Behind Lies Eternity

Harry stood petrified at the door, as though Tom’s hand, which covered his eyes, had become transparent. He could still make out Myrtle’s disfigured body. “Could Aragog have done this?” was the only foolish question he managed to muster. “I don’t know, maybe not. Come on, Harry, don’t just stand there,” Riddle murmured, his voice a reassuring whisper as he pulled Harry close to his chest. “No, it was him,” Harry thought, as the dull sound of approaching footsteps echoed, heavy with the weight of the tragedy. He feared that if Tom were to move his hand away, he would see not Myrtle, but instead Filch’s cat, hung by its tail to a torch holder. “Somebody! Help! Over here, quick!” Tom yelled, his voice echoing as he dragged limp Harry back, clutching tightly at his waist. The murmurs drowned out the sound of trickling water from the open tap. Voices broke out, someone asking bewilderedly what had happened. “Prefects, clear the students out!” Riddle ordered. “Quick, someone fetch the professors! Regulus, to the dean! Walburga, go find Madame Brown! Antonin, get the headmaster!” “Harry! What has Riddle done to you?” Alphard’s voice cut through the chaos. “Shut up, Black! Can’t you see he’s in shock?” Harry realized his eyes were open, yet all he saw was a red skull with round, empty eye sockets and a neck arched unnaturally, veiled by wisps of light hair. He’d witnessed horrors on the raids: bodies mangled by werewolves, skin inverted, shriveled husks of flesh devoid of bone. But he had never been at fault. He had always protected others, fought, killed, saved people from monsters. Had Riddle been to blame, Harry would’ve acted with the detachment of an auror. But now, the only one he could arrest was himself. “I’m okay,” Harry shook his head, regaining his composure. “Alphard, don’t shout. The professors will be here soon, this is no time to panic.” Students swarmed in. Slytherins headed to the dungeons, Hufflepuffs to their comfortable corners, questions abounding loudly, but Tom was steadfast, a barrier to the curious at the door. Harry eventually snapped out of his daze and stood beside him, wand in hand. “Move along, there’s nothing to see here,” he found himself saying with authority, as if detached from his own voice. “Head to your common rooms, curfew’s approaching!” “We’re not going anywhere!” a tall boy with a yellow-brown tie challenged. “We have a right to know what’s happened!” “Off to your common room, now, before I have to—” Harry’s grip on his wand tightened, but Riddle’s hand on his shoulder reminded him to be measured. “What has happened here?” At that moment, Dumbledore arrived, as ever, composed and in control, ready for any crisis. Trailing him was Slughorn, whose mustache quivered like it was under an Engorgement Charm, decidedly less composed. “Professor,” Riddle spoke up, addressing the headmaster with a composed urgency. “Perhaps it’s best to send the students to their common rooms, considering the hour. Take a look for yourself.” Slughorn, seemingly overpowered by the bold youth as if he commanded the authority of the Minister, promptly directed the crowd to disperse. Dumbledore, meanwhile, surveyed the pink water oozing from beneath the toilet door with a silent, piercing gaze. Harry leaned against the cool stone wall, eyes shut tight. The last thing he wanted was to re-enter that place. “Is Mr. Selwyn well?” Slughorn asked, eyeing the door as if it led to perdition itself, his reluctance to open it palpable. “I’m fine, just… look for yourself,” Harry said, a weariness to his voice, as he leaned into Riddle’s support. Riddle, in turn, wrapped an arm around Harry’s waist, murmuring words of comfort. Dumbledore entered the bathroom first, with the headmaster and breathless Madame Brown following. The student body had thinned out, leaving behind only the likes of Walburga and Alphard, who stood their ground despite the headmaster’s stern warnings. “Harry, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Alphard reached for Harry but was thwarted by Riddle. “What’s in there?” “All in good time,” Harry responded, his tone devoid of emotion. The flow of pink-tinged water finally stopped. A wail from Slughorn inside the room broke the silence. Harry was overwhelmed with the urge to curse everyone out, to break something, to drown his sorrows in drink. Despite his efforts, Myrtle and the boy who played the Unlucky Knight in Beery’s Halloween play met their fates. Death seemed predestined, and the universe cruelly ensured its own balance by removing these lives. If not Tom or himself, then someone like Grindelwald would have been the harbinger of their doom. “How did you find yourself entering the girls’ bathroom?” Dumbledore’s voice was uncharacteristically grave, almost threatening. Looking around, Harry saw that the students had dispersed; only the professors congregated near the bathroom. He and Riddle stood apart, two figures bracing against the tempest of the night’s events “I… I noticed the pink water,” Harry said, his throat dry. “Tom suggested we check. Professor, is there… any hope? Did anyone… survive?” “I’m afraid not,” came Dumbledore’s reply, his voice softening with a tinge of sorrow. “Miss Warren succumbed to the venom of an unidentified beast; Mr. Lock, it appears, attempted assistance but slipped and fatally struck his head. They did not suffer.” Harry’s breath left him in a shaky exhale. “That’s a mercy, at least. We came across a spider, large as a cat, trapped with no exit. It must still be in there.” “A spider, you say? We will conduct a thorough search. Rest assured, it will be found,” Dumbledore assured, reaching out to offer a consoling hand on Harry’s shoulder. But before the touch landed, Riddle pulled Harry back, leaving Dumbledore to regard them both with a puzzled frown. “We should leave, if you have no objections,” Riddle stated calmly. “Perhaps Madame Brown could administer something to help him relax. Afterward, I’ll escort him to our quarters and then visit the Hospital Wing.” “I don’t need a calming draught,” Harry protested sharply. “I’m perfectly capable—” “Mr. Selwyn, it would be wise to take the potion,” Professor Dumbledore interjected with a gentle firmness. Harry found it unbearable to look at his unnaturally youthful face. “Will it make a difference?” he spat out with a tinge of bitterness. “These memories won’t just vanish.” What he truly desired was a strong drink, something to erase the horrors, if only temporarily. “Mr. Riddle, please ensure he is looked after,” Dumbledore then said, adopting an unusually grave tone. “Depart now. And Harry, come to my office tomorrow; the aurors will undoubtedly have questions for you.” “But—” Harry began, feeling his coordination falter. “Shouldn’t we give our statements while the events are fresh? I can still—” “Tom, please take him away,” Slughorn cut in, and Harry realized the headmaster had returned without him noticing. His attention was fractured, unable to settle on the chaos unfolding around him. “And keep quiet about this, both of you. There’s no need to cause a panic. I’ll instruct the heads of the houses to secure the students in the common rooms. Oh, dear Merlin, this is a catastrophe…” With a numb obedience, Harry let Tom lead him away. What other choice did he have? His mind was shrouded in a thick haze, focused only on the magnitude of his failures. One might twist the threads of time, but not the finality of death. “Don’t let anyone know it was Hagrid who brought it inside,” he implored Riddle quietly. “You know him, always taken with creatures of all sorts.” “Two students have died as a result. An inquiry will ensue, leading to his trunk. I’ve removed our traces from it, but not Hagrid’s,” Riddle’s voice was cold as steel. “He will face expulsion, and rightfully so, his wand broken.” “But it’s our fault too!” Harry countered desperately. “We knew of the creature in that trunk and did nothing!” “That’s precisely why silence is our ally,” Riddle hissed through clenched teeth. “Do you want the aurors prying into how you knew of the spider? Risking them interrogating me and tracing it back to you? You must think logically! As a time-traveler, your best strategy is to remain inconspicuous. Let the aurors discover the trunk themselves. We’ll claim we were merely bystanders near the bathroom. That’s all.” “We could destroy the trunk,” Harry suggested, scrambling for a solution. “Maybe then they’d believe the spider came from the Forbidden Forest…” He instantly recognized the futility in his voice. Acromantulas were not native to the Forbidden Forest. Such dangerous creatures did not simply wander into a castle unaided. The aurors would certainly delve into who introduced Aragog, and Hagrid’s affinity for perilous beasts was common knowledge. “That’s a fantasy, Harry. We’re cornered,” Riddle said, his tone less harsh now. “Hagrid’s expulsion is inevitable. It’s beyond our control.” Harry felt a crushing weight of defeat knowing Riddle was correct. By the time they reached the Slytherin common room, a throng of worried faces confronted them, each person clamoring for details. Tom remained to assuage their fears while Harry withdrew to his chamber, dodging the piercing stares of Alphard, Joanna, and Rut. Engaging in conversation was a risk; his restraint was wearing thin. In his room, he rifled through his bag for the last miniature bottle of Firewhisky, tossing aside Gordian’s glittering garbage that littered the magically expanded compartment. He had hoped never to need the liquor again, to not be met with further dreadful tidings, to handle it all without succumbing. Yet, he found himself powerless in steering his own fate. Laughter, bitter and unhinged, spilled from him as he gulped down the fiery liquid. One thought churned relentlessly in his mind: what was the point of his presence here if he couldn’t alter a single thing? He could shuffle the elements, but the total remained unchanged. Perhaps Riddle would wed Walburga, preventing Sirius’s birth, yet another child would surely come into being, plugging the universe’s void, and life would march on. Maybe Dumbledore wouldn’t ascend to headmaster but become the minister—so what? Or his parents might never unite, choosing different partners instead—and so what? Should Voldemort not rise, then the Red Phoenix would take his place; failing that, Grindelwald or another unhinged Dark wizard would fill the looming vacancy. Harry felt time’s weight upon his shoulders, crushing his bones, wiping his very essence. A mere speck in an immense hourglass, he once thought time delicate, fearing he might shatter it unwittingly, only to find it indifferent to his existence. The sands never ceased to fall. “I won’t even scold you,” Harry was so removed from reality he didn’t notice Riddle’s return. Riddle sat next to Harry on the bed, took the Firewhisky bottle, and took a gulp. “I loathe corpses, particularly the likes of those we saw in the bathroom,” he remarked. “Death is hideous. I once helped excavate bombed London, interring the dead—it was insufferable. Sleepless, I lost my appetite, couldn’t shed a tear. That’s when I began to harm myself, alleviating the agony. Initially, I cut my arms, but the sight of blood was repulsive, and I turned to the Stinging Hex. Such is the splendor of magic—rendering even death, even torture, into something beautiful. No blood, no guts, no foul entrails.” “No surprise your spells of choice later became Avada and Cruciatus,” Harry countered, accepting the bottle for a sip. “Myrtle’s fate was to die at your behest. You’d have let the basilisk loose, she’d glimpse it inadvertently, petrify instantly. A swift, clean demise—unaware of her passing, doomed to haunt as a ghost. Now, not so likely. Not with her marred visage.” Tom edged nearer, extending his hand palm-up on his knee. Harry placed his own in it, accepting the gesture. “And that boy was to die on Halloween. Curtains ablaze, melting, sealing his doom. But I saved him then. Which end is preferable? A broken neck in the bathroom or suffocating in flames? The neck, I’d wager.” “Oh, Harry,” Tom sighed, tightening his grip. “Is change truly impossible? If my end came in your world, does it mean my fate is sealed, regardless of my actions now?” “I don’t know,” Harry felt Tom’s quickening pulse. Fear of death was palpable; Tom was terrified. “I can’t puzzle it out. That Hufflepuff boy cheated death by mere months. And Myrtle died sooner than expected. Perhaps their early ends were essential to maintain balance, as Waffling theorized. Their survival could’ve led to unscripted lives, unscripted offspring. Yet, when I died the first time, my father and his friends were spared in the future, against all odds.” “What of killing someone ordained to live?” Tom’s pulse hastened. “Could it be a life-for-life exchange?” “Perhaps,” Harry mused. “Or maybe time would simply mend itself, substituting someone else for the lost soul, and your demise would happen regardless. My arrival here erased wizards due to temporal anomalies, including Alastor Moody’s father. His absence was mourned, a casual word from Hagrid provoking a fierce outburst. It landed Hagrid in St Mungo’s, unable to feed Aragog, who then fled to the bathroom, hungry, attacking Myrtle. Yet today, Moody’s father reappeared, as if he’d been gone but a moment. And he’s not alone in this phenomenon.” “So, upon your arrival, time set about self-repairing,” Tom whispered. “Is everything we do now already factored into its design? But then why was your father alive in the future? The pieces don’t fit. We must experiment.” “Let’s test it,” Harry proposed, eyeing the half-empty bottle. “This summer, you planned to kill three Muggles. Don’t do it. Let’s see what unfolds then.” “Three Muggles?” Tom echoed, pondering the implications. “Yes, your father, grandfather, and grandmother,” Harry said, a flicker of hope rising in his chest. Could the course of events still be altered? Was Myrtle’s death a mere stroke of misfortune? Her constant weeping in that toilet, the relentless bullying that led others to shun the place. And the Hufflepuff boy, simply returning from dinner, saw the spill and felt compelled by his prefect duties to investigate. Was their presence at those moments mere chance? Could any passerby have met the same fate? Then why had his father lived in the future, twenty-one years beyond his destined death? “I killed my own family?” Tom’s palm shook, and Harry’s fingers stroked his reassuringly. “They were Muggles, whom you loathe. Perhaps they provoked you, or maybe you had long intended to be rid of them, I can’t say. Your mother bewitched your father with a love potion, ceasing only once she conceived you. His horror at the spell’s end drove him away immediately, abandoning her pregnant and destitute in London. It’s unlikely he cherished any warmth for your birth.” Their intertwined emotions created a complex weave, and it was unclear who sought comfort first. Eventually, Harry pulled Tom close, embraced his shoulders, buried his face into the crook of Tom’s neck, and ran his fingers through the thick locks of his hair. “One doesn’t choose their family,” Harry murmured, his senses filled with the scent of Tom’s skin and the herbal essence in his hair. The intoxicating mix was a temptation to lose oneself entirely. “But they gave you life, and for that, you might forgive them, if only to forget them.” “You’re mistaken,” Tom’s grip tightened, as though he feared Harry might slip away. “Parents aren’t chosen, but one can choose their family. They are not mine and never will be. I have no desire to see them, much less kill them. Forgiveness and forgetting are out of the question, but I have no need for them.” In a distant whisper, an uninvited thought seemed to echo in his mind, something Harry wasn’t meant to discern. “I have you.” ***   Exams were imminent, and Hogwarts transformed under their weight. Students scrambled for any edge, copying notes wherever possible, forming study groups, and would’ve bargained their souls to ally with the brightest minds. Tom was pulled in two directions: as a top student and as a prefect who seized illicit aids like brain-enhancing potions, lucky amulets, and dubious brews. Additionally, he had his own urgent matters and an investigation to pursue. He also needed to study for the exams, striving not just to pass but to shatter previous records, claiming the highest accolades as displayed in the Trophy Room. But his concentration was splintered, preoccupied with one individual, a man from the future who, in any other reality, was his spouse. Harry, typically brooding, was invigorated and threw himself into exam preparation with fervor. At the same time, he was meticulously devising a strategy to delve into Crouch’s mind, determined to prevent their expulsion and the dire prospect of being sent to Azkaban. Perhaps, this was his way of coping. Tom held back his inquiries, wary of quenching Harry’s newfound drive and sending him back to the bottle. The scandal unfolded boisterously; the press was abuzz with the calamity at the school. Poor Hagrid was hexed, with public cries for his imprisonment in Azkaban or exile to the mountains with his kind. Luckily, Hagrid remained comatose, spared the knowledge that he had been expelled and his wand snapped. Harry and Tom had been subjected to a series of interrogations, but Slughorn’s influence soon cocooned them from further scrutiny. In the wake of the catastrophe, Tom was braced for Harry to sink back into his alcoholic stupor. To prevent this, he eradicated all liquor from the school and, with a blend of threats and coercion, halted all trading—conveniently attributing it to the looming exams. Unexpectedly, Harry exhibited no rush to numb his pain with drink. Through their bond, Tom sensed Harry’s inner turmoil, yet outwardly, Harry remained calm, his distress skillfully veiled. Tom, on the contrary, absorbed the news of his potential grim end in ’98 with a stoic front. The revelations that once haunted him were now cast aside, easing a great weight off his shoulders, propelling him towards a future he now saw with clarity. Within him, an indefinable spark was lit—a potent mix of endless time, newfound prospects, and the whisper of greatness. Armed with the foreknowledge of potential pitfalls, Tom grasped an extraordinary opportunity—one others could scarcely dream of—and he intended to seize it wholeheartedly. Decades lay before him to forge a different path. This foresight, understandably, diverted him from the academic trials ahead. But it was Harry’s interactions with Black that truly scattered his focus. Black, silent and shadow-like, followed Harry with a dog’s loyalty, his adoration evident in every glance. The sight stirred a violent urge within Tom to disfigure Black’s pretty face. Tom felt Harry’s attraction to him—an allure despite Black’s previous vile act. The infuriating sight of Harry engaging with Black, the unmistakable flush on Harry’s face when Black encroached too close, stoked a fiery jealousy within Tom. The fact that Harry harbored some inexplicable leniency towards Black, for reasons rooted in future relations, eluded Tom’s understanding. Thus, a novel strategy formed in Tom’s mind. If Harry’s attraction to another irked him, he would ensure that Harry’s attraction was reserved solely for Tom. The genesis of this idea took root during Potions class. Colhepp had assigned individual projects to each pair, and Harry and Black were tasked with brewing Amortentia. They excelled, with Harry proactively guiding Black, who often shouldered the burden for both. Watching them lean close over the cauldron, their foreheads almost touching, smiles radiant as they breathed in the potion’s fumes, ignited a fierce longing in Tom to take Black’s place. After all, it was Tom who shared a profound bond with Harry, it was they who were meant for eternity. Harry’s gaze should be fixed on Tom alone. Initially, Tom balked at the idea. He didn’t want Harry to feel confined, to shy away from him. But witnessing Harry’s eyes linger on Black clad in Quidditch attire once more, a fierce possessiveness took hold. Harry’s attention, every shred of it—even the most questionable—should be Tom’s alone. “Wow! You got a haircut!” Harry blurted out with a hint of challenge, as Tom returned to their shared space after his rounds. Seated at the desk, Harry was engrossed in his writing, quill dancing feverishly over parchment. From the confiscated wizard radio—its acquisition a result of Tom’s darker moods—flowed the calming notes of a piano, an instrument Tom knew little about, but whose sound now seemed to underscore the tension of the moment. “What’s the problem this time?” Tom asked with a deceptive calm, his insides knotted with anticipation. He had expected a different response, especially since Shion, his trusty barber of three years, assured him the new hairstyle was a marked improvement. “You’re the mirror image from my memories,” Harry muttered, turning away. “Haven’t I mentioned how your life’s splattered all over the press? This haircut makes you the spit image of those… pictures from the future, only with a different history. Why would you choose it?” Tom harbored an intense aversion to being likened to his future self. He didn’t want Harry’s image of him conflated with that of the despised older Tom. That man, what wouldn’t he have done? Likely the very things Tom himself would consider. “Shion recommended it, said it was more flattering,” Tom replied, drawing near to Harry’s desk with a barely perceptible tremble in his legs, then squatting before him. It was an act of humility, one his future self would never stoop to. “You can verify for yourself; I’m not the Tom you knew. Would he ever do this?” he said, lifting Harry’s hand from his knee to his freshly cut nape. Harry’s blue eyes widened, a glimmer of shock passing through them. He tentatively ran his fingers through the short hair at Tom’s nape, then higher through the longer locks, and back down again. “It does suit you,” Harry acknowledged with a tentative smile. “You’ve changed so much since the orphanage. This haircut… you seem wholly transformed. It’s remarkable.” Tom inclined his head to allow Harry’s unfamiliar touch to continue. It was an exquisite sensation, Harry’s fingertips grazing his scalp sending tingles down his spine. “It’s called the ‘British haircut.’ Shion tells me it’s fashionable at the moment,” Tom admitted, wanting to bask in the sensation like a contented cat. He settled onto the carpet, his head in Harry’s lap, with a faint blush of embarrassment. Yet, the comfort of Harry’s touch triumphed over his modesty. His emotions rippled from bitter to warm, almost palpable in their sweetness. “At the orphanage, we all got buzz cuts to avoid lice—every three months, like clockwork. I hated it, hair in my eyes was a nuisance. Arriving at Hogwarts with that bristle was a shock; every other boy wore their hair long. I had to grow mine out to blend in with the pureblood elite. It mattered then. So, imagine my horror when you said I’d become bald in the future. As if all authenticity had been shorn from me. I detest baldness—it’s a visceral reminder of the orphanage’s regime. If he didn’t care, he wasn’t truly alive.” Tom shuddered at the thought of the future self from which Harry hailed. It felt as if a stranger, someone like Potter, had usurped his body. “He eradicated his weaknesses,” Harry mused, now comfortably running his fingers through Tom’s hair. “Emotions were his downfall. Perhaps he found a method to excise them, or dark magic took its toll. You don’t dabble in dark arts, do you?” “Absolutely not,” Tom replied with a reflexive scowl. “If I warned myself, it must be crucial; I avoid unnecessary risks. My current fascination is with inventing new spells.” “Inventing spells?” Harry’s surprise was palpable. “You create curses? That’s intricate work. And with all your responsibilities, when do you find the time?” “During classes,” Tom confessed with a slight chuckle, shifting to let Harry’s touch reach behind his ear. “I had surpassed most curricula by my third year. The lessons bore me, so I keep my mind sharp by crafting spells. It’s surprisingly simple—there’s a logic to it. Modifying existing spells or conjuring new ones brings me peace.” Harry’s hand stilled, and Tom could feel a warm, comfortable wave flowing through their bond. A soft moan escaped him, revealing a deep-seated yearning for affection that he had never acknowledged before. “If I like something, that means it’s meant for me,” Tom thought. “You have a remarkable intellect,” came Harry’s voice, laced with admiration. “I can’t even begin to grasp how one invents a spell. I’ve dabbled in numerology, but it’s a maze of calculations… impenetrable.” “Not everyone has the aptitude,” Tom beamed with pride, resisting the urge to cling. Harry’s focused attention set his pulse racing, the darkness within him purring with satisfaction. “But why bother? You excel in combat magic. That’s where your strength lies, not in the pursuit of the arcane.” “Um, Tom?” Harry’s voice carried a note of unease, yet Tom already sensed the shift.  With a secret pleasure, he detected the rising wave of Harry’s arousal. “Could you…? It’s happening again.” Tom found a bizarre satisfaction in being the focus of Harry’s desire for the first time. He drew the feeling in, letting it simmer within, but restrained himself, not wanting to unsettle Harry. “Is it just me, or are these occurrences less frequent now?” he said, pushing himself up, his legs stiff. He straightened with a sharp crack of his neck. “Yes, it’s less,” Harry admitted, his face flushing as he awkwardly crossed his legs, despite the fact that full arousal hadn’t taken hold. “Madam Brown’s potion seems to be working. At least I don’t have to suffer the double torture of embarrassment and revulsion when I see Crouch anymore.” “There’s no shame in it; it’s beyond your control. Considering your circumstances, it’s a minor issue. So what if your penis got hard,” Tom said, attempting to keep his composure as he moved away. The last thing he wanted was for Harry to feel mortified by his own natural reactions. Harry’s cheeks bloomed a deep shade of red. “Please don’t use the word ‘penis’ around me,” Harry pleaded, burying his face in his hands. Discussing such intimate matters was uncomfortable for Tom, too. It took significant self-control to remain calm while explaining this to Potter—who, for the record, was his cousin, his spouse, and irrevocably his. Tom Riddle had to admit, he might just have lost his marbles. “What’s the issue?” he heard himself ask, sounding detached, while inwardly he felt as rigid as a statue. “You have one, I have one. It’s just a part of being male. You’re overthinking a trivial matter.” “I know, but… it’s different. You don’t just talk about it, especially not with you,” Harry stammered, even more embarrassed now. Tom couldn’t help but find these genuine reactions endearing—they were so characteristically Harry. The way he blushed, the nervous gesture of tucking his hair behind his ear—it was uniquely him. “What’s so wrong with me?” Tom turned away to conceal his own flush of embarrassment. “With me, you can be yourself. I get how much you hate this… inconvenience. I understand.” “It’s just… too strange,” Harry’s voice was muffled behind him. “I feel like running out of this room.” That was not part of Tom’s agenda. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a bodily response. There’s no point in beating yourself up over it. It’s a silly, involuntary reflex. Wouldn’t you agree it’s better that it’s me instead of someone like Black? I certainly won’t exploit it,” Tom reassured him, trying to ease the tension. “Of course you wouldn’t,” Harry’s tone was ambiguous. “What are you implying?” Tom couldn’t help but turn to look at him. Harry was a sight, his cheeks ablaze, looking as if he’d applied blush with a heavy hand. “I’m in your cousin’s body,” Harry reminded him. “Third cousin,” Tom corrected with a smirk. “It’s not incest, really—not at this distance.” “But it’s still incest,” Harry countered quietly. “If we were planning to have children, perhaps,” Tom argued, even though he wasn’t sure why they were having this discussion. He continued to mentally justify his stance. “And it doesn’t trouble you that I… That it’s you I respond to? That your cousin is reacting to you in this way?” Harry’s skepticism was evident. “Not at all,” Tom replied as he took off his robe and tie, hanging them neatly in the wardrobe. “I was surprised at first, but I’ve adjusted. It’s better me than someone else.” Only me, he thought privately, surprising himself. He paused in front of the mirror, taking stock of his emotions, and realized they were his own—not Harry’s. This agitation, embarrassment, and arousal were uniquely his. The realization left Tom unsettled. He wondered whether these feelings were a reflection of Harry’s, or if they stemmed from something deeper. “What are you doing?” Harry’s voice cut through his reverie. “Tom, have you completely lost your mind?” Tom’s shiver brought him back to the present. Unbeknownst to him, his fingers had been steadily working the buttons of his shirt. “I’m preparing for a shower and bed,” he answered distantly when he realized what he’d been doing. “You’re undressing right in front of me?” Harry’s voice edged into a higher pitch. “What of it? Haven’t you ever been in a dormitory?” Tom’s laugh was self-deprecating. He despised being vulnerable before others, yet, perversely, he found himself wanting to bare his skin to Harry, to be seen and desired as a man, not the monster he feared he might become. “Great, I’ve gone round the twist,” he mused to himself, a hint of dark humor in his tone. “Madness runs in the family, after all.” If he desires something, it should be within reach, right? “But you’ve never done this before!” “Before, I feared you. Now, understanding our circumstances, I seek the comforts I’m accustomed to,” he rationalized, choosing to keep his undershirt on for Harry’s sake, whose embarrassment was almost palpable. “If it bothers you, look away. Stop staring.” He flung the wardrobe door open wider, catching Harry’s reflection and feeling a surge of arousal that was unmistakably his own. “You’re doing this deliberately,” Harry charged. “Indeed. I aim to demonstrate that our predicament is nothing to be ashamed of. You’ll get used to me, and these persistent feelings of guilt and discomfort will dissipate,” Tom said, grabbing his pajamas and towel, and heading for the bathroom. “So, you’re trying to ‘train’ me?” Harry’s voice followed him, tinged with rising ire. “Precisely!” Tom shut the bathroom door behind him, cast a silencing charm, and slumped against the sink. His reflection betrayed a youthful vigor, a stark departure from the cold orphan he once was. Here was someone embracing his newfound emotions, eager for uncharted experiences. A laugh burst from him, unrestrained. In the shower, as the water cascaded down, he reached for his erection. This was all an experiment, he told himself. But his mind circled back to Harry—trembling, heated, charged with desire. In his mind’s eye, Harry reached out, their bodies close, sharing in the fervor. Tom’s breath hitched at the imagined touch, and he hastened his movements. Tom’s teenage years had been devoid of sexual curiosity. Where others indulged in budding romances, he remained detached, consumed by his survival and ambitions. It wasn’t until an unintentional discovery at fourteen that he even considered self-pleasure, still eschewing the messiness of intimacy with others. Then Vivien had only reinforced his aversion to sex. But now, at seventeen, with Harry invading his thoughts, the taboo of what was technically incest barely registered. Tom rationalized it away—they were third cousins, but more significantly, they were bound as spouses. He envisioned Harry’s lean form, the contours of his body, the defiant spark in his eyes. In his fantasy, Harry’s touch became more audacious, igniting a fire within him. With a sharp gasp, Tom reached his climax, his back arching against the cool tiles. The intensity was unprecedented—a revelation of pleasure. What heights could they reach together, he wondered, if they were to share their bodies as they shared their emotions? ***   “How do I kill myself without Riddle noticing?” Harry mused, his gaze wandering over the Quidditch pitch where the final game droned on. Gryffindor, under Elphinstone’s lead, was pitted against Alphard’s Slytherin. The match lacked excitement; the brooms seemed archaic in their sluggishness. For Harry, who was used to high-velocity brooms, the event failed to capture his interest. Three futile attempts to sneak into the Chamber of Secrets had ended with Riddle intercepting him before he could even reach the bathroom. Each time, Harry concocted some feeble excuse about a nocturnal wander, but fooling Riddle was a fruitless endeavor. The man had an uncanny knack for finding Harry wherever he was. Riddle had, unsurprisingly, mastered their mysterious bond with an ease that eluded Harry. He seemed to effortlessly sense Harry’s emotions, whereabouts, even his intentions. Harry’s own attempts to wield such control were met with frustration. The desire to break free from Riddle’s grip intensified with every quarrel, yet Riddle turned a deaf ear. He relished the control, the bond—they suited him perfectly. For reasons Harry could scarcely fathom, Riddle was domesticating him, and Harry, against all odds, was yielding. Harry had grown accustomed to Riddle’s casual undress, to touches that lingered too long, to an embrace that once would have made him recoil. It was a stark admission of change, a concession to his own underlying yearning for kinship and affection, for the simple comfort of a ruffled head of hair. He could’ve attacked Riddle, could’ve left him paralyzed and made his escape, but he didn’t. A delicate truce had been established, one Harry felt compelled to respect. Then, disturbing news from Germany broke the monotony. Grindelwald was tightening his grip, commandeering ministries and press alike. Europe’s wizarding society was in an uproar, with nations declaring allegiance. Harry was desperate for a glimpse of what the future held. “Planning an escape, are we?” Harry’s attempt to melt away from the stands, while Tom was presumably absorbed in the game, proved futile. Tom’s vigilance was unerring, and he confronted Harry at the exit. “Just a headache,” Harry responded, drained. “Of course. Come with me, there’s something you need to see,” Tom said, not buying the excuse. His grip on Harry’s wrist was tight, betraying a certain tautness, a hint of ire. “Am I going to like it?” Harry inquired, his tone mirroring Tom’s tension. “‘No, you’ll not.” The corridors were deserted as they made their way back. In their room, Tom presented a nondescript black box to Harry. “Is this a gift?” Harry ventured, a glimmer of hope flickering. “It’s vindication that I was correct,” Tom retorted, the irritation clear in his voice. “Open it. Be warned, it’s not for the squeamish.” With a sense of foreboding, Harry lifted the lid to find a pile of wizarding photographs. “These were in the possession of a fifth-year Gryffindor. To trace their source, I had to do some sleuthing, but my search led me to a dealer in Hogsmeade, peddling pornography to the students. The photos were sent to him anonymously two months back.” Harry observed with disgust as the pictures displayed a fourteen year old skinny boy being fucked by two individuals: one from the front, the other from behind. Their faces were hidden, only bodies were visible, but Gordian was unmistakably recognizable. “They’re inhuman,” Harry shook his head, feeling a sharp pang of sorrow for Gordian. “He is so young! How could someone…” “Pornography is kept hushed, but many already know about Gordian’s past. Sooner or later, your reputation will be tarnished,” Tom hissed, closing the lid. “Did Crouch do this?” “But why?” Harry’s suspicion rose. “He’s probably plotting to get me to his manor, to drug me again, to force me into… into that. But why smear my name?” Memories tangled as he recalled a crucial detail. “Wait, this was two months back? Right after Alphard and I announced our engagement… Rosier vowed to tarnish my reputation. Perhaps, as Gordian’s scorned lover, he sought revenge in this manner. But where would he get these photographs? If one in the photos is Hector, then who’s the other? Certainly not Crouch. These came from the pile I found in Gordian’s room; I’m sure Crouch had a role in making them. So, how did they land in Rosier’s hands? It seems he purchased them. Is that why he paid Marius to get me? Was he so captivated by these images that he wanted Gordian to himself?” “Crouch is betrothed to Hector’s sister. They’re likely familiar with each other. But I can’t make the link. Crouch is our peer; he couldn’t possibly be the mastermind, but an adult like Rosier… This isn’t amateur work. You’d need contacts, a venue… a minor couldn’t orchestrate this.” “Rosier was ready for a Veritaserum interrogation, so I doubt it’s him. Perhaps someone older from the Crouch family? There are two, aren’t there?” “The senior, Bartemius, is nauseatingly upright. He’d enforce the law to the letter, even against his own kin. I’ve dug up all I could, but still, the pieces don’t align. It’s about time I cornered Gaspard, and I’m ready,” Tom declared, his aura darkening, enough to instill fear in Harry. “Don’t go too far, they might expel you,” Harry cautioned. “I won’t. I’ve mastered Obliviate,” Riddle said with a dangerous gleam. “What!” Harry exploded. “How? Wizards train for years, under strict supervision. It’s restricted to seasoned Unspeakables. You could wipe out someone’s very self, they’d lock you up for that!” Memories of Hermione’s tragic mishap with her parents haunted him. They were just kids, and it led to calamity. “I practiced on jarveys,” Tom boasted, unfazed. “Snared a bunch in the forest. I’d teach them slurs, then wipe their memories to observe. The first few attempts were flawed, but I quickly improved.” “Humans aren’t jarveys!” Harry protested. “One slip, and you could ruin a life. A friend of mine suffered greatly for tampering with her parents’ memories, and we witnessed snatchers driven mad by the same spell. She’ll live with that remorse forever. And there’s the fool who erased his own mind and now lives in St. Mungo’s, trapped in childhood. Let’s instead perfect non-verbal, wandless Legilimency. That would be…” “Silent, wandless Legilimency is beyond us, as you learned trying to probe Crouch’s mind. It’ll take years to achieve that. I’m close, I’ve practiced on Glendale,” Tom cut in. “How could you?” Harry was incensed. “You…” “I was certain of success, and I was right. I kissed him, gauged his reaction, then selectively erased those moments. He recalls being summoned, not the kiss. A slight dizziness, but no lasting harm. I monitored him for a week; all was as planned,” Tom recounted, a hint of pride veiled beneath his calm. “You…” Harry started, seething, then the realization struck. “You kissed him?!” “Yes, it was part of another test,” Tom smirked. “Though that one didn’t go as well.” “What kind of test? Have you lost your senses?” Harry’s voice rose. “That’s vile! He adores you, he’s fixated, can’t you see?” Imagining Riddle’s lips on the lanky, whimpering boy was like swallowing shards of glass. “But I wiped the memory clean. I left him with no illusions; I’m technically innocent,” Tom asserted, his smirk broadening. “Ease up, Harry. I’ve solved your predicament, and it cost me my valuable time.” “You ‘solved’ it, alright,” Harry muttered, exhausted from the relentless, futile debate. It was like nurturing a stone, swathing it in a bonnet, and waiting for it to cry ‘Papa.’ “Yes, because you’re clinging to all these rules,” Riddle’s voice rose. “Your ambition to become an Auror clearly signals that it’s futile to hope you’d ever bend the law, which, in our current situation, is downright perilous. Summer’s almost here, you could be murdered any day, yet you’re not even sweating over it. It appears to me you’ve deliberately avoided pursuing the abductor all year, perhaps wishing they would just finish you off so you wouldn’t have to confront the chaos you’ve caused with your arrival!” Harry drew back sharply, turning pale. “Take that back,” he requested calmly. “No. You’ve intentionally done nothing. You’re seeking death,” Riddle declared, stepping closer. “You’re dodging responsibility.” The sting was in the truth of it. Harry recognized an underlying wish within himself… a hope that someone would end it all for him. If so, the blame wouldn’t lie with him. Then… He could have neutralized the threat long before, but he had chosen to dismiss it. “It’s time to figure out what you want, Harry,” Tom moved in, gripping his shoulders. “You can’t just die and leave everything in disarray. Concentrate and do what’s necessary! You’re no longer an Auror, understand that! To survive and protect the future, your friends, their families, you’ll need to get your hands dirty with forbidden spells. You’ve set this vague, grand objective without a clear path to achieve it, always depending on sheer luck. Here’s my approach—I set tangible, incremental goals leading to the ultimate result. My first target is eliminating the threat. Do you see?” “You’re right,” Harry admitted, his head bowed. “I despise that you are.” He had faced a similar conundrum with the Horcruxes. Without Hermione, they wouldn’t have found a single one. She had tried to explain, but lacked eloquence and was too gentle to bruise his ego, unlike Tom’s blunt forthrightness. Harry longed for Hermione’s presence. Recently, he’d been adrift in thought, pondering if he could ever sacrifice another to save his own parents. Would he, in cold blood, kill Neville’s parents—who merely existed without truly living—to spare his own? Or exchange criminals’ lives, doomed to decay in Azkaban, for his parents’ souls? Harry first consciously killed when he was nineteen. A supposed routine patrol escalated into a dire confrontation: they stumbled upon werewolves, dispersed across the land after their leader’s defeat, who had overtaken a wizard family’s home. As the most experienced in his group, Harry, faced with imminent danger, called for backup. Meanwhile, he cut the house from the Floo Network and under the guise of negotiation, led by the others, he slipped inside with his invisibility cloak. The mission was going smoothly; the hostages—a mother and her daughter—were in the kitchen. Harry quietly subdued the two human-formed werewolves guarding them and escorted the captives to safety. However, werewolves, though non-magical, are sharply intuitive. Sensing the silence spell, one transformed in daylight and attacked. With the hostages’ cries behind him and knowing common spells were futile against a werewolf, Harry made a split-second decision to kill the beast to save the captives. After securing the hostages, he returned to confront the last werewolf. The man, wandless, on his knees with hands up, pleaded. “Please, Mr. Potter, I’ve done nothing!” he wept, his sobs entwining with his unkempt blond beard. “I can’t transform without the moon, I had nowhere else! They’re hunting me down, I just… Please, spare me!” He was cornered, alone, and Harry, protocol be damned, couldn’t bring himself to kill a man so visibly broken and afraid. He bound him instead, thinking of Remus, who could have easily been in his place. He left the decision of his fate to the Auror Office. The cost of Harry’s compassion was staggeringly high. When the werewolf, a master of transformation, seized his chance as Harry approached the front door to admit the other Aurors, he shifted form and charged toward the rear exit where a mother and daughter took refuge. The Aurors’ reaction lagged by mere seconds; the events unfolded with ruthless speed. Harry would later revisit the harrowing scene through the Pensieve: the woman, paralyzed by shock, clutched her weeping child, oblivious to the clamoring of the Auror trainees. Hindered by anti-Apparition spells—a standard precaution—they arrived too late. The werewolf burst through the back door, dispatching both with a single, deadly swipe, then hurtled toward the trainees. Harry’s counterstrike was swift and lethal, yet the tragedy was irrevocable; the woman and child were beyond salvation. That night, post-debrief and censure for procedural breach, Harry laid in bed beside slumbering Ginny, wrestling with the notion that his actions had aligned him with Voldemort. He had disregarded the need for backup, opting instead for a lone, foolhardy rescue. His mercy had extended to a felon. He had not just slain two werewolves; he had ended the lives of two culprits and two innocents. In that moment of introspection, he grappled with an internal turmoil, questioning the teachings of Professor Dumbledore that had so profoundly shaped him. Love and death, both mighty forces, clashed within him, echoing Tom Riddle’s grim inquiry: was one prepared to crush others’ lives for personal gain? Torn between two philosophies, Harry struggled. He yearned to embody Dumbledore’s ideals, yet the harsh demands of reality, as Auror Johnson had once articulated, required a certain ruthlessness and strategic thought. Riddle’s doctrine now whispered to him, proposing a world devoid of good and evil, measured only by one’s resolve to safeguard personal interests at any cost. Trapped within this ideological maelstrom, Harry found his conscience in disarray. What was the right path? He knew not how to embrace pure egotism; his nature was always to consider others first. How could he strike a balance? Confronting his reflection, Harry questioned his core desires: to protect those he cherished, to deter Tom Riddle’s descent into madness, to return to a world untouched by devastation or the tyranny of a merciless ruler. He attempted severity; he endeavored benevolence. Yet he acknowledged the futility of trying to save all—it was an impossible task. Determined, Harry informed Tom, “I’ll bring Crouch here. We need to prepare the room and secure an additional wand.” Tom, taken aback by Harry’s composed demeanor, could only nod. “I’ll take care of the room with spells that leave no trace. You find a wand. On the seventh floor lies the Room of Hidden Things. Pace thrice by the wall near Barnabas the Barmy’s statue. Inside, a myriad of masterless wands awaits. Choose one responsive to your touch. We will extract all we need from Crouch.” Tom’s expression softened into an uncharacteristic smile, his thumb caressing Harry’s cheek in a gesture tinged with familiarity. “Now I see the Auror in you,” he admitted. “You went through a lot, yet life goes on. Fight for yourself. Your aid to me was invaluable; allow me now to help you, Harry.” “Sometimes, I think I’m just a heap of shattered bricks, beyond repair,” Harry confessed abruptly. “I flail, attempting to do good, but with each dawn, pain washes more of me away. What remains of the real me? I can’t tell anymore.” Tom drew him in, and Harry, with a sigh, nestled into the sanctuary of Tom’s embrace. There was solace there, amidst the ruin. “Or perhaps it’s the contrary?” Tom proposed. “Your life was constructing you, one brick at a time. You’re not crumbling; you’re evolving into your true self.” “Then I’m afraid of who that might be,” Harry replied with a frail smile. ***   Crouch had a knack for sniffing out danger. He gave Harry a wide berth, avoided eye contact, and seemed to blend into the background. It took a full day of tracking before Harry finally cornered him. “Gordy? Is everything alright?” Crouch managed a smile as Harry caught up with him post-Potions. “There’s been a development,” Harry said, his voice low as he glanced around for Professor Colhepp. “I’ve remembered something, and I need answers.” “Really?” Crouch’s demeanor lightened, a palpable sense of relief washing over him. “Thank heavens! Let’s talk.” He snatched up Harry’s hand, tugging him forward. “To my room; it is vacant,” Harry said, securing his grip. “I’m not ready to trust you just yet.” “I get it,” Crouch murmured, looking away. “Lead on.” As curfew neared, the halls were mostly deserted, with most students huddled in the common rooms, oblivious to the pair slipping by—the Charms exam looming large on their minds. “What did you remember?” No sooner had the door closed than Riddle emerged from the gloom, a stranger’s wand at the ready. “Gordian? What is he doing here?” “He’s our young prodigy in Legilimency,” Potter said, casting spells on the door with a cold smile. “Now we’ll find out what the hell you were doing with me before I lost my memory.” “No!” Crouch reached for his wand, but Harry knocked it out of his hand with a swift movement. “No, you don’t understand! You can’t—” “Can’t what?” Harry asked softly. “You can’t let anyone know!” Crouch became hysterical. He frantically tugged at the door handle. “You’ll regret it! You can’t, Gordy!” “Tom, if you please,” Harry said. Tom didn’t need further prompting. He advanced on panicking Gaspard and raised the wand. “Legilimens!” Harry settled comfortably into a chair, watching as Riddle focused on pinning Crouch to the door. His face was emotionless as he stared into Gaspard’s sole eye in eerie silence, and it was quite an odd spectacle. Harry expected some screams or groans, but Gaspard just stood there calmly. As time ticked on, nothing seemed to change. Potter paced the room, drank water a few times, removed his robe, sat back down, and then noticed a thin stream of blood trickling from Crouch’s nose. “Tom, stop!” he rushed toward them, grabbing Riddle by the shoulder. “Tom, can you hear me? You’re killing him!” Tom blinked a few times and finally broke the spell. Gaspard immediately whimpered and slid down the door to the floor, burying his face in his knees. “Well?” Harry inquired impatiently. “Holy shit,” Tom’s eyes widened in shock. “It’s just… fucked up!” He rarely used such language, and Harry even gaped in astonishment. “You won’t get away with this,” Crouch wailed. “You don’t understand who you’re dealing with. They can kill us all at any moment!” “Tom,” Harry called worriedly. “What did you see? What’s this about?” “It’s Marius. He sold you to Rosier,” Tom exhaled, “when you were twelve. And Gaspard got involved out of foolishness. He stole something from Rosier’s house; Hector caught him and forced him to… Why the hell didn’t you tell anyone? Your brother works in the Ministry! Your father is the Head of the Wizengamot!” “I was twelve,” Crouch sobbed. “I was a fool. My dad swore if I ever broke the law, he’d feed me to the Dementors. He’s very harsh, you don’t understand. My eye… he did that. He splashed potion in my face for shaming him publicly. I don’t know why I did it, but I stole Lady Rosier’s necklace, and Hector caught me. I was a child, I didn’t understand what he was suggesting. Then it was too late. If dad found out, he wouldn’t have cared, he’d have strangled me with his own hands,” Crouch smeared tears and blood across his face, choking on sobs. “When Gordian came along, he left me alone. He was obsessed with him. I sometimes just watched from afar; he liked that. Please, never, never tell anyone!” “For Merlin’s sake, explain!” Harry’s patience snapped. “Your cousin Marius sold you to Rosier for his personal use,” Tom said, rubbing his eyes wearily. “Crouch, explain it all yourself, for Merlin’s sake. We won’t tell anyone. Just unburden yourself. Do you really want to keep living like this?” “No, I don’t,” he sobbed. “Without Gordian, he’s turned into a complete beast. I just… I wish for death, just so I never have to…” Harry squatted down and carefully hugged the crying boy’s shoulders. “Gaspard, it’s alright,” he whispered. “I won’t let him hurt you.” Anger was kindling in Harry’s chest. “You can’t do anything to him,” Crouch sobbed. “He has influential friends… They shield him from all accusations. They are everywhere! He rents us out to them, and they protect him. Even if you leak memories and send them to the press, they’ll smooth it over.” “Have you tried?” Harry’s tone became business-like. “No, Hector said so. I was told if I don’t bring you back, something terrible will happen to me. They need you. You’re like an idol to them, being perfectly beautiful and pureblooded.” Harry exchanged glances with Tom. “So Rosier is the main guy?” he probed gently. “No, he’s more like… a coordinator. Those two who always wear masks, they’re higher up. Hector provides boys for them. They’re usually half-bloods; only you and I are purebloods. They treat us differently, don’t kill us, like they do the others.” The new information made Harry’s head spin. He wanted to tear Rosier apart, to torture Marius to death. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now. You won’t be going back to them. Who are the two in masks?” “I don’t know,” Gaspard looked desperate, shrinking into himself. “I really don’t know. You knew more, you never tried to stop it. You said it was for the family.” “Do you know who abducted him? Was it one of them?” Tom interjected, his voice low and threatening. “No, I don’t,” Crouch shook his head, realizing the magnitude of what he had just revealed. “When Gordian disappeared, Hector was beside himself. He had everyone on edge, he’s obsessed with him. If one of his influential friends did it, they did it without the others’ consent. He paid Marius a fortune each time you came to his manor.” “So the motive was to avoid payment,” Harry mused. “No, it’s not that. I suffered immensely in your absence,” tears streamed down his cheeks again. “He took his frustrations out on me. The others, too… They preferred you. Once, they found a Muggle who looked like you and…” His voice broke as he recalled the horror. He became hysterical, and Harry and Tom had to hold him on either side to prevent him from hurting himself. “Listen to me, Gaspard,” Harry whispered urgently. “Listen! You’re not going back there. Understand? You’ll forget it all. This never happened; it was just a nightmare.” “We could use him to learn more,” Tom murmured, but Harry gave him a fierce look and shook his head. “You didn’t learn the Obliviate spell for nothing,” he said decisively. “Use it for good. Erase his memories of this horror; let him live in peace.” “They’ll find me again anyway,” the boy whimpered. “Nothing can be fixed.” “Merlin, Gaspard! You’re a grown lad, can’t you see they’ve been playing on your fear of your father? You can end this!” Harry roared. “They’ll blackmail him with the photos,” Riddle retorted. “I assume they’ve also been dosing you with an erection potion?” “Uh-huh,” he nodded. “Gordy and I dealt with it together. We supported each other. We loved each other! And now I don’t even have that! Just a constant urge to either shag or die.” “Well, let them try to blackmail. It’s their loss, they can’t…” “Hector secretly sent your photos to a local porn seller!” Tom interjected. “He’s serious enough to take the risk. Stop believing everything will just resolve itself once you report to the Auror Office. They won’t solve anything; this is clearly a conspiracy involving very influential people. If necessary, they’ll eliminate all witnesses.” “I’ll kill him!” Harry growled. “My cousin and those influential swine! Just think of how many we’d save by eliminating them? And the victims and…” “Souls?” Tom suggested. “We’ll talk about that later,” Harry said firmly. “Gaspard, what else do you know that’s important? Any suspicions? We have to fight back; this can’t continue.” “I know I have to bring you to his manor this summer. If I fail, I’ll face something terrible,” the boy replied, shaking his head. “Please, don’t take away my memory. I won’t be able to cope then…” “He won’t be able to defend himself because he’ll be ignorant of the danger,” Tom said as he stood and pocketed his wand. “We can’t erase his memory.” “Then erase my memory of this hour,” Gaspard suddenly begged. “I might inadvertently betray Gordy. Rosier is cunning and vigilant, extremely cautious. When Gordian lost his memory, he stayed under the radar to avoid investigation. He justified everything as an engagement, he endured all this time. If I behave oddly, he’ll catch on, and that will be the end for Gordian!” Harry and Tom exchanged looks; Tom gave a slight nod. “You say you love me, yet you were going to deliver me to him?” Harry frowned. “Is that love? You don’t hand over someone you love to the executioner. You protect them at the cost of your own life.” “I was trying to save you,” Gaspard said earnestly. “It’s better that you return to him and live, rather than die. Do you think an engagement with Alphard will keep you safe from him?” “You’re quite the slimeball,” Riddle said with disdain, extending his wand toward Gaspard. He first cleaned away the blood and tears, then a familiar blue flash sparkled, and Gaspard blinked in bewilderment. “Kick him out; he won’t remember anything anyway,” Riddle said curtly. “He’ll be completely disoriented for a few minutes.” Harry carefully helped Gaspard up, led him to the corridor, and escorted him to the door of his own room, then returned to his. “I’ll contact Captain Shacklebolt,” he declared from the doorway. “It’s not just my life at stake. This needs to be brought to light!” He expected resistance, and Riddle didn’t disappoint. “Indeed,” he said calmly. “Let’s just get Shacklebolt killed as well. Are you thinking clearly? There are several wizards there who fear nothing. Do you realize how influential they are? Shacklebolt is just an ordinary Auror. They’ll simply kill him, and it won’t raise any suspicion.” “It’s not the minister there!” Harry shot back. “But… Alright, you’re right. We can’t be hasty. What do you suggest?” “We need to uncover their identities. Have you considered why your cousin readily agreed to an engagement with the Black family, spurning Rosier? Doesn’t that provoke any questions?” “Lord Black has more influence than Rosier’s connections,” Harry realized. “Marius is after money, so he abandoned Hector. That means… He must know who these people are.” Harry bit his lip, wrestling with his rage. The images from the photos still seared his vision, fueling his desire to tear the villains apart. “We’ll use your talent once more and send the memories to the Auror office,” he concluded. “Can you brew Polyjuice Potion?” “What kind of question is that?” Riddle replied, his chin rising. “But it takes time to prepare; it’s easier to steal it. The seventh years just completed their exams on it; Colhepp has the quality samples. What do you need it for?” “You’ll impersonate Alphard,” Harry suggested with a wry smile. “We’ll rattle this snake den.” ***   Collaborating with Riddle was a sheer delight. He had the authentic talent of a special agent, the kind chosen from the best students at the academy and covertly trained for various governmental missions. They attempted to recruit Harry into this program, but he failed the intelligence test within the first five minutes, purportedly due to a hangover. Or so he told himself. Riddle procured the Polyjuice Potion from Colhepp’s secured storeroom during a class in a swift five minutes. Even Harry failed to see how he accomplished it. He also managed to compile comprehensive information on Rosier, including his old school friends, culinary preferences, and fashion choices. “So, we have a trio of friends: Marius Selwyn, Idwig Prince, and Hector Rosier. They’ve been inseparable since their school days. And here’s Marius, for money, selling Gordian to a friend, and Gordian complies for the sake of family.” Harry paced the room anxiously while Riddle jotted down some notes in his journal. “The year Marius hands over his cousin, Gordian’s father dies, official version — suicide. I’m sure he did something horrendous. If it comes out, the Selwyns are finished.” “Stop fidgeting, please; you’re distracting,” Riddle requested. “Come here.” Harry approached his desk and saw a complex diagram with names and arrows. He pushed aside a stack of books, leaned his elbows on the desk, and peered over it. “Lord Black?” he pointed at the topmost name. “Why are there arrows from him?” “I’m convinced he’s involved. He doesn’t just give Marius money for nothing, and your cousin didn’t just tell you to arrange an engagement with one of his children for no reason. Marius isn’t a fool.” His breath brushed Harry’s cheek with a warm breeze, causing him to shiver upon realizing how close they were. “I don’t think Pollux could be part of this; it’s absurd. I know him; he’s a bit intimidating, but not as much as his future granddaughter, for example. Just a regular pureblood wizard. Now, Lord Crabbe — he’s the very picture of a perverse maniac.” “As if maniacs are so keen on standing out for everyone to see: ‘Here I am, a bona fide, plain maniac,’” Tom snorted. “Usually, the most unassuming and harmless-looking person turns out to be the primary villain.” “Judging by yourself?” Harry grinned, nudging him with his shoulder. “Am I unassuming?” Riddle pursed his lips in mock discontent. “I’m quite the stereotypical villain. Take our Professor Colhepp, for example; he would make an ideal maniac. A middle-aged, nondescript wizard, stationed in a school full of children…” “He’s just a bookworm, what kind of villain would he make? He couldn’t even stand up to Riedale yesterday when he pointed out the mistake on the board.” “Exactly,” Tom emphasized, nudging back. “Such individuals can’t handle conflicts openly, but later, in the dead of night, they sneak into the bedroom of a defenseless victim, and…” “Ow!” Harry laughed, rubbing his neck. “Did you pinch me? You?” “And what, villains can’t pinch?” Riddle retorted with a straight face, pinching Harry’s side again. “You’re trying to dull my vigilance, don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Harry said, feigning annoyance. “You’re behaving out of character.” “Like this?” he drawled. “Like when you laid your head on my lap recently,” Harry began, counting on his fingers. “You strut around me shirtless, you joke, although I’ve never seen you laugh; you’re always as serious as a heart attack. It’s all like: ‘Look at me, I’m so normal, I definitely am not plotting murders and dictatorships…’” “But it works, doesn’t it?” Riddle suddenly pulled Harry onto his lap, clasping his hands over his chest. Utterly bewildered, Harry froze in those arms, pressed against his warm torso from behind. He was sitting on him, feeling his groin with his buttocks, a mix of thrill and mirth coursing through him. “It doesn’t work,” he replied in a suddenly husky voice. “I’m still watching you; don’t expect to deceive me. And whatever you’re doing now won’t throw me off, rest assured.” “And what am I doing?” he exhaled warmly into Harry’s ear. “I think you’re trying to fluster me, but I’ve become accustomed to your antics,” his body responded with a familiar shiver and longing. “I’m not running away. So let go of me, villain, and let’s return to the investigation.” Harry distantly thought that cunning Riddle was very good at taming. Little actions, conversations, looks, touches — and now Harry didn’t want to die of shame for becoming aroused in his pants in response to the proximity of another body. In reality, only with him did Harry feel at ease. Riddle knew what was happening, didn’t judge, and made it clear in every way that he considered it nonsense. But for the past week, he had been acting too strangely. Even for him. “You can stay here; is it uncomfortable for you?” the villain drawled in his most annoying tone, his lips grazing a vertebra on Harry’s neck. “This is going too far!” Harry protested. The soft touch sent arousal spreading like wildfire, which Harry could feel being mirrored by Riddle; with his backside, Harry could feel him hardening as well. “Stop it at once; do you realize what you’re doing?” “I do,” he said, letting go reluctantly. “Unlike you, I am very observant.” Potter wriggled out of the embrace and loomed threateningly over him. “I don’t understand,” he hissed angrily, staring into the impenetrable black depths of Tom’s eyes. “What are you trying to achieve? I…” He stumbled, realizing that the only explanation for Tom’s behavior had been evident for a while. “You…? You want to…?” he voiced his horror. “I do,” came the eager impatience from the other end of the bond, “This is also an investigation. We can feel each other’s emotions; just imagine what will happen if we…” “Don’t say it out loud!” Harry cut him off sternly. “Have you lost your mind? It’s not only incest, it’s just inconceivable!” “Why? In other societies, it was considered natural. And yes, it’s not deemed real incest, only technically and very faintly.” “Since when do you lead the commission on the assessment of permissible incest? Merlin, what are we even discussing? No! No experiments in this domain!” “But…” “Shush! Quiet. Silence!” Harry hissed. Inside, everything burned with the mere idea. Taming Voldemort, getting him on his knees, making him beg… Tom liked being caressed. He enjoyed insignificant touches to his hands, neck, hair. He liked when Harry hugged him, nuzzling into the collar of Tom’s robe. In those moments, their bond made them feel whole, warm, and happy. And if they went further… shared pleasure, union, a dual climax… Tom would be relaxed, aroused, so beautiful… Harry had to close his eyes and shake his head to dispel the enchantment. The image of satisfied, post-bliss, lazily smiling Riddle in his bed kept appearing before his eyes. It’s all Gordian’s silly hormones. What perversions could come to mind! Harry had come to terms with his attraction to his own gender. But to Riddle?! Never. “Did that other me from the future have someone?” the object of his fantasies inquired, brazenly sprawling in a chair. He didn’t try to hide his arousal, only spreading his legs wider. Harry swallowed audibly, averting his gaze from those long legs and strong thighs tightly encased in trousers. Riddle was devilishly attractive in his audacity. “Not that I know of; he never had a partner, in school or afterward. There was an admirer, but as far as I know, she never received any reciprocation. I doubt such things interested him.” Biographers, collecting fragments of Tom Riddle’s life, often pondered Voldemort’s relationships. Yet, none found even the slightest hint. Harry believed that after creating the first Horcrux, Voldemort relinquished the pleasures of the flesh. “I thought as much,” Riddle responded with a hint of triumph in his eyes. “I wasn’t interested in sex per se. I tried it once and found it repulsive. But then you came along, and our bond unveiled the allure of such pleasures to me. It turns out, you’ve changed me; I won’t become the wizard from the future if we have sex.” “You’re blackmailing me with sex?” Harry exclaimed. “And if we don’t, you’ll become Volde… um, you’ll follow the old path? Have you gone mad?” “It’s not blackmail; it’s a fact. And what’s ‘Volde’? Did I have a nickname?” “You did. So ludicrous and pompous that I don’t want to upset you. There’s enough pomposity in your life as it is.” “You think I’m pompous?” Riddle arched an eyebrow. Harry gave him a telling glance over his figure and snorted. “One hundred percent. So, let’s settle this: we won’t have sex, and you’ll have to change your path to avoid becoming a monster. Period.” Harry turned sharply and strode towards the exit. Conversations about sex and his own fantasies had riled him up; he needed to distance himself from Riddle. He nearly made it to freedom, his hand on the doorknob, but Riddle transgressed, following him and pinning him to the door. “We won’t have sex if you don’t want to,” Riddle whispered, his breath hot in Harry’s ear. Harry yearned to throw his head back, to press into Riddle’s groin. “Just know I want it. I can’t lie or hide that from you. Go, it’s better we spend some time apart,” he kissed the nape of Harry’s neck sensually, his nose trailing the skin, his hand sliding forward to open the door, brushing against Harry’s stomach. “Fuck, I hate you,” moaned Potter as he darted out of the room. Amid the astonished gazes of the students, he sped through the entire dormitory and locked himself in the communal bathroom, where he hugged Tom for the first time, by his own will. “He is not Voldemort; he is a succubus,” he told his reflection in the mirror. The images of the old Voldemort and this Tom had diverged so sharply that Harry could no longer see them as the same person. This Tom was different: equally intelligent, equally cunning, but so human, so tangible, that Harry yearned to hold him, to shield him from the future, to smother him with kisses, to caress him in the ways Tom liked. His manipulations worked marvelously, causing Harry to doubt himself and the path he had chosen. After the Chamber of Secrets incident, he sighed with relief, realizing Riddle took the warning very seriously. He had decided that being frank would suffice to keep Riddle from mayhem, that there was no need to become a couple and tie him down as in other realms. However, Riddle seemingly didn’t share his view. For this restless soul, shared emotions weren’t enough; now he also desired Harry’s body and didn’t shy from blackmailing with the future. The Red Phoenix still loomed on the horizon. Who knows, if Harry rejected his advances, Tom might, out of spite, charm Walburga and recreate the Third Reich within the Wizarding world? Harry had inadvertently suggested the idea, even revealed the name. “Merlin, Shesmetet, tell me, does it always end like this?” he asked the goddess. “Is he such an… unbearable bastard in every universe?” She giggled and confirmed by swatting his legs with her tail. “I must sever our bond, no matter what,” Harry nodded to himself. “This can’t continue. He can find someone else for his eternal torments.” Suddenly, a powerful wave of arousal came through the bond, so intense that Harry moaned and leaned against the sink, his knees weakening. “What a bastard,” he groaned, hastily unzipping his trousers. “He’s doing this on purpose! But how, from such a distance?” Shivering as if with fever, he moved his hand vigorously along his length, gasping with pleasure and raging desire. At one point, he even saw another bathroom, sensed Tom’s approaching climax, and reached his own, cursing him with the dirtiest words. With horror, he realized Riddle wasn’t doing this deliberately. It was simply that Tom was feeling so good that his sensations spilled over onto Harry, because Harry was the focus of his fantasies. Just what he needed, to become the sexual fantasy of the future ex-Dark Lord. “After we deal with Marius and Hector, I’ll start boycotting him,” he promised Shesmetet.