Behind Lies Eternity

Returning to Selwyn Manor proved far more excruciating than Harry had anticipated. Walking from the gates to the entrance along the broad manicured path, surrounded by a breathtaking garden, picturesquely dusted with snow, he realized that the mere thought of entering the house and facing this family almost made him nauseous. Strangers with foreign ideals, residing in a manor that unnerved him, endless galas and dances brimming with alcohol, fake smiles, and superficial chatter – a relentless parade of idiocy and arrogance. It all weighed so heavily on him that simply stepping over the threshold felt like the most daunting task he had yet faced. “Gordian, what on earth are you wearing? And what happened to your lovely hair?” Lady Selwyn’s voice rang out as soon as he opened the door. By now, Harry had understood that his replies wouldn’t suffice, so he simply shrugged, looking around the grand hall as if seeing it anew. The house felt far more oppressive than it had four months ago. A sensation of a sticky, murky film seemed to envelop him the moment he stepped inside. “Oh, darling, how I’ve missed you!” Lady Selwyn exclaimed, kissing both his cheeks and pulling him into a tight embrace. “It’s been so dull without you! But seriously, what happened to your hair?” Harry shook his head, akin to a dog emerging from water, attempting to focus on the conversation. “I had to cut it. Long hair isn’t in fashion right now.” Mrs. Selwyn gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Out of fashion?” she exclaimed, her voice an octave too high. “The youth today listen far too much to the mudbloods! Long hair is a status symbol! How could you let such riffraff influence you into cutting your glorious mane?” Harry momentarily shut his eyes, praying she wouldn’t catch the exaggerated eye-roll that followed. “I’m truly sorry,” he responded in a flat tone, “for yielding to such fleeting fashion fancies. I promise I’ll grow it back.” He could understand Mrs. Selwyn’s perspective. She lived life by her family’s and her time’s standards. But he struggled with understanding why. Didn’t she recognize after all these years that this lifestyle didn’t genuinely make her happy? She seemed consumed by societal judgments, confining herself with self-imposed limits, and reaping no true rewards. She lacked genuine friends to support her. Instead, she held onto the mere facade of nobility, unable to confide even in her own grandchildren. Was this life? “Oh, young ones!” Mrs. Selwyn sighed with a hint of exasperation. “Growing hair back with magic isn’t the same as naturally letting it grow! But you never heed our advice, always thinking you know best!” Wanting to avoid further confrontation, especially after a tiring journey on the Hogwarts Express and lacking sleep, Harry simply nodded and quickly started towards the staircase. “How old are you, grandmother?” he inquired, attempting to change the subject. The question seemed to hit a nerve. “What sort of question is that? Is this the manner in which I raised you?” she shot back, closely following him. “It’s rude to ask a lady her age, young man. Remember that!” “I lost my memory,” Harry reminded her. “I want to know my grandmother’s age. And which family did you come from? Who were you before marriage?” “I am a Selwyn,” the woman said, suddenly stopping and gripping the banister so tightly it turned her knuckles white. Harry studied her reaction with increased curiosity. The tension in her demeanor didn’t sit well with him. “Really?” he questioned gently. “From what I remember, my grandfather was the primary heir. So, you’d be from a secondary line, wouldn’t you?” Having seen the Selwyn family tapestry, Harry had been curious as to why his grandmother was only mentioned as his grandfather’s wife, without any mention of her lineage, which was traditionally noted. “We were cousins,” she snapped, her voice sharp and lips pressed into a thin line. “And don’t you dare change the topic, Gordian. Who convinced you to cut your hair? Those new friends of yours? Marius told me about the company you’ve been keeping!” Harry rolled his eyes and picked up his pace. However, for someone her age, Mrs. Selwyn moved swiftly, matching his steps as they climbed. “It’s just silly rumors,” he countered. “I hardly speak to anyone except Alphard Black. I’m focused on my studies, Grandmother.” “Don’t lie to me! I know you’ve been associating with that Gorbovich boy!” “Wait, so I can learn from Gorbovich but can’t exchange pleasantries with his son?” Harry responded, feigning shock. “Have you gone mad?” she exclaimed, incredulously. “The elder Gorbovich is but a servant! Next, you’ll be telling me you’re friends with house-elves!” “Merlin,” Harry murmured, quickening his steps. “Stop right there!” she demanded. “I want to know everyone you’ve been associating with! Lady Crabbe said you’ve severed ties with all respectable acquaintances and have started mingling with Mudbloods!” “Those are baseless accusations,” Harry retorted, doing his best to remain composed. “Gideon and I had a disagreement, and now he’s feeding stories to his mother.” “You had a falling out with the heir of Lord Crabbe?!” The shrillness in her voice could’ve broken glass. “How dare you?! They are primary patrons of ours!” “Isn’t it the Black family that’s your chief patron?” Harry, now exasperated, stopped and turned to face her, his gaze intense. Mrs. Selwyn’s eyes widened in alarm. “Aren’t they the ones keeping the Selwyns afloat?” “Where did you hear such a thing?” she asked, trying to laugh it off, but the nervous edge to her voice betrayed her. “I’m aware of the financial condition of the House of Selwyn. Whatever my father did, it left you bankrupt. The Blacks are your lifeline.” “Who told you this?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “Alphard Black,” Harry answered, smirking. “Why don’t you tell me about what Lord Selwyn did? It would be beneficial to know who I shouldn’t offend, right?” The distraction worked perfectly. All thoughts of the Crabbes and Harry’s associates were momentarily forgotten. “Forget you ever heard anything,” she whispered, looking away. “I shouldn’t have ambushed you like this at the doorstep. Ah, take some time to rest. We have a family dinner tonight. Marius has invited some friends…” She trailed off, nervously adjusting her dress, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes. “Grandmother. What did my father do?” Harry persisted. Suddenly, her demeanor shifted. “Stop it!” she cried out, her voice on the verge of hysteria. “Enough! Just stop!” Harry retreated a step, taken aback. Mrs. Selwyn’s focus was not on him, but rather on a portrait of an aged man that hung on the wall. “Um, are you okay?” Harry asked tentatively, concern evident in his voice. She turned to him, her face registering surprise, as if she had momentarily forgotten he was there. “Gordian? What happened to your hair, dear?!” At that moment, a chill ran down Harry’s spine. He slowly began backing away, careful not to turn his back on her. “I’m tired,” he said with a strained smile. “I think I’ll go rest, alright?” “Of course,” she replied with a dismissive gesture. “Remember, we have a small family dinner tonight. Marius invited a couple of his friends…” “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Harry retorted, dashing up the stairs. Once in his room, he quickly sealed the door with a spell and leaned against it, catching his breath. “What on earth is going on here?!” he exclaimed aloud. “Has she finally lost her marbles in her old age?” Distant giggles echoed through the room. “Couldn’t you have picked another body?” Harry said, exasperated. “Dealing with these nutters is sheer torture! And now Marius will become a nuisance. Merlin, as if one Riddle wasn’t enough!” Naturally, no one responded. Frustrated, Harry tossed his bag onto the bed and began searching the room: he double-checked the desk, looked for any hidden spots, turned the wardrobe inside out, and scoured the bathroom thoroughly. “There has to be something!” he cried out. “A personal diary, perhaps? For Merlin’s sake, what did his father do? Argh! What’s even going on in this place?” An invisible tail thudded against his legs, seemingly nudging him towards the bed. Harry shot it a suspicious glance, recalling the magical photos in the hidden compartment. “And how’s that supposed to help?” he grumbled. Nonetheless, he reached in and pulled out the pictures. He hadn’t examined them closely last time; they seemed too repugnant, and he hadn’t been eager to delve into Gordian’s personal life. Given the nature of Gordian’s family, it wasn’t at all surprising that he was a pervert. Suppressing his disgust, he closely examined the photos and almost screamed when he recognized the individuals depicted in them. Last time, it seemed to him just some gruesome group porn with various boys. But on closer inspection, he realized every photo featured Gordian himself. Much, much younger Gordian, at that. “Merlin’s ass!” exclaimed Harry, now staring at his own tear-streaked face. The men in the magical photos, wearing masks, varied: there was a portly one, an old skinny one, and another wizard who was evidently young and lean. All of them were ruthlessly fucking sweaty Gordian. Despite the tears, it was clear Gordian was aroused; in several shots, he climaxed intensely, arching in ecstasy. Harry scrutinized the background and the bodies of the masked men, deducing it was taken in a lavish house, reminiscent of the Selwyns’. A frame revealed an intricately carved chaise longue, an antique mirror, and a plush rug. Lady Selwyn’s influence had refined Harry’s ability to recognize costly antiques and luxury items. “What’s this?” Fetching a magnifying glass from an old telescope on the desk, he held it up to the enchanted photo. A face was faintly visible in the background, heavily blurred. Still, one detail was unmistakable: a black half-mask covering the person’s right eye. It was Gaspard Crouch. “Fuck!” Harry couldn’t contain his shock. The ring bit into him once more, but he’d grown accustomed to it after cursing so often lately. “So that’s why you’ve been tailing me relentlessly!” Theories raced through his mind, each more confusing than the last. Yet one thing was crystal clear: Crouch might hold the key to unraveling Gordian Selwyn’s mystery. That snake! Feigning infatuation all this while… It was no wonder Harry’s instincts had alerted him from the start. Regardless of the body he inhabited, his intuition remained razor-sharp. Was Crouch serving as Gordian’s pimp, connecting him with wealthy clients? Or Gordian indulged in twisted sex with Crouch as a voyeur? Or were they producing these photos for profit? Maybe one of these “clients” had abducted Gordian. “Young master!” A house-elf materialized with a muted pop. “Mistress requests your presence downstairs. The guests have arrived!” Glancing at the clock, Harry almost swore out loud. He’d lost five hours in that search! “I’m on my way, Molly.” Quickly donning an elegant outfit and hastily tidying his hair, Harry headed down to the so-called family dinner. To term it a “family dinner” was quite generous. There were Hector Rosier and Idwig Prince, Pollux and Irma Black, Lord and Lady Crabbe, and Lady Nott. All were blood-related to the Selwyns, but it was a tenuous link at best. After greeting everyone, Harry took his seat and noticed Alphard engrossed in a conversation with Lady Selwyn, gesturing towards a showcase of goblin artifacts, the grand dining room’s crowning glory. He inwardly groaned. While Walburga’s absence wasn’t surprising given their recent spat, Alphard’s attendance signaled his unwavering stance. “Ah, my dear cousin!” Marius chimed in, swaggering over. Slipping an arm around Harry’s shoulders, the sharp scent of liquor assailed Harry’s nostrils. “Friends, may I have your attention!” As all eyes turned their way, Marius beamed, “This modest family gathering celebrates two individuals dear to me: my beloved brother Gordian and my best friend —Hector Rosier. It’s with immense joy that I announce their betrothal in a week’s time!” The guests burst into applause, congratulating Harry with warm smiles. Harry stood there, eyes wide, like a fish out of water, struggling to understand what he’d just heard. “Smile,” Marius whispered venomously into his ear, squeezing him in an uncomfortable embrace. “Be thankful he’s footing the bill for you, you little whore, or I might’ve offered you up to old man Crabbe.” Harry’s gaze darted between a gloating Marius and Hector. The latter, barely containing his glee, saluted him with a mischievous glint in his eye, following it with an unmistakably lewd gesture. Fragments of pureblood laws he’d poured over the previous night played in his mind. Until he reached the age of seventeen, Marius could legally shackle him in a betrothal without his consent. To dissolve the engagement after reaching the age of maturity, Harry would need a court to recognize that it was arranged against his wishes. But with a torturous half year to his seventeenth birthday, Hector would legally have free rein over him. As his fiancé, Hector would become his guardian and assume all legal rights over him until he reached adulthood. Bloody purebloods and their archaic customs! And they presumed they were beyond reproach? If Harry survived until the elections, he’d surely cast his vote for Spencer-Moon. “No,” Harry declared firmly, silencing the room. “I will not be engaged to Hector. I apologize, Hector, but my heart belongs to another.” “What?!” Marius erupted, his face contorting with rage. “Spit it out, boy!” “Gordian!” The Grandmother gasped, her hand over her heart, her frame swaying dangerously. Idwig, ever attentive, steadied her, conjuring a rejuvenating potion. “I said,” Harry asserted, his voice commanding the room, “I refuse Hector’s hand because I am enamored with another. It would be pure deceit to pretend otherwise, wouldn’t it?” “Indeed,” Irma Black intoned, nodding sagely at Harry. “Honesty is a virtue, Gordian. A marital bond should never be anchored in deception. Who has captivated your heart?” For reasons he couldn’t fathom, an image of Riddle floated into Harry’s consciousness. But verbalizing that would be utter madness. “I’m…” “It’s me!” To Harry’s astonishment, Alphard interjected, determination blazing in his eyes. Irma’s reaction was as expected, her face a mask of shock, likely considering the Selwyns’ pecuniary misfortunes. “This is sheer madness,” Lord Black grumbled. “Gordian and I have committed our hearts to one another,” Alphard declared boldly, taking Harry’s hand as though it were a lifeline. His gaze defied his father. “Nothing should stand in our path to matrimony.” Inside, Harry groaned. In his quest to safeguard Alphard, the boy had audaciously followed him into the eye of the storm. “Ridiculous,” Pollux scoffed with a wave of his hand. “A mere youthful whim. We’ve already arranged a fitting match for you, Alphard, and Gordian is Hector’s. Love isn’t the sole foundation of marriage, it’s lineage that takes precedence. The pair of you share blood ties! Have you considered the implications for any future children? We cannot persist in this intermingling of our lines!” “It’s true,” Marius said, so livid that a vein on his forehead threatened to burst. “Your mother, Gordian, was Pollux’s niece. With Rosier, there’s no blood ties; he genuinely cares and respects you.” “Then we’ll run away!” Alphard shouted back defiantly. “Is that what you want?” Lord Black surged to his feet as if he’d been jolted by lightning, wand in hand. “Home, now!” His voice boomed like an angered dragon, making the dishes tremble. “We’ll discuss this in private!” “Go,” Harry whispered urgently to Alphard. “Thanks for standing up for me. I’ve got this.” He gently disentangled their fingers, as Alphard seemed reluctant to let go, then made a break for the exit, with Marius’s shouts echoing behind him. Merlin, what had he gotten himself into now? “Gordian, wait!” It was Hector’s voice, chasing him. “We need to talk!” “Stay the hell away!” Harry shot back, dashing up the stairs with the speed of a young cheetah. “There’s no betrothal happening!” “Hold up!” Hector wasn’t giving in. He must have been an excellent runner, catching up to Harry and cornering him just a hair’s breadth from his room’s sanctuary. “Gordian, stop acting like a brat!” Harry felt the tug on his robe and resisted the urge to punch Hector or blast him with his wand. “Gordian,” Hector’s eyes were dark and intense. He tried to touch Harry’s face but got his hand slapped away. His demeanor switched in a heartbeat, venom dripping from his words, “Listen here, you little whore,” his voice was both chilling and frenzied. “I’ll pay good money for you, and you’ll be mine. Don’t even think of running.” The façade crumbled, revealing Hector’s monstrous side. As Harry reached for his wand, a debilitating sensation, a nemesis from his past months at Hogwarts, resurfaced. Weakness invaded his limbs, his fingers trembling violently, causing his wand to hit the floor with a hollow sound. Hector seized this vulnerability, yanking Harry into a suffocating embrace. Bloody hell, why now? “I’m warning you, Gordian,” Hector murmured, his lips brushing Harry’s cheek as he roughly spread apart his buttocks, causing Harry to almost choke in revulsion. “Fight me, and it gets uglier. Be a good boy, and I won’t have to punish you, got it?” “Get fucked, you perv,” Harry hissed, struggling to regain control over his body. “I’ll drag you through the court, understand?” “Oh really?” Hector smirked, trailing his tongue down Harry’s neck. “There might be some interesting revelations in court, Gordy. Maybe you’ve lost your memory, but mine’s intact. If you don’t want to become notoriously known throughout England, you’ll agree to marry me. You’ve done so much… Oh, you’re so lucky I’m willing to make you my official spouse. What will Black think when he finds out he is going to get damaged goods?” Slowly, control returned to Harry’s limbs. Pushing the sleazebag away, he had to lean against the wall to keep from falling, but he managed to summon his wand, pointing it at Hector. “I’m under the watch of the Auror Department,” Harry stated firmly, looking directly into Hector’s deranged eyes. “Right now, you’re threatening and blackmailing a minor. I can call Captain Shacklebolt this instant. My abductor was never found, and he’ll be very curious about the dirt you claim to have on me. If you did fuck me in the past, then you had motive. Jealousy, perhaps? Obsession? Fits the profile of the case quite well. Plus… how old was I then? Thirteen?” Rosier flashed a smile, raised his hands, and slowly retreated. “Let him interrogate me with Veritaserum if he wishes,” he retorted smugly. “Really?” Harry bore into him with a piercing gaze. “So, you have nothing to hide? Perhaps an illicit relationship with a minor against his will?” “Nonsense,” Rosier laughed. “Nothing of the sort, I assure you.” Harry wasn’t convinced; there was more to this. Oh Gordian, you little pervert! What had he gotten himself into? The guy had an insatiable libido and starred in some hardcore porno. What was stopping him from willingly hopping into bed with his cousin’s friend? Then he’d probably turned down Rosier’s advances, and now, with the Selwyns in dire straits, Rosier aimed to reclaim Gordian. A solid motive for kidnapping. But if he was the real culprit, why propose publicly? Something wasn’t adding up, so Harry decided to hold off approaching Captain Shacklebolt. If something unsavory or illegal about Gordian came to light, he could be thrown out of school in a heartbeat. “What’s going on here?” Marius interrupted. Surprisingly calm, he showed no desire to rip Gordian apart for the drama he’d stirred up. “Gordian and I are discussing our betrothal,” Rosier said sweetly, smiling at Marius. “Isn’t that right, dear?” “Go fuck yourself,” Harry snorted. “Marius, Hector’s had too much to drink and clearly needs a break.” “Yes, Hector, it’s best you leave,” Marius sighed. “We’ll put the betrothal on hold.” “Oh?” Rosier raised an eyebrow. “You promised, Marius. Going back on your word?” “I can’t force my brother against his will,” Marius retorted, his lie sounding surprisingly genuine. “I promise I’ll try to persuade him, alright? Mate, you know me. I’m a man of my word.” Harry knew him well enough to tell that Marius was lying through his teeth. “Fine. I trust you, Marius,” Rosier conceded, fixing him with a long, scrutinizing look. “You know who your real friends are, right?” “Of course,” Marius replied tersely, nodding. The two exchanged firm handshakes, and Rosier calmly left, shooting Harry a lewd parting glance. “What’s the game?” Harry asked, exhaustion evident in his voice, as the tension drained from his legs. “I thought you’d have my head.” “And what was I supposed to tell him?” Marius replied with a sudden grin. “Shoo with your measly money; I’ve hooked a bigger catch? Don’t be daft, Gordy.” “But you were against the engagement with Alphard,” Harry pointed out, puzzled. “Of course,” Marius agreed. “Pollux wasn’t pleased, and I always side with Pollux. But you two, holding hands, he’ll surely come around. He’ll let Alphard have his way with your ass ’til death do you part. You are not as dense as you look. If Black can’t convince the old man, off you go to Rosier. If he can, you’ll fill my pockets. Either way, I win!” “You’re vile,” Harry spat, feeling a surge of pity for Gordian. “No more than you, love,” Marius countered with a malevolent sneer. “I had hoped your amnesia might work in our favor, and it really did! Playing to Alphi’s honor, even being civil with the Mudbloods! But don’t push your luck, it might tarnish our reputation. What the Blacks could get away with, we’ll never be forgiven for. Make peace with Walburga, it’ll do wonders for your social standing.” “Sure,” Harry responded, clearly drained. Arguing with Marius seemed futile. “How long until Pollux decides?” “We’ll give him till the Easter break,” Marius pondered. “Though, I’d be willing to wait till summer if that’s what it takes for the stubborn mule to accept you.” Tired, Harry shuffled towards his room. In his satchel awaited a temporary escape from the chaos his life had become. *** Harry opted out of the Christmas reception. Not because he detested these functions, or because enduring pureblood prattle was a nightmare, or even due to Alphard’s relentless pursuit. His legs simply failed him, rendering him bedridden for a day. Mrs. Selwyn refrained from sharing news of his condition to avoid dampening the festive spirit, and a healer was only called upon the following day. “I can’t find a cause,” Shafiq admitted after his examination. “He seems to be in perfect health. When did this start?” “Soon after I left the hospital,” Harry said, frowning. “No issues at Hogwarts, but once I got back here…” A chilling realization struck him. His legs faltered because his soul wanted to detach from his body. But in Riddle’s presence, and their connection, he was fine. Riddle anchored Harry’s soul to this realm, tying him down as a Horcrux would. Bloody hell! “It’s a psycho-magical issue,” Shafiq asserted. “You might view the school as a sanctuary subconsciously, which explains the absence of episodes there. However, when you return home, perhaps the trauma of the kidnapping lingers…” “Oh!” Grandmother pressed her hands to her lips in shock. “My dear boy! How shall we proceed?” “I forewarned about potential complications, Lady Selwyn. We require seasoned mind healers…” “Could I just return to school?” Harry quickly suggested, eager for an escape. “I’ve never been a fan of mind healers…” “Certainly, certainly,” Grandmother concurred, while Shafiq barely concealed an eye roll. “Return to Hogwarts, and all should be well.” Thus, Harry made his escape from the stifling Selwyn manor and landed back at Hogwarts. His sudden arrival took Riddle by surprise, especially as Harry entered their room unannounced. Stepping out of the shower, adorned in blue pajamas with wet hair clinging to his head, Riddle looked strangely domestic. “You?” Riddle’s face contorted into a grimace. “What brings you here?” “I live here!” Harry retorted playfully. He wouldn’t confess, but seeing Riddle’s surly expression was oddly comforting. Facing the devil you know was preferable to dealing with the madcap Selwyns and disgusting Rosier. “Don’t be absurd,” Riddle scoffed. “How unkind,” Harry responded, feigning offense. “I missed your charming presence so terribly, I just had to return prematurely. Wonderful, isn’t it?” “Why the sudden affection?” Riddle mused, maneuvering past him. “After such prolonged avoidance, your sudden reappearance is… curious.” “My cousin almost married me off to a pervert and pedophile!” Harry blurted out. “Thankfully, Alphard stepped in… But now, a betrothal with him seems unavoidable, and I have no clue how to handle this bullshit!” “What are you on about—” Riddle began, then leaned closer, taking a deliberate sniff. “You’ve been drinking!” he accused with a smirk. “Bloody hell, you’re thoroughly plastered.” “Absolutely!” Harry confessed, bursting into laughter. “Enduring Marius’s drivel was torture. And Lady Selwyn? She’s gone bonkers, engaging in deep conversations with paintings. The whole lot of them are off their rockers.” He felt exhilarated, the weight of the world momentarily lifted. Wanting nothing more than to unwind, Harry plopped onto his bed, pulled a pillow into his embrace, and fixed his gaze on Riddle. Departing the shadowy confines of the Selwyn manor felt akin to slipping out of the clutches of a malevolent beast. “You know,” he began with a lopsided grin, “you’re not half as irksome as they are. Never imagined there could be a being more exasperating than you, but the universe loves its ironies, doesn’t it? Oh! Speaking of dates, happy birthday! It’s today, isn’t it? My days have jumbled up. It’s the thirty-first, right? Sixteen, huh? How time flies …” His gaze drifted to the bed’s canopy, lost in thought. “Isn’t the sixteenth year when you’re supposed to get watches as gifts? I should’ve snagged one for you. The Selwyns have a vault full, one for every suit. Mad, right?” Riddle’s silent attentiveness was strangely soothing. “Anyone gift you anything? I mean, before school. The Lestrange must’ve overwhelmed you with tokens by now.” A vague recollection nudged at Harry; prying into Riddle’s past at the orphanage was treading on thin ice, but the alcohol rendered him carefree. He had chugged a bottle of Firewhisky in the morning and pilfered some of Marius’s wine from the cellar during the train ride. His throat yearned for another sip. “No one,” Riddle murmured, cautiously settling on his bed’s edge. “And you?” “Would you consider toothpicks a noteworthy present?” Harry chuckled sardonically. “Ah, I once got socks! Full of holes, mind you. Got a thrashing for them later. Apparently, I was meant to darn them. Not a birthday gift, just a cruel reminder they’d forgotten.” Riddle’s voice softened, “Your family treated you that badly?” Harry snorted, “Family? Can they even qualify as that if all they do is loathe you? You know, you can’t select who you’re born to, but heck, you can decide who gets to stay. Could’ve been the same for you! Why linger with those wretches? To hell with them!” His emotions bubbled, words struggling to encapsulate the depths of his feelings. How could he impart to Voldemort the primal need for kinship? “You’re referring to the Gaunts?” Riddle asked gently. “The Gaunts, the damned Riddles! All of them! Worthless lot. You could’ve carved out a fresh start, had your own family. Imagine little ones, who’d adorably hiss in Parseltongue and whose bawling could dissolve cast iron…” A memory surfaced: a roly-poly toddler with raven locks and a sulky pout, her wails echoing as she reached out for her father, and the tenderness with which he’d cradle her. “You could’ve changed,” Harry whispered, feeling tears cascade down his face. Dizziness enveloped him, and his stomach revolted. He retched onto the floor. Feebly, he crumpled back onto the bed, eyes fluttering shut. In his misery, he longed for oblivion. “Awful timing to fall of the wagon, wasn’t it?” he mumbled. “I’ll get back on track, Hermione. I swear it.” And Harry blacked out. ***   Tom stood in confusion. A drunken Harry snored, tightly embracing a pillow, as the foul stench of vomit permeated the room. With disdain, Tom set to the task of cleaning the mess. He tried to tidy Harry up too, but the protective barrier on the bed foiled his attempt. The revelations Harry had let slip were quite startling. This imposter knew both the Gaunts and, quite surprisingly, the Riddles. Clearly, they hadn’t been kind to him, and his sentiments towards them were anything but warm. Sensing an opportune moment with Harry in such a vulnerable state, Tom edged closer to the bed, intending to probe his thoughts. But the barrier was formidable, thwarting even the slightest mental intrusion. His burning curiosity fanned the flames of his ire. “You won’t keep your secrets for long,” he murmured menacingly to the slumbering figure, earning a dismissive snore in return. Originally, Tom had plotted to catch a few hours of rest before the curfew, intending to then scour the ground floor all night. However, Harry’s unanticipated interruption had derailed him. Exhaustion from two sleepless nights gnawed at him, but the compelling need to investigate kept drowsiness at bay. Quickly changing his attire, Tom clutched his crafted map, heading back to the corridor he had left an hour prior. The demanding task ahead involved a thorough examination of every nook and cranny — from scrutinizing the walls, floors, and furnishings, to closely inspecting portraits, armors, and hidden alcoves. His diligence led to the discovery of several concealed chambers, seemingly untouched by time. More intriguing was a covert refuge housing an authentic Acromantula hatchling, cared for by the Gryffindor half-giant. Opting for discretion, Tom kept this newfound knowledge to himself. After all, fostering trust with the half-giant could have its advantages — who knew when a domesticated Acromantula might prove useful? He persisted in his methodical search until the first light of dawn threatened, when sheer fatigue began to dominate. Knowing rest was unavoidable, he begrudgingly retreated to the room that still reeked of stale liquor. Harry’s sonorous snores filled the air. “Merlin’s beard,” Tom exclaimed with a grimace, promptly casting a silencing charm on his bed. A somber thought traversed his fatigue-laden mind: Harry hadn’t reached this inebriated state from sheer joy. The divulged details about the unsavory pedophile and the looming engagement with Alphard weren’t just drunken ramblings. This bitter realization gnawed at him. Harry was his cousin, after all, treated poorly by his own family and seemingly left defenseless. Slipping into his nightclothes, Tom nestled into the plush bed, his heavy eyelids shutting out the world. “To hell with him,” he mumbled, letting slumber take over. ***   Tom’s sleep was so profound that he overshot his alarm charm. He was roused close to noon, not by the charm, but by the swearing and clamor created by the imposter. The silencing charm’s effects had waned, making every rustle in the room audible. With his eyes still sealed shut, Tom honed in on the murmurs. “Bloody hell, damn, shit, fuck,” Harry cursed softly. “How in the name of Merlin did I end up here? I vowed off the drink… Ugh. Quit your snickering, it’s worn thin. Lend a hand; I remember bugger all.” “Has he taken leave of his senses?” Tom mused lazily. Fortune favored Tom; the imposter’s memory seemed hazy. The revealed secrets weren’t things Gordian Selwyn would typically be privy to. Should those memories resurface, the imposter might panic and make Tom’s life more difficult. Brimming with mischief and, for once, feeling refreshed without the nag of his customary headache, Tom opted for some playful banter. “Who are you talking to?” he inquired, abruptly yanking back the canopy. Startled, Harry let out a comical yelp. He fumbled, reaching for his wand, inadvertently toppling the chair with a clumsy elbow. His disheveled movements, indicative of a potent hangover, were hilariously out of sync, and Tom couldn’t miss the tremor in his hands. How much had the lad drunk? Carrow could guzzle an entire whiskey bottle solo without such adverse effects. “Just mulling over things! Were you asleep?” Harry spluttered, his gaze akin to a dazed owl. “It’s broad daylight!” “Am I forbidden from sleeping in during the holidays?” Tom arched an eyebrow. “No, it’s just… odd,” the imposter replied, his owl-eyed look morphing into one of paranoia. “Do you think I got drunk too? I never touch alcohol,” Tom hinted, glancing at the imposter’s crumpled, dirty shirt. “You stained the carpet, by the way. I had to clean up after you.” “Oh, Merlin, so you saw…” the imposter sighed in despair. “Saw, heard, and had the misfortune of smelling,” Tom shared with a hint of glee, watching the pallor on the sunken cheeks quickly turn into a flush. “You become quite chatty when drunk.” The imposter clenched his teeth, but he couldn’t hide his fear from Tom. Oh yes… Harry was starting to realize the mess he’d made. “Did I say something?” he asked with feigned nonchalance. “A great deal,” Tom confirmed. After allowing a few moments for the imposter to mentally berate himself, he added, “So, apparently, you’re soon to become Mrs. Black? Congratulations. And who’s this boy lover you were supposedly betrothed to? Quite intriguing. I do love family dramas.” He nearly laughed seeing the evident relief on the imposter’s face. “Forget it,” he turned and headed for the bathroom. “I was just drunk and talking nonsense.” “Really? So no wedding to attend? What a pity!” Tom wasn’t about to let up. His mood was just too good. “But you mentioned something else.” Harry halted abruptly, not yet opening the bathroom door. “Anything interesting?” he asked tensely. “Very!” Tom swung his legs off the bed, leaning on the mattress. “You mentioned…” The tension was palpable, making it hard for Tom to resist teasing, “You said you prefer seeing my face over the faces of your crazy grandmother and cousin. Merlin, how flattering!” “That was just drunken gibberish,” relief evident in his voice. “Did I say anything else?” “You threw up on the carpet and then dozed off. And snored so loudly! You know, I’d appreciate if next time you’d cast a silencing charm on your own bed. I couldn’t, thanks to your spells. And then I had to endure the sight of your stained shirt. Disgusting.” “It won’t happen again,” he gritted out. “I apologize.” “I certainly hope so,” Tom barely suppressed a laugh. “You know, Harry, getting plastered at such a young age is a bit odd. Care to share your woes? I’m all ears. After all, we’re no strangers…” The imposter spun around sharply. “No strangers?” he spat out. “What do you mean?” “The connection,” Tom replied without a hint of ambiguity. “Our connection sparks thoughts, Harry. It didn’t just come out of thin air, did it? There’s a reason. I’m certain I didn’t bind myself to anyone, and I assume you didn’t either. So what is it?” Tom gave him ample time. He’d endured his evasion for far too long, hoping his cousin would approach him, guided by his overbearing conscience. Tom was pitied too much by Harry. Now it was crystal clear he wouldn’t spill the beans willingly. Something was holding him back. “I’ve told you, there’s no connection! You just have some ability, that’s all!” Harry retorted, anger flashing in his eyes. “Really?” Tom snatched at the mental hook and assailed him with a vivid image of the puddle of vomit on the carpet. For a split second, he felt the other’s disgust and remorse. “I see this connection, I feel it in my very being. Why are you so damn stubborn? Your denial speaks volumes.” “I don’t know anything!” Harry snapped, flinging the door wide. “A word of warning: if you use that ability of yours to delve into my mind, I’ll hex you to oblivion!” He stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Tom sighed. “What a stubborn guy,” he mused. “This will be challenging. But all the more thrilling.” He sank back onto his pillow, allowing himself a few moments of leisure. His thoughts circled around Harry and how soon he’d uncover the Chamber of Secrets with the basilisk inside. Oh, the chaos that would ensue! Merlin, it would be spectacular! The entire school would be in terror, every head turning in fright. Everyone would be devastated! All those rich prats like Crabbe, Black, and Burke would bow before him. He even began preparing his speech. He could start with something grand, like: “My great ancestor battled the surge of Mudbloods in this school but was banished by treacherous traitors pretending to be his friends. I will restore justice and avenge his tarnished honor…” Tom relished the idea of associating himself with Slytherin. Imagining he hailed from such a prestigious lineage filled him with elation. And since his thoughts still swirled around Harry, he couldn’t help but wonder what the latter thought of their common ancestor. He waited for Harry, who returned looking as drenched and miserable as a niffler caught in a downpour. “What do you think of our house’s founder?” Tom asked, hoping the unexpected question would throw Harry off. “What do I think of Slytherin?” Harry blinked, somewhat bewildered. As Tom curiously watched him change from his bathrobe to a shirt and trousers, he noted Harry’s attempt to remain composed. He observed the slender ankles and the absence of any birthmark on his chest. “Well… Merlin, he was just a bloody racist. Like Walburga, but worse, because teenagers can be impressionable, but he was a grown wizard. Who, without proper research and proof, would believe one group is superior to another? Only a deranged, embittered individual with a few screws loose in his head,” he exclaimed with uncharacteristic gusto, as if echoing someone else’s sentiments. “How dare you speak of Slytherin that way?” Tom flared up. “He was a magnificent wizard! Do you really think you have a clearer understanding of the world than the brilliant scholar who…” “Who said he was great?” Harry interrupted. “What research of his do we know of? None! The old geezer just sat in his lab, spun wild theories, whispered to snakes, and gradually lost touch. Naturally, the other founders grew wary of him, especially after he suggested drowning Muggleborns at birth. Come on, Riddle, you’re smarter than this! I urge you to look him up from sources other than the books penned by his descendants.” “You’re saying he wasn’t a powerful wizard?” Tom demanded, fury evident in his eyes. “He built this school. He understood more about magic than we might ever grasp. The spells he created are still being used today. How dare you…” “I’m not saying he wasn’t powerful,” Harry interjected, his usually concealed emotions now starkly apparent. “But even powerful wizards are human, prone to their own misconceptions! In his era, they lacked knowledge of genetics, heredity, or research methods. They’d intermarry and stagnate. It was the tenth century, Riddle! The dark ages, filled with war, disease, famine, and prejudice. Hasn’t anyone considered that Slytherin was simply a man of his time, subject to the same misconceptions as anyone else? Back then, they believed the Earth was flat. By Merlin’s beard, it’s infuriating! Did you know Muggles are planning space travel? Slytherin would’ve been apoplectic, wouldn’t he? He held them in the same regard as untamed beasts.” Tom was so taken aback by this outburst that he was rendered speechless. Indeed, in Slytherin’s days, people believed that the Earth was flat, supported by ancient magic. And although Slytherin might’ve been powerful and learned, his beliefs could’ve been influenced by the zeitgeist of his era. Tom felt the tension in the room thicken. The day, which had begun on a high note, had taken a downward turn. “Muggles are aiming for space?” He tried to steer the conversation away from the topic of Slytherin. “I can’t fathom they’d succeed. How do they intend to reach there? Their aeroplanes can’t breach our atmosphere.” “Oh, you’ll be surprised,” Potter smirked mischievously. “Muggles have something we lack – a thirst for knowledge. While wizards quarrel over blood purity, Muggles progress and advance. A day might come when they uncover our world, and suddenly bloodlines will seem insignificant. Against their weapons, our magic could appear powerless.” Visions of a devastated London, strewn with lifeless bodies and the reek of death, filled Tom’s mind. “Nonsense,” he countered, standing to retreat to the bathroom, eager to end the unsettling conversation. “Magic can achieve far more than they ever could.” “Use your head, Riddle. You’re smarter than this!” Harry called after him. “The mood’s ruined,” Tom murmured, closing the door behind him.   One thing was certain about his cousin: he always had to have the last word, just like Tom. ***   A fresh start worked wonders for his search. Exhausted as he was, if he hadn’t caught some rest, he might have overlooked the subtle snake pattern framing a knight’s portrait in a dusty, forgotten classroom. This section of the castle seemed untouched by time. Not even the house-elves dared tread here. Previously, Tom had never spotted this hallway, as if hidden by magic. But those tiny serpents on the portrait hinted he was nearing his goal. He inspected the classroom rigorously, studied every enchantment, and found a concealed passageway behind the portrait. It descended sharply, so deep that even his magical senses couldn’t fathom its end. Realization dawning that he stood at the threshold of the Chamber of Secrets, a victorious smile lit his face. Ecstasy overwhelming him, he closed his eyes in delight. He was so close to achieving his ambition. Soon, all would know the Heir of Slytherin had returned! The portrait was sealed with potent charms, demanding a password. Tom attempted various phrases tied to “pureblood” and “death to mudbloods” in Latin, English, and Parseltongue, systematically noting down each failed attempt. Time flew. Evening gave way to night, yet he didn’t rest. What was one more sleepless night? The knight in the portrait muttered curses in Portuguese, leading Tom to suspect it might be a hint. However, a quick trip to the library for a Portuguese dictionary bore no fruit, save for the revelation that the portrait deemed him a “stinking donkey.” “Merlin’s beard, just open!” he cried in exasperation. He paused, glancing at the serpents. “It can’t be this obvious. Surely not!” Holding his breath, Tom whispered “open” in Parseltongue. Immediately, the portrait moved aside, unveiling a shadowy passage. As dawn’s first light broke, it was swallowed by the abyss in front of him. “You must be joking,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. “Just ‘open’?” But his irritation was short-lived as the magnitude of what he’d accomplished took hold: he had uncovered the elusive Chamber of Secrets. Stepping onto a small ledge, he whispered, “Lumos,” and his wand tip ignited with light. The precipitous staircase, chiseled from weathered stone, plunged deep below. It was so constricted that one could easily graze both walls simultaneously. Before setting foot on the stairs, Tom meticulously inspected them for enchantments. Instinctively, he readied himself for concealed snares: blades lunging from the walls, crossbow darts zeroing in on interlopers, or a slew of curses. Yet, the staircase proved to be ordinary, albeit remarkably lengthy. Engulfed by the inky blackness, Tom soon lost track of time and distance. A pang of unease wormed its way into his thoughts. Perhaps he should’ve armed himself better before venturing into such a potent wizard’s lair. But the thought of the arduous journey back persuaded him to push forward. As Slytherin’s direct heir, Tom assumed protections would favor his bloodline, beckoning them to find the Chamber and fulfill the founder’s vision. Clutching his wand, he pressed on. A dank chill enveloped him, paired with the musty stench of age. Eventually, he cast a bubblehead charm to fend off the increasingly stifling air. As the staircase broadened, the silhouette of a towering archway emerged. “Mordred!” He halted his wand’s glow just as cold water surprised him, swallowing his foot up to the ankle. The ground beneath was jagged, nearly tripping him. With another Lumos, Tom unveiled a shallow sea of dingy, green water strewn with innumerable, possibly millions, of minute skeletal remains. A closer look revealed they were the skulls of tiny creatures, perhaps rats. Moving onward, he found himself before a majestic double door, embellished with ornate stone serpents crowned in regality. “Open,” he intoned. The serpents’ eyes gleamed a fiery red. Their tails unwound, allowing them to glide aside, and the massive doors parted with an echoing boom. His heart skipped a beat, then raced with mounting exhilaration. A rush of pure, unadulterated joy tightened his chest. Tom strode forth, the minute bones crackling beneath his boots. The hall was immense. Its vast ceiling was lost to the shadows above, unreachable even by the bolstered light of his wand. Gigantic pillars bordered the chamber, intricately decorated with runic chains coiling around stone snakes, their eyes, too, sparking to life with a crimson glow at his approach. “The Heir has returned!” Tom declared in Parseltongue, laughing in exultation as the stone serpent heads swiveled to acknowledge him. A jubilant shout welled up inside him. Wand held high, he waded through the shadowy waters with assertive steps. Before him, a dark structure loomed larger. Nearing it, he identified an imposing stone octagon, its surface etched with enigmatic runes and patterns, with grooves extending into the water. Such an artifact was unfamiliar, even to someone like Tom, who had spent years poring over the Forbidden section of the library. He recognized hints of ancient sacrificial practices from Slytherin’s era. He was eager to scrutinize the altar, but the possibility of a basilisk’s presence held him back. He spotted sconces on the walls, but the torches they once held had long crumbled, their magic waned to mere remnants. Conjuring a series of luminescent orbs, only then did the hall’s vast expanse truly reveal itself. With improved lighting, the hall seemed less imposing, definitely more modest than the Great Hall. Behind a cluster of pillars, Tom glimpsed a skeleton and quickly approached, his footsteps splashing through the water. Drawing closer, he recognized them as the remains of a snake. The creature was impressive in size, stretching about twenty feet in length. Its skull came up to Tom’s waist. The fangs were gone, and patches of the bone had turned green from prolonged exposure to moisture, disintegrating upon touch. By his estimate, this creature had been deceased for half a millennium. Tom was momentarily spellbound, trying to wrap his mind around his discovery. It seemed impossible! Basilisks were known to live for thousands of years! Such a specimen should’ve dwarfed even the mightiest dragons! A sudden rustling from the hollow eye socket jolted Tom. Recoiling in surprise, he inadvertently toppled the fragile skeleton. As the skull shattered, a startled rat sprang from the cavity, scuttling over the fragmented bones, scaling a nearby pillar, and quickly vanishing from sight. Looking at the scattered bones, Tom was seized by a fit of uncontrollable laughter, even as a tide of disappointment washed over him. What had he been hoping for? That the fabled basilisk had endured centuries, feeding solely on vermin? That it could rival the might of its counterparts while being confined in this chamber? Evidently, this was merely a juvenile, long deceased since the era when Slytherin himself was ousted from Hogwarts. His laughter echoing in the damp chamber, he gave a petulant kick to the skull remnants, inadvertently splattering himself with grimy water. Time and dampness had eroded anything of historical significance from this carcass. Unwilling to accept this dismal reality, Tom scrutinized every inch of the hall. He harbored hopes of discovering the hatchling’s mother or perhaps a hidden trove of artifacts. But the hall was bereft of secrets. No concealed caches, no forgotten libraries, no evidence of a gargantuan beast. Just a waterlogged chamber filled with detritus, the flooding originating from the very plumbing the basilisk once navigated. Could its demise have been linked to that? Had the plumbing systems been compromised during a historic goblin assault, ensnaring the creature? Over the course of a thousand years, countless scenarios could’ve transpired. Climbing atop the altar at the chamber’s heart, Tom surveyed the once-vaunted Chamber of Secrets. Now, it felt more like a mocking jest. Another fit of deranged laughter overtook him, only subsiding when it left him gasping for breath. The unblinking crimson gaze of the stone serpents seemed to pierce him, and an overpowering desire to flee this monumental embarrassment consumed him. What tales of terror could he spin from this? Would he taunt Walburga Black? “Behold, Black, the mighty legacy of Salazar Slytherin! Witness this fragment? It once formed its jaw!” If Lestrange laid eyes on this pitiable relic, he’d collapse in hysterics. Dolohov might even jestingly propose to mount it as a macabre trophy for the Hufflepuff common room. Tom couldn’t discern how long he lingered on that altar. It dawned on him at some juncture that he was shivering, his frostbitten fingers struggling to clutch his wand. After casting a warming charm, he sprinted to the stairs without a backward glance, maintaining his pace until he reached the top. Bouts of disappointment and fury radiated from him, manifesting as magical eruptions that splintered the stairs underfoot. He hastily entered a first-floor classroom, shut the portrait with a forceful motion, and raced ahead, directionless. By the time the torch-lit walls of the school became apparent against the encroaching night, he hadn’t spared a thought for the hour. It was only upon nearing the entrance of the common room that his destination became clear to him. His cousin. A burning desire to confide in him took hold, a need for him to grasp Tom’s anguish. “There’s no legacy here, little bro. You’re chasing phantoms!” Tom envisioned himself jeering. He’d drag his cousin to that chamber, delighting in his frantic scrabbling amidst the decay. “Break it to your beloved family; their aspirations are in tatters!” Enveloped by his rage, Tom instinctively moved towards the common room’s entrance. However, a reservoir of willpower saw him swivel and stride towards the communal bathroom. Had anyone been present at the common room, he would have burned their eyes out.  After forcefully closing the door, he ripped off his drenched cloak, flung aside his shirt, and with his wand, prodded an already sore bruise. Then, under his breath, he uttered a curse. A raw scream tore through him, unrestrained by any silencing charm. This was his release. Crumpling onto the frosty tiles, he inflicted pain upon himself, again and again. In his heightened state, he wished he could annihilate the bathroom, the Slytherin common room, and that damned Chamber of Secrets. Raw magical energy thrummed within him, threatening to combust. Yet, restraint was crucial. Tom had long acknowledged that displaying his authentic emotions in public spaces was perilous, a potential point of exploitation. However, it didn’t diminish the intensity of those feelings. Those loathsome, weak feelings intrinsic to mere mortals. His obsession with the Chamber of Secrets had consumed him since his first year. It was fueled by a fleeting reference in Hogwarts: A History, and the revelation that he shared the rare ability of Parseltongue with the founder of his house. He had visions of magnificence, of the Gaunts welcoming him with open arms, lauding his discovery and control over the mythical Monster. His vocal cords strained from the ceaseless screams, yet solace eluded him. The personal rituals he had cultivated to restore equilibrium paled in comparison to the intense emotions coursing through his bond with Harry. It was as if he had momentarily numbed himself, only to be overwhelmed by a yearning for that connection once again. He resisted the pull. He had to. “You can be better,” Tom murmured, eyes glistening. “You can be better. You can face this.” But those insidious emotions held firm, resisting his every attempt at quelling them. “Fucking hell, what are you doing?!” Tom tilted his head and, from his vantage, caught sight of polished, expensive shoes. “What the fuck is this?! Stop it, Riddle, do you hear me?”  Harry’s hand brushed against his, a surge of warmth cascading through him, accompanied by a deluge of Harry’s emotions: stark terror, fear, and deep remorse. “What the everloving fuck…” Harry whispered, whether aloud or internally. He cradled Tom’s head in his lap, cautiously moving the wand tip away from the gruesome, bleeding wound – the result of Tom’s self-inflicted etching. “Hey, can you hear me? Stay still, alright? I know a few healing spells. I’ll mend this… Gods, this can’t be real.” Tom immersed himself in Harry’s emotions, enveloping himself with them like a protective cocoon, grasping onto the solace they provided. The boy’s opinion was inconsequential. Tom coveted that connection and claimed it as his due. Lurching forward, Tom crashed into Harry, driving him to the ground, then placed his ear over Harry’s heart, attuning himself to the subtle, magical resonance of their connection. “I can sense it,” Tom breathed. “I can sense you. You don’t think I am pathetic. You’re scared.” “Merlin’s beard,” Harry’s heart raced beneath Tom’s ear, its rhythm growing frenetic. “Your anguish was so palpable; I got pulled here as if by Accio. What happened?” “Nothing of consequence,” Tom whispered, lids heavy, basking in the warmth of Harry’s proximity and the surrounding, comforting aura. He couldn’t fully decipher the emotions, but they brought relief. “I, um… Alright then,” Harry hesitated, fingers lightly traversing Tom’s hair, akin to an uncertain attempt at comfort. “Just keep it together. It’s okay. You’ll be okay. You’re strong; you’ll handle everything.” Strangely, that sentiment grounded him. Were the situations reversed, Tom would exploit, assault, intrude, or even manipulate memories. But his ‘bro’ deviated from that pattern. Harry had responded to his distress call and was now offering solace. Tom felt a rare certainty: Harry wouldn’t harm him. “Maybe we don’t need the Gaunts? If they hate us this much, maybe we could team up…” Tom’s foggy mind suggested. “As for the basilisk… It’s even better that it doesn’t exist. The school could have shut down to hunt the monster, and I’d be sent back to the orphanage, or worse, they’d find out it was me and throw me into Azkaban to rot.” Gradually, clarity pierced through the fog. Tom became acutely aware of his position, sprawled over his cousin, face nestled against Harry’s chest. The searing pain in his hand, his drenched, near-naked state, and the biting cold gnawed at him. He jolted and hissed as pain erupted anew. “Easy, easy,” his cousin murmured, helping Tom sit up. “I can feel your hand burning like hell. Let me help a bit.” “I don’t need your help,” Tom retorted, summoning every ounce of willpower to stay upright. “Then let’s say I’m doing this for my sanity. Swear to Merlin, if your hand continues looking like it’s about to grow legs and dash off to the Forbidden Forest, I might just lose it,” Harry gently grasped Tom’s wrist, laying the injured hand on his lap. “Mind telling me why you did that?” “Why do you drink?” Tom countered with a faint smirk, curiously observing as the swelling diminished and the cuts sealed, leaving only prominent white scars behind. “To keep my sanity intact. As I mentioned, my mental state isn’t the sturdiest,” Harry smirked back, tracing the scars with his wand, which drew a jagged pattern. “I merely wanted a tattoo,” Tom declared. “Like those in Polynesia.” “And why’s that?” “To shield me from death,” Tom confessed, laughing— but not the mad laughter from the Chamber of Secrets. It was an innocent, playful chortle. “I imagined a snake emerging from a skull since it’s seen as a symbol of wisdom and eternity. Quite the foolish notion. Snakes? They’re simple-minded, driven only by hunger. And a skull? Merely the relic of a past life, destined to crumble with time.” “It is a tad ludicrous,” Harry conceded, his lips curling into a soft smile. “But what about a phoenix? The creature that burns only to be reborn from its ashes. That’s true immortality. Plus, it’s far more aesthetically pleasing than skulls and serpents.” Tom considered the idea, tilting his head. “I am partial to phoenixes. The core of my wand is a phoenix feather,” he stated, his gaze falling to his hand. Tensing slightly, Tom felt a familiar sensation across his skin, watching as the scars slowly dissipated, leaving just a minor bruise behind. “You can self-heal?” Harry’s voice held evident awe. “Without using a wand? Riddle, you’re truly a genius.” “It was a necessity,” Tom admitted with a casual shrug, eyes averted. The healing had sapped his remaining vitality. “Merlin, Riddle, you’re… something else. Let’s get out of here,” Harry suggested, offering a hand to the weakened Tom, who relied heavily on the support. Tom realized with a hint of satisfaction that he had surpassed Gordian in both stature and bulk. “You skipped dinner last night, and by all indications, sleep too. You’re aware that can lead to breakdowns, right?” With a swift gesture, Tom’s robes flew onto him, now dry and comforting. Gathering his remaining vigor, Tom adjusted his robes with dignity. “I don’t experience breakdowns,” he snapped. “And I’m neither hungry nor sleepy.” “No breakdowns? None at all?” Harry eyed him skeptically. “If you say so. Let’s go.” Tom shrugged and followed. He couldn’t care less about where they were headed. Harry guided Tom into their shared room and gently pushed him towards the bed. Tom sat down gracefully, feeling the reassuring hum and warmth of their connection. For a brief moment, his vision tilted, and Harry transformed from a standing figure to one trying to tuck him in. “Rest up. I’ll fetch a potion from the infirmary. I had a similar episode once—destroyed a powerful wizard’s office to the ground, breaking countless irreplaceable artifacts. Took them ages to calm me. I ended up sleeping an entire day and needed several healing draughts,” Harry’s gentle drone pulled Tom into the embrace of sleep, where he dreamt vibrant dreams full of mirth, warmth and joy. ***   Harry stared at the sleeping Riddle for a long time, utterly astonished, frightened, and baffled. He had braced himself for any scenario: tortured rabbits, or first-years, or house-elves, furniture destruction, wall collapses, even explosions. He knew Riddle sometimes locked himself in the bathroom off-schedule but naively chalked it up to physiological needs. What he found filled him with profound remorse. Riddle turned out to be a self-harmer. While Harry wasn’t exactly an expert on this, his memory drifted back to Dudley theatrically trying to slash his wrists with a kitchen knife when Aunt Petunia refused to buy him a new computer. But Dudley’s antics were mere calls for attention, superficial at best. Riddle’s actions, however, were shrouded in secrecy. Harry was convinced that no living soul knew of his tendency to hurt himself. As Harry lay on his bed, engrossed in a book on ancestral bonds, an abrupt rush of rage, fury, and immediately after, desolation flooded their connection. Glancing at the map, specifically designed to monitor Riddle, he noticed Tom had stumbled upon his decoy Chamber of Secrets. Riddle quickly moved away from the fake and went back to the common room. Then he seemed to be heading to their room, but changed his mind and dashed to the public bathroom. Harry couldn’t help but chuckle, thinking he might have overdone it and the snake skeleton, enlarged and aged with a curse, had given Riddle an upset stomach. Then, the unimaginable happened. The subsequent wave of agony that crashed into him was beyond comprehension. The pain was so visceral, it felt like Harry was being torn apart. His vision clouded, and his heart raced as if trying to burst from his chest. Though dazed, an intrinsic pull led him onwards. When he entered the bathroom, he saw wet and delirious Tom, muttering how he could be better while drowning in sheer agony and self-loathing.  The sight of Tom’s wounded hand hit Harry like a bolt of lightning. Bruises in all shades marked the pale skin. Black veins spread from an almost black center where he kept pressing his wand into himself. “Fucking hell, what are you doing?!” Riddle turned, and Harry met hollow, dead black eyes. “What the fuck is this?! Stop it, Riddle, do you hear me?” Harry knelt down, gripping Riddle’s arm to stop the self-infliction. “What the everloving fuck,” Harry muttered, gently laying Riddle’s head on his stretched-out legs. He carefully removed the wand from the wound and loosened the clenched fingers. His heart was breaking with compassion. All he could think was, “Why? Why are you doing this? You’re supposed to be a heartless monster! You can’t hide your emotions like this, you idiot!” The ashen face with bitten blue lips and hollow eyes with broken capillaries evoked an unnatural urge to comfort him, to reassure Riddle that everything would be okay. Harry had driven him to this. He hadn’t realized how important it was for Tom Riddle to find the legacy of his ancestor and prove his worth. He hastily mended the mangled hand, trying not to think of whom he was truly aiding. Then, suddenly, Riddle lunged, rolling over and knocking Harry to the ground. Harry’s head and shoulders painfully slammed onto the stone floor. Riddle, with a deep moan, pinned him down and then rested his head on Harry’s chest, right where their agonizing connection was pulsing. “I can sense it,” he whispered. “I can sense you. You don’t think I’m pathetic. You’re scared.” A shiver ran down Harry’s spine at that quiet, desperate whisper. He realized that pushing Riddle away wasn’t an option, fearing his condition could deteriorate irreparably. Slowly, as if in a dream, Harry reached out, tentatively running his hand through Riddle’s hair, murmuring reassurances. It felt delirious. Riddle eventually calmed down, his emotions teetering on a fragile balance. He managed to sit up, but his speech was sluggish, his gaze introspective. He resisted Harry’s help, making the latter coax him into it. As Harry healed the horrific wounds, he noticed a carved design on Riddle’s skin and flinched. It was a rudimentary Dark Mark: a snake emerging from a skull. “I merely wanted a tattoo, like those in Polynesia.” “Why?” “To shield me from death.” A bitter pang hit Harry; he was barely holding back tears. The boy who feared death. The boy who hurt himself. The Dark Mark arose from Riddle’s unimaginable internal contradictions and tangled relationship with his own self. Harry surmised that Riddle was in a complete stupor due to a severe mental breakdown. Having been through similar episodes himself, he led Riddle to a room and easily put him to sleep. For an hour, Harry stared at Riddle’s peaceful, relaxed face, the fluttering long lashes in slumber, the vulnerable open neck with a few moles, and… “I won’t be able to kill him,” he realized with utter clarity. That’s what the guests from the mirror had meant. No matter what happens, Harry is the only one who can change him and redirect his path.