood. Each memory had etched its own haunting corner in Harry’s mind, piercing painfully—much like the evenings when he would secretly drink to find a peaceful sleep. Reliving all of this was excruciating. “Lately, you’ve been rather gloomy,” Alphard observed, clearly noticing Harry’s change in demeanor. “Is something wrong with your family?” If only Alphard knew that this was Harry’s constant state. His own memories had shaped him into a man standing on the edge, peering into the abyss, with only the now-absent close friends to keep him from tumbling in. “Yes,” Harry lied, as was his habit, and offered a weak smile. “Don’t mind me; it will pass soon.” Alphard studied him with concern in his bright blue eyes but respected Harry’s space and didn’t press further. He offered a reassuring squeeze to Harry’s shoulder—a gesture deeply valued by Harry. They didn’t bare their souls or share secrets like Harry did with Ron and Hermione, but Alphard had become a much-needed breath of fresh air for Harry in this terrifying, strange world. In Alphard, Harry felt a trusted confidant, much like he had with Sirius. As they headed to the Great Hall for dinner, Harry mustered a carefree expression. Now, he and Alphard chose to sit apart from Walburga and her entourage, usually joined by Rut and Joanna. Harry suspected that Joanna had a crush on Alphard but hadn’t previously managed to grow close to him. Tonight, however, they were joined by two notorious gossip girls of the school—fifth-year prefect Shion and her friend Stephanie—to the clear displeasure of their usual company. “Have you heard the news?” Shion eagerly inquired as Harry began to fill his plate, her dark, slanted eyes sparkling with excitement. Harry generally had a soft spot for Asian girls, but Shion unnerved him—and not in a pleasant way. “Haven’t had the pleasure. Enlighten us?” Alphard replied, the model of politeness. “Imagine this: Riddle is secretly in love with Walburga!” Shion whispered dramatically, leaning in so the nearby third-years wouldn’t overhear. “Can you believe it?!” Harry choked on his juice, splattering the tablecloth. “Where did this news come from?” Alphard hissed, casting an anxious glance towards his sister. “Stephanie saw how he… how did you put it? Tell it again!” Shion commanded her friend. The petite, chubby girl with dark hair widened her eyes and clasped her hands to her chest. “You cannot imagine what he did!” she whispered breathlessly. “I was coming back from extra curriculum classes and heard them from afar. Walburga was scolding him, insulting him, as per usual. But Tom just stood there silently, listening to her, and he looked so… Oh! Like that handsome prince’s portrait on the third floor, remember? So sorrowful, sad, and forlorn! It brought tears to my eyes!” Harry cringed in disgust, but kept listening. “Then he quietly said to her,” Stephanie attempted to mimic a male voice, “‘Walburga, is there even a chance to change your opinion of me?’ And he gave her a black rose! The ones Professor Beery grows and guards like a treasure! Walburga’s mouth fell open in surprise!” “And she took the rose!” Shion chimed in, eyes wide. “Can you imagine? She must have been stunned. And Tom just walked away. Do you understand? He’s clearly smitten with her—no offense, Alphard, but your sister is a real bitch.” Harry and Alphard exchanged looks, their expressions simultaneously shifting to deep frowns. “Nonsense,” Harry sharply cut off Shion. “I’d bet anything that Riddle isn’t in love with her. He doesn’t love anyone but himself. Please, Shion, don’t spread this absurd gossip.” The situation was turning dangerous. If Walburga, secretly infatuated with Riddle, heard this rumor, she’d likely be furious and redouble her efforts to make his life hell. But in time, she might recognize her feelings for him. And Harry was willing to bet his wand that Riddle would instantly exploit the situation. Alphard seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “It’s just a rose!” Alphard snorted. “Maybe he poisoned it, trying to take revenge on Wal. It’s not wise to gossip about Riddle; he might decide to poison you too.” Stephanie and Shion stared at them, their faces full of indignation. “Tom would never poison anyone!” Stephanie huffed. “And he doesn’t just love himself! You don’t know him at all,” Shion shot back. “He’s a romantic and a true gentleman, and you’re just jealous of him!” Harry suppressed the urge to slap his forehead in exasperation. Of course, Riddle had charmed the school’s main gossip girls. Who would have doubted it? “Let’s go, Shion. I don’t want to listen to these jealous people,” Stephanie said, grabbing her friend’s arm, and they moved to the Slytherin table, where they immediately began recounting the rumor to the sixth-year students. “How did he guess?” Alphard whispered into Harry’s ear. “Do you think he did it on purpose?” “Absolutely,” Harry snorted. “He doesn’t do anything without a reason. Maybe he noticed something about Walburga… He is a genius, after all.” Harry was certain that Riddle wasn’t eavesdropping; he would have detected any charms or artifacts. The room was clean and safe. Was it a snake? In the past, a snake had been concealed under the cabinet, which Riddle could have interrogated later. Had he simply looked through its memories? Did Legilimency work with animals? He immediately voiced his suspicions. “I’ve never considered that,” Alphard shrugged. “Maybe he’s an Animagus?” Harry recalled the teeny tiny cute creature and nearly snorted. Voldemort would sooner forgo using Animagus magic altogether than transform into such a diminutive, adorable snake. His Animagus form would have to be a monstrous serpent, like Nagini. “Or maybe, if you spoke more quietly, nobody would know anything?” snapped Rut, who, it turned out, had heard their whisperings perfectly. “Excuse my intrusion, but Walburga’s extreme aggression hints that things aren’t so simple…” “That’s for sure,” nodded Joanna. “Riddle is smart; he might have noticed it himself.” “Shit!” Harry cursed, and his ring stung his finger. Joanna and Rut gave him disapproving looks. “I apologize.” He cautiously peeked out from behind Alphard’s shoulder and cast a glance at Riddle’s entourage. Today, Riddle indeed looked quite dramatic: pale, with sad eyes, and seemingly deliberately bright lips and a thoughtfully tousled fringe. Harry rolled his eyes and again resisted the urge to slap himself on the forehead. What an actor! “Make peace with your sister and try to talk to her,” he hissed at Alphard. “Just look at what that scumbag is doing. Druella seems to be fixated on him, not even lifting her fork, like half the schoolgirls here.” “Try making peace with her yourself first,” Alphard shook his head. “Approaching her is no use—she immediately reaches for her wand. She won’t listen to Orion, much less Lucretia. So what can we do?” Their conversation was interrupted by a late-arriving owl. It soared into the hall, circled under the ceiling, and landed right in front of Harry. “It’s from Grandma,” Harry said as he hurriedly took the letter under the surprised gazes of the students and stashed it in his pocket. “Aren’t you going to read it?” Rut asked, surprised. “If it was sent this late, something must have happened.” “Exactly,” Joanna agreed. Harry shrugged and finally started to eat. A letter from home promised trouble; his grandmother had written only once at the beginning of the school year, and that was it. But that was the least of his problems. “I’ll talk to Riddle,” Harry finally decided. Their silent coexistence had to break eventually. Harry couldn’t even imagine what he would say, but he knew that Walburga needed to be saved from this parasite, or Sirius might never be born. After dinner, Harry, as usual, made his way to the library. But this time, he didn’t hide in a nook; instead, he positioned himself conspicuously on the second floor, encircling the library’s perimeter. From here, he had an excellent view of the entrance and all the visitors. He was spot on—Riddle appeared, as always, precisely one hour before closing time. Harry had carefully studied his habits, schedule, and behavior, discovering that young Voldemort had a frightful love for order. He kept to a schedule in all things. Harry had noted that Riddle even visited the communal bathroom at the exact same time daily—an arrangement that seemed horribly inconvenient and downright peculiar. How could one train their body to relieve itself at the exact same time every day? But Riddle managed it. Only occasionally did he stray from this rigid timetable—just three times in a month. The more Harry observed him, the more he unearthed. To an outsider, Tom Riddle seemed utterly charming, courteous, and exceptionally well-mannered. He gallantly helped ladies carry their textbooks from the library, held doors, impartially settled disputes among younger students, and vigilantly maintained discipline and decorum. Unsurprisingly, he was beloved by all (except the pureblood fanatics, of course). Had Harry encountered him for the first time, he would have deemed this fellow deserving of respect and admiration. But this was just a facade, akin to a tapestry in Gordian’s room: beautiful, intricate, brimming with minuscule details—a true masterpiece. But behind this tapestry hid crumpled, scattered belongings, a mirror quivering in fear of its owner, and blood stains on the carpet. With Harry, Riddle dispensed with any pretense of being a gentleman or the life of the party. He asserted his dominance through silence, drilled into Harry with his dark gaze, and intimidated by his mere presence. Had he pretended to be a good guy, Harry would have known how to act. Had he attacked, threatened, or tried to harm—Harry would have fought. But this eerie calm sent shivers down his spine. As usual, Riddle turned left before the librarian’s desk and ventured deeper into the room. Harry knew that there lay a convenient nook between shelves of books on history, where almost no one ventured. In his time, this nook was used for secret rendezvous, but now Riddle had claimed it exclusively. Harry rose from his spot and headed downstairs. His hands trembled slightly from nerves; his temples were pounding loudly. Mentally, he tried to script their conversation, but the words slipped through his mind like grains of sand between fingers; the dialogue refused to form. So Harry decided to wing it, as usual. Upon seeing Riddle, he was sure he’d know exactly what to say. The staircase ended rather quickly, and there, appearing before him, was the bookshelf about goblin rebellions; Harry’s pulse slowed and steadied. Riddle sat at a table, poring over a very familiar book, and Harry couldn’t help but be amused: in this, too, Riddle was predictable. “Hello,” Harry said, sitting on the bench opposite him and stretching his lips into a courteous smile. “Reading ‘Hogwarts: A History’? Fascinating book, especially the first edition.” Riddle didn’t flinch, show surprise, or even raise an eyebrow. He slowly lifted his gaze from the yellowed pages and fixed Harry with his unnaturally black eyes so intently that Harry felt a shiver inside himself. That gaze was physically oppressive, provoking anxiety and unease. “He’s just a schoolboy!” Harry told himself. “Are you really getting nervous over a schoolboy?” Harry met Riddle’s gaze head-on, not betraying any outward signs of agitation. Mentally, though, he clung to their connection, pulling on it with all his might, trying to discern what Riddle was thinking. The connection felt familiarly warm, linking them, but it didn’t allow for a look into the other’s soul. “Did you want anything, Gordian?” Riddle finally said, his unnaturally red lips barely moving. “Yes. I wanted to talk,” Harry collected himself and pretended he was in just another interrogation. “About what?” “About our complicated relationship,” Harry replied, making himself more comfortable, elbows on the table, chin resting on interlaced fingers. The corner of Riddle’s mouth twitched, but he remained silent. “Our living arrangement is causing me some discomfort. I don’t understand why you act this way towards me when I have nothing against you. As you’ve likely figured out, I don’t support Walburga and her circle of budding sadists. I’m amenable towards everyone in the wizarding community—except the Dementors. I don’t care for Dementors.” Riddle narrowed his eyes, unfazed by Harry’s feigned confidence and relaxation. He too leaned forward, drilling into Harry with an inscrutable gaze, as if trying to unravel a puzzle. “I wonder why your views have shifted to the opposite, Gordian,” he said, sending a shiver down Harry’s spine because he eerily resembled his younger self from the diary. He was younger, his hairstyle different, but the look in his eyes was unmistakably the same. “Your family remains unchanged. Your life remains the same. So, why?” Harry noticed the burst capillaries in Riddle’s eyes and the dark circles beneath them. “Memory loss freed me from the illusions imposed by my family,” Harry replied sharply. “I woke up and saw the world for what it is. All around us is a cycle of hatred. Purebloods despise Muggleborns, who hate them in return, and upon this our history stands. Endless wars, deaths, fear, and pain. A wise wizard told me that someone must break this cycle, and I’ve decided to start with myself.” “That’s foolish,” Riddle sneered. “Wizards will always have feuds; it’s an inherent part of our culture. You either belong to one side or the other, and your sudden enlightenment doesn’t make you any less pureblood. You are still a Selwyn, and if your family learns you are trying to befriend me, they will destroy you. It would be more logical for you to keep your distance, but you’re attempting to build bridges. What’s the real reason, Gordian? What do you need me for?” Damn Riddle, always too perceptive. “I’m not trying to befriend you,” Potter countered. “I’m attempting to make our living situation slightly less awkward than it already is. Yes, I’m still a pureblood Selwyn. Yes, my family could cause me trouble. But I have firmly resolved not to indulge their ridiculous hatred. Blood status means nothing to me now.” “I’m quite willing to believe that blood status means nothing to you,” Riddle leaned closer and lowered his voice, “but I don’t believe you initiated this conversation merely because you’re uncomfortable. We’ve managed just fine for a whole month. What do you need, Gordian? Or should I rather call you Harry?” “Harry is preferable, thank you for the courtesy,” Harry’s lips stretched into a charming smile. “And yes, you’re right. I decided to talk to you for an entirely different reason. One can’t deny your perceptiveness.” Tom leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, smiling smugly. Harry wasn’t surprised that this young version of Voldemort relished praise just as much as his older self. It was a curious little quirk of the orphan from Wool’s. “Let me guess,” Riddle immediately sought to display his intellect. “Your friend Black is quite concerned about the rumors of my supposed infatuation with Walburga. And since they are at odds, he asked you to talk to me. Saint Alphard… Always trying to save everyone.” Harry had to admit, the little devil was indeed too clever for his own good. “Almost correct,” Harry nodded, dropping all pretense. “He didn’t ask me to talk to you; I decided that myself. Your games with Walburga could spell trouble for you. The Black family is among the oldest dark families of England. For centuries, they’ve been poisoning, framing, and killing those they deem undesirable. I don’t buy into your supposed infatuation. The plan is good—winning Wal’s favor. But you must understand who stands behind her and what that could cost you. For his beloved heiress, Pollux would ensure that nobody ever finds your grave. Do you understand me?” Harry felt like an Auror again. All this tiptoeing around a criminal wasn’t for him. He preferred direct attacks. Riddle’s face showed a hint of disarray. The thread of connection in Harry’s chest tightened, allowing him to feel a fleeting spark of someone else’s surprise. “And you came to warn me because you’re concerned?” Riddle quickly regained his composure. “I don’t believe it. You’re trying to intimidate me.” “Bloody know-it-all!” Harry inwardly growled. “Believe what you want,” Potter rose from his chair. It felt like they’d been talking for an entire hour, although barely five minutes had passed. “I’ve warned you.” “What about bridges, Harry? No longer keen on mending our relationship?” Riddle called after him mockingly. Potter didn’t respond. The conversation had proven far riskier than he had anticipated. There was something unsettling in Riddle’s words, but Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. He returned to his desk and, with mounting frustration, threw himself into yet another useless book about magical bonds, hoping that insight would strike as soon as his mind wandered. But instead of insight, his head insistently whirled with thoughts on the impossibility of eradicating wizards’ feuds. His attempt to forge a relationship with Riddle had failed, but Harry wasn’t overly disheartened, repeatedly telling himself: “It will make it easier when the time comes to kill him.” ***   There was a page missing in the book. One single page that, Tom suspected, held the information he needed. Who dared? Madame Shi vigilantly watched over her domain but hadn’t noticed that someone audaciously ripped a page from the earliest edition of ‘Hogwarts: A History’. A page from the chapter about the legend of the Chamber of Secrets. Tom didn’t believe in such coincidences. He was even thrilled because now he knew exactly where to look. The first edition of ‘Hogwarts: A History’ was no small expense, but he had Regulus on his side. Soon, Tom would unearth all the secrets this book held, moving a step closer to his dream. The imposter appeared out of thin air, sudden and unexpected. He brazenly sat at Tom’s desk and began to spin lies smoothly, completely unaware that Tom knew about his true nature. For several weeks, Tom had been watching him, and although he hadn’t figured him out yet, he had only grown more certain of his suspicions. Harry was keeping tabs on him—very professionally, very subtly, but monitoring him nonetheless. No one else in the school received as much of his attention as Riddle did. In Harry’s life, there were only lessons, the library, and Tom himself; everyone else was mere decoration, fleeting companions. Even Alphard Black, who had managed to worm his way into his confidence, couldn’t command the imposter’s full and undivided attention. This both flattered and reaffirmed Tom in his own theory. His intuition screamed that Harry was here for him and him alone. “Believe what you want,” the imposter rose from the chair. His fists clenched, and he quickly stowed his hands in the pockets of his robe. “I’ve warned you.” “What about bridges, Harry? No longer keen on mending our relationship?” Tom called after him mockingly. Harry shrugged and swiftly strode away. To his list of qualities, Tom now added impulsiveness. He was meticulously compiling this list, scrupulously noting each of the imposter’s reactions to provocations. Harry proved to be a compassionate, resilient guy. He ignored insults and mockery, the sidelong glances of gossipers that Tom had sicced on him through Shion. Blatant aggression from Burke and Walburga’s furious stares didn’t touch him; he seemed not to notice them at all, as if they were mere insignificant insects. He never allowed himself to retaliate with insults, nor did he laugh with the others when someone made a fool of themselves. He was clearly older than eighteen—perhaps even twenty. Tom could say that this imposter was disgustingly noble and had impeccable self-control. But his impulsiveness peeked through the façade of icy calm—evident in his angry eyes, clenched fists, and the scratches on his lower lip that he bit to restrain himself. A fully grown, mature person wouldn’t behave this way. Tom estimated his age to be between twenty and twenty-five. Why was he angry now? Could it be that he was genuinely trying to warn Tom of some danger, and became upset when it didn’t work? Or was he angry that Tom had seen through his tricks? But why would that anger him? He had reacted with absolute composure to the snakes in his bed, had calmly endured Walburga’s insults, and had patiently put up with Crouch’s obnoxious advances. The puzzle remained unsolved, and it was a tantalizing mystery. Tom could feel the magic accumulating at his fingertips, so strong was his desire to delve into the imposter’s mind, but he wouldn’t dare attempt such a thing with an unknown adversary—or ally. Lestrange’s father couldn’t get Scamander to release Gordian Selwyn’s case file; the investigation, it turned out, was still ongoing, and until it was concluded, no one, not even the Head of the Department, had the right to disclose details. It was another dead end. There was only one way forward—actually trying to build a rapport with him. Tom absolutely loathed that idea. The imposter knew far too much about him; simply pretending to be the good boy and charming him, as he had done with others, wouldn’t work. Fake smiles wouldn’t deceive him either. Playing the card of a pitiable, tormented orphan was also out of the question—what if Harry really was a relative? Tom wouldn’t want his family to see him as a pathetic, weak bastard. His only option was to shake the imposter’s composure, get under his skin, and watch how he would respond. Gradually, step by step, this man would reveal his true self, and then Tom would have his leverage. *** Dean Callahan was someone Tom was conscious of. Slughorn could easily be manipulated; he wasn’t particularly bright but was greedy and adored comfort, and he had a penchant for collecting potential celebrities. Tom quickly became the star of his collection. Callahan, however, was a different breed entirely. Like Tom himself, he skillfully hid his true feelings. He didn’t play favorites, yet he openly showed his disdain for any form of injustice. He arrived at Hogwarts three years ago and immediately made it clear that he was a force to be reckoned with. Tom couldn’t find a way to approach him. Callahan seemed to see right through him, paying no heed to Tom’s mask of a diligent, well-mannered boy. And Callahan’s own mask proved to be more than Tom could handle. “Mr. Riddle, please stay after class,” Callahan called to him right after the end of the Runes class. The imposter, sitting to Tom’s left, cast an intrigued glance at him. Runes were taught alongside all the other houses because few chose it as an elective for their OWLs. Tom smiled at anxious Glendale, who was keenly tuned into everything happening with Tom, nodded to Regulus, indicating that he shouldn’t wait, and remained in his seat. “What can I do for you, sir?” Tom asked politely, once the other students had left. Callahan crossed his arms over his chest and fixed his gaze intently on his top student. “How are you, Mr. Riddle?” he asked, not what Tom was expecting at all. “Well, sir,” Tom replied honestly. “And how is your cohabitation with Mr. Selwyn?” the dean asked next. “I’ve noticed that you’re no longer at odds, but you’re not friends either.” “Ah, that’s what this is about,” Tom realized. The dean was hoping that he and Selwyn would become best pals and unite the entire house under the slogan of ‘blood status doesn’t matter.’ “True, sir,” Tom bowed his head. “Selwyn has changed a lot since losing his memory; he no longer picks on Muggleborns, but our rapport was off from the start.” “I’ve seen Mr. Selwyn now socializing with Gorbovich and Collins,” the dean nodded to himself. “That’s good. I’m pleased to see purebloods mingling with half-bloods. But why not with you? As far as I remember, Selwyn was singling you out before.” “Perhaps he remembers something?” Tom shrugged, carefully averting his eyes. “We have a complicated history. Perhaps his subconscious still holds a grudge against me.” “His subconscious…” Callahan drawled, then heaved a heavy sigh. “Some bullies never change, do they? Miss Black, for instance, still hasn’t grown up. Very, very sad. You are a prefect now, Mr. Riddle. I’m counting on your support in resolving conflicts within the house. I hope you won’t be fanning the flames of hatred further, will you?” “I have something far worse in mind, fool.” “Of course not, sir,” Tom smiled innocently. “As a half-blood, I know all too well what it’s like to be bullied. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” “True…” the dean bought into Tom’s sentimental musings and finally let his guard down a bit. “You know, I’m a half-blood myself. I went through the same trials as you back in my day. Children can be so cruel, especially when they parrot their parents’ words without understanding the meaning. I’m glad you’ve stood strong and managed to get along with Mr. Lestrange.” “Oh, here it is,” Tom thought with delight. “Our dean is a bullying victim. How cliché.” “I understand, sir,” he lowered his head so that his fringe covered his eyes. “I’m working towards unity and fighting stereotypes as best I can. But some bullies really don’t change. Walburga is blinded by her hatred for half-bloods like us. These aren’t her thoughts, of course. They’re her family’s. And in this, you and I are powerless.” The Dean furrowed his brow for a moment. “Why not…” he mused. “The girl can still be saved. We can open her eyes.” He nodded to some private thought and rose from his desk. “Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Riddle. I hope you won’t disappoint me.” “I’ll try my best, sir,” Tom replied, standing as well and offering the Dean his most impassioned savior-of-mankind gaze. He exited the Rune classroom, walked through several corridors, and only then allowed himself to lean against a wall and flash a smug smile. Everything was falling right into his hands! Merlin, he was a devilishly lucky son of a gun! Callahan had failed to grasp his true nature. Callahan, who wore a mask hiding a scarred childhood and youth, was willing to fight faculty segregation with his help! “Oh, Walburga, you stand no chance!” Tom silently chuckled to himself. The stage was set; now he could pretend to abandon his plan to seduce Miss Black and calmly focus on locating the Chamber of Secrets, all while keeping an eye on Harry. “I will get everything I want,” Tom whispered to himself for the thousandth time, squinting contentedly and rubbing a bruise on his forearm. The slight pain was calming, igniting no desire to intensify it. He then shed all emotions like a dirty cloak, straightened his shoulders, and headed for his next class. ***   Something had shifted. Harry could feel it in his entire body, as if he had become an old man complaining of impending rain because of aching knees. After his conversation with Riddle in the library, he had struggled to calm down, repeatedly replaying their dialogue in his mind, but he couldn’t figure out what exactly was bothering him. He kept pulling at that thin thread of their connection, knocking on a closed door, trying to decipher Riddle’s sinister schemes, but it was getting him nowhere. How did their connection even work? What did it entail? In a month at the Hogwarts library, Harry found nothing even remotely related to their situation, nor did he in the less ancient but more extensively stocked Selwyn family library. All the books he read described anything but a soul connection. Most wizards didn’t even believe souls existed! It was as if he was seeking confirmation that aliens had actually visited Earth. How could he sever something most people didn’t even believe in? Souls… How strange. Before learning about Horcruxes, Harry had never considered that they could be real and tangible. Even Dementors and ghosts couldn’t convince wizards that they indeed harbored an immortal, ever-reincarnating soul. If Harry hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would have never believed it. People tend to explain events in the simplest, most obvious, or most commonly accepted way. Potter, for instance, thought it was just something… magical. Something far removed from him. How foolish he had been. How disgustingly inattentive and unaware. Voldemort had done one good thing — he had taught Harry to think with his head, not his ass. There were thousands of magical bonds described in the books, by which wizards could bind themselves, and none of them involved a deep connection of souls. Harry was trying to find a needle in a haystack; the likelihood of success was less than one percent. The chance of severing this bond was approaching zero with each book he read, but Harry didn’t give up. He was used to achieving the impossible. Life had dealt him blows so powerful that pulling himself together afterward seemed virtually unreal. But at the same time, life had granted him extraordinary luck that others couldn’t access. He had grown accustomed to it, so he didn’t give up, even in the most unbelievable situations. The day after their conversation with Riddle, Harry sat in his Runes class, pondering how to secure the support of Professor Callahan. The man turned out to be an excellent teacher; Harry quickly grasped the runes, and there was no reason to ask him for extra lessons, nor any pretext to get closer to him at all. Callahan didn’t play favorites and maintained a distinctly professional demeanor. When Harry approached him after class with any question, he simply scribbled down a list of additional literature and sent him off to the library. “Mr. Riddle, please stay after class.” With annoyance, Harry looked at his classmate. Riddle would surely seize the opportunity and spin some tale to the dean. What should he do now? “Play the part! According to the story, you’ve lost your memory!” Ron’s voice echoed in his mind. Harry grimaced inwardly. Lie again? “Don’t dawdle, the greenhouses are a long walk ahead,” Harry tried to lag behind Alphard after the bell rang, eager to eavesdrop on Riddle and the dean, but Black insistently pulled him along. The classroom door closed right under his nose, and Harry nearly swore. The runes above the door wouldn’t even give him a chance to eavesdrop, so he followed Black to the next lesson. He’d been taught basic runes at the academy, where he also developed a passion for more ancient and complex runes. He couldn’t just feign ignorance; he had already passed several exams and answered oral quizzes, and Callahan was far from a fool. What to do? Unlike Riddle, Harry Potter had never been good at ingratiating himself with others or being insincerely friendly. He was a combat wizard, damn it, not a spy! “Watch it, Selwyn!” At the entrance to the greenhouses, a young Gryffindor bumped into Harry’s shoulder in his haste to leave. “I heard you got your brains knocked out, but you can still walk, can’t you?!” Harry was stunned by the audacity of the younger student. “Who is that?” he asked Alphard, watching the brazen boy leave. The lad reminded him strongly of someone. “Oh, that’s Alastor Moody,” Alphard replied, furrowing his brows in a way that made him resemble a sad puppy. “A second-year. His father disappeared this summer along with others. Don’t be hard on him. Such a tragedy… I can’t even imagine what I’d do if my father just vanished into thin air.” Harry clenched his fists in his pockets and dropped his head. What the hell?! He distinctly remembered Moody saying that his father had been a hero to him who lived until his sixties! Why had he disappeared? “Mad-Eye Moody caught more Dark wizards than all other Aurors combined,” he recalled from Tonks’ stories. “Are you alright?” Alphard touched his shoulder. “Perfectly well,” Harry nodded, suppressing the shock and horror of yet another piece of news. In his head, the repeating phrase spun: “What have I done? What have I done?!” He needed to get a full list of the missing wizards; he had to know whose lives he had ruined due to his foolish obsession with Voldemort. To curse himself for every single name every moment until the end of his days. “You look even gloomier than yesterday,” Alphard said with feigned lightness as they approached a table with plants. This time they were set to transplant chomping cabbages. “Is it… because of the letter? Sorry if I’m prying. I’m just a bit… scared, to be honest.” Harry didn’t let it show, but on the inside, he was swearing again. The letter! He’d completely forgotten about the letter from Mrs. Selwyn. “Do I scare you?” he asked, peering intently into the blue eyes, tilting his head up. Despite being a head and a half taller, Alphard Black blushed awkwardly and blinked rapidly, taking a half-step back. “No, it’s not you that’s scary… I don’t know. Your aura?” he nervously smiled. “I get that you’ve had a dreadful year. But over the summer, you seemed fine. And now… Did you remember something? Is that why you’ve gotten worse?” His resolve and observance were truly commendable. Yes, Harry had remembered his own miserable life—all of it, from the Dursleys starving him to his last days in the new house. How liberating it would be to be devoid of memories! Harry occasionally harbored the rebellious thought of erasing a few facts from his eventful biography, to breathe more easily and stop replaying toxic thoughts in his mind. But that would be cowardice. After living without key memories for several weeks, Harry realized they made him who he was. Without them, he felt incomplete. “No, the memories haven’t returned,” Harry tried to relax and gave Alphard a friendly wink. “It’s just this weather getting me down. Endless rain, slush, cold… I wish I could move closer to the beach and the sun.” Black didn’t believe him, of course. He was far too perceptive, and Harry was a terrible actor. “That would be nice,” he nodded, turning away a bit too sharply. Professor Beery entered the greenhouse, and Harry focused on the lesson, trying not to think about the fact that if Alphard was starting to notice something off about him, others would soon catch on as well. What if someone figured out that he wasn’t Gordian Selwyn at all? They’d lock him in the Department of Mysteries for life. Initially, everything was attributed to memory loss, but as time went on, Harry was increasingly revealing his own character, which bore no resemblance to Gordian’s. If he wanted to keep his secret, he’d be better off keeping everyone at arm’s length—even Alphard. But how he longed for simple companionship… After Herbology, Harry had a free period, while Alphard had Fencing. Harry planned to retreat to his room and read Mrs. Selwyn’s letter, but curiosity got the better of him. He yielded to Black’s persuasion and went with him. “You’ll love it, just wait and see!” Alphard’s eyes sparkled excitedly all the way. “Mr. Amorio will let you spar with me. You practiced fencing at home, didn’t you? Maybe you’ll take to it, and we can go to classes together?” Harry didn’t want to disappoint him. Yes, he had practiced with Gorbovich over the summer but found nothing appealing about it for himself. His reflexes were lightning-fast, and he was plenty determined, but fencing was utterly dull compared to a magical duel. Fencers cast protective charms on themselves, nullifying even the most painful thrusts. What was the point, if there was no danger? At best, it was a chance to show off with a rapier in hand and tone up some muscles. “Who’s graced us with their presence?” Riedele pounced on Harry as soon as he and Alphard entered the training hall. “Is it Gordian Selwyn himself? And here we thought you only preferred the company of Mudbloods!” Harry scanned the hall and saw that only pureblood students from all four fifth-year houses had assembled. And Riddle. “Fuck off,” Harry grumbled, brushing off Travers like an annoying insect. His ring stung him vengefully for the harsh words. “No, no, I want to know why you’re here,” Riedele insisted. He seemed to utterly ignore Alphard’s presence. The other boys stared curiously at them. No one intervened or reprimanded Travers. The professor wasn’t there yet, so the students were talking quietly amongst themselves, and a few Gryffindors were already fooling around with rapiers, laughing uproariously. “He’s here with me,” Alphard stepped forward, shielding Harry with his shoulders. “You’ve been told to back off, Riedele.” Travers looked to Malfoy for support, but Abraxas merely pressed his lips together and turned away. He clearly had no desire to oppose Black. “Oh, standing up for your boyfriend?” Travers wasn’t giving up, although he had clearly toned down his bravado. Harry had had enough of this banter, so he nodded to Alphard and moved forward to where the rapiers were held in special racks. He wasn’t about to rise to the childish taunts. “You have no place here, Selwyn. You haven’t attended the classes since the beginning of the year, so you need to leave,” Travers persisted relentlessly. He raised his voice so that even the Gryffindors on the other side of the hall could hear him. “We have a ranking system here; we spar and earn points. You can’t just waltz in and mess up the tournament table!” “I’m sure Professor Amorio won’t mind,” Black hissed. “He does have a point,” Dolohov suddenly said, leaning casually against the wall near his leader. “We’re all fighting to be the best. A newcomer will ruin all the results.” Several voices echoed in agreement. “I’m not planning to stay. I came to watch Alphard, that’s all,” Harry rolled his eyes. “In that case, your place is over there,” Travers sneered nastily, pointing towards a group of girls sitting on a bench by the far wall. “With all the other girls who came to watch their boyfriends.” Harry wasn’t particularly bothered. He would have gladly sat with the girls and observed, but Alphard suddenly flared up like dry tinder. “Shut it!” he suddenly exclaimed, grabbing the first rapier from the stand. “It’s high time someone cut your vile tongue short!” “Try me!” Travers also reached for a rapier. “Stop it,” Harry barked at them. “You are unprotected, and the instructor hasn’t arrived yet. Put the rapiers down immediately!” His tone had the desired effect, and the opponents froze. “But he insulted you,” Alphard protested. “Is that an insult?” Harry shrugged. “I’ll go sit with the ladies; it’s much more pleasant than listening to his pointless nitpicking.” “You…” Travers began, but he was interrupted. “Selwyn is right,” Riddle emerged from behind Riedele. “You can’t engage in a duel without protection. And watching your fight would surely be beyond dull. Selwyn, don’t you want to show us your talents? That would be far more interesting.” He flicked his wand, and Riedele’s rapier flew into his hand, while Alphard’s rapier soared towards Harry, its point aimed straight at his eye. Harry deftly dodged and slid his palm beneath the guard, gripping the hilt tightly. “Brilliant idea!” Lestrange immediately cheered him on. “Take your positions; I’ll be the judge!” “Hey, back off,” Alphard wanted to intervene, but Riddle suddenly lunged, forcing Harry to dodge. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed. “We’re unprotected! Get on the strip.” “It’s more interesting this way,” Riddle smiled. “We’re not competing; we’re testing your skills,” and he swiftly attacked Harry. Riedele and Alphard leaped away and took cover behind a column, while the other students erupted in cheers. Harry paid them little mind. Riddle attacked with the speed of a bludger, and Harry had to trust his instincts. He was never fond of fencing, but the academy required him to take these lessons. Every Auror had to master several styles of wandless combat, so they wouldn’t be defenseless if they lost their wand. The rapier was long, slender, and unwieldy, but the principles were the same: attack and defend. He didn’t want to attack; he wasn’t supposed to show that he could fight. But Riddle fought so fiercely, so keen to strike a hit, that at some point, Harry simply lost himself in the battle. There were no more clamoring students, no hall with strips, no bench with spectators. There was only Riddle, with eyes aflame like otherworldly fires, only the thrill, the fever of combat, the pulsing in his temples, and adrenaline. Dodge, dodge, roll, dodge. Lunge! At one point, Harry switched to pure offense and began to press Riddle towards the column supporting the arched ceiling. It seemed he could predict Riddle’s every move before the rapier was even directed. He felt the other’s excitement, admiration, and impatience, and he reveled in it. He was as if under a potent spell, unable to stop, his body moving ahead of his thoughts. Parrying the last cunning strike, he spun around and, finding himself up close, pressed the blade to Riddle’s exposed throat. The dull tip of the rapier didn’t even cause a scratch, but pressing it into that milky-white skin was inexplicably satisfying, and somehow blatantly thrilling. Riddle jerked slightly, and Harry’s gaze instantly locked onto him, involuntarily pressing harder. “Halt!” shouted Lestrange, and Harry seemed to awaken. “Selwyn, what a display.” Silence fell. No one clapped; no one cheered. All eyes were wide, fixated on Harry and Riddle, both breathing heavily. “Are you satisfied with my skill level?” Harry couldn’t resist and broke into a triumphant smile, brushing his sweat-dampened bangs from his forehead. He had just put the young Voldemort in his place, humiliating him in front of both his followers and enemies. His heart was pounding in his temples; he was soaked, but he felt vindicated. Suddenly, Riddle threw his head back, and his lips stretched into a sinister smile. Harry still sensed his emotions and thus caught a shadow of pure delight. “Exemplary,” Riddle exhaled, quickly licking his lips, his burning eyes fixed on Harry. “Such combat skills can’t be trained over a summer. What have you been doing all year, Harry?” It felt like Harry had plunged into cold water. Looking around, he realized everyone was staring at him like a spectacle—just as they used to when he was Harry Potter, who suddenly spoke Parseltongue. Riddle had caught him. “Judging by yourself, Riddle?” Harry relaxed his face and smiled unfazed. “How long did it take you to learn to wave that rapier so poorly?” “But you’re dodging the question,” Riddle responded, undeterred. “He was trained to be a secret agent! I read it in a magazine: they kidnap wizards and then make supersoldiers out of them!” gasped a blond boy in a Gryffindor tie. “Then why was he thrown out of the program? Turned out to be a weakling?” Riedele quickly retorted, directing his gaze, for some reason, at Alphard. Black himself stood there, mouth slightly agape, his eyes fixed solely on Harry. His blue eyes sparkled with delight. “Merlin, Tom wasn’t even fighting at half strength; you of all people should know,” Lestrange rolled his eyes. “A supersoldier? More like a dancer.” Harry withdrew the blade from his opponent’s throat, strode confidently to the stands, and returned the rapier to its place. “You won’t see anything more entertaining today,” he said mockingly and walked away, although inside he felt tense. Stay under the radar? It seemed he’d need to lock himself in a room and never leave. Thankfully, most were willing to concoct the most absurd scenarios to explain Gordian’s peculiar behavior. But not Riddle. Riddle was already getting suspicious. ***   The letter from Mrs. Selwyn was filled with questions: “Did you really have a falling-out with Walburga? Are you associating with Urquhart? Are you not dueling? Have you lost your mind?” Children loved sharing news with their parents, who, of course, loved to gossip among themselves. In a month, the rumors had reached Gordian’s family, and the grandmother’s letter was just the beginning. Harry didn’t want to prematurely ruin his relationship with his cousin. He simply didn’t have the time to earn a living independently, though he could have managed for quite some time by selling all of Gordian’s jewelry and designer clothes. But that would mean igniting another scandal, and drawing attention to himself was risky now. Gordian’s abductor was still at large. Harry could still be exposed and imprisoned. So Harry spent several hours crafting a reply in which he assured the woman that these were all lies and rumors, spread by ill-wishers. That should suffice for a while, and after that… He would figure it out. Planning ahead was pointless; he was no good at it anyway. As bedtime approached, Harry settled at his writing desk and delved into the theory of charms in his magic textbook. He worked tirelessly to keep pace with his fellow fifth-year students, and with each passing day, studying became increasingly easier for him. He had grasped the basics and remembered much from his own education. The only subject that remained a thorn in his side was Potions. Now, with Slughorn as Headmaster, the new Potions Master was a young wizard just over thirty—Mr. Todd Colhepp. He seemed to lack teaching experience and was reticent and quick to anger, so Harry instantly realized there was no point in wasting time on Potions—he wouldn’t understand it anyway. He was diligently taking notes from the textbook when the door swung open and Riddle walked in, which was unusual, as for the entire month he had returned only when Harry was already asleep. “Selwyn,” he nodded, calmly removed his school robe and tie, and neatly hung them in the closet. Taken aback, Harry was momentarily lost for words and simply stared at him in silence. He clearly remembered that according to Riddle’s schedule, he should be in the library at this time, followed by his own mysterious (not so much) errands. “R-Riddle?” Harry intended to greet him just as impassively, but his tone came out more questioning than he planned. Riddle’s feverishly gleaming eyes, vulnerable throat, crooked smile, and triumphant demeanor still lingered before his eyes. Without a word, Riddle settled at his own desk and conjured several orbs of light, which immediately darted into the lamp, casting a soft, warm glow on his face. Harry turned away because continuing to stare would be awkward, yet he kept Riddle in his peripheral vision. What in Mordred’s name was he doing? For the entire month, they had not shared the room for more than a minute at a time. And now Riddle was sitting there, scribbling on parchment as though Harry didn’t exist at all. The silence between them was palpable: it pressed on the ears, made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end. He could distinctly hear the sound of his heartbeat, his quickened breathing, the rustle of clothing, and the nervous tap of his boot against the floor. He had never felt anything like this, not even when he found himself face-to-face with a mass murderer in a deserted basement, cut off from his squad by a collapsing ceiling. Riddle was not yet a mass murderer, and he was still far more terrifying. Potter tried to focus on his notes, but it was futile. His mind kept drifting back to Riddle and his unnatural demeanor. What was he doing? What was he suspecting? “Are you going to pretend now that nothing’s happening?” Harry snapped after half an hour, sharply turning to Riddle. The latter didn’t even flinch. He calmly finished a line on his parchment and only then, setting down his quill in its holder, turned to face Harry. “Is something happening?” he raised an eyebrow, his handsome face feigning genuine puzzlement. “Don’t play the fool,” Harry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, fixing the bastard with a piercing stare. “You’ve avoided this room like the plague for an entire month, and now here you sit, acting as though everything’s fine. What’s your game?” He was skilled at putting suspects under pressure. Harry Potter’s voice and appearance worked magic on criminals, but that seemed to have vanished now. The pretty doll with blue eyes and light hair couldn’t make the same impression as the muscular, towering man who had defeated the Dark Lord himself. Unsurprisingly, Riddle wasn’t swayed by his menacing tone. He offered an elusive smirk and turned away. “I’m not playing any games,” he replied calmly. “This is my room, Harry. I have as much right to be here as you do.” Harry’s temper flared instantly, just like in that time after the war when he was dating Ginny. He sprang to his feet and lunged at Riddle, but halfway across the room, he ran into a barrier that erupted in a flash of blue light. It sobered him as effectively as a freezing Aguamenti jet would have. What the hell was he losing his cool over? The fire of fury was consuming him from the inside, making him want to grab that bastard and give him a good shake. It was strange, because in Gordian’s body, Harry had almost forgotten what these uncontrollable fits of rage felt like. He froze in place and listened to himself. Why had he gotten so enraged? Was it because of the duel? Or because he’d foolishly exposed himself? Or was it because Riddle managed to shatter his composure with just a few words and a swing of a blunt rapier? “Were you trying to attack me?” the bastard asked, now openly smirking. “How fortunate that I took precautions for my safety. Do you often lunge at people? Today, you seemed… possessed. Fond of challenges, are you?” “I don’t lunge at anyone,” Harry managed, regaining control of himself. “I just wanted to come closer. It’s awkward talking from ten feet apart.” “Of course…” Riddle drawled. “So, you wanted to talk about something?” Suddenly, Harry realized what was infuriating him so much: Riddle was provoking him deliberately. His languid movements, self-assured demeanor, facial expressions, subtle smirks, and tone modulation—it was all maddening beyond words. He wanted to stride over and land a punch, to wipe that damn smirk off Riddle’s face. Even cornered and bested, Riddle kept on smirking, never conceding defeat. It was infuriating. Harry was horrified. Yes, during his time as an Auror, he’d often harbored such desires—it was impossible to remain indifferent when a pedophile sat before him, claiming impunity due to being a ‘respectable family man’ and the nephew of some Ministry bigwig. But in front of him now was a fifteen-year-old boy who hadn’t yet done anything wrong. “Forget it,” Harry said, turning his back to Riddle. “I see you’re not ready for a constructive conversation.” “As you wish,” Riddle replied coolly, addressing Harry’s back. “Shall we duel again sometime?” Harry clenched his fists, but nonetheless returned to his notes, stubbornly continuing to focus on the new topic, no longer turning his head. If Riddle aimed to ruffle his feathers, he wouldn’t succeed. He clearly didn’t know that out-stubborning Harry Potter was an impossible task. They sat in silence until one in the morning, not exchanging even a glance. Afterwards, Harry took a shower and went to bed, drawing the bed curtains not completely shut, so he could keep an eye on Riddle through the gap. But Riddle continued writing, and Harry’s eyes closed of their own accord. He didn’t notice himself falling asleep, still clutching his wand, as he peered at the slender silhouette sharply outlined against the dark backdrop of the room.