Behind Lies Eternity

Harry regained consciousness at King’s Cross and let out a loud curse. “I hope you drop bloody dead, you asshole!” he shouted into the void, his words punctuated by relentless giggling. “Stop laughing, Shesmetet, it genuinely hurts!” The goddess’s laughter grew louder in response. Harry had been peacefully drowning his sorrows at the Hog’s Head, incognito with his disguised face and clothes, in the company of some smugglers. When nature called, he found the pub’s toilet occupied, so he ventured outside and slipped into a shadowy alley. Feeling relieved, he lingered, savoring the crisp air that wasn’t tainted with the rank stench of cigars and firewhiskey. That’s how he met his end once more. At least he’d managed to zip up his trousers. A heavy burden of shame pressed upon him as he realized his folly. Knowing the risks, he still sauntered into that damned pub, like a junkie searching for his next fix in a mobster’s lair. He’d fooled himself into thinking the unknown murderer was at bay and that no one would dare ambush him in Hogsmeade. It appeared that Gordian’s abductor was hell-bent on eliminating him and tracked his movements far more meticulously than the dimwits at the Auror Office. “I won’t set foot in Hogsmeade,” Potter vowed, his promise punctuated by Shesmetet’s amused laughter. He waved an angry fist at the void, scanning for Dumbledore. But the professor was conspicuously absent. The platform lay desolate, devoid of any train sounds, with only the loathsome black door marring the muted expanse like a smudge of ink. Potter approached it warily. He was consumed by trepidation, anxious about the consequences of his latest blunder. His fear was so palpable that he wished he could simply resurrect and drown his memories in alcohol. However, as he neared, the door creaked open, unveiling an infinite chasm. “Hey!” Harry clutched the wooden frame and peered into the abyss. “Anybody there? Hell-o-o-o-o-o!” His voice echoed back just as the door violently snapped shut, sending him plummeting. He descended, deeper and deeper, oblivious to his screams, thoughts, or bodily sensations. The fall felt interminable until a speck of white below began to expand. It morphed into the luminous Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. The world was animate. A bunch of wizards gathered before the towering Minister’s podium, their motions full of life. Harry seemed to float above, observing the transformed Ministry landscape. The walls were adorned with large flags featuring a red phoenix against a black backdrop, a similar emblem on the arm bands worn over the strict black uniforms of the ministry officials. The Unity Statue had changed too; now, a single wizard stood with a raised wand. The inscription on the pedestal read: “Magic is Might.” If Harry had a body, he would’ve pinched himself several times, for he instantly recognized who it was. He wasn’t the monster from the cauldron. Yet, he had long ceased to be Tom Riddle. Behind the podium on the stage stood a tall, thin man with long, completely grey hair, red serpentine eyes, and pale, brittle skin. “Today marks exactly twenty years since my beloved Empress of Unified England, Walburga the First, the Viceroy of Ireland and Scotland, was treacherously killed by rebels. The Empire has been without its mother for too long, my children. As Emperor, as the father of the nation, I have joyous news. I have chosen a new Empress!” Harry watched in horror as those grey lips he had seen just hours ago moved. He wanted to scream, but he needed vocal cords for that. Tom… What had you done? Wizards in matching uniforms with arm bands stood in formation, looking up to their Emperor with a mix of fear and respect. None dared to create a disturbance or whisper. They merely murmured excitedly and clapped when the speech demanded it. And then Bellatrix emerged onto the stage. She took her place on Riddle’s left, radiating smug satisfaction. Her lavish red gown, adorned with tiny crystals along the hem and bodice, accentuated her splendid curves. Her heavy, jet-black curls cascaded over her snow-white shoulders. She had never looked this radiant in life. “Shesmetet!” Harry mentally called out to the goddess. “What’s happening? Where’s my body?” He didn’t see a thin golden thread pulling him to any of the bodies in the Atrium, nor felt a call. He simply existed everywhere at once, throughout the entire Atrium. “As your wife, I vow to defend our Empire from the Mudbloods at the cost of my life, my Lord!” Bella knelt before Riddle, and he placed a delicate golden crown upon her head. “Shesmetet!” Harry exploded. “Answer me!” A familiar giggle, one that irked Harry more than his haunting memories of Sirius’s death, echoed throughout the Atrium. “It’s the aftermath…” her ghostly voice whispered. “Look at what you’ve done. Tom married Walburga, and with the Blacks’ support, he quickly achieved all he desired, and more. As for you… You don’t exist here, Harry. You weren’t born in this world because your father died fighting against the Emperor, and your mother lives in slavery to the purebloods, like so many other Muggleborns.” “I’ll fix everything! There’s still time!” With all his being, Harry surged upwards, towards the door uniquely his. Yet nothing happened. “Time is running out, my dear. Hurry, the time gap will soon close. Even I won’t be able to reopen it. You’ll return to the world you create,” Shesmetet giggled mischievously. Without hesitation, Harry shot upwards, darting at the speed of light towards the coveted door. He burst out, only to crash face-first onto the stone tiles of the station. “Merlin!” Feeling his limbs after existing as a void was the most wondrous sensation in the world. He touched the ground, felt his body, and ran his fingers through his hair, assuring himself he was truly alive. “Are you alright, my boy?” “Professor!” Harry exclaimed, louder than he intended from sheer surprise. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come this time.” “I had the same fear. I… Where are we?” Dumbledore appeared even more translucent than the last time. “We’re at King’s Cross station, Professor,” Harry replied, struggling to hold back tears. But could a soul even cry? “Ah, yes…” Dumbledore smiled. His face smoothed out, and his beard shortened. “It’s hard to remember, Harry…” “I’ll fix everything, sir,” Harry promised again, clenching his fists. “All will be well, you hear? You won’t fade away!” “Can I truly fade?” Dumbledore chuckled. “Souls are eternal. Only memories die.” In the distance, the rumble of an approaching train was heard. Harry dashed towards the platform, unable to watch his mentor fade away. He didn’t understand why the professor was becoming younger, or why he seemed so disoriented, but he knew he was to blame. “I’ll fix it all! I promise!” He shouted again, jumping into a carriage. An elderly man on the platform simply waved him goodbye. ***   Coming back to life was jarring: Harry lay in cold, wet slush, soaked through, a dull ache in his chest where another Avada had struck, and to top it all off, he was still drunk and nauseous. Harry opened his mouth wide, greedily gulping in fresh air. At the station, he hadn’t needed to breathe and hadn’t even realized it. Coughing from the sudden influx of oxygen, he opened his eyes. “Harry?” Straining to focus on the pale shape hovering over him, Harry recognized Riddle. “Grey doesn’t suit you, I swear,” Harry chuckled hoarsely. Thoughts in his head churned sluggishly, an alcoholic haze drawing him far from reality. A throbbing pain at the back of his head felt as though an iron rod had been jammed in. “And those bandages… Why’d you make them wear these? They look like Hitler fanatics.” “Harry!” A couple of slaps stung his cheeks, the pain intensified by the coarse fabric of the gloves against his chilled skin. “You’re alive, you idiot! What the hell? Explain yourself! For a few seconds, I was certain you were dead, you had no pulse.” Riddle was visibly agitated. Harry faintly sensed his emotions but couldn’t decipher them, nor his own. All Harry yearned for was to vomit and find some warmth. Yet, something pierced his drunken fog. “Quick!” He gripped Riddle’s gloved hand, trying to stand. “We need to get out of here. He’s probably on his way! The bastard’s left no trace again. How does he always find me?” The sting from the ring was almost imperceptible given his inebriated state. A vision of a wizard in a dark hooded cloak flashed before Harry’s buzzing eyes. He’d only caught a fleeting glimpse of a silhouette before everything went dark. “Who’s on his way?” Riddle assisted him to his feet, pulling Harry close and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Gordian’s killer!” Harry said, urgency evident in his tone. “They never caught him, and he’s figured out how to track me. Damn it, venturing into Hogsmeade at night was so stupid. If he realizes I survived, he’ll return!” “Harry, you merely tripped and hit your head on a rock. I’ve already attended to it; there was a significant bleed.” “No! It wasn’t a mere fall, he tried to murder me! Again!” Harry felt the back of his head, encountering a smooth scar. Riddle assessed him closely, then the snow, and nodded. “Let’s move,” he abruptly pointed his wand at Harry, murmured a spell, and hoisted him over his shoulder with ease. “Hey, put me down…” The blood rushed to Harry’s head, his stomach churned, and he decided it’d be wise to keep quiet to avoid vomiting on Riddle’s cloak. He went limp and closed his eyes, hoping to stave off the nauseating spin of the world around him. It felt like mere seconds before he was on solid ground again. Unable to resist any longer, Harry involuntarily emptied the contents of his stomach into a nearby bush. “Drink this, drink as much as you can,” a glass filled with water was pressed into his hand, and Harry drank greedily. Miraculously, the glass never seemed to empty. He was sick a few more times before the glass was finally removed. Blinking, he saw Riddle standing before him. “What are you doing here?” Harry rasped, glancing around, his thoughts in disarray. Wasn’t he just at the station? And Riddle was there too, beneath those haunting flags, with Bellatrix adorned in that red dress… Terrifying, grey, cold, and entirely inhuman. “Move,” Riddle commanded without explanation, simply shoving him. Harry found himself tumbling into a hole in the ground. “Crawl, and fast, unless you want to die.” “What the hell!” Harry retorted, but he obeyed, particularly after receiving a sharp smack to his ass. His mind was in such chaos that, for a moment, he felt as if he was crawling under the Whomping Willow, with Ron nudging him from behind, in pursuit of Sirius. It wasn’t until they reached the interior of the school that clarity returned to Harry. “This passage!” he exclaimed, eyeing the mirror that concealed the hidden entrance. “It was meant to be sealed.” Suddenly, it clicked that he might be revealing too much. He wasn’t with Ron, and this wasn’t some dreamlike night. “Stay quiet and keep moving,” Riddle murmured, taking hold of Harry’s collar and propelling him forward with a forceful nudge. “Hurry.” Harry felt so wretched that he hardly cared about his surroundings. He trudged on, pondering over how the flags bearing the phoenix insignia were far more unsettling than the Dark Mark. And he must’ve imagined seeing Dumbledore. Moreover, a pressing desire for something hot and greasy to eat dominated his thoughts. Eventually, he recognized he was being eased onto a bed, and someone was gently peeling away his damp cloak. “Ginny, I’m so sorry,” he implored. “I can’t bear this life any longer, can’t you see? Leave me. Don’t let my misery be yours. I’m broken. I can’t go on anymore. It would be best for everyone if I just…died.” “Enough with your nonsense,” came a terse reply. “Get some rest, you idiot.” “Oh, it’s you,” Harry discerned that the voice wasn’t Ginny’s. “Why are you helping me, Riddle? You never act without an ulterior motive. What’s in it for you?” “All I want now is for you to sleep. Come tomorrow, I’ll hex you so severely, you won’t drink alcohol ever again.” “Fine,” Harry conceded, clutching the pillow as sleep overtook him. ***   When morning dawned, Harry found himself lamenting every choice he’d ever made. Fragments from the previous night coalesced in his mind, forming a coherent narrative that led to yet another death. The elusive assassin was relentless in his pursuit, seemingly monitoring Harry’s every move. Fortunately, he hadn’t deduced that the Killing Curse didn’t work on Harry. While the initial attempt could be dismissed as mere chance or lacking true intent, the second was blatantly deliberate. Even Riddle believed Harry had met his end; the assailant should’ve been convinced of his success. It was fortuitous that Riddle assumed Harry had merely suffered a head injury, unaware that he had been the target of Avada Kedavra. Riddle! Harry groaned loudly, recalling being dragged into the castle and force-fed water. What insanity! Voldemort himself had put him to bed and listened to his delirious rants. Wait, had he revealed anything he shouldn’t have? “Awake, are we?” The bed curtains were drawn back, and Harry groaned again, this time blinded by the bright sunlight. He tried to hide under the blanket, but Riddle ruthlessly yanked it away. “Back off,” Harry attempted to kick him and retrieve the blanket, realizing he was dressed only in trousers and a shirt. “Give me back the blanket!” “Get up!” commanded the sadist. “You’ve missed classes. I had to lie to the professors because of you.” “As if you don’t lie to them regularly,” Harry managed to sit up, swinging his legs over the bed’s edge. The blinding sunlight turned out to be just brightly burning lamps. “I might have a concussion; just leave me be.” Harry’s mind was a swirling mess. The clearest memories he had were of puking into bushes and crawling through a passage, but after that, everything became hazy. He might have hit his head too hard, overdrank, or both. Riddle wasn’t behaving as if Harry was some alien from the future or a miraculously resurrected corpse, so that brought Harry some relief. “Harry, do me a favor. Shut up and listen,” Riddle suddenly said, gripping the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, pulling him close with those bottomless black eyes drilling into him. “Do you ever think? You’re in no position to get drunk. You nearly died, damn it, Mordred! What if I hadn’t come for you? You could’ve bled out or frozen.” “Ow! Why do you care?” Harry grimaced, and Riddle’s grip loosened. He felt incredibly thirsty. “It’d be simpler for you. The bond would break; no more complications.” “It’s agonizing, just so you’re aware,” Riddle responded, handing him a glass of water. “When you were attacked, I felt it. I can’t fathom what would happen if you actually died. So, don’t even think about leaving Hogwarts.” “Yes, mother,” Harry replied sarcastically, drinking the water eagerly. “I figured as much myself. You just… unsettled me yesterday.” “Unsettled you? I didn’t say anything unusual, yet you just lost it.” Harry lowered his gaze, remembering Riddle’s sharp words from the day before, which had driven him to his breaking point. “I’m a fool who believes he knows right from wrong. No one granted me the authority to determine good and evil; I merely tried to correct what I disliked. Along the way, I’ve ruined the lives of those who didn’t deserve it.” He could have blamed Shesmetet. He might have believed it was all her doing. But deep down, he knew he had wanted to travel back in time to kill Riddle. No logical reasoning would have deterred him. The goddess simply fulfilled his hidden wish. After witnessing the events in the Ministry Atrium, these realizations stung even deeper. All Harry could do now was to try and mitigate the damage caused by his presence in the past, ensuring that no one would ever witness the flags bearing the red phoenix. To achieve that, he needed to somehow sway Riddle. Harry studied Tom’s looming figure intently. He was undeniably handsome. Not merely in appearance – though, Merlin knows, Mother Nature had been overwhelmingly generous – but also in the aura he projected: the fluid, elegant way he moved; the exact, articulate manner in which he conversed, as if he’d spent years hosting a TV show; the keen way he observed things, head tilting slightly to his right. Everything about him demanded admiration. It was as if nature, having crafted her most perfect masterpiece, whimsically decided it was too impeccable and tarnished the beauty with a few dark strokes. In the orphanage, he had seemed so different: a wretched, pitiable, lost boy. But magic had endowed him with strength and beauty; it’s what distinguished him, kindled the flame within that could envelop everyone near him. “Magic is Might,” he’d proudly etched at the base of his statue. For Tom, being strong, unique, and exceptional was vital. Could Harry deter him from his drive to commit great, yet terrible things? “Great things don’t have to lead to a ruthless dictatorship. He’s merely a boy bottling up his feelings. He’s destined for greatness, but maybe it can be directed differently…” The Tom Riddle of another world had been an influential politician. He’d refrained from resorting to fear largely due to the grounding influences of a spouse and children, his genuine horcruxes. Studying his Riddle’s face again, Harry’s thoughts went astray, becoming treacherous like a spreading toxin. What did he have left to risk? He’d already fucked up everything. He didn’t even exist in the future timeline. A return seemed improbable. So why not venture a shot? No need to seduce him or have children with him; that would be bizarre, especially since his Tom Riddle showed no such inclinations. But to be his ally? His confidant? It seemed feasible. Tom had shown an affinity towards him, sought his presence, craved genuineness and backing. Riddled with loneliness and longing, otherwise he wouldn’t have sought Harry out, rescuing and healing him, even carrying him to the castle. A glimmer of hope existed. Yet, truthfully, Harry wasn’t skilled in initiating friendships. In fact, he wasn’t particularly proficient in forging any bonds; others usually did that for him. “What?” Riddle, arms defensively crossed over his chest, as if guarding himself from Harry’s piercing stare, inquired. “I don’t like that expression. What’s on your mind? What did I say yesterday that turned you into a sniveling eight-year-old girl, driving you to drown your sorrows in Firewhiskey?” “I did something terrible,” Harry admitted candidly. “I regret it, but it’s irreversible now. Have you ever felt remorse for your actions?” “Never,” Riddle retorted, his voice dripping with scorn. “Every action I take is premeditated. I am ready to face any consequences.” “Well, I’m not,” Harry smiled, standing up. He stretched, feeling strangely invigorated. “I often act on emotion, and it’s been my downfall. Would you go to any lengths, set aside your pride, to correct your mistakes?” Riddle pondered the question, tilting his head to the right. “It depends on the mistake. I suppose, under certain circumstances, I’d set aside my pride. In order to survive, for example. So, you’re in trouble? Is that why you’ve had a breakdown?” Harry felt even more convinced by Riddle’s response. He had to set aside his biases. Befriend the young Voldemort, so that no one would ever witness the rise of the red phoenix, so his father would live, and his mother wouldn’t be enslaved. They’d understand; they wouldn’t judge him. He hadn’t committed any atrocities yet. He wasn’t Voldemort; he was just a boy. “Yes, I’m in deep trouble. I messed up. But I intend to fix it,” he declared, more to himself than to Riddle. “You were defeated by a bottle,” Riddle smirked. “Not the bottle, but myself. I succumbed to my weakness. I wanted to escape my problems for a few hours, but there’s no escaping them,” Harry closed his eyes, recalling the disappointed faces of Ginny and Hermione. “I have nowhere left to run. Only to fight.” So that they could be born and live happy lives. He wouldn’t let them down again. He’d bury his feelings and become Riddle’s closest ally. “Merlin, what are you talking about? Tell me what happened!” Riddle exclaimed impatiently. “I just did,” Harry smiled over his shoulder. “They’re personal issues, nothing to do with you or the school. I just made some big mistakes.” “Harry, don’t beat around the bush. I can sense your despair. If your shady affairs put me in danger…” “You’re safe, I swear,” Harry replied earnestly, then headed to the bathroom, convincing himself that wishing to drown in it was a sign of weakness, not a solution to his problems. ***   Tom’s gaze was fixated on the blond nape of Harry’s neck, making it nearly impossible for him to focus on Dumbledore’s lecture. The boy was riddled with mysteries and had a truly Slytherin ability to dodge subjects he didn’t want to address. The only time Harry seemed vulnerable was when he had a bit too much to drink. Tom had gathered enough to begin questioning his own assumptions about the guy. Who had really sent him here? Whom did he want to kill? There was something lurking behind that facade, something that left Tom breathless. It might be easy enough to ply Harry with alcohol and dive into his thoughts, but… “Regulus, tell everyone selling booze,” he whispered to Lestrange, taking advantage of the moment Dumbledore turned to the board, “not to sell to Selwyn. No matter the price, or they’ll have me to deal with.” “So, we’re continuing the bullying?” Lestrange replied, a wicked grin forming. After the winter break, Tom had put an end to the bullying—it had become tedious and unproductive. Every insult flung at Harry seemed to bounce off him as if they were mere droplets of water on a rock. It felt as though they were inconsequential ants trying to bite him, and he magnanimously chose not to crush them. “No. No more of that. I’ve thought of something else,” Tom responded evasively. “Just ensure he doesn’t get his hands on any alcohol.” The mere thought of Harry, lying lifeless on the melting snow, sent shivers down Tom’s spine. He vividly recalled the agonizing moment he believed Harry was dead, feeling as though a piece of his heart had been violently ripped away. Panic and dread overwhelmed him, and he hadn’t even thought to check for signs of life with a spell. Instead, he felt for a pulse and, finding none, was gripped by sheer terror. When those blue eyes finally opened, Tom nearly collapsed from relief. In the haze of that moment, Tom acted on instinct. With Harry delirious and babbling, he needed to be moved from the scene. Fearing that Gordian Selwyn’s killer might return to finish the job, Tom hoisted Harry over his shoulder and dashed for the secret passage, always vigilant, wand at the ready. The thought of letting someone else deal with the troublesome cousin didn’t even cross his mind then. Only after they safely got to the room did the weight of the situation sink in for Tom. He’d missed a prime opportunity. All he had to do was leave Harry on that snowy ground. Death by cold and blood loss would have been inevitable. Tom settled Harry in bed, then perched on his own, gazing intently at his now snoring cousin. In just his trousers and shirt, Harry looked vulnerable and frail, limbs sprawled carelessly. “It would’ve been a tragically sad end for a Slytherin descendant,” Tom whispered to himself, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of Harry’s chest. “Drunk, in a dingy tavern’s alley… Such a pathetic way to go.” Drunk Harry was a shattered mess, a soul crushed by grief. He rambled, spouted nonsense, looking so lost. It contrasted sharply with his usual fiery demeanor, always ready to explode in anger like a rogue bludger. This weakened version of Harry repelled Tom. His cousin couldn’t meet his end like that, unaware and delirious. He hadn’t deserved such a fate. The next morning, Tom let him sleep off the hangover. He himself hadn’t rested, merely sat watching Harry, trying to piece together what he knew and formulating plans. But clarity was elusive. His attempts to converse with Harry when he awoke were in vain, as Harry, in typical fashion, only muddied the waters further. “I succumbed to my weakness,” Harry had conceded. “I wanted to escape my problems for a few hours, but there’s no escaping them. I have nowhere left to run. Only to fight.” What had Harry done? Who was after him? Who posed a threat? Questions mounted, but answers remained elusive. One thing was certain: given his breakdown and binge drinking, especially in light of the lingering threat from Gordian Selwyn’s abductor, Harry was in deep trouble. And strangely, as Tom sat in class, observing the familiar blonde crown of Harry’s head, he mused that Harry wasn’t entirely pitiable. Just yesterday, he’d spoken of dying, of being shattered. Yet today, he smiled as if nothing had happened, his eyes ablaze with that familiar fire, appearing unbreakable. How could such contrasts coexist within one person? Did alcohol truly transform him? Or did he masterfully conceal his vulnerabilities when sober? Tom realized he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to see Harry drunk or watch him meet a senseless end in a drunken stupor. So, he instructed Regulus to prohibit any sales of alcohol to him. Tom wanted Harry lucid for when the time came to seek answers and take his life. It was a fitting penance for the years they’d been estranged. “Tom, I’ve come across some interesting information,” Dolohov intercepted Tom after Transfiguration class, just as Tom and his entourage were en route to Fencing. “Regarding our dear Selwyn. You’ve been quite preoccupied with him, haven’t you?” Dolohov’s gaze was probing. “Yes,” Tom didn’t see the point in denying the obvious. His inner circle had long recognized his heightened interest in Gordian. “What information do you have?” “I’ve heard,” Dolohov whispered, leaning in, “that a few Gryffindor seniors possess some rather compromising photographs of him.” “Who?” Tom’s guard rose immediately. If someone had discerned that Gordian was an imposter, his cousin might be on the next train to Azkaban. “I’m not certain. The intel came from your fanboy, Glendale. He is jealous of Selwyn… he might be fabricating tales.” “I’ll handle it directly,” Tom stated, resolute. “In the meantime, I entrust you with a mission. Discreetly mention to Sophia, Walburga’s friend, my ability to speak with snakes. Subtly suggest it’s a closely guarded secret.” “Do you think she’ll bite?” Dolohov quipped with a smirk. “That bitch will throw dirt at you for lying. You know how she is.” “She’ll remain silent,” Tom retorted softly. “Miss Black has lately been the recipient of anonymous letters from a secret admirer. My resourceful Shion has planted the idea of the sender’s identity. Yet, her lips remain sealed.” This move was a gamble, a huge one. Yet, fortune seemed to favor Tom. Walburga, like any smitten girl, couldn’t resist the courtship. She ceased her public jibes at Tom and feigned indifference, but he knew her feelings had reached that critical point where he could leverage them. So, he decided to take another risk, directly. She was vulnerable now: her siblings weren’t talking to her, other purebloods disapproved of her actions, she was isolated. Either he’d succeed spectacularly, or face a colossal failure. He’d simply give her a glimmer of hope that Tom Riddle might just be worthy of her attention, offering her a chance to salvage her reputation after mingling with a lowly half-blood. She had lost her crown, but he could bequeath her another. “You’re taking quite a gamble,” Dolohov murmured. “You know, not only Slytherin’s descendants can speak with snakes. She’ll need more proof…” What Tom heard was different. “I doubt you. I need proof.” Yes, they all had their doubts. “There will be proof,” Tom gave him a fake smile and patted him on the shoulder. “Friend.” Time was running out, and Tom was full of self-doubt. He had the Chamber of Secrets, which was utterly useless and flooded with sewage. He dreaded being labeled “The Heir of Slytherin’s Loo” or something to that effect. Walburga could come up with a title like that. Perhaps the only one he truly trusted was Lestrange, but the others… they weren’t as blindly loyal. Everything would have been perfect if the basilisk were alive. But he didn’t have a basilisk. That evening, he returned to the room, all wound up, a restless itch under his skin. He needed a distraction. Harry was already settled in bed, changed into his pajamas. He’d propped pillows behind his back and was reading, reclined. His hair amusingly curled at the tips and kept falling into his eyes, so he kept blowing his bangs away, intently peering at the pages of a book titled “A Thousand Rituals for the Family”. The warm light from the table lamp softened his sharp cheekbones and chin, gilding his lashes and eyebrows. Tom paused mid-room, observing him in this relaxed, homely state. Memories of cold, bluish skin and blood on snow crept back. He shook his head to banish the haunting images. There he was: alive, unharmed, lazily flipping through pages, as if he hadn’t almost died recently. So why should Tom be troubled when Harry himself seemed so indifferent? “Enough theory; we need practice,” he calmly stated, though inside he was trembling from some inexplicable emotion. Harry jolted, looking up as if only just realizing he wasn’t alone. “Riddle,” he sighed. “We need some sort of schedule. I was expecting you earlier. Now it’s late, and I should sleep.” Tom wasn’t about to give up. Not this time. Anxiety gnawed at him, as strong as when he’d imagined a missile crashing onto the orphanage’s roof while traveling to London by train. He needed calm, to shake off this unease. So, he confidently approached the unfamiliar bed and audaciously sat on its edge, snatching the textbook from the cold hands. “I was preoccupied,” he casually tossed the book onto the nightstand and captured Harry’s fingers. “Now’s the time, Harry.” The connection jolted, but it was a pleasant sensation, unlike in Hogsmeade. Tom felt a surge of foreign emotions: surprise, bewilderment, and something else he couldn’t quite place. Such occurrences were frequent, but now he could truly explore, contemplate, and relate. He closed his eyes, adjusted his grip on Harry’s hand, and focused. “Riddle, bloody hell, what are you doing?” Harry hissed loudly, but didn’t pull away. “Shh.” Tom tightened his grip. “I’m trying to understand what you’re feeling right now.” “I can just tell you,” Harry said, keeping his voice low and hissing, as if speaking aloud would make things awkward. “I’m flustered! And confused. You storm in, stare at me, and send off odd vibes. What’s going on?” “I’m merely curious,” Tom replied. “You’re lying.” Harry sighed. Tom realized he was gently caressing Harry’s warming fingers, attempting to convey, wordlessly, that there was no need for concern. And through their connection, he received a faint warm response. “Do you understand what I’m feeling now?” Tom asked, suddenly opening his eyes. His gaze caught Harry off-guard, causing him to lower his head, hiding behind his bangs. “No,” Harry’s voice wavered. “You’re lying to me.” Tom observed him openly, trying to reconcile what he saw with what he felt. Everything intertwined, and he lost himself in a blend of their emotions. It felt right, like he belonged amidst this emotional whirlwind. “I’ll figure you out, Harry. You mustn’t tell lies.” His heart skipped a beat when Harry tried to pull his hand away. He gripped tighter, causing Harry to almost bump his forehead against Tom’s chin. “Don’t ever say that.” Harry gritted out, a surge of fury scorching Tom, rising from deep within like a volcanic eruption. “You can’t just pounce on me, grab my hands, and make threats!” “I wasn’t threatening you.” Tom was taken aback. He hadn’t said anything to incite such anger. “We agreed to explore this connection.” “That doesn’t mean you can grab me whenever you fancy, and…” Harry cut himself off and shook his head. “Let go. I’m not ready now.” Before releasing his grip, Tom managed to catch a glimpse of a resurfaced memory in Harry’s blue eyes—a clenched fist with white scars clearly forming the words: “I must not tell lies.” The skin was tanned, making the phrase stand out. Was that Harry’s real hand? Rather attractive—strong, with visible veins. Clearly, he was more robust and muscular, like a combat wizard should be. But who had dared to carve those words into his skin? Was he often untruthful? Had he been tortured? Rage hit Tom suddenly, like a flipped switch. Harry despised those who had harmed him, and was ashamed of that incident, a sentiment that resonated deeply with Tom. He had been in a similar position, enduring punishment and torture. Why had it happened to both of them? How did those people dare touch them? “I truly did overstep.” Tom admitted, hoping to mollify the palpable tension. Even though their hands had parted, Harry’s presence still warmed his chest. “I apologize.” “You’re not sorry at all,” Harry retorted. Tom’s words clearly ignited a fresh bout of anger in him. “You always do this: ambushing me, invading my personal space. It drives me mad!” Tom had an epiphany regarding the emotion he’d felt when he grabbed Harry’s hand. Harry wasn’t truly angry or annoyed; he seemed… anxious, concerned, fearful. It was such a delicate emotion, hidden as though Harry was too embarrassed to admit it. Now, he shielded himself with anger because that was his reflex. Volatile outbursts of anger, amplified by alcohol dependency and meltdowns… That could be exploited. Internally, Tom was pleased to decipher this puzzle. He was getting better at understanding Harry. “Then hit me,” Tom dared, knowingly pushing buttons. “You’re so keen to throw punches, Harry. Why don’t you shove or hit me?” Tom deliberately lowered his voice to a seductive whisper, aware of how it irked Harry. “Maybe because… you like it? You must not tell lies, Harry.” Harry’s reaction was immediate. Tom’s head jerked side to side as Harry grabbed him by the cloak’s collar and shook him violently. “Shut up, you…” Harry growled. “Or what?” Tom countered, regaining his composure quickly and grabbing Harry by the throat, squeezing tightly. “Damn it,” Harry wheezed, deftly twisting Tom’s wrist causing him to let out a pained gasp. “What are you doing?” A full-blown scuffle ensued. With Harry under the blanket, Tom tried to pin his legs. But somehow, Harry wriggled out, shoved Tom to the floor, and pinned him down. Pain seared across Tom’s cheekbones as Harry landed punches. Not to be outdone, Tom hit him in the ribs, making Harry gasp and reach for his wand. Tom got to his wand first. Nestled in the wide pocket of his robe, with a swift move, he pushed Harry off and drew it. If Harry wanted a magical duel, he’d get one. After all, he had given Tom the advantage: he had attacked first, which meant his protective magic was now void. Tom was merely defending himself. “You idiot!” Harry yelled, but Tom already had his shield up. A spell ricocheted and hit a side table, causing it to splinter. “Expelliarmus! Wingardium Leviosa!” Tom wasn’t ready for such speed. The shield held against the first two spells, but the Leviosa bypassed it as if it weren’t there. Suddenly, Tom found himself airborne. Before he could react, an unseen force slammed him onto the bed. The back of his head crashed against the ornate wooden bed frame, and he tumbled onto the mattress. “Fuck…” Tom faintly heard through the ringing in his ears. “Riddle, are you okay? Fuck! Ow!” Tom opened his eyes to see the bed canopy dangling from the broken frame. His head throbbed, his vision blurred, and every part of his body ached, but… It was worth it. “Sneaky move, Harry,” he smirked, tasting the metallic tang of blood from where he had bitten his tongue during the collision. “Wingardium Leviosa? Really? How did that come to you?” “Let me check your head,” Harry’s voice held genuine concern. Tom closed his eyes and felt Harry’s fingers comb through his hair. Those fingers gently lifted his head and pressed against the back of his skull. “It’s intact! But you’ll have a huge bump. You need to see Madam Brown; you might have a concussion. Merlin, it’s a good thing these bed frames are so flimsy! If it were just a bit thicker…” “It’s nothing,” Tom said, licking the blood from his lips. “All the furniture in these rooms is charmed to prevent fatal accidents. Though… it’s hard to imagine someone trying to break a bed using their roommate’s head.” He hesitated to open his eyes. Harry was right beside him, his thigh pressing against Tom’s hand, fingers still in his hair, radiating bright concern. Tom felt like that young boy again, lying in a field on a soft bed of yellow flowers, reaching out to the dazzling sun and blue sky, squinting against the bright rays, and imagining a family out there looking for him. “I knew a guy who managed that. But the bed broke under… different circumstances. They weren’t trying to kill each other, more like… become one,” Harry joked awkwardly, prompting Tom to burst into laughter. Tom’s eyes met Harry’s deep blue ones. The connection between them thrummed with Harry’s sincere worry, remorse, and desire to help. It was true, his cousin was quick to anger, but he was equally swift in recognizing his mistakes and feeling guilty about them. Now, Tom had Harry right where he wanted him. Within reason, of course. “Everything’s a blur,” Tom claimed, exaggerating his wince as he tried to sit up. “Let me help,” Harry offered, lending a shoulder – precisely the response Tom had been hoping for. In Harry’s embrace, with all the attention and care directed at him, the sensation was intoxicating. Typically, Tom was indifferent to hugs. From the caregivers at the orphanage to friends or girls, he had merely tolerated their touch. But this embrace from his cousin sent a wave of indescribable emotions through him. Harry helped him lie back down, repaired the bed, and then sped off to the Hospital Wing for a potion. He risked getting into trouble, but he took the chance, sweet-talking Madam Brown, and successfully secured the medicine. Tom relished every moment of it. When Tom sought to explore their connection, it wasn’t merely about its magical properties. His inquiries delved deeper than Harry could have possibly fathomed. At times, even Tom seemed at a loss to fully articulate what he yearned to unveil. He desired to plumb the depths of Harry’s soul, uncover every secret, reopen past scars, and breach the layers others failed to perceive. “Here, lie still. This will help,” Harry proffered the potion, tenderly supporting Tom’s head as he sipped. An unexpected wave of pleasure made Tom uneasy. Why did Harry affect him so profoundly? He had let himself get injured just to extend their interaction, letting Harry use him as a figurative punching bag, even after recently chastising him for such behavior. “Hey, what’s wrong? Does it hurt?” Harry, ever perceptive, noticed the subtle change in Tom’s demeanor. “It hurts,” Tom confessed, berating himself internally. “I’m sorry, I just… You provoked something in me, and you were baiting me. My tolerance has been stretched thin of late,” Harry, ever the initiator, took Tom’s hand and stroked it gently. “I didn’t mean to react so violently…” “I understand it wasn’t intentional. But every so often, both of us need an outlet,” Tom admitted impulsively. It was accurate. Tom had purposefully incited him, thinking he was merely gauging Harry’s responses. But, in truth, Tom felt catharsis following their altercation. His angst dissipated, supplanted by a maelstrom of emotions. He grew more ambivalent about what he genuinely wanted from Harry. Emotions, Tom realized, were far more intricate than he’d ever considered. Parsing them was draining, and Tom felt adrift. “So, you deliberately set me off?” Harry queried, his brow furrowed. “It seems that way,” Tom acknowledged. The knock to his head might have been more serious than he initially believed, making him surprisingly candid. “I acted on impulse.” Tom felt his lucidity wane. It was as though he was floating on tranquil waters, with Harry’s soothing voice resembling the mesmerizing calls of sirens. “Oh, Riddle,” Harry sighed, his head shaking in disbelief. “What goes on in that mind of yours?” “If only I had the answer,” Tom was uncertain if he had voiced that thought or if it remained unspoken. ***   Tom regained consciousness closer to noon. His head was weighed down, a muted ache pulsated in his temples, and a pronounced lump was evident on the back of his head. As he attempted to turn his head, his gaze landed on a glass of water, a healing potion, and… a clumsily assembled sandwich on the nightstand. This haphazard creation, pieced together from leftovers from the Great Hall’s spread, sat atop a piece of parchment that was stained with sauce. Only the preservation charms kept it from turning into a mess. Beside this culinary abomination lay a note. “Riddle, sorry again for smashing the bed with your head. I’ll tell the professors you’ve come down with a stomach bug. I sorted it out with Madam Brown yesterday (thank Merlin she has a penchant for that three-galleon-an-ounce Portuguese tobacco!). Rest up, and do eat properly—you dine like a pixie, and you’ll need all the strength after those potions. I’m genuinely sorry. Swear I won’t use you to break furniture again. At least, I’ll give it my best shot.” Tom smirked upon seeing Harry’s familiar scrawl. As he traced a finger over the uneven lines, his eyes shifted to the sandwich, prompting a sigh. Harry had prepared him a sandwich without cheese. He was well aware of Tom’s aversion to it. A pang in his chest, a sharp twinge beneath his ribs. Why, why, why? With a surge of emotion, Tom crumpled the note, then took out his frustrations on the unfortunate sandwich, staining the nightstand in the process. His anger wasn’t directed at Harry but at himself. The intensity of his feelings about such… trivialities irked him. He needed to rein in his emotions! Now, after some rest and having gathered his thoughts, Tom began to fear he was unraveling. What had unfolded last night? His moods had swung erratically, as if under a malevolent influence. Was this the tainted inbred Gaunt legacy? Stark madness, illogical, erratic behavior. But why had it manifested after meeting Harry? He mentally navigated through the previous evening’s events, struggling to pinpoint why he’d been so impulsive. Even when he was torturing himself, there typically was a clear purpose behind it. His actions bore results - they provided a sort of catharsis. In Harry’s presence, Tom felt like he was performing treacherous broomstick stunts: skyrocketing, plummeting headfirst, making loops, then executing sharp turns. It was a cyclical journey: Harry was an inscrutable puzzle, and Tom’s emotions swung between extremes—from elation to trepidation, from the comforting warmth of proximity to the icy grip of anxiety beside him. Occasionally, he’d fantasize about distancing himself; at other moments, he’d crave the closeness, like in the bathroom, clinging to the whispered reassurance that everything would be alright. That morning, Tom acknowledged his sheer exhaustion and the absence of mental bandwidth to strategize. In the absence of his little cousin, his thoughts flowed unhindered. Thus, without a second’s delay, he guzzled down the potion, freshened up, and plunged into his tasks, all the while battling a throbbing headache. He observed the mark on Harry’s nightstand, a remnant from when the cousin had hurled a curse in Tom’s direction. This unexpected turn was a boon. Previously, Tom had been thwarted in his attempts to access the nightstand. Harry’s protective charms were too strong, and Tom lacked familiarity with them. Yet, thanks to a curse-induced crack on the nightstand’s door, he had a way in—a testament to its owner’s own magical prowess. Tom remembered Harry taking some kind of potion. Lacking any other leads, he sought to uncover what it was and why Harry had used it. He scrutinized the battered nightstand, identifying vulnerabilities in its protective charms and exploiting them. The door swung open with ease; the force of Harry’s blow had compromised its protective spells. Tom shuddered at the thought of what might have befallen him had that curse found its target. A mere concussion would likely have been the least of his worries. Inside, the shelves were nearly empty: only a rounded stone resembling an ordinary river pebble, a blank parchment, and two tiny bottles of the enigmatic potion, one of which was already empty. Carefully, Tom took the stout, brown-glass bottle and inspected it. Absent of labels, the dark glass obscured the potion’s hue. Removing the cork, he caught the sharp aroma of wormwood. He was acquainted with numerous potions and their characteristic smells, but this one was unfamiliar. He could recall myriad formulas incorporating wormwood but remained perplexed regarding its relevance to Harry. Quickly, Tom conjured a miniature vial, transferred some potion into it, and after a fleeting pause, replenished Harry’s potion with water. The water wouldn’t sabotage the potion, merely weaken its strength. Harry would likely just perceive a difference and procure a replacement; no harm would come of it. Deciphering the potion’s components would demand both time and dedication, both of which Tom found himself short on. Yet, he was consumed by a desire to unearth Harry’s secret. ***   Come evening, upon his return to their room, Harry was audibly swearing while frantically searching his wardrobe. Discarded vests, shirts, and ties littered the floor. Tom winced at the clothes’ rough handling. He shed his robe, draping it precisely in the closet. It had grown snug, and enlargement charms were no longer effective. His growth spurt over the summer had left him towering, and his funds were depleted, making a new robe unattainable. Thus, regular charm renewals became imperative. “What’s all the commotion?” he questioned, casually undoing his tie. “Some magazine wants magical photographs of Alphard and me,” Harry grumbled. “Alphard really liked the idea, tracked down a third-year with a magical camera, and now we’re scheduled for a photo session tomorrow. I haven’t the foggiest idea what to wear for it!” Tom’s mood instantly plummeted. “You could’ve declined,” he countered. “I tried! But Alphard implored, and I hate being pestered. Agreeing was the path of least resistance,” Harry declared, selecting a white shirt adorned with an excessive cascade of ruffles. “This one’s typically reserved for formal occasions, but a magical photoshoot for a magazine is sort of special, wouldn’t you say?” “You do realize that Black is head over heels for you?” Tom said, turning away, his face distorted with uncontrollable anger. “Alphard? Head over heels for me?” Harry asked incredulously. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re just friends.” Tom gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. “Not just friends. He’s in love with you, Harry. It’s clear to everyone but you. You’re leading him on.” “What’s it to you?” Harry immediately fired back. “Since when do you care about anyone’s feelings?” “I thought you might want to know,” Tom replied, his face devoid of emotion as he turned back. “Wear the white one. It’s appropriate.” “Fine,” Harry shrugged. “How’s your head? Got rid of that bump?” “It’s gone,” Tom said, restraining himself from pressing on about Alphard. “I’m fine. Hope you won’t start a fight tonight?” “I won’t,” Harry rolled his eyes. “You were the one who pushed me over the edge yesterday, remember?” “That’s no excuse,” Tom smirked weakly. The temptation to provoke Harry was there, but the residual pain from the previous day’s brawl held him back. Another altercation would be unwise. He took his pajamas, a towel, and headed to the bathroom. His lousy mood worsened, something was pulling at his chest, and thoughts raced like wild squirrels. Tom filled the bathtub with hot water and fragrant foam, then wearily sank into it. Gazing at his knees jutting out from the foam, he recalled the last time he had indulged in such a relaxing bath was in his third year. He used to fit completely in the tub, but now… Perhaps it was just a part of growing up—hormonal tempests, sudden outbursts, and mood swings. Puberty had swept over him, leaving him disoriented and uncertain. He submerged his head under the water, holding his breath briefly. Yet in that fleeting moment, a stark memory of a lifeless body in the snow seared his mind. Tom resurfaced abruptly, shaking his head and scattering water droplets. What the hell? He lingered in the bath until the water cooled, yet tranquility eluded him. Merely contemplating the Room of Requirement was taxing. Everything always circled back to his cousin. When Tom reentered the room, he found Harry had tidied up and was lounged on the bed in pajamas, engrossed in a book. Strangely, Harry mostly read while lying down—something Tom found bizarre—especially since he was lying on his stomach, the book propped up on a pillow. “Find anything?” Tom inquired, noting Harry’s unusual posture. Why on earth was he lying with his ass in the air? “No, but I did learn there’s a ritual that can enslave a wizard. Disturbing,” Harry shared and, to Tom’s relief, rolled onto his back. “Ready for the torture session?” “Is it a torture for you?” Tom raised an eyebrow. “No, it’s ticklish,” Harry snorted. “It’s just odd, Riddle.” “Yes, very odd,” Tom agreed, sitting on the edge of Harry’s mattress. “I’ve gone through hundreds of books and found nothing remotely similar. Could it be… A Curse?” A ‘family curse’ almost slipped from his lips. He didn’t want to reveal his full hand of cards yet. A blood-related family curse was the only thing that came to mind. “Maybe a curse,” Harry sighed, sitting cross-legged. He extended a hand, which Tom firmly grasped. “Then who cursed us?” All the anxieties that had plagued Tom since morning vanished. Closing his eyes in relief, he let out a soft sigh; the void in his soul dissipated as Harry’s emotions sparkled like sunlight through dark waters. “Perhaps it’s fate itself,” Tom murmured, eyes still closed. “Or perhaps someone’s devious scheme.” The thought had crossed his mind. That there was some unknown player who had sent Harry here, wanting something from Tom. “A devious scheme? Whose? Dumbledore’s and Slughorn’s?” Harry scoffed. “I can just imagine Dumbledore sneaking over to him in a nightgown to discuss nefarious plots…” Tom snorted, then burst into laughter, vividly picturing tiptoeing Dumbledore. Opening his eyes, he caught Harry’s broad grin – which the latter quickly wiped off. A surprising wave of warmth passed through their connection, causing Tom’s heart to race. “What are you feeling right now?” Harry asked. “I don’t understand.” “Nothing,” Tom quickly released Harry’s hand and looked away. “Look, I’m still not fully recovered. Let’s postpone this to tomorrow; I want to sleep.” His emotions took a sharp turn; he was unnerved by the bright feeling Harry’s smile had evoked. He’d always striven for cold-blooded detachment, logical thinking, and resistance to emotions… That was easier than what he was grappling with now. He felt a pang of shame. “You…,” Harry began but cut himself off, shaking his head. “Alright. If you don’t want to, we won’t. All of this is indeed strange.” After drawing the curtains, Tom tightly wrapped himself in the blanket, staring blankly into the darkness. He could hear Harry’s movements, his deep sighs, the creaking of his mattress, and couldn’t stop pondering why all this had happened to him and how he could reclaim his life. As sleep began to claim him, a fleeting thought whispered: he just needed to sever their connection, and then killing Harry would be so much easier. But the very idea sent a chill through him, and he swiftly pushed it to the back of his mind.