March-May 2001

Open the coffin?

Even the Death Eaters hesitated when their Lord ordered this.

Regardless of regional culture, opening a coffin that had already been fixed was a great disrespect to the deceased and would disturb their peace.

Yet their Lord had asked them to do so anyway. He wanted the coffin opened at the individual's own funeral.

But eventually, the shock wore off. Voldemort and Harry Potter loathed the other so much they'd vowed to thwart the other no matter the circumstance; what was so strange about this?

So, the Death Eaters who'd thought they guessed the Devil's intentions, rushed to the coffin and tore away the remaining solemn atmosphere surrounding it.

"You dare show your face here? YOU WOULD DARE?!" Ron roared. His voice was deafening, reverberating throughout the area. His throat ached due to strain, but he still screamed himself hoarse, in hopes of reducing some of his fear from facing the Dark Lord.

But before the Death Eaters, they were still mere children.

They weren't prepared for battle. They were wearing soft black robes instead of hard armour and formal black leather shoes instead of lightweight military boots; before such a large number of Death Eaters, they were like kittens whose claws hadn't sharpened yet. They didn't even consider running away because Harry was here.

They were almost immediately restrained by the Death Eaters.

Bella cackled loudly as she used her wand to roughly pull out the iron wedges that had just been nailed in. With another bang, the coffin lid was pushed aside mercilessly. Hell's gates knocked open, and the Death Eater dragged out the lonely soul who'd just stepped past them, planning to expose him in sunlight and force him to accept a crueler revenge.

They were certain the Lord would be overjoyed to see the corpse of the broken Saviour.

Bella was no exception. She was very keen on playing such torture games, enjoying the wails, screams and begs for mercy. Although the Saviour could no longer give any response, just looking at that lifeless face was enough to relieve one's anger.

She reached out towards the open coffin, listening to Hermione's screams of 'don't touch him!' with satisfaction, and raised the Saviour's lifeless arm in an insulting manner.

Not even a second passed before a red light fiercely struck her, the magic almost nailing her to the wall behind.

"My Lord!" She screamed, crawling on the ground in an attempt to pull the Devil's robes.

But the Devil didn't even spare her a glance.

The noble and powerful man merely strode towards the coffin, his steps almost timid and staggering.

In just one month, Harry Potter's face had become strange without life breathing into it. Harry's complexion was already plaid due to the damage of time-travelling, but it definitely wasn't such a deathly grey; Harry's facial features used to be vivid, not subdued and fragile; Harry's limbs used to be strong because of struggle and war, not weak like it was now.

This was definitely not Harry Potter!

H-harry Potter was long dead!

Tom Riddle once again felt the restraints suffocating him, more than fifty years later in March.

On March 21, 2001, after he ascended to the Wizarding World's throne; after he became the British wizarding community's prodigy; after he saw that man lifelessly swallowed by the valley; after he brutally and joyfully erased the other's last hope of survival; Fate returned all his memories and proudly declared his victory.

You see, anyone who tries to change the trajectory of Fate would not end well.

You see, anyone who jumps through time and space would have to pay an equal price.

Was the price for jumping back seventy years his life?

This was a game set up by Fate; no matter if one consciously knew or not, their body would still be unable to resist the manipulation of the marionette strings. Everyone played a role on the puppet stage, except the controller had changed from 'Fate' to 'Destiny'. One was in control of the past, whilst the other was in control of the future; not leaving anyone time to breathe.

The Devil was just one of the many controlled.

At this moment, the Devil stood, like a sculpture, by the mouth of the coffin, surprised and stunned to feel the stretch of pain coming from his chest.

He was like a child who's eyes had just opened to the world in wonder, surprised to find he still had a reason for heartache; how pitiful and pathetic.

"My Lord?" The Death Eaters felt something was wrong.

But Tom Riddle didn't have the energy to pay any attention to them.

It'd been a long time since he tasted the flavour of 'pain'.

He'd long stripped this human instinct from his soul, along with regret, sadness and want… Sealed in Horcruxes that even after he swallowed and absorbed would never harass him again, as the feelings had already drifted away.

He was the Dark Lord; who could possibly hurt him and make him feel pain?

Pain, a bone-piercing pain.

All the Death Eaters watched as their Lord staggered, holding almost unsteadily onto the coffin's black frame, before they exclaimed and hurriedly rushed towards him.

"Voldemort, duel me if you fucking dare!" Ron's eyes were cracking; almost everyone was struggling to keep him restrained. Even Snape, who was also being restrained, couldn't help squeezing his fists.

"Shut up!" The Devil roared as he glared at Ron viciously, his crimson eyes burning like flames; even the corners had begun to flush red. The terrifying glint was reminiscent of a battlefield filled with smoke, death, destruction, corpses and flowing fresh blood.

"Please… At least… Allow him to be buried…" Who was the one who dared to choke out this request with such a straight spine?

Tom gazed at the speaker coldly, wishing to draw his wand out so he could immediately silence them forever.

To be buried - he didn't like that phrase.

He stood by the coffin, looking down at the face he'd been familiar with for more than twenty years, his handsome features distorted hideously.

If I'm not at peace, then don't you dare think about being at peace either!

He bent over and, under everyone's gaze, personally picked up the body; feeling how cold the soft skin was, Tom could only tighten his clutch, trying to retain the fading vitality in this person's body.

Harry's always been this cruel, he thought as he pressed the man's face to his chest.

Every time he raised his hands, he'd be forced to remember exactly how he killed Harry; how was he not cruel?

He held Harry and walked towards the doors.

Exactly what went wrong? Why was this completely different from what he'd imagined?

Indeed, nobody wanted mistakes in the first place.

Was he wrong? Tom Riddle was slightly confused, but his slight hesitation was fleeting. Tom Riddle never regretted and never prayed for salvation; he despised weakness.

He was self-reliant as he held Harry's body, pitifully and pathetically forcing his steps to stabilise. Even so, his steps were slow and laborious, his ribs pained as if they were empty, constantly forcing him to face the fact he least wanted to see:

He killed Harry Potter with his own hands.

But how could he succumb to Fate? How could he willingly lose to Fate?! He was a fighter; he'd taken hold of his life even if he had to fight for it!

"You must atone for your sins, Severus; resurrect him, and I will turn a blind eye to your betrayal."

He had walked halfway before stopping, looking frantically at the unkept Potions Master.

Riddle said this in front of everyone. Everyone's eyes widened; even Snape couldn't understand what he meant.

"My Lord." Snape quickly calmed down and bowed his head respectfully, his extinguished hope sparking again. "There may be hope before night falls, but I need a lot of materials, a lot of… Materials that are hard to obtain."

The handsome Devil stared madly at Snape. "All the Death Eaters are at your disposal." He strode away from Severus's stunned face.

Yes, Fate was powerful.

But Tom was inevitable.


When Harry woke up, he only blankly looked around him.

"Good morning, Harry." There was a young man leaning against the head of the bed, the quilt pushed up to his abdomen to reveal his perfect V-line. The man had black hair and red eyes; so handsome and beautiful one wouldn't dare to look at him.

He looked at him and felt a sudden urge to cry.

He was Harry Potter; just Harry Potter. It had no deep meaning behind it.

That's right, just Harry Potter.

For Harry Potter, every day was like his birthday. Oh, maybe you'd laugh; Harry, your wish will finally come true! But Harry would look at you, confused. Sorry miss, have we met before?

Every day was his birthday, every day he was newborn; at least, every morning he woke up he'd know nothing as if he was a newborn.

He only remembered he was Harry Potter. This name symbolised responsibility, a duty long carved into every bone in his body.

"Tom Riddle, your lover and partner." The young man came over and kissed the corners of his lips under his blank gaze, and patiently and carefully gestures to him; just like a parent would with their child.

Harry was ignorant, merely nodding as if he understood.

"Get up quickly, we have to take care of the manor; the roses are blooming." The one name Tom, a young man who claimed to be his lover, took the initiative to lift off the quilt and get out of bed; indifferently revealing the ambiguous red marks spread over his sturdy back in the sight of others.

Harry was stunned; after his sudden reaction, he could only feel red in the face.

He didn't actually forget everything - he still remembered his instincts to survive; remembered the habits of living; remembered how to write, speak, and release magic. He just forgot about everyone he knew and everything that happened.


This was a manor. Standing by the window and looking out the distance, he saw a bush with barely visible margins by the entrance. It was early May; when in bloom, the roses would cover the green bushes with passionate red.

"Come eat breakfast," the handsome young man, now carrying a plate, said with a smile, returning Harry's gaze back from the roses.

Harry sat down stiffly at the table; such a big and luxurious dining area, yet only the two of them sat there. This kind of atmosphere made Harry a little uncomfortable, so he racked his brains in an attempt to find a topic to talk about.

"How… Did I become like this?" He asked. Why was his memory only limited to one day?

The young man sitting beside him was dumbfounded; his crimson eyes were particularly beautiful under the sun.

"Because of my negligence, you… Were injured. This is probably… A result of that." The corners of his lips twitched into a gentle smile. "I'll look after you; it doesn't matter if you've lost your memory."

"Thank you," Harry replied subconsciously.

This person was still a stranger to him, even if he claimed to be his lover and partner.

Everything… Was slightly abnormal.

The two of them weren't the only ones in this manor - Harry could detect some house-elves hiding in the corner, quietly looking at them. His battle instincts played a role in raising his observation skills to the maximum.

Then he saw the wizard.

A man wearing a silver cloak, with beautiful platinum-blond hair.

He clearly didn't expect to meet Harry. The Saviour's resurrection was a shock to him, and the relationship between him and his Lord was even more confusing.

But he was only responsible for completing the tasks assigned to him.

With this thought, he simply nodded to the Saviour and walked around him to the Devil, who was wearing a pair of boots and holding a shovel.

Even if the Devil did take off his scary black cloak, an imposing manner still surrounded him, forcing one to irresistibly want to crawl on the ground and make themselves as small as possible.

"My Lord," young Malfoy leaned forwards slightly, "according to Severus Snape's last wish, I ordered him to be buried in Godric's Hollow."

Tom nodded in understanding. He turned around to continue his work, carefully and patiently taking care of the manor's roses. He looked down on Severus Snape's cowardice; he liked a girl but didn't dare say it, didn't even fight for her, and silently watched as she fell into another's embrace - in the end, he could only endure loneliness. But there was no denying he was an excellent Potions Master; he sacrificed his life, saving Harry.

Any powerful Dark magic needed an equivalent price to pay or more.

The price of resurrection was another life.

"Tom," Harry couldn't help but speak, "who is Severus?"

Young Malfoy looked away without revealing any of his consternation.

"Why do you want to know who he is?"

Harry seemed a little confused too; he lowered his head, exposing his neck to the sun, revealing the red marks on his collarbone, making Malfoy's eyes flutter somewhat awkwardly.

After a while, he raised his head and said decisively, "I feel like I know him."

Tom's eyes darkened, the colour of his irises deepening instantly into a blood-clotting dark-red. He smiled and shook his head, his expression filled with hope and concern. "What do you remember? Maybe the medicine you drank yesterday has begun to take effect. Don't worry; one day you'll get better and remember everything."

Harry could see Tom didn't want to answer this question.

So he stopped asking.


Harry knew nothing about this world, only able to obtain information through Tom.

"I need to go out for a bit; you could walk around if you'd like," Tom said, putting on his black cloak before disappearing from the closet.

He started touring around the mansion alone - well, he couldn't say he was alone . He could detect someone hiding about ten metres away from him, monitoring and protecting him.

Harry walked in a daze to the end of the rose bushes, catching a vague sight of the manor's iron gates.

"Alohomora."

"Disintegrate it."

"I can't, Hermione! This damn anti-curse; not only is it useless to apparate, we can't even use a broom to fly in! These gates can't be fucking opened!" Who was complaining so angrily?

"Quiet down, Ron!"

Harry found this voice inexplicably familiar. He quickly pushed aside the branches of the bushes upfront, the back of his hand cut by a rose thorn. The person behind him also sped up, following him step-by-step.

When he fell out of the bushes breathlessly and saw the two people's figures, he heard them exclaim:

"Harry!"

Harry stared blankly at those two familiar faces, his head heating up.

"...Hermione, Ron?"

"You remember us?" The red-haired youth looked at him ecstatically, the hands clutching the iron fence turning white from force.

Harry looked into their eager eyes; he didn't have the heart to shake his head. He merely heard them call each other like that.

Suddenly, someone wearing a black cloak was standing behind them, blocking their sight and interrupting their dialogue. He raised his hand and used his wand to create a spark; not even ten seconds later, dozens of similarly dressed people emerged from the bushes, restraining the two fiercely.

"Please leave immediately," the Death Eater said, no intentions to kill them.

In fact, it was the Lord that didn't intend to kill them.

Harry watched it all unfold before him, his mind in chaos; something seemed to stir his nerves, making him feel extremely pained.

"Harry! Harry! " The beautiful woman, who was being forcibly taken away, continued screaming. "Don't trust him! Don't trust anything he tells you- Hmph!" Before she could finish speaking, her mouth was covered by a Death Eater and she was dragged away.

Don't trust… Him?

It felt like… Someone once held back tears and etched similar words onto a piece of parchment with an uninked quill.

Harry was confused, his sense of suspicion growing stronger.

"Mr Potter, you should go back," the black-cladded Death Eater said before hiding himself again.


When night fell, it was time to go to sleep.

"You have to drink your medicine, Harry." The youth looked at him gently. "If you drink your medicine, maybe you'd wake up remembering everything tomorrow."

Harry nodded obediently.

"I'll go get the medicine."

Harry, who was wearing loose pyjamas, sat on the head of the bed as looked around this bedroom. The lamp on the bedside table attracted his attention. He couldn't help but feel the light coming from the lamp was a little strange; past the light, there was an area darker than the others. Harry leaned forward curiously, kneeling, his head tilted.

The light was a bit glaring, forcing Harry to spend more time getting used to it as he blinked away his tears.

When his vision finally cleared, he saw a string of scribbled letters; the lines and turns of the letters seemed familiar, as if… It was his handwriting.

"Don't…" He struggled to identify what was written. "Drink… Medicine."

Don't drink medicine?

"Harry." Someone called his name; he stood up in a panic and turned his head to find Tom standing by the door with a bottle of medicine in his hands, looking at him blankly with eyes as red as blood.

"What are you doing?" He asked, the corners of his lips raising up; he put down the glass bottle of brown medicine on the table, surprising Harry with the sound of glass and wood colliding. "Come drink your medicine."

His sense of suspicion grew much stronger, making him feel extreme discomfort.

"I don't want to drink medicine today." Harry pursed his lips, standing on the other side of the bed as he resisted stubbornly.

The last reluctant smile on the youth's face finally faded away, leaving his expression looking scary and distorted.

"Be good, Harry." He stared at him with crimson eyes, holding the glass bottle in his hands.


Tom Riddle looked down at Harry's sleeping face, his image of gentleness and elegance during the day gone. He walked to the lamp, grabbed it, and lifted it up, staring sharply at the lines scribbled inside.

He narrowed his eyes, his dark pupils shrinking and the colour of irises turning darker.

He opened the door to someone naturally waiting outside.

"My Lord."

The tall Devil threw the lamp onto the floor, speaking with a cold tone. "I don't want anything similar to happen in the future; burn it."

"Yes."

The Death Eater couldn't understand. Since he didn't want the Saviour to remember, why not just perform a Memory Charm instead of spending so much time making a time-limited forgetfulness potion? But he only secretly thought this, not daring to show any dissatisfaction before the Devil.

He couldn't understand, but Young Malfoy, who personally prepared the forgetfulness potion, could.

A Harry who completely lost his memory, a Harry who couldn't remember who he was, and a Harry who'd never experienced war and the bond that came from it, wouldn't be Harry anymore. What the Dark Lord was doing was suppressing Harry, enjoying Harry's ignorant docility. He couldn't bear to kill Harry, nor could he obtain a sober Harry, so he could only pathetically compromise and continue deceiving himself in this way to stay with him.

Tom Riddle was saving hope. He hoped that one day, a Harry with all his memories returned would offer him a hug.

But before that day, before hope, he'd have to experience endless despair.

A Harry with all his memories returned would only choose to leave or die.

In that case, then just let the potion continue this way of living; continue comforting him a little more.

Perhaps this so-called Fate was a thief, constantly copying and repeating.

"Good morning, my dear Harry." He opened his eyes and smiled, creating a gentle and warm atmosphere.

The real world and fairy-tales weren't the same.


Author's Note:

This concludes the story. This shouldn't be a bad ending… I've imagined the ending for a very long time…

'47 Days to Change' finally ended on November 23, 2014; lasting for one year, three months and three days. This donkey is also very embarrassed for taking one year to write only 300,000 characters.

This is the first long novel this donkey tried to write; my previous novels were probably less than 150,000 characters. The idea of '47' was thought over for a very long time; my initial set-up for Fate was very ambitious. I was hesitant when writing, not knowing whether my writing style could hold up. Later, it turned out it couldn't hold up (1) orz…

HP (2) doujins were slowly becoming less popular, so my writing journey wasn't very easy. I didn't want to write something purely romance-related. I wanted to write a lot of things; I wanted to display a universe and project the real world into my novel where I could praise what I love and mock what I hate. But the result was a little unsatisfactory; I really am too (3) young and tender.

Throughout my writing journey, I've seen many mixed reviews of Harry. My writing was undeniably bad; Harry's behaviour wasn't easy to write. I would put myself in his shoes and assume what I'd do in his situation; perhaps writing like this made him more human, maybe it made him more cowardly and ill-considered, but Harry's behaviour was the most natural I could imagine.

From the perspective of God, we naturally have the right to evaluate however we want; because we look at the big picture and understand the concepts of causes and effects.

Harry is a character I admire. From 'Harry Potter' to 'Lord of the Rings', not many people are loyal to the protagonist. Because protagonists are played out the most, we take their goodwill for granted and gradually ignore them. Often, once the protagonist makes a mistake it'll be amplified indefinitely and used as material for criticism.

I once said this to my friends: I like the role of Harry. I like his strengths; his weaknesses; his bravery and fearlessness; his recklessness and clumsiness. Because I like Harry, I like his actor Daniel, and I like Gryffindor. Because I like Harry, I like everyone who made sacrifices for Harry, like James, Lily, Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, Lupin, Sirius, all the professors, and Longbottom… I like too many people, to the point where I can't bear to tarnish them.

For me, Senior Rowling not only created the world of Harry Potter, but she also created the spiritual realm for Harry Potter.

PS: Thinking about the piracy in major forums after this is all over makes me feel a little heartbroken…

No matter what, shouldn't you also thank the author whilst saying 'thank you for sharing'?

PPS: This story is over, but I'm not sure about the other things... For my own creation to temporarily not be touched makes this donkey very melancholy…


Don't worry guys, there's still 2 more chapters left ^^ I decided to add the author's note as a form of acknowledgement (considering how I actually have no way of contacting her and thanking her for this amazing fanfic).

(1) Orz - an emoticon used to represent frustration. It depicts a man kneeling down (o is the head, r is the arm, z is the leg).
(2) Doujins - usually referred to fan-made manga, but in this case, it just means fanfics.
(3) Young and tender - amateur