Behind Lies Eternity

Crouch’s spirits visibly lifted when Harry struck up a conversation with him. The students lounged in the inner courtyard by the fountain, soaking up the first rays of sun. Though the snow had begun to melt, the courtyard was magically cleared and warmed, with the fountain set back in motion. Everyone gathered at this inviting spot, eager to bask in the sun and savor the fresh air. Since the holidays, Harry had been feigning patience with Crouch’s relentless advances, a task that tested his tolerance. Now that he was officially engaged to Alphard, Crouch teetered on the brink of madness. Alphard couldn’t grasp why Harry had suddenly taken to speaking with his ex, and this drove him to a similar behavior. He turned snappish, irritable, and showed an uncharacteristic clinginess. Then there was Riddle. For some inexplicable reason, he felt he had the right to dictate Harry’s actions, particularly after catching him inebriated a few times and learning about his issues with Rosier and his cousin. The audacity baffled Harry. Young Voldemort went out of his way to ensure Harry stayed sober at school. But to what end? What did he stand to gain? Harry struggled to believe it was tied to their connection. If Harry perished, Riddle would gain his freedom. Sure, it might be a freedom tinged with sorrow, but it would be freedom all the same. Increasingly, Harry felt adrift in a game of his own making, the rules of which eluded him. He and Riddle delved into the mysteries of their connection, which usually entailed them sitting on a bed, hands clasped, striving to articulate their swirling emotions. Occasionally (or quite frequently, to be exact), they’d come to blows when discussions became too emotionally charged, a way to dispel the thick air of tension. They’d exchange theories, and their dialogues evolved into a comforting routine. So when Riddle was whisked to the Hospital Wing after a cauldron explosion instigated by a classmate, Harry grappled with an overwhelming loneliness. Sticking to his routine, he polished off his essays, honed a few spells, indulged in a leisurely bath, and was about to drift off to sleep when the sight of Riddle’s vacant bed rekindled his sense of unease. He recalled how, after he had cautioned Riddle about the perils of sleep deprivation, Riddle had made a point to return to their room punctually, ensuring he clocked at least six hours of sleep, mirroring Harry’s schedule. They’d often wind down by discussing their connection, exchanging tidbits they’d unearthed in the library, and speculating on their situation. Harry cherished the rare moments when he could coax a chuckle out of Riddle, so he’d sometimes regale him with outlandish tales, jesting that their bond was the handiwork of Dumbledore and Slughorn. That night, as he gazed at the unoccupied bed, a sharp twinge of loneliness and an intense longing for company gripped him. Settling into the fresh sheets, Harry tossed and turned, feeling an odd itchiness all over. Sleep eluded him as gloomy thoughts filled his mind. Resolutely, he got up, donned a warm robe, cast the Disillusionment Charm, and made his way to the Hospital Wing. The room was deserted except for a lone bed in the corner by the window. Riddle was unmistakably awake; the moment Harry crept into the room, Riddle sat upright and brandished his wand. “What are you doing here, Harry?” Even without seeing him, Riddle instantly knew who had come to visit. This made Harry grin. “I came to wish you a good night,” Harry replied, promptly dispelling his charm and settling beside Riddle with a cheeky air. He took a moment to appreciate the disheveled appearance of Riddle, bandaged from neck to waist. “You weren’t sleeping anyway. How are you?” Riddle gazed at him, taken aback, his wand lowered. He appeared almost comical in his unbuttoned blue-striped pajamas, with hair sticking out every which way. Harry couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Why are you here?” Riddle pressed, hastily drawing the blanket to conceal his bandaged torso and ill-fitting pajamas. “Like I said,” Harry nudged Riddle’s thigh playfully with his knee, “to wish you goodnight.” “You’re lying,” Riddle countered, shaking his head. Harry flinched at the sternness in his voice. Tom was right; Harry truly didn’t understand his own reasons for being there. It was an impulse, and he was no stranger to acting on them. “I don’t know,” Harry confessed, averting his gaze. The room’s air grew heavy with tension. “I just couldn’t sleep.” “And you thought you’d have a laugh at my expense?” Riddle snapped, bitterness evident. Harry reeled from the intense anger emanating from Riddle, an emotion they both felt due to their bond. “What?” Harry responded, genuinely baffled. “I just came to see how you were. How is that…” “Get out,” Riddle interjected coldly. “Leave.” Taken aback, Harry jumped off the bed, the moonlight casting an eerie glow on Riddle’s pallid face. “What’s gotten into you?” Harry whispered sharply, trying to access the connection between them. But Riddle was once again a fortress, his emotions shielded behind unyielding barriers. “I said—leave,” Riddle reiterated, a stark contrast to the boy who had chuckled at Harry’s jokes merely a day earlier. “Fine,” Harry replied, attempting to mask his hurt, but his voice betrayed him. “Good night, Riddle.” Exiting the room, he was consumed with feelings of betrayal. They might not have been friends, or even close to it. Harry was always wary of young Voldemort, anticipating deception at every corner. But to be dismissed so abruptly… Why? Just when things seemed to be improving. Lying in bed, restless and turning, a realization struck him: Tom Riddle was the only one he could genuinely confide in. This epiphany spurred Harry to introspect even more deeply. He felt so isolated. He couldn’t bare even half of his emotions to Alphard, and the world seemed void of any soul with whom he could broach topics like murder, acknowledging one’s wrongs, shattered pride, or the compulsion to drown sorrows in alcohol. Nobody, save for Riddle. With Riddle, Harry found a space of uninhibited discourse. Riddle wasn’t some innocent lamb; he took every word Harry uttered earnestly. He never belittled him or dismissed him with trite sayings. Riddle was passionate about his beliefs, and even Harry’s quirkiest musings resonated with him. He was an enigma, distinct from anyone Harry had ever encountered. He had shades of Hermione, but it was as if she had a cunning, evil twin who’d bitch about students’ indecorum. Riddle was unique. Harry yearned to win him over, but was clueless about how to go about it. He wasn’t even adept at charming girls. Ginny had idolized him since their early years, and he didn’t contribute much to that sentiment. Ron had been the one to initiate their friendship. They rescued Hermione from a troll, after which she unilaterally declared them best mates. Harry was passive; he wasn’t a go-getter. Thus, he merely decided to be sincere, to be his authentic self. Evidently, that approach fell short, given he was just turned away. Yet, what more could he have possibly offered? He had assumed, after their brawl where Riddle’s skull narrowly escaped a fracture, that their rapport was improving. But the tides didn’t shift. With Riddle’s mood swings, Harry was exhausted from trying to predict his reactions. Besting Riddle in mind games was beyond Harry’s capabilities. He watched as Walburga became increasingly introspective, and each day Abraxas seemed more crestfallen. Time after time, he’d seek Alphard with hope, only to hear the recurring phrase: “I’m just playing Quidditch.” And the others, they merely gazed at Riddle from a distance, lamenting their absence from yet another of Tom’s elite “friends-only” gatherings. But Harry had his own arena. In the soft glow of the bedside lamp, beneath the bed canopy, he took Riddle’s hand, pouring out the myriad questions that had haunted him since Hagrid revealed the identity of his parents’ murderer. “Can you summon a Patronus?” Harry inquired one evening. “No,” Riddle replied tersely, his grip intensifying. “Why are you asking such silly questions? Focus. We need to discern whether we can purposefully transmit thoughts, rather than merely by happenstance.” “Oh, come on, it’s boring! We can’t control this damn connection, it’s time to accept that,” Harry dismissed. “So why can’t you? You lack light emotions?” “There’s no division like ‘light’ or ‘dark’ emotions. It’s all perspective,” Riddle retorted, attempting to retract his hand. But Harry didn’t release him. “To conjure a Patronus, one needs the most positive emotions: love, joy, happiness, hope, faith,” Harry’s eyes sparkled. “Here, let me demonstrate.” Riddle’s suspicion was palpable. “What are you planning?” With a cheeky smirk, Harry responded, “I want you to feel the sensation of conjuring a Patronus. Place your hand here.” Gently, he positioned Riddle’s hand over his heart and drew his wand. Closing his eyes, Harry summoned his cherished memories: Teddy’s first birthday, his first date with Ginny, moments with Ron and Hermione, his first broom flight, Hogwarts, his parents’ smiles, Sirius’s warm embrace. For the first time in years, he delved into these memories without the grey tinge of loss shadowing them. “Expecto Patronum!” A dazzling, majestic stag burst from the tip of his wand, darting around the room before returning to Harry. It lowered its shimmering head, locking eyes with Riddle. Riddle stared back, his wide eyes making him look vulnerable, almost child-like. Tentatively, he reached out, brushing the stag’s muzzle. Harry sensed a mix of emotions from Riddle: confusion, elation, and a deep-seated sadness. “You can do it too,” Harry murmured. The stag nodded, snorted in response to Riddle’s touch, and then faded away. “I’m not capable of such… emotions,” Riddle confessed, still fixated on the spot where the Patronus had shimmered moments earlier. “I told you, not everyone can…” “You’re more than capable!” Harry interjected passionately, pressing Tom’s hand against his chest. “You restrict yourself, shying away from your emotions, and as a result, you undercut half your potential power. A Patronus can fend off hundreds of Dementors, Leviathans, and even guide you to a loved one in the darkest times. All you need is to allow yourself to feel beyond anger, disdain, and isolation. Is that too much to ask? The Killing Curse is trickier to master; to cast it, you genuinely have to wish death upon someone, and when you do, you lose a piece of yourself.” “How would you know about the Killing Curse?” Riddle shot back. “Private lessons,” Harry responded, thinking of Mad-Eye Moody’s teachings. “Light magic is intrinsically more potent than dark. Yet, since it revolves around protection and creation, it doesn’t allure like the seductive pull of destruction. But I’ve witnessed its wonders… it even has the power to defy death.” “You’re lying,” Tom countered, a hint of desperation coloring his tone. “No, I’m alive because of the power of love,” Harry replied softly, observing Tom’s child-like vulnerability. “Genuine feelings offer us protection, not just from magic, but from the many trials of life. Don’t stifle them. Allow yourself to be true.” Suddenly, Riddle jerked his hand away and rose. “I’ve watched you drunk, lost in your sorrows, wallowing in self-pity,” he spat, turning away. “It hardly seems like these ‘genuine feelings’ make you stronger. They appear to make you pathetic.” “Perhaps I am pathetic,” Harry conceded, observing Riddle’s rigid stance. “But you can’t have light without shadows, trite as it might sound. At least I can fend off a horde of Dementors, and you can’t.” “I’ll remember to seek you out when Hogwarts is attacked by Dementors. Oh wait, but they’re all confined to Azkaban, aren’t they?” Riddle retorted with dripping sarcasm. “– Mock me all you want, but I’m right. You have the capability to cast a Patronus; you just don’t believe in yourself. Which of us is truly pathetic? Me, for allowing myself to be human, or you, for pretending to be someone you’re not?” “– Save your preaching for your followers,” Riddle snapped and slammed the door behind him. “– Trying to break into Gringotts with Alohomora might be easier,” Harry sighed with exasperation. He truly tried. But persuading Tom Riddle seemed impossible. Riddle would listen with an impassive face, then come out with a retort that would plunge Harry into desolation. To take a break from their tangled relationship, Harry decided to focus on Crouch, checking if he had inherited Riddle’s ability to invade minds. The problems of Gordian Selwyn and his sexual escapades were the least of his concerns right now. Gordian’s abductor, family drama, and a silly betrothal paled in comparison to what he’d seen in the future. It felt foolish to dwell on such matters, but… When Tom returned from the Hospital Wing, everything became even more confusing, odd, and tense. He radiated mixed emotions, leaving Harry utterly baffled, no matter how hard he tried to understand. It felt as though all his attempts to reach out were in vain. Yet, Harry yearned for some action, an illusion that he could make a change. “Hey, Gaspard. Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” he remarked, sitting down on a bench beside a boy engrossed in reading. “Gordy!” Gaspard greeted with a genuine smile. “Great to see you. And where’s your… fiancé?” he asked, glancing around as if he really expected to see Alphard spying on them. “He’s preparing for his OWLs,” Harry shrugged, casually moving closer to Gaspard. “He despises History of Magic, to be honest.” “Who doesn’t?” Gaspard responded philosophically, leaning in. “So, how’s life as his fiancé? I heard your cousin was ready to sell you off to Rosier, but Alphard stepped in. It’s a marriage of convenience, right?” Despite his casual tone, it was evident he was on edge. “Yes, it’s a necessary arrangement,” Harry replied with a saccharine smile, brushing Gaspard’s shoulder with his own. “I’ve said it before; there’s nothing between Alphard and me. We’re just friends.” “That’s good to hear,” Gaspard relaxed, ceasing to wrinkle his robe hem. “I’m glad to hear you haven’t fallen for anyone since me.” “And what exactly were we, then?” Harry shifted to face him, discreetly drawing his wand. He had mastered non-verbal magic but using wandless Legilimency was beyond him. He wasn’t Riddle after all, damn him. “Quite… intense,” Gaspard whispered conspiratorially, leaning closer. His sole eye gleamed with delight. “We had a strong bond, Gordy. That doesn’t just fade with memory loss, you know?” “Legilimens!” Harry whispered, gazing deep into Gaspard’s sole eye. Nothing happened, leaving Harry just gawking foolishly at Gaspard. “I don’t understand,” Harry murmured, turning away in disappointment. Why hadn’t he inherited Riddle’s talent? What was he doing wrong? He established a connection! Unless… Could it be because Gaspard only had one eye? Or perhaps Harry was just that inept. “You know, if you visited me during the holidays, I could prove we’re truly meant for each other,” Gaspard suddenly purred in his ear. The tone of his voice changed, becoming more predatory. “I can’t, I’m under Auror surveillance,” Harry tried subtly distancing himself, but Gaspard firmly gripped his waist. “I know. But you can persuade your cousin. You will be safe at our manor, our protections are just as strong,” Gaspard whispered, then gave a heated lick behind Harry’s ear, causing him to shiver. The sensation was unbelievably pleasant. So much that Harry yearned to meld into Gaspard, to beg for more affection. “Gordian, behave!” he mentally scolded himself. “I… I’ll think about it, okay?” Harry managed, hastily wiping the wet spot with his robe’s sleeve. “There you are.” A tall, imposing figure cast a shadow over them. “Selwyn, the Dean’s been looking for you. It is urgent!” “Oh, then I must go!” Harry gladly wriggled free from Gaspard’s clutches. “Thanks for letting me know, Riddle. Catch you later, Gaspard. We’ll chat soon.” He flashed a smile at the visibly angered Gaspard and headed toward the castle entrance, sensing Riddle’s ire as he was trailing behind. As soon as they entered the castle’s cool darkness, Riddle grabbed his shoulder. “I don’t get it,” he said sternly, in a tone Harry hadn’t heard all year. “What’s your game? Why do you need Crouch?” “I figured the Dean didn’t really need me,” Harry beamed innocently. “Why do you care? It’s none of your business.” “I felt how much you liked it,” Riddle snapped, losing his composure. He pinned Harry to a wall (again!) and traced a thumb down his cheek. “When he… licked you. I was nearby. I felt how much you craved more.” Harry’s face flushed instantly, heat even reaching his ears. “I, um…” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact. “Like I said, none of your business.” Riddle’s towering presence engulfed him, the scent of herbs and light cologne from him was intoxicating. Harry had to summon images of the fallen from the Battle of Hogwarts to sober up. “It is my business while we’re connected, and I can feel your pleasure as some defective bastard drools over you,” Riddle’s voice grew chilling, reminiscent of his future self from the cauldron. Pressing into Harry’s skin painfully, he growled, “What would your betrothed say?” Harry really wanted to hex him right then and there. To break his nose again and see his blood. But he remembered his goal. “I’m doing what I must to find my abductor. Nothing more, nothing less,” he declared, locking eyes with Tom. Riddle clearly wasn’t expecting that response. Spotting a few students passing by, he looked around and instantly cast a silencing charm around them. “You’re suggesting Crouch was involved in the abduction?” When Riddle squinted like that, with that wrinkle appearing between his brows, he looked just like an ordinary human. Oddly enough, Harry found such mundane reactions quite endearing. “I suspect he’s the link that might lead me to whoever is trying to kill me. I can’t involve the Auror office without… let’s just say, tarnishing my reputation.” Riddle looked pensive. When deep in thought, his face became almost porcelain-like, devoid of any expression. Even the light in his eyes dimmed, as if he was immersed in his own world. It was amusing. Recalling Voldemort now, Harry realized he often pondered over Harry Potter’s words. At the Ministry, the graveyard, during the final battle… He genuinely thought things through, with his characteristic meticulousness. There was still a fragment of the real Tom in him. “Even so,” Riddle said, his brow furrowing again, “you still enjoyed it when he touched you. That doesn’t align with your search for your abductor.” “It aligns with the fact that he is attractive and I haven’t fucked with anyone in a while,” Harry blurted out, then froze, realizing who he was addressing. “I mean, um… Why am I even explaining myself? It’s my personal business!” Heat surged through him, his cheeks feeling as if they were on fire. Merlin’s beard, he seriously needed to jerk off. The prolonged use of the ‘Unfaithful Wife’ potion was taking its toll. He seemed to have just gotten used to it. Riddle recoiled from him as if he were a venomous spider, his eyes wide in disbelief. Those beautiful, haunting eyes with long lashes… “Pull yourself together, Potter!” Harry mentally chastised himself, dying from embarrassment. “So, that’s the reason,” Riddle muttered distractedly. “You’re right; it’s none of my business.” He lifted his chin, turned on his heel, and just walked away, leaving Harry even more dumbstruck than if he’d thrown a fit. “Is that it?” Harry muttered, pulling himself from the wall. The connection, the traitor, remained silent, even as he tried to draw on its power with all his might. It had been acting weird, letting him down at the most unexpected moments, like with Crouch. It was as if the connection obeyed Riddle but only tossed Harry the occasional curveball. Heading to the library, he pondered his predicament. He needed to do something about it before the effects of the “Unfaithful Wife” poisoned him. The first signs of the potion’s wane were evident. How long did he have before he started becoming attracted to Riddle and tormenting himself over it? A week? Two? He remembered from last summer how sexual attraction could cloud his judgment. Back then, he could barely stand near Alphard without getting flustered. As soon as Harry thought of Black, there he was in the library, seated at the largest table by the window, surrounded by textbooks. He was feverishly scribbling on parchment, constantly referring to various books. Harry paused to take him in. Alphard had also matured; his facial features had sharpened, he’d grown taller, and more robust. But something was… off. Perhaps his chin was too pronounced, his figure lacked grace, or his eyebrows were too thick. To Harry’s horror, it suddenly occurred to him that Riddle was far more attractive than Alphard. “No, no, no!” he mentally groaned, dismissing such ridiculous comparisons. Realizing he desperately needed help before things deteriorated further, he headed to the Hospital Wing. Madam Brown, a fierce, petite, elderly woman, was overseeing the students’ health during that period. Harry had been visiting her monthly for check-ups, as per St. Mungo’s instructions. She would examine his head. Predictably, nothing changed: Harry Potter’s memories remained lodged in Gordian’s brain, and all she could do was shrug, claiming he was in perfect health. She would then suggest that only mind healers could potentially retrieve his memories. “Gordian, dear, you’re early this time!” Madam Brown greeted him as soon as he pushed open the heavy doors of the Hospital Wing. Sitting behind her desk in the reception area, she had her short legs propped up on a footstool, puffing on a pipe, and reading a newspaper. Harry couldn’t quite imagine Madam Pomfrey indulging in a newspaper and a pipe. “I’m here on a different matter, Madam Brown,” Harry said, stepping confidently into the reception area. “A rather delicate one.” The old lady immediately rolled up her newspaper and stood up, signaling for Harry to follow. “Mary, return to the reception!” she ordered her assistant. They entered the familiar examination room, and Harry, out of habit, settled onto the couch. In the future, he had been here so many times that he knew every crack in the wall like the back of his hand. “What happened?” Madam Brown asked sternly, her thick auburn brows knitting together. Harry spilled the beans, not holding anything back. “Odd,” the woman mused, fetching several instruments from a cupboard, similar to those Harry had seen at St. Mungo’s. They somewhat resembled Sneakoscopes. “What you’re describing suggests hormonal imbalances. Yet I examined you in your second year when you broke your leg, and everything seemed normal. Let’s take a closer look. Strip down and lie back.” Harry complied, staying perfectly still, even trying not to breathe. The Sneakoscope-like devices floated above him, periodically beeping, while Madam Brown’s frown intensified. “What is it?” Harry tensed, preparing for the worst. “Am I dying?” “Ugh, Gordian, enough of that! You’ll jinx yourself!” Madam Brown concluded her examination and gave Harry a pointed tap on the forehead. “You’ve got latent poisoning. And I think I know from which potion. Get dressed.” “Latent poisoning? What is that?” Harry inquired, confused. “Here’s the thing. You’ve been dosed over an extended period with a dangerous potion that has lingering side effects. You then counteracted those effects with another potion, which, astonishingly, was beneficial,” she explained gruffly. “I can’t believe that at your age, you’d consume such a significant amount of an erection potion. Something wasn’t working, was it? At your age?” “What?!” Harry interjected, genuinely taken aback. “An… erection potion?” “It’s an aphrodisiac, Selwyn,” the old woman said with a snort. “A libido-enhancing potion. Very popular among the elderly, like our beloved Headmaster. But why did you need it? Using it so often, especially when your hormones are still adjusting, caused it to act as an amplifier. Hence, you experienced, in your words, ‘uncontrollable lust.’ It’s risky at your age. Fortunately, you thought to take ‘The Unfaithful Wife.’ It served as a countermeasure and slowly reset your hormonal balance. Dear Merlin, I need to inform your guardian.” Recalling the wizarding photo of tearful Gordian, Harry nearly facepalmed. It should’ve been obvious! Gordian wasn’t acting willingly. He was merely being drugged with the potion and then thrown to the old pervs! Crouch! That fucking guy! “Please, don’t tell my cousin!” Harry implored, staring intently at Madam Brown as if she was his lifeline. “He’s so impulsive and would surely punish me! I don’t even remember why I took that potion, maybe just youthful recklessness? Please don’t tell anyone, I’m begging you!” The woman, showing signs of annoyance, brushed away a stray curl from her face, gave Harry a scrutinizing look, and finally gave a reluctant nod. “Fine,” she said, approaching a shelf filled with vials. “I still remember the nonsense Marius got up to. That boy could’ve used a good whipping! Here, you’ll drink this for a couple of months,” she handed Harry a bottle filled with a dark green liquid. “Usually, pregnant witches take this, but it should work for you too. Don’t you dare take the ‘Unfaithful Wife’ again, understood? Your body’s used to it now; you’ll just poison yourself. This brew should help restore your balance. Sure, you’ll struggle for a couple of months, but afterward, everything will be fine. You’re a sixteen-year-old lad; you’ll pull through!” Harry shuddered, remembering how he trembled at Gaspard’s touch and then how he had eyed Riddle. “Is there really no way… to completely get rid of this? I don’t want to feel… lust,” he implored, looking earnestly at the mediwitch. “Of course not!” she exclaimed. “What nonsense! If you have issues, go to St. Mungo’s! I’m responsible for your health while you’re in this school, so kindly zip it and do as I said!” Reluctantly, Potter took the potion, pondering his next steps. Getting through a few months wouldn’t be that hard if he frequently… took care of himself, but… He had gotten used to his new body. He’d forgotten what his own body felt like. But jerking off in the same room as Riddle was beyond good and evil. “Thank you, Madam Brown,” he politely said and headed to the library, tucking the expectant mothers’ brew into his pocket. Life just wouldn’t give him a break. ***   Riddle acted as if nothing had happened. He never mentioned Crouch and didn’t allude to their previous conversation, even though he usually jumped at any chance to mock Harry. He would tease Potter about his drinking, his engagement, their connection, the Selwyns, but the Crouch topic seemed non-existent to him. Not that Harry wasn’t grateful, but he knew Riddle too well. He always had an ulterior motive. He often radiated anger, constantly getting irritated, and pestering Harry with criticisms. The first few days without the ‘Unfaithful Wife’ potion were bearable. He began to wake up with morning wood again, started contemplating his desires, but nothing too terrible happened. Except that Alphard suddenly seemed incredibly attractive. But, Merlin’s beard, he was attractive; it’s rare to find such good-looking guys in daily life. Harry didn’t blame himself for staring at him. They were engaged, after all, and Alphard had already turned sixteen. The real challenge was his dear roommate, who was even more handsome than Alphard Black. Harry already had a blister on his tongue from constantly muttering “Gordian, behave.” Typically, the only things that helped were remembering Riddle’s future appearance, and generally avoiding looking at him. He wouldn’t degrade himself by ogling Riddle. The trouble started four days later when Riddle decided they hadn’t bickered in too long. Harry had just stepped out of the bath, wet hair annoyingly sticking to his pajama collar. He was already irked that his latest attempt to read Crouch’s mind had failed, and Alphard had been getting a tad too close during Charms class. Then, agitated Riddle stormed into the room. “Dear Mr. Selwyn,” he began, his voice dripping with venom, “could you kindly improve your appalling grades in History of Magic? Because of your carelessness, our year’s overall rating is a point below Ravenclaw. A whole point!” “Nah, I couldn’t,” Harry replied nonchalantly, opening his wardrobe and using a magical comb that quickly dried his hair and prevented it from sticking out. He wished he’d had one as a child. “It seems you’re not grasping the situation,” Riddle said, positioning himself behind Harry so that Harry could clearly see his furious eyes reflected in the mirror. “I’m addressing you as your prefect. And I command…” “You see, it just so happens that I don’t give a shit about your commands, History of Magic, or our overall rating,” Harry said, rolling his eyes for emphasis. “Five points from Slytherin!” Riddle hissed, fuming. “Make it ten,” Harry said, delighting in riling him up. “You!” Riddle’s grip tightened on Harry’s shoulder, forcing him to turn around and knocking the comb from his hand. “Even if you don’t care about grades and ratings, you’ll do it because you’re embarrassing me. I aim to be Head Boy, and if you don’t obey me…” “You’ll become one, trust me,” Harry felt a sudden warmth from their unwanted proximity. “Slughorn won’t mind the rating. He’d appoint you Minister of Magic if he could. Are you even listening?” “It’s not about that. It’s about your blatant defiance, damaging my reputation…” “Oh, shut it,” Harry said, realizing he was seconds away from becoming aroused. He tried to push Riddle away, but the latter held firm. Stumbling over the carpet, Harry found himself unexpectedly wrapped in Riddle’s embrace, reminiscent of the damsels on the covers of Aunt Petunia’s romance novels. In that moment, Harry wished he had poisoned himself with the ‘Unfaithful Wife’. A sharp intake of breath escaped him, his face burning with heat. Riddle froze, his eyes widening and cheeks flushing. Their bond vibrated with warmth, waves of longing and thirst passing between them. They stood still, observing each other as if seeing one another for the first time. From this close, Riddle’s skin was surprisingly clear, devoid of adolescent blemishes. Only faint white scars marred his face, as if someone had slashed it to ribbons. But now, with the blush, they only added a spicy touch to his appearance. He parted his lips, moistening them with his tongue, and Harry’s gaze instantly fixated on them. Merlin’s beard, what a punishment this was! Unable to move, Harry felt like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a giant basilisk that had forgotten its stare was lethal. He yearned to lean in, to feel Riddle’s body, to see how Riddle might react if Harry traced his skin with his tongue, the way Gaspard did to Harry. Would Riddle find it as exhilarating? Suddenly, Riddle stepped back, and Harry, caught off balance, stumbled to the ground. The electric moment between them broke, and instead of a prince, Harry faced a rotten pumpkin. “Don’t flatter yourself!” Harry blurted out, instinctively covering his groin with his hands. “I’m undergoing treatment for poisoning; it’s just a side effect!” He hadn’t felt this mortified since he’d asked Cho Chang to the Yule Ball. “Poisoning?” Riddle rasped, then cleared his throat. “Latent poisoning, a result of prolonged use of a nasty potion,” Harry quickly got to his feet, avoiding Riddle’s piercing gaze. Merlin’s beard, how could he ever meet those jet-black eyes again after this? “Long story short, for the next few months… It’s best if you don’t touch me. I’ll be back to normal soon.” “So,” Riddle probed with palpable tension, “with Crouch earlier, that was…” “Yes, yes,” Harry interrupted, wishing the Chamber of Secrets would open up and swallow him whole. “I don’t… It’s involuntary. I… I’m sorry.” “Of course,” Harry caught a glimpse of Riddle’s reflection in a mirror, his cheeks flushed and eyes averted. “I… should go.” With that, Riddle exited swiftly. “Fuck it,” groaned Harry, burying his red face in his hands. “Get fucked by Dementors, all of you! I would never! Shit! Fuck! Fucking fuck!” The ring on his finger began to burn intensely, pushing Harry’s frustration to a boiling point. Swearing under his breath, the heat intensified until it felt like the metal was searing his skin. In a fit of rage, he focused all his magic on the detestable ring. It started to melt, leaving fiery traces behind. “Fuck you, Marius,” Harry muttered, nursing his singed hand marked by the trail of the liquefied ring. “All of you can go fuck yourselves!” Even the magical artifact couldn’t resist his wrath. It pooled on the floor in molten droplets. Harry was never cut out to be a sophisticated aristocrat with impeccable manners and articulate speech. But honestly, he didn’t desire that anyway. Just mastering his hair and maintaining his eyebrows was taxing enough. Almost mechanically, Harry retrieved a star anise potion and applied it to his burned finger, appreciating the sting. He chastised himself for that fleeting moment of longing… Longing to feel Riddle’s lips, to press himself close. He was disgusting. He shuffled back to the bathroom to regain his composure, pondering if drowning might be a less painful way out than pursuing his current course. “At least he probably won’t mention the grades again,” he mumbled to himself. ***   When Tom solved an enigma, he usually experienced a rush of elation. But if the mystery lingered, he reveled in the thrill, the feverish anticipation of the chase. These were the only positive feelings he truly knew. But his little cousin had a knack for spoiling even that. Tom began to fear him again, yet it wasn’t the unsettling dread of the unknown. Now, it was a feeling so unfamiliar that Tom couldn’t even give it a name. When he saw his cousin walk into the Hospital Wing, grinning from ear to ear, Tom’s heart raced as though in trepidation, and his stomach twisted similarly. Yet he wasn’t afraid of him. He… was relieved to see his cousin. There was a novel emotion there, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Without Harry, the Hospital Wing felt painfully tedious, despite the pile of books and the lack of chattering students. Tom also feared that, left to his own devices, Harry might get inebriated and spill their secrets. And that Walburga, though more subdued post-holidays, might push Harry’s face into a fireplace out of envy. Sleep eluded Tom. He sorely missed the subtle way their connection hummed with Harry around. The void terrified him. Frustrated by his own confusing emotions, Tom drove Harry away. But the instant he detected the sorrow in Harry’s voice, his palpable anguish, he yearned to call him back. Wrestling with these contradictory sentiments, Tom wandered the room, unsure how to dispel them. By dawn, as he stared out the window, the sunrays filtering through the drapes, he was once more haunted by the vision of his cousin’s vacant eyes, lying inert on the sullied snow. For an agonizing five seconds, he believed Harry was dead, and his feelings erupted chaotically, as if released from confinement. Observing dust motes whirl in the radiant sunlight, Tom Riddle had a moment of clarity regarding his tumultuous emotions. The sheer idea of Harry genuinely dying, of him no longer seeking out Tom’s touch, ignited a fury within Tom. He was becoming fond of his cousin. It was preposterous, considering he had resolved that Harry would be the initial sacrifice on his ascent to power. Yet, when he believed another had taken Harry’s life, his magic surged with a feral wish to annihilate the perpetrator. Someone had the audacity to harm what was rightfully his! This whirlwind of feelings made him feel adrift, caught in a tempest. He resisted acknowledging this budding attachment to his cousin. He loosened the top buttons of his pajama shirt, touching the ugly birthmark beneath the bandages, chillingly similar to fingerprints. He observed that Harry bore no such mark. But if Harry had altered his looks, might he have concealed it too? Tom rued the day Harry opted to replace Gordian Selwyn, but simultaneously, he was grateful for that twist of fate. With Harry by his side, he felt empowered beyond his wildest dreams. Especially when Harry audaciously proclaimed that with Tom as a Head Auror, there’d be no crime in England. Or, as Minister, the old wizards in the Wizengamot wouldn’t dare challenge him. Such outlandish statements, yet… They were music to his ears. It was as though Harry understood Tom more deeply than Tom understood himself. And Tom couldn’t help but suspect that everything was not as it seemed. Small inconsistencies kept adding up, painting a picture that was vastly different from his initial impressions. Last summer, he had witnessed someone attacking Harry. He had ruled out the possibility of Avada Kedavra since Harry simply got up and began arguing with his bodyguard. But the second incident? If they truly wanted Harry dead, they would’ve used Avada Kedavra. Tom was sure he’d seen Harry’s life end. Yet, moments later, Harry breathed once again. What also caught his attention was Harry’s choice of reading. Initially, Tom had dismissed it, but titles like “Anthology of the Soul” and “Reflections on a Wizard’s Spiritual Essence” now seemed telling. Everything was intertwined: their connection, Harry’s strange resilience to assassination attempts, and the books on soul magic. Tom began to suspect that his younger cousin might know the secrets to immortality or invulnerability. Tom needed to uncover those secrets before killing him. Once he was released from the Hospital Wing, Tom immediately sought out Lestrange. “Why are you looking for forbidden books on soul magic?” Regulus asked, eyebrows raised. “Hogwarts is brimming with allowed ones.” “If the allowed books held my answers, I wouldn’t be here,” Tom snapped. “Fine… I’ll ask my brother to see what he can find,” Lestrange answered with a puzzled smile. “And how is… you know, that project?” “Soon,” Tom promised. Despite scouring the library, Tom found nothing that hinted at the nature of their connection. Standard sources were a dead-end; their bond bore a tinge of forbidden magic. Tom made this discovery during numerous tests, while Harry innocently believed they were merely discussing emotions. Tom realized that their bond wasn’t of minds, blood, or magic – it was something deeper, something akin to souls. Feeling he was on the right track, Tom continued his research with renewed fervor. If souls existed and could be intertwined, then that would explain Harry’s immunity to Avada Kedavra. Tom delved further into the mystery with determination. Upon his return to classes, Harry seemed to shed his Gordian persona. Sporting a shorter haircut, visibly more muscular, and no longer mimicking the pureblood elite, he became an intimidating presence. His demeanor was darker, his gaze chilling. He was clearly struggling, often initiating odd conversations with Tom and frequently seeming lost in thought. Tom might have relished the idea that Harry’s gloom was due to his failure to find the Chamber of Secrets, especially after Harry confessed to making a grave mistake. This, coupled with Tom’s belief that Harry was at Hogwarts against his wishes, painted a confusing picture. But was it the Gaunts’ doing? However, Tom found little joy in Harry’s troubles. Whenever Harry was desolate, a shadow of that despair touched Tom. He would become distracted, distant, and overwhelmed with a desire to escape it all. So Tom would sit on Harry’s bed, taking his hand, suggesting they dive deeper into their connection research. He’d ask about Harry’s plethora of emotions and attempt to describe his own with precision. This would comfort Harry, keeping his desolation at bay for a few days, even longer if they’d had a physical altercation. Tom had grown used to this rhythm, their distinct routine—a minor solace amidst the turmoil that had surrounded him since the start of fifth year. He loathed disorder. Yet, as always, his younger cousin appeared incapable of maintaining harmony, incessantly testing Tom’s patience. Just as Tom had deciphered his newfound feelings of fondness and attachment, Harry introduced another complication. Harry began to associate with Crouch. Tom was perplexed. Why would Harry be interested in such an inconsequential boy? He should be focused on the Chamber, addressing his mistakes, showing remorse, and, of course, annoying Tom. Then, he saw them—sitting together, their proximity questionable. Tom saw, clear as day, how that vermin leaned in to taste the skin behind Harry’s ear. He felt the shudder of pleasure that coursed through Harry, hinting at a longing for more. He didn’t even register his own movement until his shadow towered over the two of them. His grasp on his emotions faltered; the compulsion to tear Crouch apart in broad daylight was unbearably strong. How could this pathetic worm dare touch what was rightfully Tom’s? That’s his cousin! Nobody has the right to merely approach and… And why did Harry seem to enjoy it? Somehow, Tom held himself back from slaughtering these perverts in broad daylight. Anger muddled his thoughts; he had no clue what he intended to say to Harry until he had him pinned against a wall. The idea that Crouch might be involved in Gordian Selwyn’s disappearance momentarily subdued Tom’s rage. However, the memory of Harry’s enjoyment quickly fanned its flames. “It aligns with the fact that he is attractive and I haven’t fucked with anyone in a while. I mean, um… Why am I even explaining myself? It’s my personal business!” That statement hit Tom like a cold splash of water. “He is attractive and I haven’t fucked with anyone in a while.” It was if the phrase bounced off the walls and echoed through the stone corridor. In his reflective moments, Tom had become adept at dissecting his emotions, but his current feelings were a complete enigma. He instinctively withdrew from Harry and shamefully retreated, resembling a startled kitten. What had just transpired? “He is attractive and I haven’t fucked with anyone in a while.”  Bitterly, Tom’s mind flashed back to the sound of the bed’s headboard pounding against his orphanage room wall, the feigned cries of the prostitute next door, the old man because of whom he had viciously mutilated his own face, and the lecherous stranger who had looked at him with avarice, propositioning him with money for a night’s companionship. Disturbing visions of Harry and Crouch plagued him. These images stoked his fury, with the magic within him swirling tumultuously, craving an outlet. He yearned to hex the bastard who dared view Harry as some cheap whore. Then he yearned to hex Harry too—for daring to… In fact, he just wanted to hex him, justification be damned. That statement kept replaying in his head: in class when he’d catch a glimpse of the blond nape of Harry’s neck, in the library while covertly observing from behind a bookcase, during dinner as he seethed seeing how closely Black leaned towards him and the hungry way in which Crouch ogled Harry. He struggled to identify and label these feelings. Perhaps he had grown complacent, assuming Harry’s attention was undividedly on him. When Tom failed to decipher the root of his anger, it only deepened. And now, lacking the release of self-inflicted pain—because he didn’t desire to harm himself over Harry, he yearned to harm Harry!—Tom resolved to direct his fury at the very source of his distress. He should have burnt his own hand that day, for the fallout of his impulsiveness was beyond belief. The pattern was familiar: they’d clash, the dispute would intensify, potentially culminating in bloodied noses and bruises. However, when Tom, acting on instinct, seized Harry and drew him near, Harry unexpectedly emitted a sultry, almost imploring sound, and… “I haven’t fucked with anyone in a while,” resonated in his mind as Tom, taken aback, observed Harry’s delicate skin, tinted pink, his lips slightly ajar, damp and lined with faint scars from habitual biting, his dense fair eyelashes veiling the piercing, scared stare of blue eyes that normally blazed with anger and resolve. There stood Harry, wholly enraptured by Tom’s influence—exposed, yielding, delicate. His ever-defiant little cousin. And Tom was drawn to him. A sinister sensation surged from within him, reminiscent of a lurking shadow taking on a malevolent form. He’d been oblivious to it before, but its existence now was unmistakable. A potent, searing desire coursed through him, sweat formed, and his hands quivered. He sensed Harry was equally affected. “He’s my cousin! My own flesh and blood!” Tom abruptly recognized, instantly letting him go. Overwhelmed, for the first time, he found himself speechless, grappling with his next move. He merely stood there, gaze fixed on the ground, mortified to acknowledge that he was having a raging hard-on, just like Harry. “Don’t flatter yourself!” Harry blurted out. “I’m undergoing treatment for poisoning; it’s just a side effect!” “Poisoning?” Tom asked mechanically, not grasping the meaning. “Latent poisoning, a result of prolonged use of a nasty potion. Long story short, for the next few months… It’s best if you don’t touch me. I’ll be back to normal soon.” “So, with Crouch earlier, that was…” “Yes, yes, I don’t… It’s involuntary…I …I’m sorry.” “Of course,” Tom managed to say. “I… should go.” His awareness of his surroundings faded. His legs felt as rigid as tree trunks, and for a moment, the doorknob eluded his grasp. Only when he entered the communal bathroom and saw his reflection did he snap back to reality. “Damn you, Harry!” he growled, gripping the edges of the sink. “To hell with you! Fuck! Incest is just what I needed!” He’d sworn off cursing, but the vision of his vulnerable, aroused cousin lingered, almost seared onto his retinas. The inner demon chanted: mine, mine, mine! Swiftly, Tom turned on the cold water tap and submerged his face under its chilling cascade. The cold water tempered his heated cheeks and dripped down his collar. He splashed his face repeatedly, shook off the droplets, combed back his drenched hair with his fingers, and met his reflection again. “It’s the connection,” he muttered to the moisture-laden mirror. “Those were his emotions, not yours. He’s affected by some potion. That’s all there is. He isn’t that way. Neither are you. You’re cousins.” As the heat of the moment subsided, his complexion normalized. Taking deep breaths, Tom endeavored to arrange his jumbled thoughts. Throughout the year, his cousin hadn’t shown any romantic inclinations and had sidestepped any advances from peers. Yet suddenly, just days ago, he’s drawing close to Crouch, whom he typically avoided as if avoiding a mischief of pixies. And today’s events… Tom was hesitant to even label the encounter. It was a consequence of his illness. It was Tom’s doing. He had secretly tampered with Harry’s potion, diluting it. No further probing needed; it was evident: Harry had been on suppressants. But who had poisoned him? At times, Tom felt as if Harry’s life was an endless reel of affliction, cruelty, and tragedy. It made sense why he often sought solace in a drink. He was so broken, yet he pushed forward. It seems his past was a constant struggle. “Always issues with him,” he murmured to his reflection. “Why couldn’t I have a smart, level-headed cousin?” “Because you’re fond of this one,” the reflection seemed to reply, and Tom scowled, recognizing its truth. Indeed, Harry was stirring trouble again, albeit of a new and unexpected kind. But as Harry once expressed, family is family. They aren’t chosen, just embraced. Their connection had deepened so intensely that Tom could pinpoint Harry in Hogsmeade without a trace spell, resonate with the pain when he faced harm, sense the profound affection when conjuring a Patronus, and now, share his… arousal. Tom needed to fortify himself to shield them both. Harry’s concerns weren’t mere schoolyard politics; they were far graver. Tom had to rally, ensuring Harry wouldn’t drag them down before Tom could liberate himself from their shared fate. He’d postponed his plans for too long, sometimes out of fear, sometimes clinging to old myths. But the time had come. He would either succeed or… No, he had to succeed. Instead of striving to become better, he’d just keep moving forward, like his cousin. For a moment, he remembered the feelings that overwhelmed Harry when he summoned the Patronus: a radiant, unwavering belief that everything would be alright, a sensation of being safeguarded, and a deep peace. When Tom experienced it, he was briefly frightened. He felt, just for a moment, that he could never defeat Harry, that Harry was the stronger, wiser one, capable of anything. But when the silvery stag touched his hand, Tom was captivated. He felt as if he’d stepped into Harry’s shoes, feeling both protected and invincible. Now, he could vividly remember that incredible sensation. He tidied up, magically freshened his clothes and hair, and went to find Regulus, who was lounging with Dolohov. “Tell everyone that in an hour, I expect you all by the statue of the Unhappy Knight on the first floor. And bring…” Tom whispered, leaning over their table discreetly. “Yes, Tom!” Lestrange said enthusiastically. Tom had once been weak, consumed by his fears, suppressing his emotions, directing his anger inwards, slowly painting himself into a corner. But Harry had shown him that vulnerability was okay. That it was alright to suffer, to dust oneself off, and to persevere. Because of Harry, Tom had undergone a transformation, much like a phoenix’s rebirth. He no longer longed for acceptance from the Gaunts. He stopped harming his hand, embraced his feelings, and put aside fantasies about the basilisk or Slytherin’s ancient knowledge. He had come to understand his own immense power. Now was the time to assert his dominance in the House. Before idiotic Regulus splashed him with corrosive goo by tossing a chunk of dragon liver into their cauldron, Tom had refurbished the Chamber of Secrets. He drained the sewage water, enchanted the torches to emit a faint green light, making the Chamber appear wider and more imposing. He magically enhanced the remains of the basilisk, placed chairs around an altar reminiscent of King Arthur’s Round Table—though without suggesting equality among those seated. If there was no basilisk, Tom would make the best of what he had. People were drawn to mystique, often deceiving themselves, making them easy to manipulate. They believed that Gordian Selwyn was real, even though he was an entirely different person. They would undoubtedly fall for a well-spun legend with equal enthusiasm. When everyone assembled by the statue, Tom meticulously cast spells ensuring no one would even glance their way. Though this part of the castle was deserted, he had established repellent charms against ghosts, Peeves, animals, portraits, and even insects throughout their route. Leading the group of teenagers up the lengthy staircase, for the first time, he spoke Parseltongue openly before them all. The snake on the door tilted its head, and the doors swung open, unveiling the magnum opus of his life. Serpents on the columns turned, their eyes gleaming red. “Unbelievable!” “Salazar!” “This is simply astonishing!” Tom lifted his chin with pride and walked to the altar. He had fashioned a special chair for himself that, after some effort, resembled Salazar Slytherin’s genuine throne. Snakes winding around the backrest and legs hissed, but upon his command, they obediently lowered their heads. Standing beside it, Tom looked over the astounded teenagers before the altar, their mouths hanging open at the sight of the massive basilisk skull behind him. Perfect. He had to restrain a smirk, watching their stunned faces. “My friends,” Tom began with outstretched arms, “the time has come to reveal my true heritage. My great ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, concealed a secret chamber in this castle, accessible only to his heir. Today, that day has come.” “So you truly are the heir!” Marsius Nott could hardly contain his enthusiasm, his eyes alight. “Forgive my earlier doubts!” “And mine!” Druella chimed in, her head bowed. “From now on, my faith in you is unwavering.” “Fools,” Lestrange interjected with a self-satisfied smirk. “I always knew Tom was our leader! It’s his destiny.” Inside, Tom was laughing hysterically. It was just too funny! “I forgive you, but remember: this is your only chance,” Tom said, brandishing his wand. A dark mist enveloped the students. Phantom skulls gaped in mute screams, and the temperature plummeted. Recognizing their fear, he let the spell linger just long enough to drain the color from their faces. “What… what was that?” Dolohov stuttered, clutching Marsius’s arm. “A dark curse?” “Precisely, my friend,” Tom responded, a cunning grin on his face. “In this place, we can delve into the darkest magics passed down from our forebears. Here, we will amass the power needed to cleanse the school of Mudbloods.” His voice grew more impassioned. “Mudbloods meddle with our magical heritage, molding it to fit Muggle norms. Meanwhile, we, heirs of revered lineages, remain fragmented and quarrel amongst ourselves. As we falter, Mudbloods consolidate power over us.” With every word, his tone intensified. “Legislation undermining our sacred dark arts, the magic of blood and soul, is implemented regularly. Victory is elusive unless we unify! I proclaim the birth of a new organization dedicated to safeguarding magic in our realm. We shall defend our traditions, amplify the prestige of our magical bloodlines, and unite the ancient houses, forging a formidable nation! Will you stand with me in this crusade, my friends?” His speech might have been the most theatrical and inflated in history, borrowing generously from Merlin’s biography and a 17th-century rhetoric textbook. “With you is my loyalty and my magic!” Lestrange proclaimed, placing his right hand over his heart. “With you is my loyalty and my magic!” Nott repeated. Rosier, Carrow, and Dolohov soon followed suit. “And you?” Tom turned to a tall, hooded figure. “Will you join us? Will you submit to me?” “You’re spot on, Riddle,” she drew back her hood, unveiling a pale face and eyes radiating the same intensity as the others. “Callahan has proven he won’t hold back in promoting his disgusting beliefs. While we squabble, the mudbloods taint the thoughts of purebloods and half-bloods with their filthy ideas. Granted, your lineage isn’t impeccable. But you carry the blood of Salazar Slytherin — the most potent and revered of the Hogwarts founders. I consent to combine our forces.” “Glad to hear it, Walburga. Our alliance signifies the dawn of pureblood ideology’s ascendancy,” Tom responded with a smug smile, offering his hand. With a proud tilt of her head, she circled the altar and placed her hand in his. Their fingers entwined, Tom hoisted their linked hands. Hers quivered just a bit. “Welcome to the Order of the Red Phoenix,” he declared magnificently, funneling his magic through his unoccupied hand. Like a burst of wind, it coursed through the hall, unfurling flags from the wall beams. The final, most majestic one revealed itself behind him, its dark material almost touching the stone floor. The display was an undeniable triumph. Deafening applause and fervent acclamations momentarily overwhelmed him. The flags showcased a red phoenix with wings outstretched, reminiscent of Harry’s outspread arms. A hovering ouroboros crown was positioned above its head, echoing the blood-red halo Tom witnessed in the snow on that fateful day he believed he had lost Harry. It was Harry, his cousin, who endowed Tom with the new emblem of power. He emboldened Tom to put aside memories of the pitiable Gaunts, Slytherin, and the ineffectual wizards of old times. He made Tom recognize his own distinctiveness. It was Harry, his cousin, who gave birth to the Red Phoenix.