Behind Lies Eternity

Never in his life had Tom felt such powerful, overwhelming emotions. While he had learned to suppress even fear and anger, he always maintained a calm exterior. “You seem distracted lately,” Regulus murmured to him. “Is it Selwyn? You’ve been stealing glances at him. After what happened at the dueling club and then the dance, it’s unwise to be seen with him.” Tom did precisely what was cautioned against — he looked directly at Selwyn. In the corridor outside the potions classroom, only the Slytherin students were present; the Gryffindors hadn’t yet arrived. Seizing the moment, Riedale loudly speculated about Selwyn’s fall from grace and his personal affairs. Black stood a little apart, his expression grave. Meanwhile, Harry was deeply engrossed in his textbook, seemingly unaware of the surrounding commotion. Undeterred, Riedale continued, with Shion and Stephanie hanging on his every word. Louis Carrow chuckled intermittently, while Gorbovich, visibly annoyed, looked as if he was ready to knock some sense into Riedale. “And why the silence, Alphard?” Travers called out. “Because of Selwyn, your sister has endless detentions with Callahan until the holidays! Or perhaps you’ve taken a liking to him…?” Alphard’s feigned indifference didn’t mask the tension in his shoulders. “Enough, Travers,” Tom commanded, looming over the idiot. “Would you like me to dock points?” “Oh, are you defending your bit…” Riedale cut himself off as Tom drew his wand. Lestrange, Carrow, and Dolohov instinctively stepped up behind Tom, with only Malfoy siding with Riedale. The shifting alliances were intriguing. It appeared Marcius Nott had decisively chosen his allegiance. “Defend… whom?” Tom inquired, his tone icy. “Do you care to clarify?” Travers met Malfoy’s gaze, receiving a discreet shake of the head. “Forget it,” Travers muttered, deliberately giving Selwyn plenty of space as he moved away. Selwyn remained engrossed in his textbook, seemingly oblivious. Yet, it wasn’t due to Travers. Since the incident three days prior, Selwyn had been deliberately distancing himself from Tom. Their roles had reversed: Harry would disappear, sneaking in late, and leaving early before Tom stirred. Whenever Tom approached, Harry would dart away, making no effort to hide his intent to avoid Tom. The school’s top student wasn’t fooled by his fabricated lies. Tom had never displayed any hints of empathetic ability. He had honed his skills to read people through their facial expressions, gestures, and behaviors. Had he owned such a gift, he would’ve climbed the hierarchical ladder much sooner. The issue resided with the imposter, a fact Tom wouldn’t deny. For a fleeting moment during the dance, he ventured into Harry’s mind, witnessing the world through his eyes: grey crumbling walls, skeletons adorned in rotting clothes, and black smoke claiming the floor beneath his shoes. The depth of Harry’s despair enveloped Tom, reminiscent of being forcefully submerged, waiting for the inevitable gulp of water to fill his lungs. Tom was startled when he first sensed this. His instincts drove him to communicate genuinely, without pretense. But the sight of the imposter holding Black’s hand, the sincere affection in his gaze, invoked a tidal wave of emotions in Tom. Why? The imposter was at the school on Tom’s account. Why then was Tom berated as a fucking bastard, while Black received a gentle hand-hold? “I’m sorry you’ve become this.” Those words seared him, much like dragonfire. Accustomed to perceiving the imposter as kin, the evident disappointment in those eyes was torment. “I became this because you abandoned me,” a voice raged within. “I’m normal, I’m normal!” His silence persisted, yet the imposter appeared to perceive the tumult inside him. A kaleidoscope of guilt, anger, and despair consumed Tom. Tom was engulfed in confusion and rage. What did Black possess that he lacked, causing his own flesh and blood to favor another? His facade crumbled, emotions peaked, and in their confrontation, everything blurred. The relief from Harry’s blows cleared his mind, replaced anger with tranquility. But when an unfamiliar touch grazed the ugly birthmark on his chest, reality faded. He felt the profound remorse and anguish of the person he pinned down. Tom lost himself in that sensation. He clung to fragments of Harry’s thoughts: “his birthmark mocks my existence.” It echoed as if spoken aloud. Then Tom discerned it: a delicate, almost imperceptible golden thread connecting his birthmark directly to Harry, binding them more tightly than any chain. Before he could comprehend, the moment passed. They were thrust back into their unintentionally wrecked room. Pain throbbed across his face, blood dripped down to his chest, his fingers ached. But Tom remained unfazed. He stretched out on the bed, savoring the newfound emptiness, devoid of anger and fear. Though the thread had dissipated, its presence lingered. Their emotions intermingled, reminiscent of a comforting hand holding young Tom’s, ensuring an unending bond. The duration of this tranquil moment was elusive. A knock at the door jolted him back to reality, the contrast stark. A vast chasm had always existed within him. Previously unnoticed, its intense, chilling void now terrified him. How had this occurred? He’d never come across such phenomena. His attention swiftly shifted to the library. With Regulus diverting Madam Shi, Tom sneakily glimpsed the card catalog, pocketing a copy of Selwyn’s card. Had he considered earlier what the imposter sought, he might have spared himself considerable time and distress. Tom had enchanted his card in his second year, ensuring Madam Shi remained ignorant of his secret visits to the restricted section. But evidently, Harry was unaware that each book he browsed registered on his card. Among the exhaustive list, three subjects stood out: magical bonds, soul magic, and oddly… Hogwarts architectural blueprints. Tom berated himself for overlooking such a crucial detail. He’d often seen the imposter in the library, and once spotting him with theory of magic textbooks, had assumed he was deeply engrossed in study. Among the list of books was the first edition of “Hogwarts. A History’, from which a page had been torn. Sewer plans? Renovations? How had he missed it? The imposter was on a quest for the Chamber, which explained his presence at Hogwarts and his surveillance of Tom. He hadn’t felt this foolish in a long time. It was all laid out before him, yet he’d been naive, almost childlike in his approach. The concept of family – it was clear they didn’t need him. How often had he been reminded that he was unwanted? Rage surged within him. When would he learn to operate with cold, objective logic, free from the desperate, pathetic yearning for belonging? “You can be better!” he chastised himself. Seeking refuge, he ducked into the nearest prefects’ bathroom. Swiftly, he shed his robe and shirt, yanked off the bracelet, and bit down on it fiercely. Pain radiated throughout his body as his legs gave way, sending him crashing to the floor. With his wand pressed against the burgeoning bruise, he repeated a familiar mantra: “Weak little runt! You can be better!” As the pain peaked, he spat out the bracelet and let out a guttural scream. He stared at the ceiling, grappling with thoughts he had desperately tried to suppress. Examining his bruised hand, a peculiar pattern caught his eye in the artificial sunlight: a skull with a snake emerging from its mouth. He recalled reading about ancient Polynesian tribes that tattooed children at the age of eleven, believing such markings would shield them from malevolent forces. The painful process, often done unhygienically, led to many deaths – a cruel irony. Impulsively, Tom conjured a blade and began etching the skull pattern onto his skin. The incisions stung sharply. Bright droplets of red began to seep from the shallow cuts, merging into a slow, thin stream. It was excruciating but the physical pain paled in comparison to the emotional agony of knowing your family knew of your existence, yet rejected you because of your filthy muggle father. The pain of realizing you were still that abandoned child, who believed in fairy tales with happy endings, watching families pass by with longing. “Damn it!” He threw the blade at the wall, realizing his usual coping mechanism wasn’t working. The more he thought of the Gaunts, the more he detested the very idea of those freaks. It was a vicious circle. Part of him desired to confront Harry, to shake the truth out of him, even if it meant resorting to violence. Yet, another part yearned for that same imposter to touch him again, to lose himself in Harry once more… What happened between them was unnatural. But he couldn’t stop dwelling on it, wanting to relive the sensations, the feelings that consumed him when Harry burned his chest with those bloodied, hot fingers. He briskly got to his feet and straightened up. No time to slack, no time to rest. He had a multitude of tasks ahead. The bond between them was a mystery. Clearly, Harry was just as baffled, having searched through countless books for answers. Evasion or ambiguity was no longer an option. The enigma had deepened, and Tom was determined to unravel it. Instead of just observing the imposter, it was time for Tom to take action. “Everyone to class!” Professor Colhepp boomed as he swung open the heavy door, giving the students a disdainful glance. Though Professor Colhepp had some understanding of potion-making, to call him proficient would be generous. He knew his way around, yet when measured against Slughorn’s teaching prowess, he clearly fell short. Fortunately, Tom had no need for guidance in this subject. His natural aptitude enabled him to concoct potions that surpassed anything this ineffectual teacher could produce, even with decades of experience. Tom took his customary place beside the cauldron, his gaze drifting to the door next to the storeroom. Inside, the best student-crafted potions were housed. Recently, Tom had learned that the seventh years had brewed an especially complex and rare potion just a week prior. With a flick of his wand, Professor Colhepp projected a recipe onto the board, instructing students to gather their ingredients. He struggled to maintain order. Students chatted loudly, quarreled, and procrastinated while assembling their materials. The professor seemed powerless to control them. Instead, he busied himself by grading assignments from other classes, scribbling sharp critiques onto parchments. While the classroom buzzed with activity, Tom discreetly entered the storeroom. Inside, torches burst to life, revealing shelves filled with potion ingredients. Familiar with the room’s layout, Tom swiftly located what he needed and returned, evading detection. As Regulus gathered ingredients, Tom set up his workstation. He ignited a fire, filled a cauldron with water, and arranged his tools. The flask in his pocket felt warm, its contents beckoning him. Impatient, Tom made an excuse about needing the restroom and slipped out, seeking the shelter of a nearby corridor. Previously, in their heated confrontation, Tom had landed a fierce blow on the imposter’s nose, causing blood to spatter onto his homework. That stained parchment now rested in his pocket next to the potion. Ensuring he was unobserved, Tom pricked his finger, opened the flask, and introduced a few drops of his blood. As expected, the potion transformed into a vibrant shade of lilac. “Dear Merlin,” Tom murmured, entranced by the flask. “This will reveal everything.” Retrieving the bloodstained parchment, he tore a small section and added it to the potion. For a moment, nothing changed, and a sense of dread gripped Tom. But then, the potion’s surface churned, releasing steam before settling into a distinct purple hue. Tom’s eyes gleamed with triumph. If the potion had become a deep maroon, it would have indicated Harry was a direct relative like a brother, son, or father. A pale-red shade would suggest a distant kinship. But purple was unmistakable. “It all makes sense,” Tom murmured, piecing the puzzle together. He had meticulously studied the Selwyn family tree and found no trace of the Gaunt name. The revelation was staggering, but the evidence was undeniable. Harry was his cousin. He had the gift of Parseltongue. It was also plausible he was a Metamorphmagus. Posing as a Selwyn, he had come to Hogwarts with an ulterior motive, likely related to the Chamber of Secrets and their mutual ancestor, Salazar Slytherin. Tom’s next challenge was to unravel the mysteries of how Harry recognized him, the whereabouts of the Gaunt lineage, and the intricate connection they shared. He stashed the flask away, quickly healed his finger, and returned to the class. For some reason, he struggled to suppress a smile; the corners of his lips kept twitching. He had a cousin. Combining all his observations, Tom pieced together the puzzle. Someone had sent Harry here against his will to find the Chamber of Secrets. Whoever it was knew Tom was at Hogwarts. Clearly, Harry was instructed to stay silent, but they hadn’t anticipated Tom figuring him out so quickly. Harry’s evident guilt only added to this theory. He wasn’t a heartless monster or blood purist; he genuinely felt for his cousin, saddened that Tom had grown up without a family’s guidance. But he was trapped in a role he hadn’t chosen. “Planning to start brewing anytime soon?” Lestrange asked, looking irritated. “Stop staring at Selwyn!” “I can’t help it,” Tom thought, “he’s family.” The term ‘cousin’ echoed warmly in his mind. Family. As much as Tom tried to resist these feelings, they continued to bubble up. He once believed his mother might come back for him, and even after all these years, a part of him still clung to that hope. Young Tom would often find himself by the orphanage gates, holding onto the bars so tightly that the nurse couldn’t pull him away. He waited in hope. “Your mother was just a wandering beggar!” Mrs. Cole once spat during an intoxicated tirade. “She died having you, Tom. Your father doesn’t even know you exist! No one’s coming for you, stop running away!” In anger, five year old Tom inadvertently delved into Mrs. Cole’s mind using Legilimency. Her memories revealed a fragile girl of sixteen, draped in worn-out clothes, who stumbled to the orphanage’s steps on a snowy night, ultimately collapsing. This horrifying vision drove Tom to flee from Mrs. Cole, seeking refuge beneath a bed. Although he had long forgotten how to cry, in that shadowed space, he allowed tears to flow. Perhaps a deluge. His heart felt fractured. Now, history seemed to repeat itself. The Gaunt family clearly didn’t want him; their sole interest lay in the Chamber of Secrets. Yet, the bond he shared with Harry was undeniable and compelling. Tom’s mind drifted to the sensation he felt when Harry’s chilled fingers made contact with his warmth. It felt as if a fishing hook had latched onto him, drawing him closer. Now, focusing on Harry’s silhouette, Tom channeled the concentration he employed during his Legilimency practices. “Let me in,” he urged silently, picturing that hook and feeling its pull. “Let me in.” He imagined Harry feeling the same tug. Gently, Tom tried to connect with it, not wanting to push too hard. He yearned to sense Harry’s emotions. It worked. A hint of annoyance and irritation washed over him. Tom strained to decipher Harry’s thoughts. It felt akin to perceiving the world above from the ocean’s depths. Merely fleeting beams of clarity reached him. Then he decided to dabble a bit. Imagining that his emotions could be passed on through the connection, he let his smile morph into a teasing grin. “Why so irritated?” he projected the thought. Harry flinched, casting a quick glance in his direction. “Gotcha!” Tom celebrated internally. “First try!” He wasn’t certain if Harry had heard him, but he certainly felt something. Harry immediately recoiled, biting his lip, a telltale sign of his anger. “I’ve been watching you. I know you, little cousin. But you have no idea what I can do,” Tom silently boasted. He would discover the Chamber of Secrets before Harry. He’d lay claim to its wonders, master the basilisk, and make the Gaunts rue the day they cast him aside like an unwanted puppy. He’d rise to such heights of power, they’d be forced to kneel. As for Harry… He’d be the first to fall. He knew secrets – things no one should know – and this connection might reveal even more. Tom couldn’t afford rivals. “Sorry, little bro. There won’t be a heartwarming family reunion,” Tom mused, noting Harry’s nervous leg movement. Yet, inexplicably, instead of basking in his upper hand, memories of their shared moments of emotional harmony surfaced in his mind. ***   Snow began to coat Hogwarts in mid-November. Previously oblivious to the castle’s coldness due to his natural warmth, Harry now felt every icy draft. In Gordian’s body he was constantly cold, always tucking his hands into gloves and bundling up in scarves and heavy cloaks. To little avail: his nose remained perpetually cold, and layer upon layer did little to stave off the shivering. By December, he felt as though a malevolent sickness plagued him, as the biting cold seemed relentless. Even running across the Quidditch pitch, while it got his blood pumping, did little to dispel the chill. The Owlery was the worst. Perched high in a windowless turret, it bore the brunt of every biting wind. Harry’s teeth clacked together as he fastened a letter to a school owl’s leg, his fingers tinted blue from the cold. The envelope held just one statement: “I’ll be there.” “Fly safe, girl. Stay above the clouds, and if needed, find shelter,” he murmured to the owl before racing back inside, casting another warming charm upon himself. By the next day, a fierce blizzard had set in, making greenhouse classes impossible. No one dared venture outside with such reduced visibility, barely an arm’s length in the driving snow. As a brief respite emerged, Harry hoped the weather would hold off just long enough for the owl to make her journey. The forecast predicted another record-setting storm for Scotland by evening. With three days of relentless snow, Harry’s anxiety mounted. Just before the storm, his cousin had sent an enigmatic letter, prompting an urgent response. “Dear Gordian, Long time no write! Grandmother and I have truly missed your tales of mischief, dear cousin! I’ve heard you’ve made some new friends? It must be quite a thrill at your age! I’m eager to hear all about them. I do hope you’ll come home for the holidays. I have a special Christmas gift waiting for you. I want to pamper my little brother one last time before he comes of age and leaves my protective wing to face the adult world. Do reply by the week’s end, as Grandmother has already begun planning the Christmas feast. She detests last-minute guest list changes, as you know. With love, your guardian Marius.” Marius’s threats were thinly veiled, barely hiding his apparent disdain for his cousin. Harry’s initial impulse was to dismiss the letter, but he felt compelled to visit the library to research the rights guardians held over underage wizards. Fortune seemed to favor Harry once again. While he knew little of the nineties guardianship nuances, he was completely unaware of the harrowing practices of the fifties. To his horror, he found out Marius had nearly absolute control over him. Marius could force Harry into marriage, physically harm him, sterilize him, declare him mentally unfit, disinherit him for bringing shame to the family, or send him to another school, and Harry would be powerless to contest any of it until he turned seventeen. Such draconian laws seemed archaic, fitting for the eighteenth century, not the twentieth. It was clear that a child’s welfare had little protection; they were treated almost as cattle. And that realization filled Harry with dread. What if Lord Selwyn made a sudden appearance at Hogwarts, backed by guards, demanding to take his unwell cousin home? Even if Harry resisted, the Headmaster would be bound by law, unable to defy a guardian’s wish and would be forced to expel Harry. Legally, Harry was at Marius’s mercy. Harry knew he had made many mistakes, but he just couldn’t allow Riddle to find the Chamber of Secrets and create the Horcruxes. And so, at the first break in the storm, he dispatched an owl, agreeing to Marius’s summons. He dreaded the confrontation that awaited him at home. Marius must be aware of the rift with the Blacks and probably knew of Gordian’s newfound support for Muggleborns. Harry hoped he could concoct a convincing story to justify his actions, at least long enough to complete his fifth year. By June, Gordian would turn seventeen, and Harry would gain his freedom. But surviving until then was crucial. Challenges seemed to cascade from all directions, and Harry found himself isolated. He had distanced himself from Alphard, Lucretia, Rut, and Joanna. In his effort to shield those he liked, he had alienated everyone. But what aid could they have offered? They were just kids after all. Days blurred into a monotonous cycle: wake, train, eat, study, visit the library, do homework, sleep. The cycle seemed unending. Harry had forgotten how to live any other way since 2001. He knew that persisting in such a manner wouldn’t suffice. Such a routine would send him to an early grave, well before a maturing Voldemort could. The boy was growing swiftly. Like many adolescents, he’d undergone a growth spurt, reaching a height similar to his older self in a mere three months. While their peers turned into lanky, clumsy teens with faint mustaches and protruding kneecaps, Riddle was fortunate enough to transition smoothly into an elegant, poised figure. As well as Alphard, actually. Witnessing Riddle’s evolution was agonizing for Harry. This was the budding Tom Riddle from the Chamber of Secrets, the one teetering on the edge of committing murder and splitting his soul. Time, Harry realized, was a deceptive ally. It gave the illusion of control and abundance until, out of the blue, winter arrived, Christmas loomed, and he found himself stagnant. No book offered insights on the connection between their souls. After scouring over two hundred of them, Harry found nothing similar. He was at a dead end! This era belonged to Riddle. He surged forward, a formidable ship navigating stormy seas, while Harry struggled in a rickety boat, shouting, “Wait for me! I’ll defeat you!” Harry’s life hadn’t equipped him with the intricacies of peer dynamics or cunning schemes. He was as straightforward as the boot hanging on the Burrow’s fence. In contrast, Riddle effortlessly slipped into the role of a prodigious prefect. After the memorable Halloween, pureblood students from Gideon Crabbe’s circle, spanning second to seventh years, turned on Harry. They ridiculed him, physically confronted him, tampered with his possessions, and conspired. Harry, preoccupied, largely dismissed these juvenile antics. However, what truly rankled him was Riddle’s skyrocketing popularity. A rumor circulated (and Harry had strong suspicions about the instigator) suggesting that Gordian Selwyn had fallen for his roommate, leading him to ditch Walburga Black and break off engagement with Crouch. But Riddle, bearing grudges from past altercations with a pampered aristocrat, rejected him. Harry had never imagined such gossip would gain traction. But he’d sorely underestimated the allure of whispers and people’s stupidity. As Harry’s reputation took a hit, Tom’s surged, as if he were taking Felix Felicis. Riddle’s transition into an attractive young man made many conveniently overlook his modest background. Riddle, now charming and captivating, began to win over those who once despised him. The two navigated the school, consciously keeping their distance. While Harry understood his own reservations, Riddle’s reasons for staying away remained an enigma. Their interactions dwindled, perhaps even less frequent than those between Gryffindor first-years and Slytherin alumni. Their connection deepened. Harry increasingly sensed alien emotions reverberating through him. Riddle exuded a newfound calmness, often tinged with happiness or even jubilation. Harry attributed this to Riddle’s rising popularity and ‘success’ in locating the Chamber of Secrets. As Harry had anticipated, Riddle promptly examined the school’s blueprints. One night, Harry discreetly cast a tracking charm on Riddle’s shoes, confirming that he was scouring the dungeons for the Chamber’s entrance. He hadn’t ventured to the second floor. Although leaving the castle was dangerous, given his need to shadow Riddle closely, fucking Marius left him with no other option. Upon his return to the castle, Harry was instinctively drawn to the library. With less than a month until the school year’s end, he was fervently searching for a lead. Opting for a shortcut via a hidden passage, he was about to push aside a portrait when he unexpectedly encountered Walburga. The girl was seated on the floor, her knees drawn up. As she looked up, her tear-streaked face became visible. “What are you doing here?” she snapped, her voice dripping with venom. “Go away!” Harry cautiously replaced the portrait. “What’s wrong, Walburga?” he asked with genuine concern. Regardless of his grievances with Sirius’s mother, he couldn’t simply ignore a distressed girl. “You have the nerve to ask?” She stood up swiftly. “The sheer gall!” She swiftly brandished her wand, aiming it directly at Harry. Her quick reflexes were reminiscent of a seasoned Auror. Harry realized this might be where Sirius inherited his dueling prowess from. “Did I do something to upset you?” Harry, not attempting to reach for his wand, held his hands up in a gesture of peace. “You’ve wrecked everything!” she seethed. “I wish you’d never returned. Alphard’s changed, all because of you. He won’t even acknowledge me anymore. Lucretia sides with him! Both have turned on me, my own family! What lies have you been feeding them?” “Walburga,” Harry began softly, his gaze drifting to her wrist, “have you ever considered that perhaps your actions, not mine, might be driving your family away?” “Me?!” she exclaimed, her voice shrill. “I am the one upholding our family’s name! Without my efforts, they would’ve been shunned ages ago. I’ve been shouldering this burden for everyone. And what’s my reward? Instead of gratitude, Alphard snubs me, associating with the very scum I warned him about! Our father blames me, saying as the eldest, I should’ve been watchful. Then you waltz in, muddying the waters! Do you realize that no honorable family will associate with you now? Who would want their daughter wedded to you? Your lineage will be ousted from the Sacred Twenty-Eight!” “Can you even hear yourself?” Harry said, rubbing his temples. “Sweet Merlin, Walburga! You’re concerned that no honorable family will associate with me? One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight amidst countless others? Open your eyes!” His voice raised, “You’ve trapped yourself in this delusional bubble where you believe you’re the cream of the crop. The reality is different. Pureblood wizards are in the minority, and the world is far bigger than just them! Alphard understands this. He doesn’t want his days filled with your prejudiced venom. He yearns to see the world, to live without bigotry. It’s not about what I’ve supposedly told him; he’s desired change for ages but lacked direction.” “You’re an idiot, Selwyn. I always knew,” she growled. “All this talk of a ‘bigger world’ and ‘equality’— it’s Callahan’s nonsense! He brainwashes everyone he can get his hands on during detentions! Did he get to you too? But he’s just a filthy, knutless Irish half-blood, while you’re from a distinguished lineage! Are you willing to abandon centuries of heritage just for the likes of Goobovich and Collins? To forsake all your forefathers achieved? Can you really be so thick-headed? We might be few, but we dictate the course of this nation! We are the backbone of its laws and economy, and…” “And you intermarry, leading to insanity?” Harry interjected. “The era of aristocracy is drawing to a close, Walburga. The world is changing. Embracing freedom.” The brief clash left him drained, longing for solitude. She would never truly hear him, and he would never understand her. Their upbringings had erected barriers between them. No wonder Tom Riddle was finding followers. Young purebloods sought a figurehead, someone to champion their traditions. The nation was transitioning, with Muggleborn officials striving to revise laws that had allowed dark wizards unchecked power. These purebloods, accustomed to autonomy, each family a kingdom unto itself, were angry. “Our time is yet to come!” Walburga asserted, her laugh teetering on hysteria. “The Mudbloods will learn their place!” “I see,” Harry sighed. “Enjoy your evening in delusions, Miss Black.” He pressed on, leaving her behind. His spirits already dampened, Walburga’s words pushed him to the edge. His past demons beckoned. The desire to escape, to forget all the crap consumed him. A momentary reprieve! That’s all he needed before facing the world again. “Enough!” He snapped himself back to reality. “You’re better than this!” Upon entering the library, he acknowledged Madam Shi and proceeded to the desired section. His mind elsewhere, he didn’t notice someone emerging from behind a bookshelf until they collided. Even without looking, the electric connection that sparked confirmed who it was. The sensation was overpowering, drowning Harry in a tidal wave of emotions. He attempted to shove Riddle off, but the latter’s grip tightened. “Let go!” “I won’t.” A strange exhilaration surged through him, a yearning for that inexplicable completeness… No! It was unnatural and disgusting! In desperation, Harry jerked his head forward, striking Riddle’s chin. With a yelp, Riddle released him, blood trickling between his fingers. “What in Mordred’s name are you doing, Riddle?!” Harry snarled, wand at the ready. “Stay away from me!” Riddle stood tall, blood smeared across his lips and chin, eerily reminiscent of a predator after a kill. “You’re aware of our connection,” he smirked, the red on his teeth making the scene grotesque. The sight unsettled Harry, invoking a fear deeper than any he’d felt, even with Voldemort himself. “You need your head checked, you nutcase”, Harry snapped, the primal urge to flee growing stronger with each second. “I sensed you, felt your fear,” Riddle pressed on, driving Harry backward until his back met a bookshelf. Blood dribbled from Riddle’s lip, and he languidly licked it, seeming to relish the taste. “You’re aware of our connection. It terrifies you; you wish to break it.” The bastard was too smart. Frantically, Harry tried to figure a way out, but he was quite literally cornered. Fittingly, they stood in the section on magical bonds. Riddle wasn’t here by coincidence. “I don’t know!” Harry retorted defiantly. “You’re the one pulling some trick! Stay away from me, understood?” “You’re only making it harder for yourself by lying to me,” Riddle whispered, inching closer. “I’ll find out the truth one way or another. Speak honestly, Harry, and I promise I’ll do everything to get rid of the connection. Together, we’ll find a solution.” That voice sent chills down Harry’s spine. It reminded him of Voldemort’s deceptive whispers about the Philosopher’s Stone, the false promises of resurrecting his parents. “For the last time,” Harry jutted out his chin defiantly, staring down this son of a bitch, “I’m not hiding anything. It’s your ability, you deal with it.” Riddle’s expression darkened, fury burning in his eyes. He reached out, grazing his thumb over Harry’s cheek. The sudden touch intensified their connection, but Harry wrestled it down, refusing to betray any emotion to the monster in front of him. Gripping Riddle’s forearm, Harry attempted to push him away, but Riddle abruptly yanked it back himself. Face ashen, he stepped back, clenching and unclenching his fist several times. “You might regret not joining me when you had the chance, Harry. I don’t forgive traitors,” he spat out the cryptic phrase and walked away. In the aftermath, Harry spotted a book on the floor, dropped in the commotion. He picked it up, the title reading, “Blood Ties and Oaths.” “What in Merlin’s name…” He mused aloud, rubbing the back of his head. He hadn’t delved into magical blood ties yet since the concept seemed too far-fetched for their situation. He took the book and a few others, though it was challenging to concentrate on the content. Visions of Riddle—his pale, blood-streaked face and the intensity of his gaze—kept flashing through Harry’s mind. He could still feel the force of Riddle’s hands, the warmth of his touch, and those puzzling words. Harry had been right. Riddle was looking to manipulate their bond the moment he became aware of it. What were Riddle’s intentions? Harry wished he could get under his skin to decipher Riddle’s thought process, but guarding his own emotions and thoughts was becoming an impossible task. The strength of their connection grew more potent each day, and Harry couldn’t discern the reason. “I need to avoid him more carefully,” Harry whispered, absentmindedly trailing his fingers across the text. He considered spending nights in the Room of Requirement; after all, unlike other House prefects, Crabbe didn’t enforce bedtime. However, the problem was, he knew he didn’t want to. Whenever he realized he was ensnared with the monster, his blood surged with adrenaline. The act of defiance made him feel alive, as though he was shaking off a lingering stupor. He’d become used to observing him, picking up on his patterns, attuning to his measured voice, and speculating what might be hidden behind the composed exterior. Harry had lost the knack for peaceful existence; Ginny was right. The continuous excitement, the fervor of confrontation called to him. Young Voldemort was a fascinating enigma, and Harry was determined to decipher it before casting his final judgment. “Hermione did warn me. I must have lost my mind,” he muttered, turning back to his book. He tried pushing aside the words of those who had spoken to him through the mirror, refusing to link them to his current predicament. ***   After herbology, Lucretia cornered Harry. He’d been momentarily held back by an oddly aggressive snapping begonia. As he stepped from the humid conservatory into the cool air, he was met by the sharp stare of blue eyes, strikingly similar to Mrs. Weasley’s stern look. Harry could almost hear her voice in his ear: “Harry James Potter! What have you done now?” “Gordian Cecil Selwyn, how dare you!” Lucretia burst out, hands firmly on her hips, much like her future daughter would. “I didn’t do anything,” Harry immediately defended, instinctively shrinking back a bit. “You upset Alphard,” she stated, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him behind the greenhouse. Given her petite stature, much like her daughter’s, the scene might have seemed slightly amusing. “What happened between you two?” After making sure they were alone, she stared at Harry, waiting for an explanation. The cold turned her nose a soft pink, and stray strands of her platinum hair fell from under her hat. “I’m trying to keep him safe,” Harry said with a hint of frustration. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of it.” “Boys,” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “So immature. Who exactly do you think you’re protecting him from? He’s the son of one of the country’s most powerful men. Do you even stop to think?” “You wouldn’t understand,” Harry responded, the weight of his emotions pushing him against the cold wall. “I’m a magnet for trouble. It’s safer for him if I keep my distance.” “Is this some sort of romantic literature you’re quoting?” Lucretia’s indignation was palpable, a vein prominently visible on her forehead, her eyes aflame. “Do you take me for a fool?” “No,” Harry countered, searching for the right words to explain the predicament that fate seemed to always push him into, dragging those close to him into danger as well. “You’re sharp, Lucretia. Sometimes there are things we can’t share. Just trust me on this — it wasn’t my intention to grow so close to Alphard, but now, cutting ties early is the right choice.” Harry berated himself for getting entangled with Alphard from the outset. If matters took a wrong turn, he might soon vanish or be labeled as Riddle’s murderer. He’d attempted to keep his distance from Black, yet their bond had formed effortlessly, without any mystical connection. “Cutting ties early?!” Lucretia’s voice was a mixture of fury and disbelief as she gripped his collar. “You’ve led him on for months! He wouldn’t stop talking about you! If you truly cared about his well-being, why did you let him in? Why give him hope? He’s shattered, Gordian! You were the first to truly befriend him, and then you cast him aside as if he meant nothing! Can you even fathom his pain? Trust is a luxury for him, and forming bonds is an uphill battle. Yet, you earned his trust and discarded it!” As her anger gave way to grief, tears streamed down her cheeks, momentarily freezing in the cold. She turned, brushing them away with a gloved hand. “I never treated him as worthless,” Harry retaliated, hands clenched in his gloves. “He struggles with trust? I was his first true friend? I…” Harry’s realization hit hard. He’d always perceived Alphard through the lens of his relationship to Sirius, seeing him as a mere figure from a bygone era, not as a present-day teenager grappling with genuine challenges. “Alphard’s always been wary and guarded,” Lucretia’s voice softened, registering Harry’s genuine shock. “But when you lost your memory, there was a spark in him. Whatever you shared with him, it brought him joy. He eagerly awaited your letters that never came. And he finds it difficult to reach out first. He began attending your grandmother’s soirees more frequently this summer, looking forward to the new school year. And then that awful confrontation with Walburga, where she splashed champagne in his face. He distanced himself from those pureblood fanatics, spending most of his time with you. He rediscovered his passion for drawing and constantly spoke of you. How could you, Gordian? Are you truly so heartless? You introduced him to a different world, only to abandon him later. I can’t understand it!” As she spoke, another tear slipped past her glove. “I see how much you’ve changed. I see how you feel about Alphard. Why are you doing this to him?” Harry was rendered speechless. The depth of her emotions, the sincerity in her tears — it was all too real. He’d always perceived these historical figures as long gone, never truly grasping that in this timeline, they were very much alive, and their experiences were immediate and tangible. He was in their time now. These people, their feelings, and even their fates were unfolding in real-time. It wasn’t a chapter closed in 2001; it was a narrative in the making. He buried his face in his gloved hands and leaned against the cold wall. “You can tell me, Gordy. You know I won’t tell anyone. I hardly have friends to speak of,” Lucretia gently said, touching his shoulder. “All I want is for my only sane brother, my own flesh and blood, not to tread the same path as Walburga or our dear Uncle Pollux. I just want him to be happy. Don’t you?” “You wouldn’t understand,” Harry whispered. “Everywhere I go, there’s trouble. It’s not just a belief; it’s a fact. By being close to Alphard, he could get caught in my mess and miss out on a normal life. I’m doing this to protect him, for Merlin’s sake!” He wished he could lay everything out for her. As he looked at Lucretia, it was like seeing Molly Weasley’s questioning eyes again. “Speak to her, Harry! You both can’t keep avoiding each other!” Back then, he had wanted to yell: “I can’t! If I tell you everything, it would break you!” “Is it too much to ask what you’re protecting him from?” Lucretia, so unlike her cousin Walburga, was surprisingly composed. “I can’t,” Potter confirmed, relieved, looking straight into her penetrating blue eyes. “I genuinely want what’s best for Alphard. I can’t let myself be the reason he ruins his life. It’s better he feels hurt and bewildered now than to impulsively jump into the fray with me and suffer. You need to be in this with me, Lucretia. Make him see that I’m not worth the pain. If things go south, make sure he stays out of it.” Lucretia gazed deeply into his eyes, as if attempting to decipher his thoughts with Legilimency. In that instance, she didn’t remind him of any future Black family members. She was uniquely herself, and Molly’s shadow faded from Harry’s thoughts. “You’re plotting something,” she stated calmly. “And you’re determined to keep Alphard out of it. I hear you, Gordian. But here’s my advice — don’t cross paths with Riddle. You can’t compete with him. I’ll talk to Alphard. As for you… I believed you’d turned over a new leaf, but I guess I was mistaken. You’ve become more dangerous.” She turned sharply and walked away without another word. Her displeasure was evident from her posture, her stride, and her tight fists. He half-expected her to spin around and snap, “You’re a bloody jerk, Gordian.” Harry couldn’t fault her for feeling that way. To outsiders, he probably seemed like an arrogant fool, especially concerning Riddle. But it was better for Lucretia and Alphard to be disillusioned now rather than later, questioning how they missed the signs of a murderer. Or worse, becoming entangled in the conflict themselves. “Damn it all to Mordred’s hell!” he muttered, setting off down the path. This path wasn’t the way back to school at all.