Behind Lies Eternity

Year 2001   “I told Ron: if you wash the dishes right after dinner, they won’t pile up. Then I won’t have to listen to your complaints about mountains of dirty dishes!” Hermione exclaimed. Harry half-listened, his gaze captured by a vibrant book cover on the shelf, which stood out like a sore thumb. On it, he could see the sun, moon, months, constellations, solar system, and even a galaxy—all on one side. “Harry? Were you daydreaming? Lend me a hand!” Snapped back to reality, Harry took two hefty tomes on curse treatments from Hermione’s outstretched arms. “Merlin’s beard! The prices are exorbitant! Why can’t they buy textbooks for the entire course and offer them at the library, like any regular academy?” she grumbled. “Because magical medicine is a profitable and esteemed field,” Harry replied, his thoughts once again drifting to that intriguing cover. “Acquiring such an education isn’t cheap, but the investment pays dividends. It definitely limits who can access it.” Auror Johnson had made it clear at the Academy when Harry had complained about the worn-out textbooks on Tactics. He’d remarked, “Potter, being an Auror isn’t a fairy tale—it’s a grueling reality. If you’re dissatisfied, shift to magical medicine; there, the books are always immaculate! It ensures that plebs like Thomas or Harper can’t mix with the elite. But for our field? Any Tom, Dick, or Harry will do!” “That’s outright elitism! Education should be available to everyone!” Hermione retorted, her cheeks turning a fiery red. “Yet not everyone seeks it,” Harry whispered, scanning the shelves. “To truly appreciate something, you often have to work for it. Take Ron and me, for instance. We took for granted what we had. While Ron might still not care, I have to purchase books and study independently. Otherwise, in a raid, I’d be pushing up daisies before I knew it.” The previous year, Trainee Priggs met his demise during an exam—he hadn’t realized that the devil’s snare despised sunlight and that fire barely tickled it. Johnson mentioned him in nearly every lesson, always half-hoping Thomas or Harper to follow suit. To be honest, it looked as if neither would fare well post-graduation. Especially Thomas. Still, it wasn’t appropriate for a national hero to harbor such thoughts. “Not everyone’s like you two. You were a diligent student; you just had a lot on your mind. And then there was Ron, dragging you into his spiral of indifference,” Hermione commented, adding another hefty book to their growing pile. “Education has always been important to me. And to many others as well!” “Do you believe in parallel universes?” Harry suddenly interjected, interrupting Hermione’s fervent tirade. His eyes were still locked on the vibrant book cover, making him wish he’d devoted more time to reading the books. “I dunno. Maybe. Why?” Hermione arched her thin eyebrows in curiosity. “It’d be fun to see a world where you’re a rebellious brat and a Quidditch star who’s clueless about Gamp’s Law,” Harry teased with a smirk. “Don’t even say it out loud!” Hermione hissed, playfully shoving him. “Me? Playing Quidditch?” Harry chuckled, but something still nagged at him, an uneasy feeling he couldn’t shake off. On a whim, he pulled the vibrant book from the shelf and placed it atop Hermione’s stack. “Parallel Universes and the Balance of Magic?” Hermione read, her eyebrows shooting up. “Have you taken a fancy to fantasy now? What’s next? Believing in Nargles? That’s a Waffling book, Harry.” “What’s wrong with him?” Harry felt he’d heard that name before. “Well, he lost his marbles in his old age, parading naked through Diagon Alley. Initially, he wrote fantastic textbooks; we even studied one, remember? ‘Magical Theory’? But then dementia set in. During that time, he penned a couple of these ‘books’,” she made air quotes and snorted. “Put it back! It’s a ridiculous seven Sickles!” “If they’re selling it, someone’s buying. That means there might be some truth to it,” Harry argued, gripping the book, preventing Hermione from taking it. “I’ll let you in on a big secret, Harry: people can be incredibly gullible. They’ll swallow any drivel if it’s bound and published. Especially if there’s a handsome man in glasses on the cover. Throw in a beard — even better. Put it back!” she hissed, attempting to snatch the book. “I won’t! I want to read it,” Harry declared with a mock-serious tone. “You used to be just like that. Trusted anyone in authority, even if it was Lockhart!” He and Hermione didn’t catch up often, so he savored every chance to ruffle her feathers. “That’s precisely why I know better now. I learned the hard way!” she shot back. They playfully tussled for a while, but Harry held onto the book. Hermione regarded it with a distaste reserved for a particularly nasty spider, but she begrudgingly let it sit beside her esteemed healing tomes. “So, how have you been?” she asked as they lined up at the cashier. “You skipped the last two dinners at Molly and Arthur’s.” Harry managed to keep his expression neutral. “I’ve been busy studying,” he replied with a casual tone. “You know, I’m not particularly keen on being lunch for a carnivorous Drosera in some Dark Wizard’s garden.” Hermione praised his dedication, not sensing the falsehood beneath. Yes, Harry was lying. He loathed doing it, but it was a necessary deceit. If she knew the true nature of his recent pursuits, she would’ve been appalled and given him an earful. He loved Hermione so deeply that he’d rather withhold the truth about his extracurricular pursuits than distress her. He was insatiable in his need to comprehend what had transpired on that fateful day he died. “Just move on, Harry,” wasn’t satisfactory for him. He yearned to grasp what he had witnessed and where he’d journeyed after Avada Kedavra struck him. He wanted to understand how Voldemort had managed to splinter his own soul, the intrinsic nature of the Deathly Hallows, and why it seemed every Dark Wizard inexorably spiraled into insanity. Were it not for Shacklebolt and his persistent “You must become the Minister of Magic” agenda, Harry might’ve already deserted the Academy to immerse himself in the Black family’s library. Perhaps, in time, he would, when he reached that juncture where the weight of others’ expectations became intolerable. For now, he liked to think he maintained a semblance of control. His earlier nonchalance towards studies at Hogwarts came back to haunt him. There were rudimentary concepts he hadn’t grasped, compelling him to revisit even the first year’s textbooks. Maybe, had Ginny remained by his side, he wouldn’t be this absorbed. They might’ve sparred over trivial matters like dishes, draperies, or dining spots, leaving him too drained for scholarly pursuits. But with Ginny’s absence, he was left to his own devices, every hour of every day. After parting ways with Hermione, assuring her he’d join for a meal soon, he hastened home. Once there, he brewed some tea and eagerly unsealed his pristine acquisition. “Let’s see what Waffling has composed,” he mused aloud, nestling into the couch in the luminous, airy living room of his recent residence. Solitude surrounded him, and no one could fault him for seeking comfort in the sound of his own voice. It anchored him. Even if the aged scholar had lost touch with reality, Harry took comfort in dreaming of a realm where he grew up alongside his parents, soared on a broomstick playing Quidditch, and never once took a life. A world where he didn’t grapple with the disquieting notion that he might possess the potential to make his own Horcrux — a manifestation of his now fragmented soul. ***   Harry awoke with the unnerving sensation of being watched. As though the gaze was intruding upon his dreams, he shot up and brandished his wand. “Oh my! You look almost nothing like my Harry!” Reacting instinctively, Harry flung a spell towards the voice’s origin, but was met with a soft chuckle. “Who are you?” Harry demanded, leaping to his feet, his eyes darting around the room in search of the intruder. “Show yourself!” As he prepared to cast a detection spell, the voice interjected, “Right here. Look in the mirror.” Confused, Harry’s eyes landed on the ornate round mirror across from his bed — a housewarming gift from Hermione. Rather than reflecting his own surroundings, the mirror displayed a room with green wallpaper and bookshelves. A dark-haired man, bearing some familiarity, stood amidst it all. “You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?” The man said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Yes. And who the fuck are you, and why are you in my mirror?” Harry responded sharply, grip tightening on his wand. “Oh, how rude. I’m Tom Potter-Gaunt. Pleasure to meet you,” the man replied with casual ease. “Perhaps you might recognize me as Tom Riddle?” The realization hit Harry hard, and he nearly collapsed onto his bed. “Very funny. I’ll summon the Aurors, you prick,” Harry spat out, a familiar surge of anger brewing within. “You don’t recognize me? Not surprising. You don’t quite resemble my Harry. In some worlds, our fates are different. Believe it or not, in one world you were born a girl. But there’s a constant — you always, unfailingly, buy this house. Curious, isn’t it?” Trying to clear the fog of confusion in his head, Harry wondered if his estate agent had sold out his address. Meanwhile, the man in the mirror continued, “So, tell me, who am I in this reality? Do you know of a Tom Riddle? Or perhaps a Gaunt? Occasionally, I go by Voldemort, but that usually means things are pretty dire.” Rage coursed through Harry’s veins. “You fucking bastard!” In fury, he hurled a curse at the mirror, but it harmlessly absorbed the magic. The man just laughed. “You assume you’re the only clever one?” The voice dripped with sarcasm. “I’ve been on the receiving end of curses countless times. This mirror is under my enchantment, and while I’m present, it’s invincible.” “Who the hell are you?” Harry bellowed, voice reverberating with fury. “How dare you mock me so cruelly? How can you taunt me like that?” Then, another voice echoed from the distant recesses of the mirror. “Tom? Are you lurking in the mirror again? How many times have I told you? Stop spooking our versions from other worlds! Your daughter just scorched the iron tub. Go handle it!” Through the mirror’s shimmering reflection, Harry watched as a door swung open behind the enigmatic man. A figure stood in its frame, eerily similar to Harry yet markedly different. Any curse he might have uttered died on his lips. “Just hold on a sec,” the man responded smoothly, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Let me explain everything to your doppelgänger before he thinks he’s gone mad.” That’s when Harry noticed a black ring, adorned with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, on the man’s finger. The stranger resembled a young Tom Riddle—dark hair, piercing eyes—but wasn’t as hauntingly handsome. He had pronounced eyebrows and a strong jawline. There was, however, an undeniable trace of Riddle. “Who are you?” Harry’s voice faltered, the weight of emotions evident. He collapsed back onto his bed, eyes wide as he stared at the eerily familiar figures. “Hey, just stay calm,” said the other, leaning into the mirror. A playful smirk danced on his lips. “Hello, Harry.” He waved, revealing a wedding ring. “I’m Harry Potter, just from another universe. Sorry about my husband’s antics; he gets a bit loopy traveling between worlds.” He cast a stern look at the Riddle-like man. “Go to our daughter, now! She’s speaking Parseltongue so fast, I can’t keep up!” Returning his attention to Harry, his expression warmed into a friendly smile. “How about a chat? Potter to Potter. Tom always ends up gossiping with his other versions like a chatty grandma.” The Riddle-like figure grumbled but not harshly. Giving Harry a final curious look, he departed, fingers brushing the tied-back hair of the other Harry. A peculiar, wrenching emotion briefly seized Harry. Between the two, there was a palpable intimacy—the kind decades of togetherness create. Why had they pranked him like this? His mind involuntarily recalled passages from Adalbert Waffling’s book: “Through my calculations, I’ve confirmed the existence of parallel worlds. Occasionally, the barrier between them thins, permitting an exchange of information.” This couldn’t be real. Hermione was correct; Waffling had clearly lost his grip on reality in his later years. “You know, in other worlds, we look more similar,” said the alternate Harry, as the door clicked shut behind his spouse. “It’s strange seeing our differences here. And yet, you look so fit, unlike me. I appear to be this size only in my universe!” There was a touch of evident envy in his voice. “And that scar on your forehead? I’ve been to a universe where we had scars on our lips and cheeks.” Harry flinched, his hand instinctively going to his forehead. “This scar was given to me by Voldemort,” he stated, locking eyes with the faux-Potter, examining every nuance of his reaction. “In ’81, after murdering my father, he tried to kill me. My mother took the curse meant for me.” The alternate Harry’s eyes grew wide with shock, his breathing ragged. “What?” He spluttered. “What are you going on about? In ‘81, Tom was still dribbling in his orphanage!” His gaze hardened, reminding Harry sharply of Aunt Petunia’s suspicious glare. “Did Tom set this up? Is this his idea of a prank?” Harry searched the alternate’s face for any hint of deceit. The other man wasn’t playing a game. He felt as if he were trapped in some sort of dreamlike state. Testing reality, he pinched himself, only to be met with pain. “An Auror swiftly adapts to the situation. Blend in, be adaptable, think on your feet,” Auror Johnson’s teachings echoed in his mind. “I’m recounting the truth of my world,” Harry responded, his voice level and devoid of emotion. “I am Harry Potter. On October 31st, ’81, the Dark Lord Voldemort acted upon a prophecy, hunting me down as an infant. He failed, and the Killing Curse rebounded, striking him instead.” The faux-Potter seemed to struggle for air, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. “I can’t wrap my head around this,” he murmured. “How was he the Dark Lord in ’81? How old was he then?” “Lord Voldemort was born on December 31st, 1926,” Harry began, “the child of Merope Gaunt and Tom Riddle. Raised in an orphanage, he became the feared Dark Lord who plunged our world into chaos. He murdered countless innocent people. And three years back, I killed him. The current year is 2001.” Every emotion played out on the face of the alternate Harry: utter shock, bewilderment, incredulity. His emotions were an open book. “How is this even possible?” he stammered. “In every universe I’ve visited, Tom and I are together. Sure, there might be an age discrepancy, but not to this extent. Without me, he spirals, drowning in dark magic, seeking immortality with Horcruxes, succumbing to insanity.” The alternate Harry’s gaze became distant, lost in memories. “It’s clear why he became Voldemort in your universe — without you to ground him, show him love and compassion. The vast age difference skewed everything… Horcruxes!” he blurted. “You said he met his end! Did he create Horcruxes? Fragments of his soul, anchored in objects?” “Yes,” Harry responded sharply, piecing things together. In his world, only three were privy to the secret of Horcruxes: himself, Hermione, and Ron. Nobody else. The mirror guests had a lot to answer for. “Seven. Every last one was destroyed.” The faux-Potter paled, extracting his finger from his mouth where a bead of blood welled up from the chewed skin. “No,” he murmured, disbelief tinging his voice. With growing desperation, he pressed, “You’re joking, right?” “Such topics aren’t a laughing matter for me,” Harry replied with a steady voice, even as his mind tried to process the onslaught of revelations. “I destroyed his Horcruxes, then finished him. He won’t be tormenting anyone any longer and will never come back.” “No!” The faux-Potter exclaimed, his fist colliding with the mirror’s surface, causing it to undulate. “You’ve taken him from me! Can’t you grasp the depth of what you’ve done? He won’t reincarnate! I’ll never reunite with him in another life!” Harry observed the man’s unraveling, memories flooding back of the time he’d unleashed his own anguish, venting his fury in Dumbledore’s office. There was an all-too-familiar rawness to this moment — the intensity of love and the sting of irreplaceable loss. This alternate Harry was in real pain, it dawned on him. A pang of sympathy struck him. He’d imagined he’d grown numb, but he was mistaken. Beneath the veneer, the boy who once risked it all for a world that both abhorred and exalted him persisted. Doubt began to shadow his convictions. Harry had encountered a myriad of deceivers: some deluded enough to trust their own fabrications; others driven by personal gain; some oblivious to the harm their lies inflicted; and a few who reveled in deception, taking pleasure in a challenge to their craftiness. Either this alternate Harry was insane and thus profoundly convinced of his own narrative, or he was genuinely speaking the truth. “Darling, what’s going on?” The door flung open, revealing a faux-Riddle clutching a raven-haired, wide-eyed toddler. “Dada!” She whimpered, her tiny arms reaching for the alternate Harry. “Lily,” he responded, quickly closing the gap between them, enveloping both his daughter and partner in a comforting embrace. “Everything’s fine. Daddy just had a minor mishap,” he showed her the blood-tinted finger. Faux-Riddle regarded the mirror — and Harry within — with a piercing scrutiny. Those eyes were hauntingly familiar. “Eyes are the window to the soul,” an age-old saying echoed in Harry’s mind. The eyes betrayed a different narrative from the rest. Harry felt he was reliving that moment in the Chamber of Secrets, confronting young Tom Riddle’s awakening to his impending doom. “Come on, let’s eat,” the faux-Potter announced, his voice trembling. Without another glance, he added, “Tom, seal the portal.” “Of course, love,” Faux-Riddle intoned, raising his wand. As the mirror’s surface began to shimmer and distort, panic surged in Harry. “No!” He lunged, hands pressing desperately against the now-unyielding surface. “Wait!” His fists hammered the mirror, the force causing cracks to radiate outward, slicing into his palm. “Fuck!!!” With a bitter taste, he licked the fresh wound, fixing a resentful gaze upon the enigmatic mirror. Slowly, the absurdity of the situation struck him. This wasn’t some childish prank. He’d just conversed with his doppelgänger from a parallel universe where he and Tom fucking Riddle were an item — and parents, no less! “It’s impossible!” He growled, fighting the urge to throw another punch at the mirror. “How in Merlin’s beard?” Everything Harry despised in this world could be traced back to Tom Riddle and the havoc he wreaked on his life. How on earth could they be in love, even in some twisted alternate universe? Tom Riddle, cooing “darling”, playfully ruffling hair, or obediently toeing the line? It’s madness! Tom Riddle is like an unchecked blight — unfeeling, ruthless, devastating everything he touches. But those eyes… Those were unmistakably his. That distinct fiery red glint against the abyss; the intense, unmistakable eyes of a young Voldemort. Yet Harry, as emotional as ever, hadn’t changed a bit from his Hogwarts self. And to think, they named their daughter Lily. Without hesitation, Harry fixed the mirror, cast warning charms over it, and darted to his office still in his sleepwear, his usual morning routine forgotten. He had an urgent date with Waffling’s dusty tomes. ***   For the following fortnight, all was eerily quiet. Harry essentially moved into his room, piling up every book and scroll, dragging in his work chair and desk, shoving his bed to the side, and placing the mirror as the room’s main attraction. He waited with bated breath. Should visitors from this other reality choose to make contact after such a bombshell revelation, they would. Unless, of course, Harry was truly going round the twist — a theory many had floated since his fourth year. Still, his gut — the same gut that had pulled him through countless tight spots — shouted that this was no figment of his imagination. Feigning sickness, he skipped lectures at the Auror academy. No threats of expulsion could shake his conviction. He was certain: sooner or later, the guests’d make a reappearance. “You’ve completely lost the plot,” Hermione said, shaking her head after he spilled the beans about his peculiar encounter. “You’re seeing things, Harry. This is classic PTSD. I’ve told you, repeatedly! You should’ve visited St. Mungo’s ages ago. This won’t just vanish. It’s only going to get more complex.” “Why didn’t you?” Harry remarked coolly, taking a sip of his tea across from her in a quaint Muggle café. “You’ve weathered equally stormy seas, haven’t you?” “I’m in a different boat,” she sighed, rubbing her temples, clearly drained by the conversation. “I don’t wake in cold sweats, I’ve made peace with our past. The pop of an Apparition doesn’t send me into a tizzy, and I don’t feel compelled to hide from the world.” “You lost your parents,” Harry said, trying to read every nuance of her expression. But Hermione had always been a master of masking her feelings. “I never knew mine, but you grew up with yours. Didn’t that scar you?” He knew he was pushing her, but he was fed up with everyone advising him on how to live while overlooking their own troubles. “You know it did,” she replied, staring intensely at Harry, gripping her tea cup so tightly her knuckles turned white. “But I worked through it; I let it go. For their sake and mine. I’ve accepted what happened and moved on.” “Why do you assume I haven’t?” Harry retorted. “I’ve moved on too. I don’t cry into my pillow or wallow in despair. I don’t drown my sorrows in alcohol. Why do you believe you’ve managed and I haven’t?” Hermione’s lips pressed together, a telltale sign of her agitation. “You know why,” she interjected. “You’ve become so… distant. Even from Ron and me. You act the cynic, Harry, but that’s not who you are. It’s as if you’re protecting your heart from more pain, from additional losses. You should see a professional, but instead, you feign that everything’s all right. You’ve built this facade, but it’s not the genuine you!” “I’ve pulled away from you and Ron to avoid intruding on your family life,” Harry murmured into his tea. “I don’t want my glum mug dampening your happiness. Trust me, it’s a kindness. I’ve lost my belief in love, and seeing you two so lovey-dovey is excruciating. It’s not trauma; it’s me being thoughtful.” “Harry!” she cried out, dismay evident in her voice. “Dear Merlin, is this about Ginny? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” “Oh, no, no, no!” Harry swiftly raised his hands to stave off Hermione’s impending tirade. “I’m okay, really.” “Harry,” she said softly, reaching out to cover his hand with hers. “Why did you two break up? Please, be honest with me. It saddens me that we no longer confide in each other. I work myself up, fearing the worst, and you just grow more angry. Talk to me…” Harry met her gaze, recognizing that perhaps the only person he could truly trust was Hermione. She had stood by his side through thick and thin, had risked her life for him, and unlike Ron, had never wavered in her loyalty. Maybe she was the one person to whom he could bare his soul. “We had an argument,” he began with a wry smile, peering into his tea’s depths. “We argued frequently; living together wasn’t the fairytale either of us had imagined. Given our different backgrounds, it was to be expected. But one particular argument escalated too much. In my rage, I pushed her.” The reason for his earlier fury was now a blur. Today, Harry was largely composed, but back then… The disagreement had been over something so mundane. Ginny had, yet again, proposed selling the Grimmauld Place  for a more contemporary, homelier dwelling. This enraged him because he felt obligated to reside there to honor Sirius’s memory. Words were exchanged, insults thrown. “Just a push?” Hermione asked, searching his face for more details. “I didn’t hit her, if that’s what you’re hinting at. I could never,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I tried to leave, but she wouldn’t let me. In my anger, I pushed her on the shoulder, and she slammed her head and back against the wall. I was so livid I just didn’t care at the moment. I left. When I returned a day later, she was her usual self — bright, warm, understanding. Things seemed better. Then, a month later, I discovered she had slept with her ex that day — Dean Thomas. He’d been sending her letters all along, but she had been discarding them. I stumbled upon one while surprising her during her practice.” Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Are you certain?” she asked, eyes wide. “I can’t believe Ginny… She’s always loved you, fiercely! She’s been with you through every up and down!” “I am,” Harry said, lowering his gaze. “I didn’t confront her right away. I approached Dean first.” Harry’s recollection of that exchange was a blur. Thomas neither apologized nor sought reconciliation. He was bent on reclaiming Ginny and was angry at Harry for ever causing her pain. Harry somewhat understood; had he seen the one he loved in distress with another, he would’ve acted protective. And Ginny was in distress. She had witnessed his darkest moments — his anger, his anxiety, the sleepless nights, the emotional collapses. “So, what did she say?” Hermione inquired, her grip on his hand growing firmer. “She came clean,” Harry said with a resigned shrug. “She told me that in her anger, she’d ended up at a bar where she bumped into Dean. He consoled her, and one thing led to another, landing her in his bed. She asked for my forgiveness, acknowledging her lapse in judgment.” The crushing hurt he’d felt back then had now ebbed away. All that remained was an overwhelming sense of guilt. He felt he had driven her to that breaking point, thinking she deserved better than him. “And you kept this from us all this time?” Hermione exclaimed. “We were actively trying to bring you two back together!” “What for? To tarnish her reputation?” Harry responded. At the time, he felt it was the right thing to do. “I loved her. I wasn’t out for vengeance or any sort of payback. I kept it from you because I was sure you’d tell Ron — you two share everything. And Ron, well, he would’ve confronted Ginny, and sooner or later, the entire family would be in the know. I didn’t want to humiliate her like that. I blame myself.” “I can hardly believe it,” Hermione murmured, her voice filled with disbelief. “How could she…? I can’t make sense of it.” “It’s on me,” Harry said, voice heavy with regret. “I made her life unbearable.” He couldn’t muster up any resentment toward Ginny. She was everything admirable — valiant, devoted, passionate, spontaneous, and candid. But his own demons had cast a pall over her existence, dragging her down into a whirlpool of anguish. How could he  blame her for wanting a moment of solace, gentleness, and affection? All the things he felt he hadn’t given her. The very notion of her sleeping with another man was agonizing — so much so that Harry had never truly healed. Since then, he sought solace exclusively in solitude. The idea of being intimate without genuine feelings felt distasteful, and no one could evoke such emotions from him now. He was at peace. But seeing others in blissful relationships? That was intolerable. So, he distanced himself from his closest friends, not wanting to cast a shadow over their happiness — a recurring theme since his school days. Wherever Harry went, problems seemed to follow. “That’s not a valid reason!” Hermione asserted, her voice unwavering. “If she was that miserable, she could’ve left you. Or suggested therapy. Cheating is not an alternative!” “You don’t understand…” Harry began, but Hermione swiftly cut him off. “No, Harry, it’s you who doesn’t get it!” Her eyes, rich and brown, burned with that characteristic determination. “You play the martyr too well! Yes, you had your struggles. But if she was so unhappy, she should’ve ended things, not resorted to betrayal. It’s disgusting!” “And you can judge from your comfortable, perfect relationship, can you?” Harry snapped back. “Perfect?!” Hermione’s voice soared, making Harry cringe. “I work tirelessly to keep my relationship with Ron smooth! I put in the effort because I love him. I’d never deceive him, especially during a rough patch! Sometimes, I swear, I could slap some sense into you!” Harry involuntarily recoiled. Given Hermione’s impeccable track record of being right, he found it difficult not to believe her. “Can we not?” he murmured, exhaustion evident. “I don’t wish to paint Ginny as the villain.” Hermione momentarily covered her eyes with her hand, rubbing her temples— a surefire indication that she was restraining herself from launching into a tirade. “You know,” she whispered, “sometimes, I truly believe you need someone even more scarred than you. So you can save them. Your savior complex is astounding, Harry. And I blame Professor Dumbledore. He shaped you this way.” “How is Dumbledore related to any of this?” Harry retorted, confused. “All I want is not to drag Ginny’s name through the mud.” “It’s his doing!” Hermione blurted, her hand striking the countertop for emphasis. “Harry, we’re not children anymore. Haven’t you ever reflected on how Dumbledore used you? Pushing you into harm’s way repeatedly, while he merely observed from the sidelines? The most renowned wizard of our age… and yet he delegated his burdens onto a child. He molded you into this selfless hero, always sacrificing for the greater good, seldom thinking of his own well-being. Even though he’s long gone and the war has ended, you continue to prioritize everyone else.” “You’re wrong,” Harry murmured, staring deep into his tea cup. He swirled the spoon around, the tea spiraling into a tiny vortex. “Maybe I am, I won’t argue,” Hermione retorted, folding her arms and leveling a challenging gaze at Harry. “Losing loved ones and experiencing betrayal is a lot, even for you. I don’t know if you’re seeing things or if this is some twisted joke, but you need professional help. Madam Pomfrey did her best, but post-traumatic stress disorders aren’t her specialty. I’ll find someone for you…” “Perhaps you’re right,” Harry conceded, knowing all too well that arguing with Hermione in this mood was futile. “I’ll consider it, alright?” “Alright,” she replied, her face softening into a relieved smile. But internally, Harry had no intentions of seeking help. He believed he could manage on his own. To Hermione, his changes seemed alarming, but he felt he had just grown up. ***   The mirror stirred to life late in the evening. Harry was hunched over his desk, wrestling with the intricacies of the magical field. The topic was fundamental, something from their fifth year, but he couldn’t remember any of it. How had he ever passed his O.W.L.s? “Harry?” A voice murmured, causing him to jolt, sending a splatter of ink across his old notes. “Hello.” Reflected in the mirror was the man who had introduced himself as Tom Riddle. Behind him, an opulent office adorned with towering bookshelves basked in the sunlight. “Hello, Tom,” Harry responded, regaining his composure. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up again.” He rose and stepped closer to the mirror, studying the man it portrayed. The person, likely in his late twenties or early thirties, exuded an air of refined elegance. His attire was rich and his watch glittered with gemstones. He looked less like the orchestrator of a bloodbath and more like the bureaucrats Harry had seen at the Ministry, pompously discussing policies and reforms. The dissonance was jarring. This was Voldemort. Yet, the image of a charming young man with a husband and children seemed completely out of place when contrasted with Harry’s entrenched perception of him. “How long has it been since our last conversation in your world?” Tom asked. “Just over two weeks,” Harry summoned a chair from the other end of the room and sat down, assuming the posture he’d perfected during interrogations: deliberately relaxed, a friendly gaze, and a welcoming smile. “And in yours?” Harry played the role of the good Auror well. After all, he was the goddamned Harry Potter. Even criminals felt a glimmer of hope seeing him. Well, at first. “Over two months,” Tom seemed to ponder something before suddenly brightening. “Time flows differently across the worlds. I tried to find you in the past, but to no avail. Shesmetet only reveals what she deems significant. If I’ve landed in this specific moment in your world, it must be for a reason. But why? You’ve already destroyed my soul; it’s irreparable.” “Shesmetet?” Harry inquired, intrigued. “She is an ancient goddess,” Tom explained, reaching out to caress something outside the mirror’s frame. “In ancient Egypt, she was worshipped as the goddess of magic. Yet, over time, she was forgotten. I stumbled upon her statuette one day, which transported my soul to another world where Harry and I weren’t together. When I returned, I fashioned this mirror from the statuette. Now, I peer into other worlds, aiding versions of Harry and myself who haven’t been as fortunate.” Harry almost snorted at this claim. “A world ‘where Harry and I aren’t together’?” The whole thing sounded like the ramblings of a madman, from the ancient Egyptian goddess to soul-travel between worlds. “Are you suggesting that our souls… are somehow entwined?” Harry asked, skeptical. He’d always found those soulmate theories comical, particularly during the time when Lavender Brown doted on Ron, endearingly calling him her “Won-Won.” “Yes,” to Harry’s surprise, Tom-not-Voldemort answered calmly. “It happened so long ago that I can’t even access that world. Our bond is man-made, implying one of us initiated it. Look here,” Tom began to unbutton his shirt to the mid-chest, revealing to Harry’s widening eyes a peculiar birthmark. It looked as if someone with dirty fingers had touched right over his heart. The jagged, crimson spots were a stark contrast against his pale skin. “I bear this mark in every world I’ve visited. My appearance, eye color, height, and even personality may vary, but this mark is constant. It binds Harry and me together like an unbreakable chain. Sometimes, we inherit each other’s magical abilities, as in our world. In one, we could hear each other’s thoughts. In another, we shared magical energy. This bond exists everywhere. The longer we’re together, the stronger it becomes.” Harry felt a chill run down his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “It’s a shame that in your world I lost my sanity before we even met,” Tom-not-Voldemort remarked with a wistful smile. “You’ve always been my anchor.” Harry’s mind raced back to those terrifying dreams where he witnessed events through Voldemort’s eyes. He vividly recalled the stabbing headaches when Voldemort seethed with anger and the agony he felt during Voldemort’s demise. And, even after Voldemort’s death, Harry still could speak Parseltongue. “It wasn’t just about the Horcruxes!” Hermione’s imagined voice rang out. “Your brother wands, your connection, the prophecy—it’s all woven together!” “I think I’m gonna puke,” he calmly declared, only to promptly throw up on the floor. “Harry!” Tom’s voice echoed anxiously from the mirror. “What’s going on?” “Enough,” Harry interrupted, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before vanishing the mess with Evanesco. “This is just… too much. Completely horrible. Are you implying that my loved ones, my friends and family, died because we bound our souls in some ancient past? Everyone tried to comfort me: “It wasn’t your fault, Harry. That lunatic could’ve targeted any child, but he chose you.” I was beginning to believe that. I’d almost gotten rid of that guilt, but now you’re saying it’s my fault after all?” The weight of such emotions hadn’t pressed down on him this heavily since Sirius’s death. Sirius… Lupin, Tonks, Fred, Dennis, Moody. They all had died protecting him while in other realities, he was apparently fucking the devil himself, Voldemort! “I’m truly sorry,” the figure in the mirror whispered, a stray lock of hair cascading over his forehead, eerily reminiscent of the younger Tom Riddle from the Chamber of Secrets. “You’re sorry?!” Harry’s voice surged. “You fucking psycho! You massacred countless innocent souls! And all you can muster is a feeble ‘sorry’?!” “I’ve paid the price,” Tom from the mirror confessed, lowering his gaze. “The cycle of rebirth has ended. Our paths will never cross again, Harry Potter. Now you’re free from this bond. A wizard who’s split his soul can’t be reborn.” Harry didn’t recognize he was shedding tears until they stung his lips. Even though he’d sworn off crying years before, sometimes the swell of emotions was just too potent to restrain. Auror Johnson was spot on — he was just a whiny boy who couldn’t control his own feelings. “That doesn’t help,” he muttered bitterly. “Because of our twisted fate, so many I cared for suffered. One friend lost a brother. Another was robbed of her parents. My godson was deprived of a family. And me… I lost everything. Why? Why did you turn into this monster?” The question had plagued him ever since he’d seen the eleven-year-old Tom in Dumbledore’s memory at the orphanage. “Why did you buy into the pureblood nonsense? Why choose dark magic?” Tom in the mirror kept his gaze down, seemingly steeped in genuine regret. “You had the chance to live in a fairy tale, but you chose to mar it with blood and pain,” Harry spat, incandescent with anger. “You ruined the lives of so many who didn’t deserve it! You drove countless wizards mad, wizards who, under different circumstances, might’ve become pillars of change in our world!” He thought of Sirius’s mother, consumed by her obsession with pureblood lineage; the deranged Bellatrix; Draco Malfoy; Goyle. All of them had fallen prey to Voldemort’s toxic propaganda. “So much pain, so much suffering, and for what?” he shouted, lunging at the mirror. “I…” Tom’s voice from the mirror was barely a whisper. “In your world, I lost my grip on reality before I could truly comprehend the ramifications of my actions. There was so much I didn’t know. I believed I was right. I was ignorant of the true nature of Horcruxes, the foundational laws of magic. I was clueless about the very essence of dark magic. I’m profoundly sorry for the pain you’ve had to endure, Harry… The blame lies with me.” “What good are apologies now?” Harry’s voice softened, the intensity of his fury somewhat dimmed. The fire that had burned within him had reduced to smoldering embers. “Can they mend what’s broken? Bring back my parents? My friends? Can you send me back in time?” “No, I’m sorry,” Tom from the mirror replied, shaking his head. “I can’t change the past.” “Then be gone,” Harry said wearily, raising his wand. “I never want to see you or your ‘husband’ again. I hope he knows the kind of monster he’s sleeping with.” “Goodbye. And please, forgive me,” Tom from the mirror pressed his palm against the glass for a fleeting second before disappearing. In frustration, Harry hurled the chair he’d been sitting on against the wall. “This has to be some twisted joke,” he growled, collapsing onto the bed. How he wished he could go back in time and eradicate the evil serpent before he committed his first murder! Before he began disseminating his venom, luring students into his inner circle! His rage slowly dissipated, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound in his heart. Harry replayed everything the pseudo-Voldemort had shared, trying to come to grips with it. In his anger, he’d acted impetuously, not gathering all the information he needed, like a naive first year. Johnson would’ve scolded him severely for such recklessness. With the assistance of some goddess named Shesmetet, Voldemort—or rather, simply Tom Riddle—had managed to traverse worlds. Upon his return, he fashioned an artifact that permitted him to observe alternate realities. Tom had spoken of attempting to journey back to a time before Harry had defeated Voldemort, but without success. This Shesmetet seemed sentient, selectively choosing what to unveil. Yet, even the mere attempt suggested that it WAS possible to time-travel and shape the course of events. Harry would’ve sacrificed anything to rewind time and make different choices. Even Dumbledore, with his distaste for killing, might not have intervened. Harry had already taken a life. What difference would one more time make in putting an end to that bastard? He’d always harbored this fantasy, albeit timidly and half in jest: to set things right if given the chance. But now, with revelations about mind-bending concepts like interdimensional travel and the rebirth of souls, a flicker of hope sparked within him. Who knows, maybe he’d pioneer time-travel, journeying back several decades? After all, he’s Harry fucking Potter! The oddest things seemed to be his lot in life. ***   “You’ve absolutely lost the plot,” Ron declared, showing up at Harry’s doorstep at the crack of dawn only to discover him engulfed by piles of books. Having suffered from insomnia, Harry, dressed merely in his boxers, had thrown himself into the multitude of books he’d recently acquired. British wizards weren’t too keen on Ancient Egyptian magic, so he had to source books from the US and various other nations, sometimes employing a translation spell to decipher them. The spell was basic, providing translations that were somewhat wanting in accuracy. More than once, Harry found he’d unwittingly purchased a children’s fairy tale anthology. “You just don’t get it,” Harry snapped at Ron, marking his current page with a ripped piece from another book, which he now deemed utterly worthless and frustratingly misleading. “I’ve contracted mermaid fever. I can’t go to the Academy in this state. And Ron, it’s contagious, so…” “I remember that ‘fever’ you caught while trailing Malfoy! You’re bottoming out in Disguise and Potions. Flunk those, and you’ll be repeating a year,” Ron said, lifting one of Harry’s books and letting out an impressed whistle. “Wow, ‘Dead Gods of Egypt’? Did Bill bite you when I wasn’t looking? You were gunning for an Auror role, not gallivanting around ancient tombs with mummies hot on your heels.” “I’m merely broadening my horizons during my off-hours,” Harry said, feigning a cough – though he wasn’t even sure if mermaid fever presented with that symptom. “It’s utterly captivating. You should give it a try,” he said, reclaiming the book swiftly before Ron could notice the annotated sections about Shesmetet. “You? Recreational reading? Blimey, Harry! Claiming sudden hate for Quidditch would be more believable,” Ron exclaimed, rolling his eyes. “Midterms are on the horizon, and here you are, holed up reading nonsense! Johnson’s seriously considering raiding your place, did you know? He dropped by the shop, querying about what in Merlin’s name you’ve been up to.” The impending exams had completely slipped Harry’s mind. The allure of traveling between dimensions trumped mundane queries about the correct paperwork for reporting a theft. It would be Form WF-013, of course. “I’m already feeling better; I’ll show up for the exams,” Harry responded curtly. “Now be on your way, Ron, unless you fancy a bout of mermaid fever. Some strands of hair in, erm, rather discrete places have turned a vivid green. Fancy sporting that look?” “Bloody hell,” Ron groaned. “Where on earth did you contract mermaid fever? It sounds disgusting!” Harry had ‘contracted’ this malady from a directory of hard-to-cure diseases. He’d even obtained a doctor’s note from a trainee at St Mungo’s — none other than Parvati Patil, who’d been in his Hogwarts year since the beginning and, thank Merlin, wasn’t particularly fond of Hermione. He couldn’t risk leaving the house, acutely aware that the mirror could spring to life at any moment. Harry needed more information. His plan screamed suicide, but that wouldn’t deter him from maximizing his chances of survival. “I took a dip in the lake, must’ve missed the ‘Beware of Mermaids’ sign,” Harry fabricated. Ron visibly shivered. “Alright, I better be off; it’s inventory day,” he remarked, his eyes lingering forlornly on Harry’s disheveled bedding. “Merlin knows, I should’ve joined you in Auror training. I’ll let Johnson know, if he comes asking, that you’re recovering and will return soon.” “Appreciated,” Harry waved somewhat clumsily, feeling the pang of guilt. Deception didn’t sit well with him. Once upon a time, they were so close, sharing every secret, but now… As Ron retreated, Harry dove back into his book. “Dead Gods of Egypt” was proving invaluable. It offered insights into the prominent deities spanning from ancient epochs to the fifteenth century. Some deities had been obliterated, their temples and effigies destroyed, while others had suffered incarceration within artifacts, tethering them to the mortal realm. While some accounts felt fictitious, others resonated with authenticity. Harry became so captivated, he found himself relating to Hermione’s penchant for reading during breakfast. Shesmetet was but a footnote. By the era of the pyramids, her legacy was nearly erased. However, sporadic accounts hinted at her previous grandeur. This lioness-faced deity was once revered as the goddess of magic and illusion. Then, inexplicably, even the utterance of her name was deemed taboo. How had Riddle chanced upon her? What was her true nature? “Harry? Are you there?” The mirror came to life around eight, rousing a bleary-eyed Harry, who’d unintentionally fell asleep atop the opened book. “Mmm? What?” He set up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Hey, it’s me — Harry from another realm,” echoed a voice from the looking glass. Swiftly donning a robe, Harry neared the ornate mirror. He estimated that roughly ten days had passed in the alternate universe since their prior conversation. Their time seemed to flow nearly five times quicker. “What do you need?” Harry rasped, collapsing onto the floor. His exhaustion was palpable, making him care little for his unkempt appearance. His mind felt swarmed, as if invaded by a brood of restless Acromantulas. “My apologies for disturbing you,” the mirror’s reflection revealed a room veiled in obsidian, indicating it was deep into the night there. “I just… couldn’t sleep. I kept reflecting on you and the events in your world.” “How touching,” Harry replied with a biting sarcasm. “Ruminating on our misery while nestled beside your spouse, the orchestrator of genocide?” “Not in my universe,” the eyes, uncannily resembling his own, flashed defiantly. “Here, Tom forsook dark magic, bloodshed, and his fixation on immortality. I taught him! I molded him into the man he’s become!” [1] “Are you implying all that transpired in my world is on me?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “That I should’ve taught the deranged maniac about love?” “No! That’s not what I meant!” Mirror Harry fumbled, pulling his sweater sleeves over his fingers. “You stood no chance because Tom lost himself to his own devices. It pains me that you two were born so many years apart. And I’m deeply saddened that you also never lived a happy life with your parents.” “Also?” Harry inquired. “If things are all rosy with you and Vo… I mean Riddle, where are your parents?” “Killed by the Dark Lord,” Mirror Harry sighed. “Grindelwald. He sought the Invisibility Cloak. You know about the…?” “Hallows?” Harry was genuinely taken aback. “Yes, I’m aware. So, you were born during Grindelwald’s reign?” “Yep,” Mirror Harry sniffled. “We have… our own tale of woe here. Grindelwald wanted the Deathly Hallows and came for the cloak. He killed my parents and younger brother, but never got his hands on the cloak because I was wearing it. And even if he had, he couldn’t have used it. It had to be given willingly.” “I’m so sorry,” Harry swallowed hard. Why was he such a magnet for Dark Lords? “There are conditions of use? This is news to me. I collected all three Hallows and nothing special occurred. I never became Master of Death.” “Oh,” Mirror Harry perked up. “To activate the Hallows, three conditions must be met: the cloak must be given willingly, the wand won in battle, and the ring…” he grimaced, “To activate the ring, one has to deliberately send a soul to the afterlife. If you didn’t fulfill these conditions, the Hallows are just powerful magical artifacts. Fulfill all three, and upon death, you transition to… somewhere beyond. That’s all I know.” Harry shuddered, recalling his own ‘beyond’ experience. “I didn’t meet one condition,” he whispered in shock. “I never sent a soul to the afterlife intentionally.” After assembling them and being left empty-handed, he lost his faith in the Hallows. But what if…? “No,” he shook his head, interrupting his thoughts. The Deathly Hallows should remain buried in history, lest they instigate another war. “Tom and I managed to unearth ancient legends about the Hallows, and why Grindelwald coveted them,” Mirror Harry shared. “Legends say the Master of Death would wield incredible power, enough to lay waste to cities. But they’re just tales. Grindelwald slaughtered my family over a foolish legend.” “— My family was killed because of a prophecy,” Harry attempted to lighten the other’s mood. “No matter how you spin it, someone always seems to resort to murder for the most absurd reasons.” “— Yes… In only a few worlds have I seen our parents alive, raising us themselves. And in those worlds, everything’s so… fairy-tale-like. Wonderful! I sometimes envy them. Our parents aren’t always as I imagined, but they’re alive, they love us, and isn’t that what truly matters?” “— Indeed,” Harry replied with a bitter smile. “Tell me more. What are they like?” “— Just recently, we encountered a world where our parents renewed their vows for their thirty-third wedding anniversary,” Mirror Potter beamed. “They run their own hippogriff farm and seem truly happy.” “— Really?” Harry felt a sharp pang in his heart. “Thirty-three years? Merlin’s beard. Do we have any siblings?” “— Not biological ones,” Mirror Potter giggled. “Mum took a shine to Tom’s younger brother, Marcus, and his sister, Persei. Together with the Riddles, they formed one big, crazy family.” [2] Harry choked on air, taking an unexpectedly sharp intake of breath. “— What?” After a bout of coughing, he rasped, “Riddle had… a family?” “— Yes,” Mirror Potter sighed. “When my Tom saw his mirror-world brother and sister, I swear he nearly shed a tear. The other Tom bore a striking resemblance to him, and the siblings looked the spitting image of him. In that world, we were married as well and purchased this very house you’re residing in. That Tom was blessed with a doting mother and father, and even a grandmother. It’s one of the happiest worlds for both of us.” Harry struggled to grasp it. How could it be that in another world, they were wed and had families? It felt so surreal. “— In every world you’ve visited…” Harry began tentatively, “In every single one, Riddle and I… are a couple?” “— Without fail,” Mirror Potter said with a cheeky wink and a chuckle. “Always in a committed marriage. Tom’s quite the territorial sort; he doesn’t do things in halves.” A crushing urge for a drink overwhelmed Harry. It was agonizing to digest such tales. Especially when the image was still vivid: the gentle way Mirror Riddle caressed his husband’s hair, the protective manner in which he held their daughter, and the warmth of their embrace, as if he aimed to shield them from every adversity in the world. “Well, um…” Harry cleared his throat, fidgeting slightly, “Our parents… You mentioned you’ve come across a few worlds where they’re alive?” Hoping to steer the conversation away from the brewing turmoil within him, he redirected the topic. “In one world, our parents went their separate ways,” Mirror Harry began with evident enthusiasm. “You’ll be astounded by the tale from there. Ever heard that our mum had a fling with Snape? Assuming he’s present in your world?” Harry shuddered, the memory of the professor’s poignant demise flooding back. “Yes, I know Snape,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “He thought of her till his final breath. Even post her passing.” “In that reality too!” the counterpart exclaimed. “Dark magic led him to breach the law of balance…” He launched into a story so astonishing that it left Harry utterly bewildered. [3] Purchasing Waffling’s book had certainly paid off. They conversed for hours. In that span, Harry learned more about the balance of magic and the universe than he had throughout his entire life. The more he listened, the stronger his hope grew that perhaps things could yet be set right. “Merlin’s beard, there’s so much more to share! Magic knows no limits, Harry; it’s capable of wonders you can’t even fathom!” Mirror Potter exclaimed passionately. “Tell me about it,” Harry responded, a strained smile playing on his lips. “It’s astounding, even this mode of communication. How did Tom find this Shesmetet and journey between worlds?” “She found him,” the reflection replied, eyes alight with eagerness. “We had a disagreement because he didn’t want children, but I did. Distraught, he set out for a motel. En route, he visited Joe’s Universal Assistance shop in Diagon Alley. Joe handed him a cat statue which, to our surprise, was actually an Egyptian goddess in disguise. She cast Tom’s soul into another version of himself in a different world. Once Tom returned, he transformed the statue to forge this mirror. Since that day, the goddess has been our companion. I think she might’ve just been bored and was seeking a diversion. We’ve been trying to find a way to free her, but, as you might expect, the ancient magic that could potentially assist us is long lost. All we can do is hope that someday…” For a brief moment, Harry thought he detected a contented purring, eerily reminiscent of the sound Crookshanks made under Hermione’s touch. “Can you hear me?” Harry thought intently, momentarily blocking out the chatter of his double. “Help me, just as you helped them! Transport me back to the past! I beseech you, mighty Shesmetet!” A sensation, much like being brushed by a warm, supple tail, tingled up the back of his legs, almost causing him to topple headfirst into the mirror. “Hey, are you alright?” his counterpart inquired. “Yeah, yeah!” Harry exclaimed, scarcely registering that he had risen from his seat and was now leaning into the cold mirror. “Just engrossed in thought. This is all… so fascinating.” “You have no idea!” The mirrored Harry’s zeal was palpable. “Can you fathom my astonishment when Tom first introduced me to our lookalikes? They were the very spit image of us. Our worlds were eerily similar.” A peculiar warmth spread within Harry. His thoughts fluttered, attempting to pry essential details from his reflection. It felt as if mischievous pixies were tugging him from all sides. Suddenly, everything felt critically consequential to his fate. “But how did you two even…” Harry began, stumbling over his words, “How did you end up together? I can’t wrap my head around it. Even if he wasn’t the murderous psychopath, he’s still…” “A guy?” Mirror-Harry raised an eyebrow with a smirk. “So what? Believe me, sexuality never hindered our love. Tom is… well, he’s Tom. Exceptional in every sense. Regardless of gender, we’re destined for each other. Nothing can change that.” “Nothing?” Harry pressed, his disbelief evident. “But how? He was dangerous even in his Hogwarts days, and God, even as a child! I can’t comprehend how you…” The unsettling realization that his very soul consistently chose Voldemort, irrespective of his non-monstrous path, consumed him. Why did fate weave such a twisted tapestry? “I believe,” Mirror-Harry began softly, raising a hand in a placating gesture, “it’s destiny. Fate. He’s so immensely powerful, he could decimate the world if he wished. And I? I serve as his anchor, keeping him centered. Without me, he spirals out of control, and you’ve witnessed that chaos. Can’t you see why our unity is so vital? When we’re apart, we’re lost, but together, it feels like destiny. The thought of facing solitude, knowing he’s gone with his soul destroyed, while I continue to live and get reborn, oblivious to our shared history? It devastates me. That’s why I wanted him to avoid you, hoping to live in a delusion where none of this was real.” Harry’s hands formed fists, analyzing the mournful expression on his counterpart’s face. The revelation felt ludicrous. Unbelievable. “We have wonderful kids,” Mirror-Harry continued, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort. “Our eldest, James, recently turned seven. Every bit a Potter, he’s begun attending Quidditch sessions for youngsters. Then there’s Sal, short for Salazar—please, don’t laugh; it was all Tom. At five, he harbors an intense loathing for the entire Slytherin house, courtesy of Draco Malfoy’s son, who damaged his toy broomstick. In protest, he’s plastered his room in Gryffindor posters and aspires to surpass even Aunt Hermione academically. And then there’s Lily Merope, our sweet little girl. At three and a half, she’s already demonstrating her potent, unpredictable magic. She takes after Tom the most. We’re convinced she’s destined to become the first female Minister of Magic.” His nails dug deep into his palms as images he dared not entertain intruded upon his thoughts. James… the very name he envisioned for his firstborn with Ginny. And his darling daughter — Lily. The audacity to envision offspring from a union between him and Voldemort felt like sheer mockery. “We keep Tom grounded, much as horcruxes would have,” his double added. “He needs to feel loved and valued. Beneath all his pretense and pride, there’s vulnerability. He’s as fearful of loneliness as any forsaken child. I’m not asking you to accept this, especially after all he’s put you through. But try… just try to understand. That’s all I ask.” With monumental effort, Harry managed to keep his face expressionless, though every fiber of his being screamed in protest. These tales of family life, destiny, and love cut him deep. The bastard who had murdered his parents and friends couldn’t possibly be normal. The Tom Riddle from the mirror wore the ring of his murdered uncle, confirming he too had blood on his hands. Yet another world’s Harry Potter had chosen to trust this maniac, even have children with him! Was he genuinely so foolish and gullible? “I’ll try,” Harry finally managed, forcing a smile. He detested lying, but he found himself resorting to it with increasing frequency. “But it’s tough.” “Thank you!” exclaimed the other Harry, gesticulating emphatically. “I can’t fathom how jarring this must be for you, given everything he’s done. But… my Tom didn’t commit those atrocities. He’s not your Voldemort. He intended to be, sure, but once I discovered his ambitions, I ridiculed him so relentlessly he’s been sheepish about it ever since.” “What?” Harry blinked, puzzled. “You mocked his aspiration to become a murderer?” “No!” Mirror-Harry gestured dismissively. “Voldemort was, well, like his alter ego. Adopting a new name often signifies a defining or traumatic moment. Tom’s transformation into Voldemort was an attempt to reject his identity: a half-blood orphan, shunned by all. This moniker was meant to liberate him from past traumas, establishing him as powerful and invincible. It was his escape. But I never let him abandon who he truly was, ensuring Voldemort remained an unbirthed concept. To this day, I tease him about these delusions of grandeur, reminding him how ridiculous he would have become. Voldemort! Ha! Even Grindelwald wasn’t that pretentious!” Harry was dumbfounded. He’d never considered why Tom Riddle might have sought a new identity. It had seemed apparent: a disdain for his Muggle lineage. But this new perspective was fascinating. “You just… mocked him?” Harry asked, incredulous. The idea that anyone could ridicule Voldemort and live to tell the tale seemed preposterous. That monster was as touchy as Ginny during certain times of her cycle. One misstep, and it was game over. “Well, yes,” his counterpart replied with a sly smile. “Tom can be insufferably self-important. But a bit of mockery at his grand visions, and he becomes quite grounded. Few dare to challenge him, making him assume he’s always right. I’ve never indulged him in that belief and consistently bring him back to reality. His greatest adversaries? A good laugh and biting sarcasm. I won’t mention the other weapon; you seem to hate me enough as it is.” “What other weapon?” Harry inquired, his brows knitted in confusion. The doppelgänger smirked with a hint of condescension. “Sex, obviously,” he replied with a chuckle. “Oh, Merlin, stop,” Harry gasped, a hand flying to his mouth, suppressing the nauseating feeling surging within. “That’s just vile.” “What? Tom’s a catch!” the double asserted, amusement evident in his tone. “And in bed, he’s quite the—” Harry hastily covered his ears, refusing to entertain such unsavory details. His stomach rebelled at the very thought, prompting him with a crucial decision: better to puke on the carpet than endure another word. “Shut up!” he bellowed. “I’m sensitive, have some mercy!” Even though he was aware the doppelgänger spoke of his own spouse and not the Voldemort he despised, horrid and salacious images flooded his imagination. “Alright, alright, point taken, I’ll zip it,” the mirror-Harry replied, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. Harry warily removed his hands from his ears, ensuring he was safe from further unsolicited revelations. “If only you knew the depth of my loathing for him,” he murmured somberly. “He robbed me of everything. Regardless of your tales about your Tom Riddle, I can’t buy into them. Perhaps he’s that way in your dimension, but not in mine. My Voldemort lacked any redeemable qualities; salvation, even by the most profound love, was impossible because he was incapable of love. He’s a child of Amortentia.” “You’re wrong,” the doppelgänger responded with conviction. “Everyone has the capacity to love. It might manifest unconventionally, teetering on obsession or taking on a distorted, unhealthy form, but at its core, it’s love. Tom and I weathered numerous storms together; now we’re attending couples therapy, striving to learn to love without inflicting hurt. Love isn’t inherent, it’s cultivated. Kids internalize behaviors from their environment, imitating parents, teachers, peers. As they mature, their actions mirror these learned patterns. Tom grew up deprived of positive role models; he was surrounded by disdain, animosity, and neglect. Don’t pin it all on Amortentia. Trust my judgement; I’ve got three kids, so I know a thing or two.” Harry remained silent. In his heart, he felt more inclined to trust Professor Dumbledore’s insights than those of his doppelgänger, who, from his vantage point, was blinded by bias. In Harry’s universe, Voldemort’s very essence was tainted. Even under the most nurturing circumstances, he believed the dark wizard would still evolve into a power-hungry lunatic with an insatiable hunger for immortality. “Harry? Where are you?” A loud, concerned voice echoed down the corridor, making its way even through the mirror. “I’ve got to go,” the other Harry said, offering an apologetic smile. “After his inter-dimensional escapades, Tom gets a tad jittery waking up without me beside him. Think we’ll meet again?” “Of course,” Harry affirmed with a nod. The mirror flickered, returning to its original state and reflecting Harry’s haggard, unshaven visage. His head pounded, no longer from lack of sleep but from the tidal wave of thoughts crashing over him. Joe’s Universal Assistance shop in Diagon Alley? Did such a place exist in his world? What if, with Shesmetet’s assistance, he could travel back in time and snuff out the monster before his rise to power? That would change everything! No more needless bloodshed, no more heartache. Sometimes, one had to get their hands sullied, bear the burden of an unspeakable act for the greater good. Dumbledore would surely raise an eyebrow at such thoughts. But did his opinion truly count? Hermione had hit the nail on the head; Dumbledore had chiseled Harry into a hero, destined to lay down his life for the masses. He might balk at the idea of murder, but Harry had learned Dumbledore was fallible. He wasn’t some all-knowing sage; he was an imperfect man who, ironically, fostered two Dark Lords. Auror Johnson, though, had a different mantra: “The best kind of enemy is a dead one, end of story. Everything else is bedtime fairytale for toddlers.” Perhaps he was teetering on the brink of madness to entertain such notions, but it felt as if he’d been pining for a glimmer of hope that things could be set right. This itch had plagued him since his second year when he first encountered the teenaged Tom Riddle. Nip the menace in its infancy. Jacket in tow, Harry bolted out, preparing to apparate to the Leaky Cauldron. The alley was abuzz with wizards in the noonday rush, but he was oblivious. A restless fervor bubbled within, making his limbs twitch involuntarily. He’d always thought he knew Diagon Alley as the back of his hand. Yet he’d overlooked the myriad side alleys jutting out, akin to twigs on a broomstick. Some cradled a handful of shops, while others magically unfurled to reveal entire blocks. Harry scrutinized each corner, hunting for Joe’s elusive shop. One would assume spotting a magical store in a district replete with them would be child’s play, especially given the shopkeepers’ penchant for ostentatious displays. Yet, dusk loomed, and Harry had to entertain two prospects: either he was a lousy Auror or… The shop simply didn’t exist in his time and realm. Thoughts buzzed in his head, loud as a school bell, suggesting he might truly be off his rocker. What endgame was he chasing? Time travel was a pipe dream! Riddle was long gone; it was about time he made peace with his cursed, desolate existence. Harry didn’t return home until dusk. He’d spent hours wandering aimlessly through Diagon and Knockturn Alleys, wrestling with himself to abandon this madness. Even if, by some miracle, he went back in time and killed Tom Riddle, the repercussions could be immense. His very existence, as well as that of Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Molly, Arthur, and his parents, might be at stake. Even Waffling had warned about the dire consequences of tampering with the fabric of the universe. It wasn’t anyone else’s burden that Harry struggled to move beyond his traumas and find some semblance of a normal life. Utterly drained, he trudged home and collapsed onto his bed, staring at the accursed mirror. “If only you knew how miserable I am,” he whispered to its frame. Though Harry was fully aware that this frame was ordinary and Shesmetet wasn’t there, he just needed to vent. He would never dare confess such feelings to his friends. “Sometimes, when something’s broken, it can’t be mended. You just throw it away and find a replacement. Maybe it’s time to throw me away?” He drifted into sleep, oblivious to the small, dark wooden cat statuette that had appeared on his bedside table, its eyes glowing a vivid green.