Behind Lies Eternity

Waking up at the train station, Harry dashed towards the black door. Darkness engulfed everything; neither trains nor Dumbledore were anywhere in sight. The floor darkened, crumbling into greasy ash. Pain and despair tore at his heart, thoughts of Tom inflicting unbearable agony. Gripping the door handle, Harry tugged, but it remained immovable. Charging, he rammed it with his shoulder, tried kicking it open, and finally managed to shove the heavy door just enough to squeeze through. Squeezing through, he tumbled… Into his own bedroom. There he was, still dark-haired, sound asleep on the bed he and Hermione had spent three days choosing. His glasses and wand lay on the table; a mirror hung on the wall, where, it seemed, a thousand years ago, he had heard the voice of Tom Riddle from another world. The carpet and pajamas were different, but these were small changes. “Shesmetet, what’s this?” he called to the goddess, realizing she’d been giggling at the edge of his consciousness for quite some time. His scar was still there, slightly more centered on his forehead, a fresh scratch adorned his cheek. “It’s you, Harry,” a voice purred in his ear. A tail brushed his legs, nudging him towards the body on the bed, with a thin golden thread attached to it. “Exactly at the moment you left.” “But how?” Potter managed. “Was all this… an illusion?” “Not all of it,” the goddess laughed. “You were in the past, Harry. But the past can’t be changed. Those who died will still die, the main events will still unfold one way or another. You left Tom, and he sought revenge. He did everything to inflict on you the same pain you caused him. He became Lord Voldemort, tore his soul apart, turned into a heartless monster. And everything happened just as it had happened before. “No one takes what’s mine without consequences. I neither forgive nor forget. The retribution is always severe,” Harry recalled his calm voice. Harry had taken Tom’s most precious possession — his own life. Because of this, Tom retaliated, never learning to let go. “But what about what I saw earlier, when I first died? I saw my father, Sirius, and Pettigrew alive! What was that?” Harry asked, struggling to believe. “I am a master of illusions, Harry. You had to believe you were altering events to prolong your stay in the past. I deceived you. The same people, including your Tom, will meet their end. With some variations, perhaps a bit earlier or later, under different circumstances, but their fates are sealed. And now, here we stand. The portal between the worlds is closing permanently, Harry. You must choose: return to your world, to your friends, your family, your godson, or remain in the past, with Tom.” This was what he feared the most: being faced with a choice. “But if I return, everything is predestined, and a war will still happen? I can’t prevent it? My parents, Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore, and… Tom himself will die? And if we are each other’s Horcruxes, then I’ll die with him?” “Exactly,” giggled Shesmetet. “But at least you’ll be with your beloved for many years…” Harry screamed. He screamed and screamed, as if he could tear the room apart with his voice. “Bitch! Why did you do this?!” he raged, venting his pain. “Why are you fixated on us?! What have we done to you?!” Tom, his Tom. How deeply was he suffering that it led him to do all this? “To help, of course,” the goddess stopped giggling, her voice tinged with sadness. “You needed to figure out what you truly want, beneath all the superficial layers. Just like Tom.” “But why us?! Why specifically me and Tom?” “Because you are the last bearers of my bloodline,” whispered the goddess. “The others are dead. You are the last piece of me in this universe. Watching your adventures from age to age is practically my only joy. I saw your first births as Harry Peverell and Thomas Slytherin, witnessed all your incarnations. What else can I do, trapped in this statuette? Only care for those who carry my legacy.” “Your bloodline’s legacy?” Harry recoiled, almost falling, if he had been corporeal. “So, Tom and I are your descendants? Who are you, really?” “I understand your curiosity, child,” sighed the goddess, her voice gaining a human touch. “I am from the primordial tribe, Harry, once known as Sakkra. I lived in times before my descendant, whose statue you’ve seen, invented the Deathly Hallows, when wizards didn’t exist, and real dragons roamed the skies. But as centuries passed, first people and then wizards emerged. My own kin imprisoned me in this statuette forever, punishing me for wanting to share magic with people, a desire they vehemently opposed.” “Who are you?” Harry wailed. “Who are these primordial people? Did the King invent the Hallows? How do they work? How did you share magic? I have so many questions!” “Not all questions need answers, child, for your own good. In none of the worlds did the answers help you. The memory of those times is long erased. There was a terrible war, with rivers of blood flowing everywhere. Continents split, seas shrank to puddles, and only ash fell from the sky. It was then that the universe shattered, giving birth to millions of parallel worlds. To prevent a recurrence of this, I shall remain silent. Wizards must unite; war must not happen again.” Harry thought of the King’s strange statue, the bodies under the manor bound by thick black roots, and Mrs. Selwyn’s note. “Is that why you placed me in Gordian’s body?” he guessed. “To find and stop the King? What did he want?” “The same as always: to annihilate all wizards, pit them against each other, so they destroy themselves. I did what I could. You always disliked him, I knew you’d figure it out and stop him. For hundreds of years, across worlds, I’ve been searching for the King, and with your help, cutting him off from the power source of sacrificial blood. Now, in this world, he’s locked away forever, but the seeds he sowed have sprouted abundantly. Yet, you can fix it all, Harry. Think about it.” “How? I don’t understand, explain!” Harry wailed. “I’ve given you enough hints, child. I’ve done all I can; now the choice is yours. Where will you go: here or to Tom? Think about it.” All the puzzles of the past seemed irrelevant now. The memory of their last kiss, when Tom knelt before him, laughing, licking his lips, then handing him a box with the ring, flashed brightly. But other memories followed: Hermione and Ron, little Teddy, Ginny, family dinners with the Weasleys. Tom’s sick obsession, and their bond. Harry couldn’t betray his friends for Tom Riddle. He just couldn’t! “So, Tom tore his soul apart, destroying his chance for rebirth?” he asked. “And we will never meet again?” “What nonsense,” the goddess chuckled. “Mortals can’t tear apart a soul. Only ancient demons summoned from the darkest worlds can do that, no one else.” “But what about Horcruxes?” exclaimed stunned Harry. “Aren’t they soul fragments trapped in objects? Don’t they anchor the soul to the earth?” “Oh, my dear boy. How can a severed fragment tether the rest of the soul to the earth?” the goddess giggled. “You know so little about true magic…” “I don’t understand. So, the soul doesn’t actually split?” Harry was beginning to grasp what she meant. He had never considered how a severed piece of a soul could tether the rest of it. “In between the worlds, the laws of mortals don’t apply. A human soul is indivisible and immortal. It exists simultaneously everywhere, in all the thousands of parallel worlds. Horcruxes are merely an illusion of splitting a soul. You humans are resilient creatures. The most powerful warriors have tried to destroy your kind, but you survive time and again. A trifle like a Horcrux can’t disrupt the cycle of rebirth. Tom learned this, and that’s why he resorted to the ritual. He coped with grief as best he could.” “Merlin. So, Tom and I… we’ll meet again? In a new world?” “You will. And I already know how it all ends. You’ll create quite a stir,” laughed Shesmetet. “You can’t sever this bond.” Somehow, this news didn’t upset Harry. He suddenly realized that he had grown accustomed to thinking that he and Tom had an eternity ahead. That they would encounter each other over and over. In some worlds, they would be happy, in others miserable. But either way, they would be together. But they would be different, with different memories. And right now, there in the past, his Tom was suffering, having lost the only person he managed to connect with. And if Harry returns, he will suffer alongside him. He will slowly watch as Tom descends into darkness. Everything is predetermined, and the universe has already set it so that the war will repeat. Thousands of purebloods, half-bloods, and Muggle-borns will die. In his secret hall, flags of the Red Phoenix already hang, and he’s planning to turn Harry into a Horcrux. One day, he will simply lock him in Selwyn manor, like Nagini. His love is a curse. “How did we end up bound together?” he asked. “Do you know? You said you saw our first incarnation! And what does ‘first’ mean? Are there worlds where our bond doesn’t exist? I don’t understand!” “Too many questions, child. I’ve already given you all the answers I can.” Harry struggled to make sense of what she was saying. His mind was in chaos, torn between the past and future, between the mysteries of their origin and the desire to abandon everything and return to Tom. But Harry simply couldn’t stay with him. He needed to be with his friends, his godson. Before him was the world he had left, where they were alive and knew him as Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. That was his home. He couldn’t stay. “Time’s up. Make your decision, Harry,” the goddess whispered. “Make the right choice.” And Harry stepped forward. ***   Harry was having a strange dream. He found himself back in a forest clearing, surrounded by Death Eaters. He heard Bellatrix’s laughter, Hagrid’s screams. But he was confused. The Death Eaters wore armbands with a red phoenix, and an eerie wizard with serpentine eyes looked at him as if he were the only one present. “Tom?” Harry called out, recognizing the attentive gaze, the proud posture, the way he held his wand. The wizard’s red, elongated pupils seemed to widen in surprise. “Am I dreaming?” Harry asked, looking at his hands, now unfamiliar, dark, calloused, with dirty nails. His thoughts were foggy, scattered, unable to focus. “Harry?” the wizard whispered, stepping closer. The laughter around them ceased. “Do you remember?” “Tom…” Harry tried to reach out, but his hand felt numb, unresponsive. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Where are we? Your hair… You were just with me… We were looking at the valley, in the rain… I wanted to accept your ring so badly, you can’t even imagine.” His vision began to fade, despite clinging to the image of the tall, pale, bald figure he knew as his Tom. His thoughts overlapped, creating confusion. “Harry,” came a strained whisper. “You’ve returned…” “Tom, what have you done?” Through the haze, a terrifying reality dawned, and Harry’s heart clenched in pain. The last thing he saw were those snake-like eyes, filled with desperate rage. ***     The first thing that surprised Harry upon waking up to a call from the fireplace was Ron’s voice. “Harry! Harry! Are you still sleeping?” Ron’s voice boomed from the living room, startling Harry who jumped up in bed, looking around frantically and groping the sheets. He and Tom had gone to bed together. How did Ron get into their house? The bed was different: new, unlike the old one in their house in Hogsmeade. Bright sunlight streamed through the uncurtained windows, mercilessly revealing a long-forgotten, yet familiar setting. Tom wasn’t there; this wasn’t their bed in Hogsmeade. This was Harry Potter’s house. An icy grip of terror seized his heart, and tears sprang to his eyes. “Ron!” he rushed into the living room and saw his friend’s freckled face, changed only by a short beard that added a touch of dignity. But those eyes… Harry recognized Lucretia’s eyes in Ron’s face, which made him cry even harder. “Harry, what’s the matter?” asked Ron, alarmed. “What happened? Who died?” The head vanished from the fireplace, and moments later, Ron Weasley stood fully in the living room. “Ron,” Harry embraced him tightly, shaking with sobs. “I’ve missed you so much.” “We saw each other a couple of days ago. You even said you had mermaid fever. Oh, so that’s it! You’re delirious!” Harry shook his head, laughing through tears. The past was repeating itself, even his ridiculous excuses. “And how’s Hermione? What’s up with her?” he sobbed, gripping Ron’s robe tightly. “She’s nagging me about unwashed dishes, what else,” Ron said, guiding him to the couch. “What’s up with you? You’re scaring me.” “I’m fine. Just fine. It’s the fever medicine, it turned me into a weepy witch,” Harry lied, wiping his tears. “Hold on, I’ll pop over tomorrow after work. We’re in the middle of inventory, I’m stretched thin. Can you manage on your own?” “I’ll manage,” Harry murmured, clutching his pajama pants. He wanted to ask so much more, but he didn’t want to keep Ron. His job at the shop was important, so Harry let him go and walked into the familiar kitchen, unchanged as ever. He rummaged through the cabinets, suspecting there had to be a stash somewhere, and found a bottle of Firewhisky under the sink. Taking a burning sip, he coughed. “Fuck!” Harry yelled at the top of his lungs into the void, his voice filled with rage. “Bitch! Bitch!” In his fury, he overturned the table, shattered a vase, and began hurling chairs at the cabinets. He only stopped hours later when the bottle of Firewhisky was nearly empty. Barefoot, Harry walked to the only clean corner, oblivious to the bloody trails he left from the shards embedded in his feet. He sat on the floor, hugging his knees, and cried again. It was a total breakdown; his body shook uncontrollably, unable to stop. Just hours ago, he was hugging Tom in the carriage, kissing him, talking, having sex. Now, he was alone in his house, while Tom had lived half a century alone, filled with such intense hatred for Harry that he tried to destroy everything Harry loved, even his own soul. Where once warm and familiar emotions burned, now there was a sucking void. “Shesmetet!” he called. “Shesmetet!” But there was no response. The goddess no longer giggled at the edge of his consciousness, no invisible tail whipped at his legs. Exhausted by the outburst, Harry slumped, gasping for air. His throat constricted in a familiar spasm, refusing to let air in. He’d experienced this before, before he began drinking non-stop. Harry fell to the floor, his head thumping against it, thinking the same thing he always did in these moments: Voldemort should have killed him. The strange dream he had before waking no longer seemed like a dream. He was there, and Tom recognized him. After so many years, on the brink of death, Tom saw the Harry he had lost. And Harry wished to die, just to avoid realizing the extent of the pain he had caused Tom. ***   Unfortunately, it was Hermione who found him. “I thought it was all over,” she sobbed, levitating barely conscious Harry onto the couch in the living room. “What happened, Harry? Why are you… like this again?” The bright sunlight shining through the window indicated that Harry had been unconscious for over twelve hours, and morning had arrived again. His first day home had passed in a haze of drunken revelry, debauchery, and hysteria. “I’m sorry,” he managed, his lips dry and sticking together. “It was just a bad dream. Just a dream.” Blinking hard, he tried to focus his blurry vision and saw Hermione’s pale face. It was blurry because Harry always had poor eyesight. He had become so used to not wearing glasses that he didn’t even know where they were now. He probably threw them somewhere in a fit of rage. But even without his glasses, he noticed that her hair was bright pink. “What’s with your hair?” he blurted out, unable to hold back. The idea of Hermione willingly dyeing her hair such a garish color was unimaginable. “Ha-ha, very funny,” Hermione snorted, summoning his glasses and placing them on his face. “That joke belongs in the same place as your kitchen furniture now — in the trash.” Harry blinked a few times, disoriented. Hermione’s hair was a rich pink shade, she wore makeup, and a piercing stud gleamed in her nose. “What… When did you decide to look like you joined the Weird Sisters?” he blurted out. Hermione frowned and touched his forehead with the back of her hand. “Ron was right, you’re delirious,” she muttered. “You know what? That’s enough. I’m tired of pulling you out of depressions, binges, and all this fucking mess. I’ll put you in St. Mungo’s against your will, and you won’t leave until you’re cured.” Harry was taken aback by this new Hermione. Hermione who swore. Hermione with pink hair and a piercing. “I had a dream,” he said. “In which you were a bookworm with chestnut hair who hated cosmetics and never swore.” “About our childhood?” she sighed, sitting next to him on the couch. “I see where you’re going with this. Understand, Harry, we’re not children anymore. I’m no longer the naive girl ready to break school rules for her foolish friends. Though still a bookworm, I’m an adult who sees we can’t cope alone. We need help. And I’ll find that help to save you again, you idiot.” Harry recognized yet didn’t recognize his best friend. This Hermione was self-assured, sharp, and bright. “When did you first decide to dye your hair?” he asked pleadingly, clutching her hand with the bright blue manicure. “Please.” “Oh, alright,” she sighed tiredly but gently stroked his hand. “I first dyed my hair after our third year. You and Ron thought it was because I became friends with Parvati, after Lavender was bitten by Professor Lupin and taken out of school. But really, it was because my parents were getting divorced, and I wanted their attention… But they just fought more. I realized that even if I were perfect, nobody needed it.” Harry listened, new tears gathering in his eyes. Everything was completely different. Shesmetet was right; the world remained the same, but with slight changes. For the universe, Hermione’s hair color, whether her parents were together, and the year Lavender was bitten didn’t matter. But for Harry, it was the collapse of everything he knew. “What’s wrong?” his friend asked gently. “Got a hangover sentimentality?” “I just feel like I don’t know you at all. Neither you nor Ron,” Harry whispered. “It’s your illness. I’m not an expert in magical medicine, but I’ve read enough to know the dangers of this fever.” “You’re not studying to be a healer?” Harry’s heart clenched at the thought. “Oh, Merlin, it’s worse than I thought,” Hermione exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “I’m studying to be a journalist, Harry. You’re training to be an Auror. And now we’re going to St. Mungo’s because I can’t handle this anymore.” “Have you at least fought for house-elves’ rights?” Harry clung to a last straw of hope. “Fought against what?” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Against exploitation? They aren’t paid, it’s slave labor,” Harry muttered. “Nobody oppresses them, it’s in their nature to serve wizards. Even Voldemort didn’t oppress them, wake up, Harry,” Hermione said, placing her hand on his forehead. “Strange, you don’t seem feverish. What nonsense are you talking about? Get up! We’re going to St. Mungo’s!” Harry shivered at the mention of that name. So, Tom had taken his old pseudonym to spite him. But then, Harry recalled their conversation at the Selwyn manor. It was when he had scolded Tom, insisting that house-elves were not emotionless homunculi and warning that they could retaliate if humiliated. That admonition seemed to have stuck with Tom forever. In a daze, Harry rose from the couch and mechanically made his way to the shower. He washed with a sort of detached precision, then methodically tidied his hair. In the closet, he found a shirt, trousers, and a tie, all of which felt unfamiliar and cheap to the touch. As he dressed, the vivid image of Tom snapping his fingers, issuing authoritative commands to the house-elves, continuously replayed in his mind. He only snapped out of it when he passed the mirror. The reflection showed a stranger. At first, he flinched, thinking it was a visitor from another world. But after a few seconds, he realized it was himself, Harry Potter. “Breathe,” he commanded himself and walked into the living room. Hermione, waiting with two cups of iced tea, choked on her drink. “What are you dressed up for, a gala ball with Kingsley?” she exclaimed. Harry, puzzled, looked at his simple attire. “I wanted to take a walk down Diagon Alley, then grab a bite somewhere, Hermione,” he said, almost calling her “Tom.” “You won’t be able to address him again. He’s gone,” his mind reminded him. Harry clenched his jaws and lowered his head. This was not the moment to succumb to another fit of rage and self-pity, especially not in front of Hermione. “You’re wearing a tie! And, Merlin’s beard, what’s with your hair!” Hermione exclaimed, looking at him as if he were Dumbledore himself resurrected. “Are those cufflinks? You look just like Malfoy!” Harry was initially confused, then it dawned on him. The Harry Potter they knew never cared much about his appearance, never fretted over the impression he made on other well-mannered wizards, never wore cufflinks. It was Lady Selwyn and his mentors who had ingrained these habits in him, which he initially resisted but gradually adopted, especially living with Tom and mingling with Alphard, Lucretia, and other purebloods. He had become accustomed to it. He subconsciously clutched his tie, recalling the image in the mirror: skillful fingers deftly tying a half-Windsor knot in a strip of green fabric, and a burning whisper in his ear: “See, the larger snake wants to intertwine with the little one. It wraps around it first from above, then from below, like this. And then they entwine into a tight knot.”  His head bowed further as he tried to swallow the painful lump in his throat. Instinctively, he reached for the bond within him, seeking its comfort, but was met only with a hollow void. “Harry?” Hermione called, her voice laced with concern. “Harry…” Abruptly, she drew her wand and aimed it at him. “What creature was in Professor Lupin’s office in our third year?” “The Grindylow,” Harry uttered, his voice trembling. “And your mother’s name is Jean. You should give me the password now. How… How did we find the Chamber of Secrets?” Myrtle hadn’t died from the basilisk. Her ghost hadn’t haunted the bathroom, so they couldn’t have guessed where the Chamber was. “Silly check,” Hermione said, still wary but slightly relaxing her wand. “You found it. Tom Riddle from the diary told you, lured you there and tried to kill you.” Harry clutched at his shirt, as if trying to squeeze his heart, akin to rubbing a painful bruise or aching back. “I have memory gaps, Hermione,” he whispered, tears barely held back. “I don’t remember that. Or your hair. Or that you’re studying journalism. Tell me, my parents, Lily and James Potter, did… Voldemort kill them? Are they dead?” “Oh, Harry,” Hermione sheathed her wand, moved closer, and impulsively hugged him. “Shh, it’s okay. We’ll sort out your memory issues; they’re probably consequences from the fall. I healed your legs but didn’t check your head. That’s an easy fix for healers! And about your parents… I’m sorry, but yes, Voldemort killed them when he came to your house on Halloween night in ’81.” Tom, his Tom, had tried to kill him. Not as Voldemort, but as that part of him which Harry… loved. Trapped in the diary, and then, upon seeing young Harry… He must have realized who he was. And still, he tried to kill him. In that moment, Harry understood more clearly than ever that he loved him. Had always loved him. He loved that boy who obsessively craved his touch, his attention, his affection. Loved his intelligence, confidence, determination, cunning. Loved his revelations about the orphanage, his shaved nape, curls, perfectly ironed shirts, bottomless eyes, his smile. Only in separation did he realize the depth of his love for Tom. He had lied to himself, closing his eyes to what was obvious because he couldn’t accept his love for the future Dark Lord, yet yearned to be near him. Tom was right, as always. “How did this happen?” he sobbed, burying his face in Hermione’s shoulder. “How did this happen, Hermione? Why did this happen to me?” Why had Shesmetet been so cruel? Why throw him into the past, make him fall in love with the greatest dark wizard, and then fling him back into the same world where that wizard sought revenge for his trampled feelings? Had Harry made the wrong choice? “Think, Harry.” What choice did Harry have if he suffered equally with Tom and without him? He no longer believed the goddess wanted to help. She just wanted to rid herself of the King and used Harry. His feelings meant nothing to her, as is often the case with ancient beings who watch the same scenarios unfold century after century. “We’re going to St. Mungo’s. There they can…” Hermione began. “No!” Harry interrupted. “I want to remember myself… Tell me about the Chamber of Secrets. Why did he lure me there? How did it happen? How did I kill him?” Hermione soothingly stroked his back, but Harry couldn’t stop the tears. “You found the diary, which was a Horcrux of Voldemort,” she began softly. “You corresponded with Tom almost the entire school year. Then he tricked you into the Chamber, appeared as a ghost from the diary, and sicced the basilisk on you. But Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, came to your aid in time. You managed to defeat the basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor and then stabbed the diary with the basilisk’s fang.” “I corresponded with him almost a whole year?” Harry whispered. “And there was no possession? No messages written with blood on the walls, no petrified students?” “Merlin, Harry. You really got hit hard,” Hermione sighed. “No. No messages or possessions.” A tiny spark of warmth flickered in Harry’s tormented soul. So, Tom hadn’t threatened other students after all. His target was only Harry, but he couldn’t go through with it. He could have drained Harry and resurrected himself, which he wanted to do with Ginny, but he couldn’t do it to Harry. Corresponded for almost a year… How painful it must have been for him. “Take me to Diagon Alley,” Harry suddenly requested, surprising even himself. “I want to see what’s real and what’s not. We can always go to St. Mungo’s later. I need to process this. Maybe it’s better that I have memory gaps? Maybe it’s a protective reaction?” He couldn’t grasp everything that had happened to him. The games of ancient beings, the war between the primordial people and wizards, sacrifices, immortal souls, and his unbreakable bond with Tom… It all sounded like delirium. Maybe he had finally broken and lost his mind? Maybe he had fantasized all this to escape reality? He needed confirmation. Hermione pulled back, looked carefully into his red, tearful eyes, and softened. They apparated directly onto the porch of the Leaky Cauldron, and Harry was immediately struck by its worn appearance. Although it had always possessed a certain shabby charm, he remembered it as more presentable and well-maintained back in 1942. As they ventured into Diagon Alley, the changes since that time were stark. Gone was the golden sheen that once lit the street; in its place, dodgy traders had returned, and small, weathered shops were wedged between larger, imposing buildings. The refined atmosphere of elegant cafes, where witches in hats and gloves leisurely sipped tea while their sharply dressed husbands conducted business in law offices and banks, had vanished. Everything had reverted to its former state: mismatched buildings, boarded-up windows, grey, lifeless walls, and garish signs. The street was bustling with wizards in standard cloaks, weaving through a cacophony of voices, with traders calling out their wares and children’s shouts piercing the air. Strolling down the cobblestone path, Harry gazed at the once-familiar shops with a deep sense of nostalgia. Where Siemens and Siemens had once stood was now the home of a pharmacy and a pawnshop. The French fashion boutique, once a place he frequently visited with Lady Selwyn, had been replaced by a shop peddling second-hand robes, its windows coated in dust. With the purebloods gone, so too had the elegance of their lives, their manners, refinement, and politeness. Harry hadn’t realized this before, but now he saw it all too clearly. He wondered about the fate of the Selwyn manor. Had Tom sold it? Or left it as a bitter reminder? What had happened to Alphard? To Joanna? To Rut? They settled at a table in Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, ordered ice cream, and looked at each other as if seeing each other for the first time. And in a way, it was true. He didn’t know this version of Hermione. Harry had stepped into the place of her friend, filled a space that wasn’t truly his. They may share a soul, but it is memories that truly shape a person, not just the soul. The Hermione sitting before him was not the one he had grown up with, and he, in turn, was not the Harry she had known. This realization hit Harry with a profound sense of displacement: he had no home, no place where he truly belonged. The harsh reality dawned on him; he hadn’t lost his mind. His actions had unwittingly altered the course of half a century, displacing him into an unfamiliar body while his own simply didn’t exist in this new reality. He was an imposter. Hermione recounted the whole story of Harry Potter and Voldemort. It was almost identical to what he knew, with some differences in dates, details, reasons, and years. Instead of Death Eaters, there were Knights of the Order, instead of the Dark Mark over destroyed houses, the Red Phoenix spread its wings, and instead of Dumbledore’s Order of the Phoenix, there was the Resistance Squad. But the ending was the same: Voldemort came to Hogwarts and killed Harry, who didn’t die because he was his Horcrux, a part of his personality, magic, and life. And then they fought. Only in the very end… “No one ever understood what he meant by that,” Hermione shook her head after her long, exhausting story. “Before he died, he said…” “What did he say?” Harry held his breath and leaned in closer to her. Could Tom have asked for forgiveness? Or said that he still loved him? “He said that eternity lies behind you and him. And that you will meet again soon. Everyone thought that… that he gave in.” Harry shuddered, clutching the now-cold cup with coffee remains. Tom knew that Horcruxes couldn’t actually destroy the soul. And he knew the year he would die. He hadn’t severed their bond; he had accepted death at Harry’s hands, anticipating their next meeting in a new life. It seemed his dream was not just a dream. Somehow, Harry had really been there, in the forest, and Tom had recognized him. Burying his face in his hands, Harry groaned in agony, realizing everything he had done to him, how he had twisted him. Perhaps it was better not to know love at all than to experience and survive the betrayal of a loved one. “Where… where is he buried?” Harry choked on his pain. “I want to see…” “Harry,” Hermione gently took his hands from his face and held them in hers. Her probing gaze left no doubt that she suspected something. “I’m not an idiot, I hope you remember. What happened to you?” He realized that nothing but the truth would suffice. His gaze darted around, seeking an escape. “Harry,” she squeezed his hands tighter, almost painfully. “Once, you came to me, not quite yourself. In our sixth year, you went to Professor Dumbledore. You never detailed exactly what you did, just said you were looking for something. But that day was different. You were very upset. And you said that love turned Lord Voldemort into a monster. What did you do, Harry?” Looking at her, so changed yet still the insightful Hermione who always seemed to know everything, Harry decided to tell the truth. He had nothing left to lose. “I was in the past,” he whispered. “I tried to change Tom, and he fell in love with me. At least, he said so. I don’t know what was really in his head, but it certainly wasn’t love. You don’t treat loved ones like that.” He recounted everything: his intent to kill Tom, his decision to re-educate him, and the ensuing betrayal. Hermione listened without interrupting, only occasionally asking for clarification. “Now I understand,” Harry finally fell silent after the narration, waiting for her verdict. Hermione suddenly leaned forward and smacked him sharply on the back of his head, so hard he almost face-planted into the table. “That’s for even going to look for that goddess. But still…” she quickly calmed down and gazed thoughtfully out into the street. “You’re not to blame. If the past can’t be changed, then you have nothing to reproach yourself for. He became a monster either way, with or without you. Merlin, I can’t believe you were with him…” “I know, I know,” Harry confessed. “But Tom… he needed me. If only I had stayed with him!” He didn’t dare admit that he had hopelessly fallen in love with Tom. And that there was an eternal bond between them. For some reason, Harry wanted to keep the knowledge of the primordial beings, the bond, the Deathly Hallows, the King, and Sakkra to himself. Perhaps he feared Hermione would think he had lost his mind. Or maybe he wanted to be the sole possessor of this knowledge. “Nothing would have changed, Harry,” his friend cut him off sharply. “Something would have inevitably happened, and he would have caused a massacre anyway. Now there’s no point in pondering; it’s all in the past. He’s dead, and you’re alive. And a bottle won’t help you forget. You’re still the Harry Potter who went to save me from the troll. I won’t let you destroy yourself.” They spent the entire day together. Hermione dragged him through all the familiar streets and villages, showing him: nothing had significantly changed. It was still the same world he had disappeared from over a year ago, albeit with minor reconstructions, slightly different fashion, and different music bands. But Harry still felt out of place. Instead of his godson Teddy, he had goddaughter Dora. Instead of a romance with Ginny, there were brief, painful relationships with Cho Chang. Instead of friend Hagrid, there was friend A-gri. After a head injury from Alastor Moody, he never fully recovered, now just grunted, but remained kind and loved dangerous creatures. Harry seemed frozen in his shell of grief and pain. He smiled tensely at Hermione, but inside, he felt as if he had died. They visited the Weasley family, where ever-bustling Molly and goofy Arthur proudly talked about their granddaughter Marie-Victoire. They went to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where George gifted them his latest inventions. They had tea with Andromeda, dropped by Luna’s. It had been dark for a while, but Hermione was in no hurry to leave him, and Harry only wanted one thing. “Take me to his grave,” he pleaded. “Where is he buried?” “Harry, you don’t need to,” she tried to convince him. “What will it give you? Your journey is over, nothing can be changed, no one can be brought back.” “I know, I know! But I want to see his final resting place,” Harry threw his head back and pressed his fingers hard against his eyelids behind his glasses. Everything felt like a dream, another delirium, like when he first woke up in the body of Gordian Selwyn. He needed to see, to confirm… “I want to go to Tom! Take me to him!” echoed in his mind. And Hermione relented. They apparated to the familiar graveyard, where, a thousand years ago, Harry stood tied to a tombstone, witnessing Voldemort’s rebirth from a cauldron. “Back here again,” Harry shook his head. In his version of the world, Voldemort was buried here as a lesson, next to his entire Muggle family. “Yes,” Hermione nodded, her wand’s bright light illuminating the darkness with Lumos. “Kingsley decided this place would be undisturbed. Who would think to bury Voldemort in a Muggle cemetery? People come here to look at the angel statue you were tied to, bring flowers to his father whose bone was used in the ritual, leave offerings for Cedric. And no one knows he’s here too. Otherwise, the grave would have been vandalized long ago.” Harry approached the familiar tombstone. Not long ago, he and Tom had been here. They brought flowers to the grave of his family, whom Tom never knew and had no desire to, but he wanted to make a grand gesture. Maybe it was just to show Harry how much he had changed. The same inscription adorned the tombstone, but beneath it was a newer, clearer one. “Behind Lies Eternity,” Harry read, his lips trembling. “Who wrote this?” “Kingsley,” Hermione said, squatting down to adjust a dried bouquet of flowers. “He thought it ironic. Eternity is supposed to lie ahead, not behind. Strange phrase, isn’t it?” “Yes, strange,” Harry murmured, recalling Tom’s words during their embrace. “Behind us lies eternity, Harry,” he had whispered, stroking his hair. Only now did he grasp the meaning of that phrase. For when Tom embraced him, eternity indeed lay behind both of them, enveloping them in their hold. Memories surged, and tears flowed from Harry’s eyes. He placed his hand on the cold stone, realizing that beneath it, in the earth’s depths, lay Tom. “Forgive me,” he sobbed, his head bowed so low it almost touched the stone. “Forgive me for not accepting our bond. For wanting to sever it. For the many obstacles that stood between us in this world.” It suddenly became clear what Shesmetet meant. If the soul exists simultaneously in all worlds, then their bond does too. They would always be together. Hermione stayed silent, giving him space to grieve. She stepped back, maintaining a respectful distance, as Harry whispered: “I love you, Tom. Forgive me for not being able to be with you. Farewell. We’ll meet in the next life.” He traced the engraved phrase with his finger, wiped his eyes with a sleeve, and stood up. “Let’s go, Hermione.” ***   New life quickly engulfed Harry in its gray routine. He woke up at seven every morning, ate something, then went to the academy. He talked to someone, returned home, sat in the chair by the fireplace, and read. His readings included newspaper archives, contemporaries’ diaries, and biographies. Harry didn’t know what he was looking for; he was just killing time until sleep, which seemed to stretch endlessly, leading him to go to bed and wake up to repeat the same cycle. Through this routine, he learned that Joanna Collins and Rut had married and lived together for many years. She became a journalist and lived until fifty. Ruth died recently from a rare tropical fever. They traveled the world and published more than thirty books on the magical traditions of various peoples. They had ten grandchildren, who all adored their grandparents and eagerly recounted their adventures. Walburga and Orion married, and everything unfolded just as in the original timeline. Alphard never married and lived until Sirius was imprisoned in Azkaban, dying of a heart attack in his bed. The scandal with the Gentlemen’s Club faded from memory, overshadowed by other news, as Harry had thought. Hector Rosier and his accomplices died in Azkaban. Gaspard Crouch, unable to bear what he went through, committed suicide after just a couple of years. His older brother had a son a year later — Bartemius Crouch. Grindelwald lost to Dumbledore in a duel in ’45, and he had lost the German Ministry of Magic even earlier, unable to hold onto it. The Selwyn manor was razed to the ground, and Harry suspected that Tom himself had done it when he came into his inheritance, erasing the last memory of the Selwyns. All the wizards who had disappeared eventually returned, each in their own time. Harry didn’t know who they all were, but he understood that they played a role in allowing time to restore its course. History repeated itself. Life moved on. Harry felt like a cardboard doll, dragged by friends to gatherings and events to cheer up a friend who temporarily couldn’t leave the hospital ward. He didn’t drink, holding on for Hermione, but his strength was dwindling. His twenty-second birthday was approaching (although he was actually over twenty-three), and he felt a hundred years old, a living corpse. It was ironic. He remembered dancing with Tom in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, surrounded by skeletons in lavish dresses. The world was grey and dead, and only he and Tom were alive. Now, Harry had turned into a well-dressed skeleton in the world of the living. With some stubbornness, he continued to style his hair, tie his ties, and bought a few waistcoats, cufflinks, and expensive watches. It helped him hold on. Friends and colleagues noticed the changes. Some thought he was trying to attract the press, some thought he had finally come to his senses, and others thought he had fallen in love. He didn’t care. He didn’t read the news, didn’t listen to gossip; he just did something to avoid doing nothing. Weeks passed: one, then two, then three. Harry flunked his academy exams, endured a barrage of grievances from the minister, and quarreled with Ron. He found himself unable to react to any of it. Only Hermione tried to support him. “I don’t want to offend you, Harry,” she said one day, “but people don’t behave like this just because they couldn’t change something. They behave like this after a painful breakup. Tell me honestly: did you love him?” They were sitting at the Three Broomsticks, at the same table they frequented during school, eating Madam Rosmerta’s famous fish pie and washing it down with cold beer. Outside, the bright July sun shone. When Harry had gone to the past, he couldn’t recall the exact day, only that it was early July. Now, however, the date of his return was firmly etched in his mind: June 30th. “Yes, I loved him,” Harry admitted, his head hung low, not mentioning that his love still lingered. “But I never confessed it to him. He said he loved me, but… I don’t know. He wanted to bind us, to make us each other’s Horcruxes, even though I begged him not to. Is that how you treat someone you love?” When Harry thought of love, he pictured his parents, dancing on autumn leaves. He imagined his father sacrificing himself for them, his mother shielding him with her body. He couldn’t envision his father making her a Horcrux against her will, binding her to him forever, and then seeking immortality. Nor could he picture his mother deceitfully gathering Muggle-haters behind his father’s back, preparing for a ritual. Hiding from Tom the fact that he would soon disappear was unbearably painful for Harry. He reopened that wound again and again, eventually confessing everything. Tom felt no remorse; he simply followed a plan he had long known. “Oh, Harry,” Hermione shook her head with pity, a gesture that had become as ingrained in her as ink in skin over the past few weeks. “Love is different for everyone. Ron loves me, he’d die for me, but can’t wash the damn dishes or pick up his socks. He’s as lazy as a panda. And I’ve accepted that, though I don’t let him completely relax and turn into a pig. There’s no universal recipe for love. For some, love is enduring beatings. For others, it’s seeing their partner’s jealousy. And yet for others, love is moonlit walks, heart-to-heart talks, and breakfast in bed. Nobody can claim their love is the only right kind, because love varies: bad or good, cruel or tender, dangerously deadly or reliably safe.” “He said that to me,” Harry recalled. “This is what my love is. And I… I couldn’t accept it. He was going to bind me to that body against my will. But he said he wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t felt I wanted to stay with him.” “Did you want to?” Hermione asked, her gaze penetrating. “I did,” Harry confessed. “But it would have been wrong. To leave you, to betray, to abandon my entire life and stay with the one who killed my parents in a future that hasn’t happened.” “Would have been wrong for whom? Listen to me. I’m going to say something harsh, but I’m tired of watching you always do everything for others and nothing for yourself. Your strength is in your kindness, but that’s also your weakness. I think you need a partner who will be super selfish for both of you. Understand, sometimes what’s bad for one is good for another. You’re such a sacrificial lamb sometimes, it’s infuriating.” The void in Harry’s chest, where the bond once resided, made its absence known with a cold, pulsating ache. He grasped the fabric of his shirt over his heart, seeking solace. Will this ever pass? Time is said to be a healer, yet Harry longed to escape into sleep, hoping to awaken only when the pain had subsided. The weight of his sorrow felt unbearable. He had endeavored to embrace selfishness, as Lucretia and Alphard had suggested, and nearly succeeded. However, when it came to the welfare of his true friends and family, Harry invariably put their needs before his own. Hermione’s words echoed in his mind: he was indeed a sacrificial lamb, bred for slaughter, yet miraculously surviving. “I miss him so much,” he whispered quietly, guiltily lowering his gaze. “Every morning I wake up hoping to see him next to me. To hear his voice, feel his emotions. But he’s not here, and there’s not even a photo left of him. Only my memories. I didn’t know you could miss someone this much.” “If it’s that important to you…” Hermione bit her lip, looked at him doubtfully, but then decisively shook her pink fringe that had slipped from her ponytail. “I didn’t want to say it, to avoid adding salt to your wounds. But if it’s so important to see him… The memory I mentioned, the one after which you were so upset. After Dumbledore’s death, you took it with you. It’s stored in your vault at Gringotts. I think it has the answer to whether it was real love.” Harry’s hands shook with the possibility. Could he truly see Tom once more? “Thank you!” he exclaimed, planting a quick kiss on Hermione’s cheek. His lips were dry, tinged with the thrill of anticipation, as he dashed to the bank, almost as if goblins were on his heels. In his own timeline, he had earned the goblins’ forgiveness for his assistance with certain stolen artifacts, and he hoped this timeline had unfolded similarly. Upon his arrival, everything fell into place. The goblins granted him access to his vault, which had swelled with Sirius’s inheritance. Inside, he found the casket containing the memory and, unexpectedly, a roughly torn page folded neatly into a square. Clutching the casket, Harry quickly made his exit. His attention was then captured by the sign of a well-known law firm, located just across from the bank. Without a second thought, he hastened across the street and through the firm’s doors. “Good day, how may I assist you?” inquired the witch at the reception, her smile of professionalism transforming into one of awe as she recognized him. “Mr. Potter! What an honor to have you here!” “I’d like to consult a lawyer and draft a will,” Harry replied with a polite smile. “I hope you don’t have anyone named Siemens working here.” ***   Harry didn’t arrive home until the evening. The lawyers, as cunning as ever even in this era, attempted to charge for every minor detail. Determined, Harry wanted to ensure that, should anything happen to him, his wealth would go to his goddaughter and the Weasleys, not fall into the hands of any undeserving opportunists. Previously, he had been rather nonchalant about such matters, despite the constant danger surrounding him. After changing clothes and eating, he poured himself some whiskey. His gaze, however, was inexorably drawn to the casket resting on the coffee table. He owned a Pensieve, but now felt a sense of trepidation at the prospect of delving into the memories that had once led Dumbledore to conclude that love had turned Tom into a monster. “Stop being afraid,” he muttered to himself, settled onto the couch, and decisively extracted the vial containing the silvery substance. With hands shaking, he tipped its contents into the Pensieve, his heart racing. Downing the whiskey, he took a deep breath and plunged his face into the swirling memories. Instantly, he was in the hall outside the Great Hall of Hogwarts, circa 1943. Everything felt vividly real. “Professor.” Harry turned sharply and saw him just as he remembered: a tall, broad-shouldered young man, impeccable in posture, clad in a pristine robe and a spotless white shirt, his head shaved at the back with beautifully styled curls waving to the side. He was so stunningly handsome that merely gazing upon him felt like agony. Unable to resist, Harry rushed towards him, calling out his name, but his hands, predictably, passed right through Tom. “Tom,” beside him stood young Professor Dumbledore, “enjoying your holiday? I trust you’re not too lonely here without your friends?” Harry stood next to Dumbledore, eagerly observing every emotion that flickered across his beloved’s face. At Dumbledore’s question, Tom’s face lit up with genuine joy, a flicker of happiness that he couldn’t conceal. “No, sir. Headmaster Slughorn has granted me permission to leave the school with Gordian Selwyn. He’s of age and looks after me. I’m on my way to meet him now.” The way he said his name… Harry felt as if his hair was softly touched. “I’ve been following your ordeals with Mr. Selwyn,” Dumbledore hunched, lowering his gaze. “I’m truly sorry. We, the teachers, failed to see the malevolence in Professor Callahan. We should have protected you, but we didn’t.” “No one could have foreseen his intentions. Callahan’s motives were not evident, enabling him to deceive us. It’s not your fault, sir. The responsibility lies solely with him,” Tom shrugged, as if he had already forgotten the kidnapping. “Are you and Mr. Selwyn alright? I heard you’ve had a challenging summer.” “We’re coping. It’s been difficult, but we support each other. We’re in the process of selling the Selwyn manor and plan to move to Hogsmeade soon.” The way he spoke… “We’re coping, we support each other, we’re in the process of selling.” His face radiated a glow, contradicting the fact that he had been entangled in a web of murders and orgies just weeks ago. Harry yearned to embrace him, to express the depth of his love. “I’ve noticed the strong friendship you share,” said Dumbledore. “I’m glad you’ve found someone important, Tom.” “He’s more than a friend, sir. One day, I’ll invite you to our wedding. Then you’ll see I’m not the epitome of all evil you thought me to be.” Then, his smile transformed, becoming open, childlike, and sincere. It was as if a decade of hardships and lived years had been instantly stripped away. Harry, moved by the moment, reflexively reached out to connect with his emotions, only to be met again with a cold, unyielding void. He’s gone. He’s no longer here. The happy smile, the eyes that once sparkled with love, vanished, leaving nothing but bones behind. “Really? Then I extend my heartfelt congratulations and best wishes to you both.” “Thank you, sir. I should go; Harry is waiting for me.” Harry swallowed salty tears, standing right in front of him, but remaining unseen. He begged to be noticed, implored, but it was all in vain. “Of course, my boy. And remember — stay with Mr. Selwyn at least until the new year. Professor Dippet will soon resume his headmaster duties, and he may be upset because of Professor Slughorn’s indulgence.” “Thank you for the tip, Professor, I’ll heed your advice.” Despite their bond, Harry struggled to fully grasp the depth of Tom’s love for him. Tom might have been an obsessive, sick, and selfish asshole, but his love for Harry was genuine, expressed in the only way he knew. He exuded a true, undeniable happiness that transformed his face beyond recognition. Harry from another world had once said that love must be learned. If one doesn’t see love exemplified in childhood, it’s unrealistic to expect them to love in a way that’s familiar to you. But back then, Harry hadn’t listened; he had refused even to contemplate loving Tom Riddle. He clung to Professor Dumbledore’s words about Amortentia, ignoring what was plainly before him. “Tom,” Harry once again reached out towards him absentmindedly, only for his hand to pass through. Suddenly, the Great Hall swirled, merging into a kaleidoscope of colors, and then Harry found himself in the Transfiguration office. Tom stood before Professor Dumbledore’s desk, but he was different, resembling an evil twin from a distorted mirror. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharp and pronounced, dark shadows under his eyes. The hair Harry cherished had been mercilessly trimmed to mere inches. But it was more than his appearance that rendered him unrecognizable from the Tom Harry loved. His eyes had lost their spark, turning lifeless, cold, and indifferent, as if he was once a welcoming home, filled with warmth and the aroma of baking, now turned desolate. Harry’s heart squeezed painfully, and his throat constricted, making it difficult to breathe. “You didn’t come to his funeral,” Dumbledore observed, his own demeanor showing signs of worry for his student. “Was I supposed to?” Tom’s voice was different too, now heavier, more abrasive. “I understand it’s hard to lose loved ones…” “I didn’t lose him; he abandoned me! Betrayed me!” Tom’s outburst was so thunderous that both Harry and Dumbledore flinched. Each word struck Harry like a physical blow. “My boy, he went through a great deal. Suicide might have seemed like the only way out. He could have been confused.” “No, you don’t understand. Harry betrayed me, and I will never forgive him for it. To me, he no longer exists. What lies in the coffin is just a piece of flesh that will soon rot, but he… He will pay for everything.” Harry’s heart finally shattered as he witnessed Tom’s tightly clenched fists and eyes ablaze with fierce hatred. Behind this facade of anger, he discerned immense pain, longing, and a profound sense of loneliness. The memory swirled once more, and he abruptly found himself back on the couch in his living room. His vision was clouded by tears, and he struggled to breathe. In desperation, Harry tore open his shirt collar, trying to alleviate his gasping breaths, but the sobs overwhelmed him. He wished he hadn’t seen this. Wished he hadn’t come to know these truths. Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, Harry’s gaze fell upon a folded piece of paper in the casket. With hands still trembling, he unfolded it to reveal his own clumsy, childish handwriting and, beneath it, Tom’s elegant script, with perfect curls over the letter “D.” “My aunt and uncle never loved me. To them, I was an abomination, a stain on their reputation. If someone had loved me, I would have done anything for that person.” “Really? Even if that person asked you to leave everyone else and be only with them, forever?” “Yes, of course! Why would I need anyone else if there’s someone who loves me?” “But sometimes, leaving others behind means prioritizing your loved one’s interests over society, morality, and laws.” “You speak of complex things, Tom. I’m not sure how I would act.” “And yet you answer as you always have, Harry. You still understand so little.” “When have I ever responded like that?” “Let me tell you a story. Once, I loved and was ready to prioritize my beloved’s needs above everyone else’s, even my own. All I desired was for him to always be by my side and to also prioritize my needs above others. But he couldn’t. One day he’ll realize his mistake, but it will be too late, as I’ll be dead. He always hated when I was right, and this time will be no exception. Tear out this page and keep it with you always. Remember, Harry, and never forget my love.” The words blurred before Harry’s eyes, but he read them several times over. It was a page from Tom Riddle’s diary. “You couldn’t have caused me greater pain than what I’m feeling now,” he whispered, tenderly tracing the curls of the letter “D.” ***   Life marched on, unmindful of Harry Potter’s suffering. Kingsley insisted he reapply for his exams, and Harry found it easier to comply than to resist the Minister’s pressure. Ron, likely after a lengthy discussion with Hermione, offered an apology. But when he probed to uncover what was troubling Harry, he was met with silence. What could Harry possibly say to him? Hermione had accepted him as he was, but Ron lacked her emotional flexibility. And Harry had no desire to explain himself. Gradually, he grew indifferent to everything. He drifted through the house like a ghost, ceased going out, and mostly spent his days reading in the living room. Outside, the rain poured, and the sky remained a constant, gloomy gray. But inside, beside the warmth of the fireplace, he found a semblance of comfort. Involuntarily, his mind wandered back to the days when he and Tom would sit in Gordian’s room, the rain drumming against the large windows, feeling warm and at peace because Tom’s leg brushed against his, their hands occasionally touched, and they exchanged covert smiles, silent yet profoundly connected. Now, with everything relegated to the past, Harry found himself recalling moments he had previously overlooked. Tom had been incredibly patient with him. Despite his clear desire, he never cornered Harry openly, unlike Alphard. He tantalized with words, touches, and glances. He coaxed Harry into making the first move, kindling a mutual yearning, but always respected boundaries. He was caring, constantly inquiring about Harry’s well-being, if he had eaten. And Harry had misinterpreted these gestures as manipulative strategies, believing that Tom acted kindly only to convince him that he had changed and wouldn’t become Voldemort. But the truth was, Tom simply loved him. These realizations haunted Harry, giving him no respite. He replayed Dumbledore’s memory repeatedly, pored over the diary page, reflected on his conversation with Shesmetet, and each time it dawned on him how blind he had been. When Hermione visited, he put on a facade that everything was fine. And in a way, it was. He wasn’t drinking, crying into his pillow, or wrecking furniture. He simply felt numb. Sometimes, he lay for hours, staring at the ceiling, his mind a blank. Other times, he was gripped by a compulsion for action: he rushed to the ministry’s library, scouring for information about Shesmetet, the Deathly Hallows, souls – anything that could somehow undo what had transpired. But he found nothing. There were no records of the primordial people, the war, the King. It was as if Shesmetet had fabricated it all. Harry even attempted to access the Department of Mysteries to look at the statue, but his fame did not grant him entry. The statue was classified as a highly dangerous artifact and was sequestered in the dungeons. Part of him was relieved, knowing it meant the King couldn’t coerce sacrifices from anyone. Yet, he yearned to see it just once more, to grasp its true nature. As July drew to a close, Harry remained ensnared in his labyrinth of thoughts and memories. As his birthday neared, Molly Weasley insisted on organizing a family-only celebration. In Molly’s expansive definition of “family,” the guest list was extensive. She invited everyone Harry had known in his previous life, along with those he hadn’t encountered in this altered reality. Her intentions were good, though the outcome wasn’t quite as she envisioned. “Happy Birthday, Harry!” Ginny greeted him, her embrace unfamiliar, lacking her usual guilt-ridden gaze. She was vibrant, joyous, unburdened by the weight of Harry Potter in her life. “Thanks, Gin,” Harry replied, planting a friendly kiss on her cheek. It was devoid of any deeper meaning - no regrets, no guilt. He no longer harbored blame towards her or himself. Their past relationship had been like trying to marry a goblin and a mermaid – inherently distant and mismatched. They had never truly understood each other’s needs, continuously running into an unyielding barrier as strong as the enchantments of Hogwarts. Their naivety had been their downfall. “You look great, except for that gloomy mug,” Ginny observed, straightening his tie and eyeing his attire – a blue shirt, grey trousers, and a waistcoat. “Tell me, why have you suddenly decided to dress like Malfoy?” “Maybe he just wants to attract his attention?” George chimed in with a playful grin. “Admit it, Harry, are you in love with him?” “Exactly!” Ginny exclaimed, her eyes shimmering with amusement. “You’re so compassionate! After he was attacked and beaten, you felt sorry for him, and then…” “He was attacked?” Harry’s expression turned serious. “I wasn’t aware. Who?” George and Ginny shared a knowing look. “Someone who disapproved of his pure blood,” Ginny replied casually. “These days, it’s tough for Slytherins.” “Let’s just hope they don’t target us,” George added, his mood shifting to solemnity. “This trend of attacking purebloods is dangerous. Be careful, Gin.” Their laughter dissipated as if it had never existed. “Merlin, why can’t wizards live in peace?” Harry lamented. “Why must there always be oppression? What will it take for all wizards to unite, regardless of blood status?” “Something catastrophic,” George mused, wrapping an arm around his sister, his gaze drifting skyward, likely reflecting on Fred. “All we can hope for is to avoid another war. We don’t need another Muggleborn child, grieving over parents lost to Voldemort, plotting revenge against all purebloods.” Harry, too, looked at the vast blue sky, dotted with fluffy clouds, and a realization dawned on him. Only a common enemy, a threat to purebloods, half-bloods, and Muggleborns alike, could unite the wizarding world. This was what Shesmetet had been alluding to. The clarity of his purpose struck Harry like a tombstone. She had almost explicitly mentioned he could spend many years with his beloved. She had placed him in Gordian’s body to encounter and neutralize the King’s statue. She had spoken of war. “The seeds he sowed have sprouted abundantly. Yet, you can fix it all, Harry. Think about it.” All Harry needed to do was reunite with Tom and convince the wizarding world that the King was rising again, threatening to destroy them. Together, they could orchestrate an elaborate spectacle to unite the magical community. This way, Tom wouldn’t become Lord Voldemort. The same people fated to die would still meet their end, but society would be forever altered. And no one would target Draco Malfoy. No one would entertain thoughts of revenge against purebloods. The past can’t be changed, but the details… The universe is indifferent to the specifics. Harry closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the realization of his own folly. He had made the wrong choice, and there was no opportunity for a do-over. Decades stretched before him. At only twenty-two, he could live another century, but the shape of those years was uncertain. One fact was clear: he had lost his love and would remain forever alone, like Dumbledore, who had lost Grindelwald. His life would be a hollow shell, laden with regrets. He would age, perhaps grow a beard, and occasionally immerse himself in memories where Tom would remain forever young, stunning, and in love. Could Dumbledore have experienced a similar torment? His own beloved had also become a Dark Lord, but Dumbledore had no chance to rectify his mistakes, unlike Harry, who had squandered his. Dumbledore… Harry’s thoughts returned to the piercing blue eyes of the professor in the memory. Tom had addressed him by his real name, dismissing the body as mere flesh, vowing revenge. The professor had always been exceptionally astute. Dumbledore had shown Harry the memory of Voldemort’s deepest secret – his love. What had he hoped to achieve? What was he waiting for? Why hadn’t that Harry Potter ever confided in anyone, not even his closest friends? “Everyone thought that he gave in,” Hermione’s words echoed in Harry’s mind. Had Dumbledore surmised Tom’s Achilles’ heel? Could he have manipulated unsuspecting Harry for his own schemes? Harry’s presence in Gordian’s body was too conspicuous for those attuned to details, like Tom or Dumbledore. Could the revered wizard of light have used Harry Potter as a pawn against Voldemort? Might he have known that Tom’s greatest vulnerability was Harry? “He did it before,” Harry realized, a bitter taste in his mouth, nausea setting in. Previously, Dumbledore had acted because of the prophecy, but in this altered world, he could have known that Tom’s love for Harry led him to make irrational decisions. After all, Tom had never exploited his power over the young boy in the second year. He couldn’t bring himself to kill Harry. He had corresponded with him for an entire year… Surely that young Harry Potter had shared everything with his professor, perhaps even showing him the diary page. Dumbledore must have understood the implications. The professor must have known he had traveled through time. Yet, he kept silent, directing Harry to find and destroy the Horcruxes, with the last one residing in Harry himself. And Dumbledore had set him against Voldemort, perhaps hoping that Tom couldn’t bring himself to kill Harry. In a way, this strategy worked. Tom surrendered, aware of his impending death. But Dumbledore hadn’t known this; he simply placed two pieces on the chessboard and watched as the game unfolded. Overwhelmed by bitterness and disappointment, Harry struggled to breathe. He tugged at his shirt collar, inhaling deeply, trying to calm his racing thoughts. What had he expected? That Dumbledore would declare, “Harry, love is the most powerful force, and Tom can still be redeemed”? No, that was unrealistic. Despite his lofty ideals, Dumbledore had chosen to pit former lovers against each other, observing impassively as one sought to destroy the other. Harry felt like a naive fool, having blindly idolized his professor, sacrificing himself for his mentor’s ideals. All this time… Tom had been right. Again. There was no good and evil; there were only paths toward one’s goals. Dumbledore understood this and opted not to save Tom Riddle. He followed the path of the greater good, where individual fates and even his own soul were acceptable sacrifices. “Harry, dear, come here, it’s time to blow out the candles!” Molly’s voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Trying to regain composure, Harry discreetly wiped his eyes and managed a forced smile. The Weasleys had organized a garden party. Tables were set, a sunshade conjured. Molly had outdone herself with a variety of treats, including a cake shaped like a Snitch. Standing amidst the crowd, Harry looked at the faces of former Order members, his friends from Dumbledore’s Army, all the Weasleys, and Andromeda with little Dora. He wore a bitter smile, fighting back his tears. They all respected Dumbledore, trusting his wisdom. But only Harry now understood the professor’s burdensome decisions, likely fracturing his heart into million pieces. He had sacrificed his conscience for the greater good. Just as Harry had always sacrificed himself. “I want to thank all of you for organizing this celebration for me,” he said, his voice wavering. “I know I’ve been difficult lately, and I appreciate your support. I love you all, and I want you to know that.” “Oh, Harry,” Molly said, tears in her eyes, embracing him tightly. “We love you too, dear.” As Harry blew out the candles, he looked at the joyful faces of Hermione, Ron, George, Angelina, Bill, Fleur, Neville, Luna, Molly, Arthur, Andromeda, and Dora. That evening, he allowed himself to enjoy the moment, to laugh and play, joining a game of Quidditch with Ron, Bill, Ginny, and George, all the while maintaining composure. It was well past midnight when he finally returned home. Harry tossed all his gifts onto the bed and then stood in the center of his living room. Raising his voice, he called out, “Shesmetet! If you can hear me, answer! I want to go back! Please, you can do it!” But there was no response, no sign of acknowledgement. “Well, that’s what I expected,” Harry sighed, a hint of resignation in his voice. Even she, with all her powers, couldn’t send him back to the past. Approaching the mirror on the wall, he tried once more, “At least let me talk to them, please! Just talk!” But the goddess remained silent; her presence no longer lingered at the edge of his consciousness. She had left him, likely disappointed in him, mirroring the disappointment Harry felt in himself. Gazing at his pale reflection, Harry knew he had to take some action. He found indelible ink in his desk drawer, dipped his finger into it, and wrote on the mirror: “A soul cannot be torn apart. We will live forever.” They would understand, they would decipher the mirror image of his message. Back in the living room, envelopes and the key to his Gringotts vault lay on the coffee table. Harry sat down on the couch, double-checking everything to ensure nothing was overlooked. He found Hermione’s envelope and sighed with a sense of satisfaction. A faint smile touched his lips. The evening had been wonderful. He saw everyone and reassured himself that life continues. His family, his friends – they were all content, finding support and comfort in one another. They would manage their grief and move forward. Relaxing his tie, Harry leaned back against the pillows and drew out his wand. He had made the wrong choice. Shesmetet had given all the hints she could, urging him to return, to pursue his desires, to unite the wizards. But he, in his haste, had failed to understand. Living with this monumental mistake was intolerable. He wasn’t Dumbledore. He didn’t desire the greater good anymore. He longed for his own happiness, which he had left behind in 1943, when he was proposed to on bended knee. Since returning to the past was impossible and the present held no appeal, he decided to finally act in his own self-interest. This decision was a birthday gift to himself. Now he was free. “See you soon, Tom. After all, behind us lies eternity,” he smiled dreamily and raised the wand to his temple. “Avada Kedavra!”