And the Living Will Envy the Dead

by Severus divides into H

When Harry looks at Tom, he feels overwhelmed. There is a spark that makes him hopeful, the fear that nothing he does will save Tom from himself, and the horror at what his lies might lead to. When Tom looks at Harry, he feels nothing. Until he does, and then Harry's world starts drowning in blood.

1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story deviates from canon starting with the Ministry Battle in OotP, after Harry and Co rush to save Sirius. Other deviations will be addressed gradually.

Hope you enjoy this!

Chapter One: Equalising the Battlefield

"Some monsters are too great to be defeated," Dumbledore murmured. His withered skin was tinted grey now, losing every ounce of vitality as his magic continued to die. "I'm afraid the burden the destiny has attached to you is heavier than you could have ever carried. I'm sorry for what you lived through… and for what you will never get to experience."

Harry wanted to cry. It felt like crying was all he'd been doing for the last 163 days their group spent locked in the Ministry, alone with Death Eaters and Voldemort, watching their friends and the members of the Order die one after another.

He wanted to speak. There were so many things he should have or could have said.

Thank you for being here with me to Ron.

I loved you and all I wanted was to save you to Sirius.

I wish I could be as strong as you to Ginny, and Neville, and Luna.

I'm sorry you came here to save me from my own stupidity. I'm sorry you are dead because of me to the Order members. They had all rushed into the Ministry to protect him, and they all got into this hell of a trap with him.

163 days. No chance to exit the Ministry. No chance to ask for reinforcements. No chance to survive against the multiplying numbers of Death Eaters.

And Voldemort. Always Voldemort.

"I can still destroy the Horcruxes," Harry rasped. Pleaded. His voice was rough from disuse. "I can still kill him."

He didn't believe his own words, but this was the only thing he could say to Dumbledore. Dumbledore was everything he had now, and this everything, too, was slipping away. Whatever complex ritual Voldemort and his strongest Death Eaters had performed, it poisoned Dumbledore's magic — now his magic was poisoning him in return. With him gone, Harry would have nothing left.

Hermione could still be alive, his mind whispered, but he cringed away from this thought. Because if Hermione was alive, the mere idea of hell she was undergoing made him wish for her death.

Death was better than torture. Harry would have gladly and cowardly died among the first rather than watch everyone sacrifice themselves for his protection. Rather than being left alone in a place he couldn't escape, within a battle he couldn't win.

You were the truest friend anyone could ask for, he would have told Hermione. I'm honoured to have met you.

But what were these words? Meaningless and belated. There was no one to hear them any longer.

Dumbledore's pale eyes dimmed. His lips tried to shape something, but they dried before any sound could slip past them. An eerie empty expression overtook his features, turning them into stone, and a choked sob nearly tore from Harry's chest. Grief threatened to shatter the tattered remains of him: for the endless minutes, he couldn't breathe, or think, or move.

Some monsters were too great to be defeated… Maybe so. Maybe Voldemort had sacrificed his humanity in exchange for becoming unstoppable. Prophecy or not, Harry couldn't imagine how he could have ever stood the chance of beating him. If even Dumbledore failed…

Sorrow crashed into him anew. Harry lowered his head, clenching his useless wand in his hand.

He didn't know how long he spent like this. Only dead silence surrounded him, but it wouldn't last long. The monsters would crawl out from their hiding places sooner or later, with the biggest monster leading them to finish what he had started all those years ago.

And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not.

It was absurd. In what world were he and Voldemort equals? What mysterious power did Harry have that could suddenly help him to save everyone? If his opponent was Tom Riddle, then maybe he could have thought of something. But Voldemort was too powerful and too far gone to defeat him or to make him see reason.

Tom Riddle.

Slowly, Harry looked up. A crazy idea burrowed its way into his mind, and the more he considered it, the faster his heart pounded.

He couldn't challenge Voldemort at his strongest, with an army of loyal Death Eaters at his beck and call. But perhaps he could challenge Tom Riddle. To interfere before everyone he loved died in front of him in a vain attempt to shield him, hoping to let him live until he understood how to do what the world had deemed to be his mission.

In the endless days they spent here, Harry often thought of time travel. If he could just return to the moment when he and Ron and Hermione were safe in Hogwarts, before the fake vision lured him out and made him unknowingly condemn them to death…

Time magic didn't work like this. The past couldn't be changed. But maybe it could be erased and written anew?

Feeling as if he were in a trance, Harry squeezed Dumbledore's hand in his.

"I will make this right," he swore hoarsely. Then he got up and stumbled towards the room with the Veil.

As always, its whispers enticed him. The light rippling of the surface seemed to be hinting at something, hiding the world, or maybe thousands of worlds from him.

No one knew what the Veil was or where it led. But Harry had a theory.

Dumbledore believed the afterlife waited on the other side, and that the whispers some people heard belonged to the dead. To pass the Veil meant to die, to abandon this world forever in favour of something mysterious and otherwise unattainable. But what if the afterlife wasn't the only destination? What if there were entrances to other places? The past, the future, and everything beyond.

They all heard different things. There had been twenty four of them in this trap at the beginning, including Harry and his friends, and after they barricaded themselves in this room, everyone attempted to approach the Veil at some point out of morbid curiosity.

Some heard the whispers of the dead they'd lost. Others heard the singing or laughter. There were those who thought they heard themselves and those who heard nothing. Perhaps the Veil could offer each person something unique depending on what they wanted?

It was a weak theory based on nothing except wistful thinking, but it was the only solution he hadn't tried yet. Dumbledore's death signified the start of his own inevitable defeat. Soon enough, Voldemort would grow weary of playing. He would break into the room and find Harry just like he wanted him: alone, broken, and vulnerable.

The Veil was his salvation. Even if Harry's theory was incorrect and it ended up killing him, such an end was preferable to whatever eternity of horrors Voldemort had prepared for him.

Clenching his wand, he stepped closer to the glimmering surface. The voices hit him again, only this time, they were louder, calmer, and more diverse. Harry didn't know what it meant that he kept hearing different things at different times, but right now, it didn't matter. One thing was clear to him — it was burned all across his aching mind.

He couldn't stay here for another minute. He'd lose whatever remained of his sanity. Every corner of this room reminded him of the fierce battles, lost friends, murdered allies. The whole Ministry had turned into a dark space seething with trauma and suffering, and he wanted, needed to get out.

Still clutching his wand, Harry closed his eyes. Should he think of a specific destination? Maybe the Veil worked somewhat like Apparition. Maybe it needed to hear where he wanted to go.

There were surely better places than the past, but it was the past that Harry wanted to find. He owed that much to his people, who died believing he would rise up and magically become Voldemort's equal from the prophecy.

He would try — not with Voldemort but with Tom Riddle. He would learn. He would plot and he would plan, he would fight if he had to, but he would make his current present better. He would prepare the world for Ron, Hermione, Sirius, Ginny, and everyone else, turning it into a place where they could live to see their own future. And when it happened, when he met them again, he would finally be worthy of them.

This thought flooded him with bitter comfort.

Focusing on the image of Tom Riddle, ingrained in his mind ever since his second year and from all the memories Dumbledore had shared, Harry stepped into the Veil.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The yellow discarded newspaper was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes on an unfamiliar, half-ruined street, in a city he barely recognised.

1943.

He was in 1943.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

It took a week to fully comprehend his new reality. It took another one to understand what it featured.

Tom Riddle was sixteen and about to start his sixth year. He had already killed Myrtle and set Hagrid up. He had already made his first Horcrux and he probably killed his family.

Was there a second Horcrux? Harry didn't know.

He would find out. He would enrol in Hogwarts, blend in with everyone, and stop Riddle. Two months until the start of the school year — two months to deal with his grief, to figure out what story he could tell the others, and to think of a more specific plan.

Two months.

He felt so desperately lonely.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Much later, seated in front of Dumbledore and Dippet, he realised he didn't want to lie. But he also couldn't tell them the truth, so the best solution was to mix the two and hope they would accept it.

"Mr. Potter, you say," Dippet repeated, looking at him curiously. "Any relation to Henry and Leonore Potter?"

"No," Harry said dully. He wanted to preserve his name — it was the only tangible link to the past he had left, and compared to everything else, it was the safest.

Because he also wanted to throw himself at Dumbledore and cling to him, soaking in the safety and certainty that everything was going to be all right. The urge to seek out Hagrid was there, too — it was so strong that Harry had to stop himself from sneaking into his cabin three times already. A big part of him wanted to meet his family, to see his grandparents and great-grandparents.

But he couldn't. He couldn't afford it. Not having any glaring weaknesses was the only way for him to keep up with Riddle. He would not be making the same mistake twice.

Dippet let out a sceptical sound while Dumbledore just gazed at him silently.

"Where is your family?" he asked at last, and Harry didn't have to pretend. A painful lump blocked his throat, forcing him to clear it a few times before he regained his ability to talk.

"Dead," he breathed out. All dead.

But… They weren't really dead now, were they? They just didn't exist. If he tried, he could imagine them sleeping in cocoons, waiting for him to triumph so that they could wake up and enter life again.

This thought infused him with strength. Harry clenched his fists as determination finally surged forward, drowning out the heartbreak and self-pity.

He would not let them down again. He would win this fight.

Becoming a Hogwarts student and getting access to Riddle was the first step.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

After a brief discussion, Dumbledore and Dippet agreed to let him enrol. He received a tiny purse with galleons as an orphan, which gave him a chance to buy his books and clothes, and since there was less than a month left until September, they let him stay at Hogwarts.

Harry spent weeks wandering the empty corridors, reacquainting himself with every nook and obsessively tracking the changes. Being in these familiar, beloved walls calmed him down further — it gave him the confidence he needed to undertake the enormous task he'd set before himself. He began to feel like himself, and it meant that he could finally start to strategise.

How should he approach Riddle? There was always the option of waiting until he went to sleep and killing him, but revulsion paralysed Harry at the thought alone.

He didn't want to be a murderer. Not again, not even with Tom Riddle as his victim. Besides, the idea of spending his life in Azkaban didn't appeal to him in the slightest, considering the dementors swirling around the tiny cells in their endless goal to drive the prisoners mad.

There had to be another way, and if Harry wanted to be alive long enough to meet his loved ones again, he had to find it.

How could one affect a monster who was already lacking a piece of a soul? By challenging him? Harry doubted Riddle would appreciate it. It would probably result in him getting sliced to pieces and these pieces scattered. From their interactions in his second year and all those memories Dumbledore had shown to him, Riddle was arrogant and stuck-up, ready to flatter those he could use and coldly dismissing the rest. He would never tolerate a new student trying to impose his own rules, and frankly, Harry wasn't certain he would be given a chance in the first place. He didn't even know what House he would be sorted into this time; he knew no one and no one knew him here, so how much influence could he realistically gain?

He could try to become an ally. This idea turned his stomach, but it made sense. If he could somehow get a spot in Riddle's inner circle, close enough to start affecting his judgement…

A derisive snort escaped him. Harry shook his head dejectedly.

It was a pipe dream. Riddle never seemed willing to genuinely listen to his followers, and even if he did, Harry would never be able to become one of them. For one thing, the chances of rising up above all the rich purebloods who had already been loyal to Riddle for years and getting the unique position of influence were non-existent. For another, in the unlikely case Riddle decided he'd make a worthy candidate, Harry shuddered to imagine what horrors he'd have to do to prove he was an obedient Death Eater.

No, sacrificing everything he believed in was not the way to achieve his goal. What was left, then?

He didn't know. No matter how long he thought, his head remained empty.

In the end, he decided to do what he did best. To improvise.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

"Are you a new student, too?" an excited voice asked. Harry stopped scanning the crowd in search of a familiar, hateful face and turned to the girl who approached him. She was wearing an odd but familiar-looking robes that clashed awkwardly with her curly blond hair.

"I am," he confirmed belatedly, still squinting at her robes. "Wait. Isn't this Durmstrang uniform?"

He should have realised it right away. Who else wore the robes with matted fur?

The girl flushed, mortified.

"Don't mention it," she muttered, tugging at her sleeve self-consciously. "It's bad enough that everyone is already staring at me. It wasn't my choice to wear it! It's all my mother. She's attending the feast tonight and she insisted that I look proper."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that," Harry drawled. They both chuckled at the same time, and something warm brushed against his chest.

How long had it been since he had a normal conversation with someone? Not throughout the months spent here. Not for the endless and torturous 163 days trapped in the Ministry. This girl was the first reflection of normalcy, and all of a sudden Harry felt a surge of gratitude.

"I'm Harry Potter," he introduced himself, offering his hand. "And you are?"

She stared at his hand curiously before quickly squeezing it in hers.

"Alina Dobrov," she said. "Though I prefer to be called Aline now that I'm here. I spent five years in Durmstrang, but it's dangerous to stay there now. Because of… well, you know. Grindelwald and all the recruiting he's been doing. My mother hated to leave Durmstrang but she wanted me to be safe more."

Grindelwald, Harry thought as his mood soured again. This was the hindrance he had failed to consider, with all his obsessive focus on Riddle.

Hopefully, this chain of events would go as it had gone in his timeline. Grindelwald was Dubmledore's; Riddle was Harry's.

Aline opened her mouth to say something else but the Hall suddenly went quiet. Dumbledore walked up front, holding a scroll with names, and a teacher Harry didn't know brought the Sorting Hat reverently.

"Let the Sorting begin," Dippet announced.

If the ceremony was starting, then Riddle had to be here already. Harry craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of him at the Slytherin table, but all he saw was a row of identical backs.

Aline was one of the first to be called. She walked towards the stool, blushing miserably when half of the students let out laughs at her appearance.

"Hufflepuff!" the Hat announced after touching her head. Smiling sheepishly at someone at the High Table, Aline rushed to take her new place. Harry watched her, his sympathy increasing when other Hufflepuffs began to murmur to each other, obviously discussing her.

He knew what it felt like — to be stared at by everyone, hear the whispers and pretend they didn't tear into his already uncertain self-esteem.

It seemed shallow and childish now after everything he had survived, but the memory of that feeling still stood sharp in his mind, strong enough to fill him with empathy.

"Potter, Harry."

The sound of his name broke his concentration. Whispers welled up once again, undoubtedly trying to connect him to the Potter family, but Harry shook them off. His last name couldn't be that uncommon. Physical resemblance might be harder to explain, but it mattered little. Gossip would exist with or without his acknowledgement.

Dumbledore gave him an uninterested smile, and Harry tried not to let it sting. Some decades later, this Dumbledore would turn into the version he knew. Right now, he was a stranger who didn't owe him anything.

The Hat half-covered his eyes, and Harry closed them shut. Years ago, he belonged in Gryffindor, and a part of him didn't think there could be a better choice. Gryffindor was a home, as dear to him as Hogwarts herself. But did it suit him now, after his empty bravery and impulsiveness had resulted in the death of everyone he loved? What was he now?

He didn't know the answer to that. What he knew was that he had a goal, a goal he would pursue no matter what. If he failed to appeal directly to Riddle, he could gather his own allies, prepare them for confrontation in advance. He would need the smart, the loyal, and the clever, so it didn't matter what House he himself got into. He would make it work.

'I see,' the Hat said thoughtfully, startling him. 'Adaptable and ambitious to the core, aren't you? And what grand ambitions these are. You'll make a fine addition to SLYTHERIN!'

His heart sank even as his mind rejoiced. He stood up, ignoring the weak applause and the even more strained smile on Dumbledore's face.

If he wanted to get to Riddle, the best way to do it was by watching him up close. Only Slytherin would give him this opportunity.

Harry approached the table, and for a moment, he was taken aback by the strange seating patterns.

Normally, students from the same year stuck together. The fourth-years sat next to each other; the seventh-years formed their own little group. But here at the Slytherin table, everyone was mixed. Students of all ages were spread throughout seemingly randomly: some older ones sat closer to the end; younger boys and girls surrounded them from both sides; then there were older students again, right at the heart of the table. Only the newly sorted stuck to one another, exiled to the farthest corner and looking lost.

And yet, despite the strange patterns, everyone looked to be in perfect symmetry. It was strange, and Harry blinked in surprise before his eyes slowly moved to the centre of the table.

Here he was. Of course this was his place.

Tom Riddle sat on a bench as if it were a throne. He was looking at nothing in particular, toying with a massive black-and-gold ring decorating one of his fingers. His pale face reflected boredom, and Harry stared for several long seconds, morbidly fascinated.

Some people had nice smiles. Others looked plain until they started talking, animation lighting them up from within. There were those who could be described as good-looking, and then there were people like Cho, whose beauty was so mesmerising that it stopped people in their tracks.

Riddle belonged to this latter category. His features were cold and aristocratic: high cheekbones, straight nose, thin lips, dark eyes framed by thick lashes. Jet-black hair curled slightly to his left, and he was emanating such an unattainable superiority that Harry grimaced.

To think that someone like this could turn into the grotesque monstrosity that was Voldemort. What would Riddle think if he was shown a glimpse of his future self? Would he still follow his chosen path?

It doesn't matter, Harry scolded himself. Whatever plans Riddle had, he would make sure to ruin every one of them.

Riddle was wearing his ring, and if Dumbledore's theory was correct, he hadn't made his second Horcrux yet. This, Harry could work with.

It was because he was watching the ring that he noticed Riddle jerk his little finger suddenly. The movement was swift and odd, and even odder was how it appeared to affect others. It was like a ripple of comprehension went through people who sat closest to Riddle. One of them instantly turned to Harry with a fake brilliant smile on his face.

"Hello there!" he greeted. "Welcome to the Slytherin House. Here, you can sit with me this evening."

He moved with readiness that seemed too eager to be genuine. With a quirk of his eyebrows, Harry took the offered seat, glancing at Riddle again. For a prefect, he sure seemed uninterested in new students. He didn't even deign to look in his direction.

"I'm Alphard Black," the other boy said, and just like that, Harry's attention snapped to him. Alphard? Sirius' uncle Alphard?

His heart skipped several beats — first in shock, then in yearning.

Alphard. The link to Sirius, right here, right next to him. They even looked somewhat alike, and if only Harry could tell him…

He caught himself before finishing this thought. The initial joy faded slowly, giving way to darker resolution.

It made no difference that this boy was Sirius' relative. Harry had no idea what kind of person he was and whether he was remotely likeable, so he would treat him like he would a stranger. A stranger doing Riddle's bidding because it was obvious that that finger motion had been a command, one Alphard was currently obeying.

"From the noble and most ancient House of Black?" Harry drawled. Alphard didn't seem to hear the mockery — he brightened.

"Yes!" he said proudly. "One and only. And they said your name is Harry Potter? Are you Fleamont Potter's relative?"

Great. How many more people he would feel compelled to care about were here? Was Fleamont his grandfather?

"No," Harry responded shortly. Alphard threw a quick glance at Riddle. Whatever he inferred from his profile made him turn back to Harry with another fake smile.

"Really?" he wondered. "You are a Muggle-born, then?"

Oh, so that's what was happening. Riddle wanted to know how useful he could be before deciding how to interact with him. Since Harry remained an unknown, he commanded his lackeys to find out his origins. Was he too busy to question him personally? Or did he worry that if Harry proved to be someone insignificant, he would have soiled his superior hands?

Fury and resentment boiled inside him. Harry waved his wrist airily.

"I'm half and half," he explained. "My father was a House Elf and my mother was a witch. So I consider myself a half-blood."

Alphard gasped out loud. There was confused horror in his eyes when he snapped his gaze towards Riddle, and this time, Harry followed it openly.

Riddle was looking at him. His eyes reflected nothing at all, just as his expression, so it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Their stares met for a short moment; then he looked away, bored again. He tapped his finger against the table once, and Alphard instantly faced Harry, as if compelled. His smile was painful.

"That's funny," he said weakly. "You are a jester. That's good. Everyone here needs to lighten up occasionally."

A blond-haired girl sitting to the right side of Riddle gave Alphard a heavy stare, making him pale further. He tried to add something else but no words left his mouth.

Harry spent less than two minutes at this table and he already wanted to barf. What the hell was wrong with these people? Most of them came from powerful families, like Alphard, so why did they let Riddle turn them into his lapdogs? Obeying every movement of his finger, really? This was insane!

The frustration threatened to overwhelm him, so he breathed through his nose slowly. It wouldn't do him any good to yell at Riddle and throw everything he thought about him in his face. This would be Gryffindor-like spontaneous, and he wasn't a Gryffindor any longer. Not until he beat Riddle in this ugly game of world dominion he was playing.

With an effort, Harry swallowed the biting words and focused on his empty plate.

Alphard shifted uneasily. He obviously needed to get some answers for his future lord, and the more Harry refused to talk, the more desperate he started to appear. Why was he performing this kind of task, anyway? Blacks were formidable and their reach was practically endless. What pushed Alphard to the lowest rank within Riddle's inner circle? Could it be somehow related to the fact that his name was removed from the Blacks' tapestry in Harry's timeline?

"I'm a half-blood," Harry said tersely. If Riddle wanted this information, let him have it. It's not like he could tell the truth or make up some outrageous lie about his background to make himself interesting. He'd have to find another way of drawing attention. "My family died and I had to come here. You wouldn't know their names because they were no one special. Since I no longer have a home, I don't know where I'll go in the summer. Maybe I'll ask Headmaster Dippet to let me stay here."

As he'd expected, this got him a reaction: Riddle half-turned his head towards him again, almost as if he wanted to say something. But his lips didn't move, so Harry looked away.

He'd have to observe Riddle for a while to understand how to get under his skin. Hopefully, he'd have enough time.

Alphard opened his mouth, but the infinite choices of food suddenly blossomed in front of them. Grateful for this interruption, Harry grabbed a fork.

Everything was tasteless as ever since he came here, but enjoyment was insignificant, so he still finished everything on his plate.

He hoped Riddle would gather his followers this evening. There were some eavesdropping spells Dumbledore had taught them that he wanted to try.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Riddle transformed when the feast was over and it was time to show the newly sorted students the way to their common room. He turned from cold and disinterested to the same charming and attentive young man Harry had seen in the memories. Smiling at the first years blindingly, he began to tell them the story of Slytherin as he led them into the dungeons.

Once they were safely inside, Riddle adopted a sterner expression.

"Undoubtedly, you will learn the rules of our House with time," he said, his eyes stopping at Harry briefly. "And within the next several months, you will discover your position in it. It doesn't matter who your family is or how much you value yourself. Our House is united, so for you to gain influence here, the rest of your housemates need to think highly of you."

What a crock of bullshit, Harry thought angrily. His skin vibrated from disgust, and all he wanted was to jump to Riddle and punch him in the face just for the privilege of seeing some genuine strong emotion there.

Riddle was the one to determine everyone's worth here, that much was clear. And of course the lineage mattered. Riddle would grace the heirs of the richest families with his fake attention and this would automatically make others respect them.

"How you achieve this is entirely up to you," Riddle continued. He emanated such confidence and allure that his magic seemed to reflect it. Harry could swear he felt its brushes — insistent, persuasive, yet light enough to seduce, not force. "The more points you bring to Slytherin, the better. Losing them is not acceptable. We are considered a superior House for a reason, so I expect all of you to show your best behaviour. If you need help academically, let me or Miss Greengrass know. As prefects, it is our duty to make certain that you succeed in enriching Slytherin and bringing glory to it."

Harry rolled his eyes and glanced at the clock. Five minutes and Riddle was still talking. It would have been more bearable if every second word to come out of his mouth wasn't the same drivel Voldemort had loved to spew.

Riddle must have caught him checking the time because his eyes narrowed slightly. His face didn't change, but Harry still felt the heaviness of his dislike. His lips twitched in a smile, and it widened when Riddle looked away.

"Most importantly," his voice dropped, "there is one rule none of us ever breaks. Whatever happens, stays inside. For example, if you wish for better seating arrangements, you can argue and quarrel between yourselves as much as you'd like, but only as long as you are inside this room. When you are in the Great Hall, you will not cause any scenes. Is that understood?"

An uneven chorus of "yes" echoed. Harry studied the first-years closely. Some of them looked affronted by Riddle's speech — they probably had no idea who he was and why they should listen to him. But others seemed enchanted. They had to be tasting his magic, too, finding it disarmingly charming. Or maybe they liked the idea of power plays and were eager to try their hand at it.

Riddle had mentioned seating arrangements on purpose. He wanted them to be curious and to view the process of something as simple and innocent as getting a seat as competition.

Shallow. Childish. Vain. The only thing that differed him from Dudley was the presence of intellect.

"Very well," Riddle gave them another smile. No trace of it touched his eyes. "You can go to your dormitories now. Your trunks are already waiting there. I hope your first night passes peacefully."

Alphard, who was still shadowing him, pushed him to the staircase. Harry would have snapped at him, but he could see that Riddle and two other students clearly intended to stay behind.

So there was a meeting planned.

Good. Maybe he would learn something useful.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Alphard left him in the bedroom under a ridiculous excuse and hurried back to the common room. As soon as the sound of his footsteps quietened, Harry felt a flare of powerful magic that he used to associate with Voldemort. The anti-eavesdropping charms, no doubt. Fortunately, Dumbledore of his time knew much more than Riddle at 16, and Harry watched him perform all sorts of magic during their months of hell often enough to learn something.

The memories stirred, their threatening presence increasing, and Harry pushed them down violently.

He wouldn't allow that hopeless, bottomless pit to suck him in again. Living through it once was enough.

He murmured the words of the spell and watched his wand flash yellow. The voices reached him instantly, and though they sounded muffled, he could decipher the words with ease.

Four people were talking. Harry could only recognise Alphard, but since one of the voices belonged to a female, he assumed it was Greengrass, another prefect Riddle had mentioned. Riddle himself stayed quiet.

The first several minutes were entirely expected: Riddle's gang was discussing which first-years were from which families, who deserved attention and who could be dismissed until they proved themselves worthy. Then Alphard cleared his throat.

"What about Harry Potter?" he asked. "He said he's not related to the Potters. Do we believe him?"

"Only if you are a fool," Riddle's voice replied. This was the first time he spoke, and everyone immediately fell silent. "The same surname or physical resemblance could be a coincidence, but he has both. He is a part of that family. A very distant and possibly illegitimate part, however. He obviously has no access to their fortune."

"So what do we do about him?" a voice Harry didn't know wondered. "Should Alphard follow him around or is he beneath our notice?"

'We,' 'our.' Did these morons really think they were the valuable parts of Riddle's team? That he wouldn't throw them to the wolves if this promised to be beneficial? How did he enthral them so thoroughly? Just with the help of a charming smile and the stories of his lineage?

"He can be useful in theory," Riddle commented after a pause. Despite the acknowledgement, he still didn't sound interested. "Avery, do some digging. Find out what you can about the Potters' current generation and their influence. If they have anything to offer, we could eventually use this addition to our House to overthrow them. He could take the place of their heir and serve as our proxy. It wouldn't hurt to have more connections among this type of families."

"You don't think it's strange?" Greengrass asked. Her emotionless voice reminded Harry of the way Riddle spoke, and he shuddered. The similarity was uncanny — did she train herself to sound like him? "That his family is traditionally from Gryffindor yet he was sorted into Slytherin?"

"Not at all," Riddle dismissed her. "He is isolated from the Potters. He's wearing second-hand robes and his pitiful attempts at sarcasm match his inferiority complex. He's resentful and bitter over being deprived of the life he thinks he deserves. Ambitiousness is the reason he was placed here. He wants to prove his family wrong and to rise up above them."

Harry gaped at the closed door. He didn't know what he wanted more: to burst out laughing or to seethe at the audacity. Riddle sounded so confident, so calm, as if there was no chance that he might be wrong. Did no one ever knock him down a peg? Was he always right or did he simply convince himself and others of the infallible accuracy of his deductions?

"I'll watch him, then," Alphard suggested. There was such an earnest desire to please in his voice that Harry grimaced. "See if I can get any confessions out."

"Do it," Riddle allowed, as if he was bestowing a favour. "Now, about the Durmstrang girl… With the help of Lestrange here, I was informed of her arrival and circumstances two months in advance. Observing her today confirmed what I had already concluded: she is not worth our time."

"She sure isn't," another voice mumbled. "A Hufflepuff! A Durmstrang student that ends up in Hufflepuff! Can you imagine anything more humiliating?"

There was a series of merry chuckles. Harry couldn't help noticing that neither Riddle nor Greengrass joined them.

"She is reliant on her mother and she doesn't decide anything," Riddle uttered after the laughter died. "I'll see what I can do about Mrs. Dobrov. She might prove to be useful, especially if Grindelwald grows to be an even bigger nuisance."

The voices quietened down after this. Harry listened for some more minutes, but nothing interesting was happening, so he lifted the spell and went to his bed, staring at his trunk. For a moment, fierce longing twisted his insides.

What he wouldn't give to go back to his first year at Hogwarts… to see Ron and Hermione as they were, innocent and full of joy. Why couldn't Riddle just die and free the world of his toxic presence? And why had the Veil chosen to bring Harry to this specific year? Riddle had already begun to build his empire of evil. Harry had been observing him for less than two hours yet this was enough to shake his previous confidence.

What could he realistically do? Riddle had already marked him as unimportant. He could pretend to be interested in overthrowing the Potters, but this goal was so insignificant that he would likely be stuck with Alphard as Riddle's representative.

He had to find a way to surprise him. But how?

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Harry didn't have much hopes of impressing Riddle academically, though a part of him must have been entertaining these thoughts because the first lesson mortified him in a way he'd never felt before.

As his luck had it, it was Potions. Slughorn, whom Harry only knew from Dumbledore's memories, turned out to be a much better teacher than Snape, but unfortunately, this had no impact on Harry's draught. It was black instead of the required grey, and it stunk the entire classroom so much that even Riddle scrunched up his nose. Only Alphard seemed to find it fascinating and hilarious.

"No, really, how did you manage that?" he insisted, ignoring Harry's sour look. "What was that smell? You could have asked for help, you know. I'm great at Potions."

"I'll keep this in mind," he muttered.

The other Slytherins stared at him in disgust, and it was creepy enough to make Harry scowl. They all looked like robots, with unblinking glares and identical silence. What, did they never fail any of their subjects? Was his one mistake that catastrophic?

The next lesson was Charms, and while Harry didn't embarrass himself, he was far from being impressive either. He managed to tackle a new spell the eighth out of twenty students.

Defence against the Dark Arts was the third. After the disappointing day, Harry didn't let himself feel optimistic, and he was right. Professor Merrythought insisted on repeating the previous theoretical material, something he lacked the knowledge of. He didn't do half as badly as he feared, but once again, there was nothing spectacular in his performance. Nothing to earn him Riddle's notice. Not the positive or promising kind, anyway.

The same pattern occurred the next day. And the next one. And the one following it.

As a result, two weeks later, Harry wasn't a step closer to gaining influence over Riddle or even interacting with him. On the contrary, he lost whatever appeal he might have had as a new student with unclear background because upon coming to the Great Hall one morning, he noticed that his seat next to Alphard was taken. There was only one glaringly empty space at the table, and it was near its end, between two fourth-years.

It's not that Harry minded. The whole concept of having a power-seat was so stupid that he promised himself to tell Riddle this at some point just to see his expression. But losing the influence he was already lacking was the last thing he needed.

His frustration was mounting, and the ideas he came up with looked increasingly ridiculous.

The unexpected chance emerged after four more days, when Professor Merrythought announced duelling.

"You can pick any partner you like," she stated happily. "But I'm warning you, if you go for weaker students just to win, it'll be obvious and I'll assess you accordingly. I want to see skill. I want creativity. Now, who's going to go first? Mr. Riddle, perhaps?"

"Of course, professor."

Riddle stood up, his fingers already twirling his wand carelessly. His gaze moved across the students, and the closer it fell to Harry, the faster his heart beat.

If Riddle chose him… could he do it? Could he best him in a duel? In a genuine fight, Harry doubted he'd succeed. His power was no match for Riddle's raw magic, and while he learned what seemed like an endless supply of spells during the Ministry death trap, Riddle probably knew them and more.

But at the moment, Riddle was underestimating him, and Harry knew he could use it to his advantage.

Riddle's eyes reached him… and slid right past him, finally stopping at Rosalia Greengrass. He smiled at her with the corner of his lips and she stood up immediately, her face glowing with pride and determination.

"Good choice," Professor Merrythought approved. "Please take the stage, you two. Let's see what progress you've made over summer."

Riddle bowed, and Greengrass followed his example. The next second, their wands both flared with the blue light.

Neither of them said a word. They relied exclusively on non-verbal magic, and Harry watched them, feeling the reluctant admiration spread, numbing the negativity he'd been struggling with.

Voldemort had been an impressive dueller, but Riddle… Riddle was breath-taking. The changes in styles were instantly obvious, and Harry tracked them intently.

Voldemort focused on his sheer power, wielding it like a weapon to attack and defend himself. Riddle, on the other hand, employed every strength he possessed. He was in constant motion, dodging and bending, shifting to attack only to crouch again. With a jolt, Harry realised why he found this style so much more interesting.

He related to it. Except for the volume of power, Riddle might just as well be him. He was breathing the duel, living every second of it. Harry felt the same mix of focus and excitement: the anticipation of landing a spell, the confidence that he would be quick enough to avoid the curse flying his way.

The only palpable difference was the approach. Harry saw duelling as a whirlwind of energy, luck, and deadliness; Riddle treated it like a dance. There were certain elegance and musicality to his movements whereas Harry revelled in the chaos of spontaneity.

He would probably not win a general duel against Riddle…but he could win the first one. He was almost sure of it.

With difficulty, Harry forced himself to look away. His gaze stopped at Greengrass.

She was a powerful witch, so it was immediately clear why Riddle had chosen her. She managed to match him with the non-verbal spells, a feat that Harry couldn't imagine accomplishing. She was yet to land a curse, but based on the impact of her spells hitting the transparent barrier, the magic behind them was beyond powerful.

Her style, on the other hand, was lacking. It was obvious to Harry that she was trying to emulate some of Riddle's steps and to combine them with her unique approach, but the result was mostly awkward. She was wasting too much time on unnecessary twists: Riddle's moves were equally performative, but each had a cold purpose underlying it. Greengrass was concerned with appearances more than with the effectiveness.

It didn't surprise Harry when she finally missed a spell. It burned through her shield with a violent hiss, eating at her clothes and travelling up her arm, leaving a trail of burns behind. Greengrass pursed her lips tightly in pain as Harry's eyes snapped back to Riddle.

He looked a little flushed from the duel. His stare was full of the same excited insanity Voldemort had, and Harry shuddered.

But the impression shattered quickly. Riddle waved his wand and muttered a spell: it wrapped around Greengrass' wounded arm, healing the damage. Her body relaxed as she looked at Riddle. When he nodded at her slightly, her face lit up, and Harry shook his head in disbelief.

The entire Slytherin House was insane. Most of them probably had problems to begin with, and falling under Riddle's thrall exacerbated the situation.

"Well done!" Professor Merrythought cried out. "Well done, you both, Mr. Riddle, Miss Greengrass. Next time, maybe pick less dangerous spells, Tom, yes? This was marvellous but a tad too violent for a lesson duel. And Rosalia, your non-verbal magic has improved greatly. What I just saw was a remarkable step-up from the last year. But you still need to perfect your step sequence. We'll work on that during our next lesson."

Greengrass nodded, looking unbothered by the criticism. Harry suspected she didn't care about it after getting an approving nod from Riddle. Had he been the one to train her? She was obviously one of his closest allies, and if he wanted to share his experience with someone, he would choose her. Did Alphard, Lestrange, and Avery enjoy the same privileges?

"So, who's next?" Professor Merrythought demanded brusquely.

Three more duels passed quickly. None of them was as impressive as the first one, but Harry still watched with interest. There was something so refreshingly simple and genuine about duelling. No one was pretending to be anything. Everyone had one clear goal and they fought to achieve it, relying on the instantly-occurring thoughts and strategies. There could be no intricate manipulations, no lies.

Harry longed for his turn, so when another duel came to an end, he raised his hand.

"Mr. Potter? Good, good," Professor Merrythought clapped her hands. "Who are you choosing as your partner?"

Harry hadn't thought this far. Everything in him was itching for a fight after these frustrating weeks, after months of being in a foreign time he didn't belong to, surrounded by people he had no interest in knowing. His first instinct told him to pick Riddle — he always wanted to fight Riddle. But even though he believed he stood the chance of winning this first time, it was too much of a risk. Better start with someone else, someone simpler yet important.

It had to be someone from Riddle's inner circle. Not Greengrass, after she'd already had her duel. Alphard was an option, but even though he mostly annoyed him, Harry got… reluctantly sympathetic? He didn't know what Alphard had done to be seen as less by Riddle and his most trusted, but his desperate desire to be accepted back shone through each of his attempts at getting information out of Harry.

Lestrange and Avery were another matter. Lestrange, with his black curly hair, reminded Harry of Bellatrix. They weren't related, at least not directly, yet they shared so many similarities that sometimes dread simmered in his stomach. The boy was tall and broad-shouldered, and he emanated violence even when he wasn't doing anything. Defeating him would be pleasant, but Harry didn't find the idea of duelling someone who had more brute force than brains appealing.

Avery, on the other hand… he was more of a mystery. He resembled Malfoy, both in terms of appearance and behaviour. Blond, arrogant, and in love with the sound of his own voice. Harry considered him vain, but this wasn't the worst crime, which already put him above Lestrange. He knew Avery excelled at Herbology and Charms, and this was it: he had no idea how well he'd do at duelling.

Though Riddle wouldn't tolerate someone weak by his side, so Avery was likely capable of being a challenge.

"I'll duel Cadmus Avery," Harry said.

For the first time in forever, Riddle looked at him. His eyes were distantly curious, but then his lips curved in a derisive smirk.

Bastard.

"Interesting choice," Professor Merrythought approved. "I'd like to see the outcome of such a duel. Take the stage, both of you."

Avery stood up, his wand already in his hands. When their gazes crossed, he gave Harry a disgusted grimace. Harry smirked at him, raising an eyebrow invitingly.

He'd had enough of them all. Finally shaking one of them into admitting they could be weak and clueless like everyone else was a long time coming, and he intended to make this lesson stick.

They bowed, and Avery immediately threw some blue spell at him. It looked similar to what Riddle and Greengrass had used to start their duel — another proof that they all had trainings together.

There was no time to think. Harry twisted out of the spell's trajectory and sent a spell of his own.

Avery was trying to imitate Riddle and Greengrass: his first curses were strictly non-verbal. But he was obviously not as good as them because it took a great chunk out of his concentration.

By the end of the first minute, two of Harry's spells hit him. The first one relaxed Avery's muscles enough to damage his flexibility. The second one stuck to his chest like a purple octopus — Tonks had shown him this one, and Harry found it extremely useful. It sucked out a part of magic from every spell the victim used, weakening them and increasing the chances of the opponent. Its only drawback was that it was easy to get rid of it, but Avery either didn't know the counter-spell or had no time to use it.

His face was bright red from embarrassment and fury. The octopus-spell kept jerking with every movement he made, eliciting chuckles and giggling from other students, and this pushed him into making the mistake Harry had been patiently waiting for.

He got angry, and anger made him reckless. This was exactly the slip Harry expected from one of Riddle's elite and from Riddle himself. By underestimating the enemy, they ended up overestimating themselves, and when things didn't go their way, they got furious.

"Incarcerous!" Avery shouted. Ropes shot out from the end of his wand, expanding in their precise flight, and Harry dived down, flattening himself against the floor. He felt the ropes brush against his back, and as soon as they passed, he was up again, twisting out of the way in time to avoid Avery's blasting curse.

It was time to end it. To apply the tactic that had let him win against the opponents of the class of Lucius Malfoy.

Flicking his wand carelessly, Harry crossed the distance separating him from Avery in two lengthy jumps. He was close enough to land a physical, Muggle blow now, and predictably, Avery's eyes widened in shocked alarm. He jerked his hands in his panic, trying to get away, and Harry breathed out, "Stupefy" right into his face.

The spell didn't even have time to really flare before it collided with Avery's chest. He dropped down heavily, paralysed, and Harry turned to look at the students, seeking out one specific person.

Riddle's face, as always, reflected nothing, but there was a wrinkle of displeasure at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were fixed on Avery coldly. He didn't bother to look in Harry's direction, and the realisation sent angry disappointment right through his chest.

Riddle didn't see the outcome of this duel as Harry beating Avery. He saw it as Avery being beaten by him.

It wasn't Harry's accomplishment that interested him. It was Avery's failure. He probably felt like the defeat of one of his followers reflected badly on him: it didn't matter who defeated them, the point was that they hadn't been strong or cunning enough to win. Harry's performance hadn't been impressive enough for him to consider him a potential recruit, so his victory meant nothing.

A new wave of disappointment crashed into him, and Harry clenched his fists. He made himself smile at Professor Merrythought's praise, feeling none of the joy that had just been running through his veins.

Another plan failed.

He was out of ideas.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

His frustration kept climbing until he started to feel like it was an actual living thing with incessant supplies of energy. The desire to do something, to shake Riddle somehow turned into an obsessive need, but Harry didn't find anything better to do other than to watch his movements quietly.

Throughout the day, Riddle ignored Avery. This didn't seem too bad, but Avery reacted like it was the worst punishment in the world. By evening, he was a pale, jittery wreck, and other Slytherins took palpable delight in sneering at him. Lestrange, Greengrass, and even Alphard were doing the same. Harry observed them with barely veiled disgust.

Some friends they were. Like he'd suspected, even though they might be close, it was their servitude to Riddle that united them, not a genuine sense of loyalty. Did they even know what friendship was?

In moments like this, the memories of Ron and Hermione seemed unbearably distant. Harry's heart ached so much that he thought he might be physically sick from it.

He wrapped his arms around himself, burrowing deeper into the edge of the couch in the common room. It was the farthest from the fireplace, which apparently represented another power symbol. Riddle and his allies took the spots in its vicinity — no one else dared to approach.

If only Harry could allow himself to openly antagonise them… but he couldn't. Not until he figured out what to do about Riddle.

Misery and cold made him sleepy. He blinked slowly, trying to keep his eyes open. He was so focused on it that he noticed the strange lull in the discussions belatedly. Looking up, Harry saw that Riddle was moving towards the door, with everyone's eyes following him. Avery, who now looked even paler, stood up as well. He didn't raise his head — his gaze remained glued to the floor as he walked out after Riddle, his hands clenched in nervous fists.

Interesting. Was some punishment underway?

As soon as the door closed, everyone burst into murmurs. Harry didn't bother to listen to them. Knowing that no one was going to pay attention to him, he got to his feet and left the room, too.

What he wouldn't give to have his Invisibility Cloak here. Stalking Riddle wasn't an easy task, even though he had his own insignificance as his advantage. No one expected much of him, no one really watched him, and no one thought he would be audacious enough to disregard their little hierarchy and target their leader. Still, Riddle was paranoid, and sooner or later, he might notice he had a stalker.

Hopefully, not today. Harry wanted to uncover as much as possible about him and his dynamics with other Slytherins before it happened.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

He made sure to stay as far as possible. He hadn't risked putting any concealing charms on himself, not after what happened to Hermione, so he relied on his own stealth and hearing.

Riddle was strutting towards the Forbidden Forest. Avery kept following him, dragging himself with obvious reluctance, his dread wrought in every step.

When they disappeared behind the trees, Harry sped up. The familiar sounds of the woods hit his ears, and he relaxed without consciously understanding why.

There was nothing safe about this place, yet even the worst memories from the pre-Ministry period felt like home. He'd cross the entire forest without his wand just for the chance to go back.

Riddle seemed at ease, his gait confident, while Avery clearly found the woods terrifying. Harry could hear his hitched breaths from his spot. Though maybe he was afraid of whatever Riddle had brought him here for, not of the forest itself.

Finally, Riddle stopped and whirled around. He tilted his head, observing Avery.

"Today was humiliating," he spoke quietly. Something glinted in his hands — a stone? A vial? "When I gave you an opportunity to prove yourself to me, it came with conditions. Conditions that you swore to never breach. And yet… here we are. You, defeated by a weaker wizard with dubious background. Do you wish to tell me how that happened?"

"I apologise, Tom," Avery stammered. He twisted his hands together anxiously. "Truly, I do. But Potter jumped me! Did you see it? Like, like he's some Muggle! I would have won otherwise! I don't know why he came after me at all, it's not like I even interact with this useless trash!"

A derisive chuckle slipped past Riddle's lips.

"Potter wants to impress me," he said, each word ringing with condescension. "He's watching me all the time. This duel today? It wasn't about you. It was about me."

Harry almost recoiled, mortified at the sudden accusation. His heart jumped so loudly that for a moment, he worried Riddle might hear.

It's not that the accusation was wrong, but the way Riddle had put it… as if Harry found him so irresistible that he was ready to do anything for a slice of his attention. The thought was infuriating. How could one person have such an inflated ego? How did he not self-combust from all this self-admiration? Harry wouldn't be surprised if Riddle made a shrine to himself in his orphanage as a constant reminder of how important and amazing he was.

Avery said nothing. Harry couldn't see his face, but he noticed how Riddle began to move, each unhurried step bringing him closer to where Avery was standing.

"This is what I saw," he announced. "Your ineffective use of non-verbal magic. Your slowness. Your inability to hit Potter and to shield yourself from his spells. There was barely any force behind any of them — Potter is not a particularly powerful wizard. And still, you let them slip through your defences."

Only a couple of inches separated him from Avery now. Riddle's magic felt like a swamp, thick and bottomless, dark and oppressive. Everything in Harry urged him to step away, and Avery must have felt the same instinct because he twitched. His body shook lightly.

"Potter is nothing more than a buffoon," Riddle said. His voice was no louder than a whisper, but it still sounded deadly. Harry shivered. "His ridiculous tactic had only two goals: to make you angry and to take you aback. And he succeeded. You lost to him. In front of the entire school."

Another hitched sound from Avery. The trembling got more pronounced, and for a second, Harry felt a rush of reluctant sympathy. Avery meant nothing to him, but no one should be scorned like this for a meagre academic failure. Especially not by Riddle, who was basking in this cesspool of fear and humiliation. He absorbed Avery's every flinch, every sigh — the perverted glow on his face showed how much this scene was sating his depraved appetite.

"They know I've been teaching you," Riddle continued softly. He raised his hands, wrapping them around the back of Avery's neck as if in a friendly embrace. "And what did they see today? That a boy from nowhere can easily get the better of you? One of my followers? How do you think this will affect their opinion of me?"

"I… I'll do better," Avery rasped. Harry no longer recognised his voice. "I swear, Tom, I'll do better. I'll duel Potter again, and this time, I'll show everything you have taught me."

"Yes, I expect you will," Riddle stroked Avery's face thoughtfully. "But how do I know you won't embarrass yourself again? After all, you had a clear set of tasks you had to accomplish over summer. You failed every one of them. Your non-verbal magic remains stifled. You still succumb to your temper. You can't move quickly enough to avoid the curses thrown at you. It seems to me that you didn't make an effort when you had to… which means that you'll have to make an effort now."

Riddle uncorked the object he was holding and pressed it to Avery's lips.

"Drink it," he purred. "And then we'll have a friendly duel. Consider it a training session before you take on Potter again."

Harry couldn't imagine what was in the vial, and based on how badly Avery began to tremble, he had no idea either.

Even then, he didn't argue. He raised his shaking hand, grabbed the vial and drank from it in three audible gulps.

Harry stopped breathing. His limbs tensed, as if preparing him for a fight, and he scoffed at himself. What, was he about to defend Avery? Avery had made his own choices, he was hardly an innocent victim. If he sold himself to Riddle, this was his problem and his business. Harry wasn't about to interfere.

It was just as well because nothing was happening. Avery didn't start convulsing or screaming in pain — he continued to stand there, scared but otherwise all right.

Riddle stepped back from him with a wide smile, his arms outstretched in a semblance of harmlessness.

"Go on," he drawled. "Take out your wand. Pretend I'm Potter. Duel me."

Avery obeyed with an uncertain chuckle.

"But you are not Potter," he uttered. He tried to sound light, but the terror bled through. "Your duelling won't be the same."

"Don't worry. I'll improvise. I'll only use the spells of his level."

Harry's hand twitched to his wand, incensed, but he forced himself to stand still.

His moment would come. When he rushed the last time, it cost him everything. He would learn to be patient now, and he would bring Riddle down regardless of 'his level.'

Avery used the blue spell, but Riddle knocked it away lazily with a shallow flick of his wand.

"Furnunculus," he called out loudly. Avery must have been as incredulous as Harry because he let out a startled laugh. Instead of dodging, he used a shield, and the moment it started to consume the spell was the moment Riddle sent several more identical curses his way.

While Avery managed to whirl away, the edge of one of the flashes of Riddle's magic touched his arm. The contact was too subtle to have any lasting damage — Harry expected a furuncle or two to pop up, but all of a sudden, Avery screamed. He dropped his wand, clutching at his hand, still screaming, but when Harry squinted, he saw nothing unusual. Like he'd expected, a mild-sized boil blossomed on Avery's skin. Sure, it wasn't pleasant, but it couldn't be that bad. What had Riddle done?

"Missing a spell a first-year should know how to avoid?" Riddle asked quietly. He sounded the opposite of amused, and a bad feeling stirred in Harry's chest. "You disappoint me, Avery. But now that you know that the impact of each physical sensation is amplified tenfold, maybe you'll show more care and start actually duelling me."

Amplified? That's what the potion was?

No wonder Riddle decided to use simple spells. Anything stronger and Avery would die from pain or shock.

"Pick up your wand," Riddle ordered coldly. "You have five seconds before I attack you again."

Avery grabbed his wand. He was hyperventilating, but the whimpering stopped as he assumed his position.

Riddle sent another volley of nasty spells in his direction, and Avery focused on shielding himself and repelling them. He didn't attack himself — he was entirely on the defensive.

The more he watched, the more unsettled Harry felt. Because even though he loathed to admit it, Riddle's strategy made sense now. It was sadistic and disgusting, but it was also… educational? Avery was fighting much better now than he had been with Harry this afternoon. He threw all of himself into his every movement, investing genuine effort into avoiding each spell.

After a while, he adjusted to the specifics of their duel enough to start throwing spells at Riddle, too. His approach was wary, gradual, but it was thoughtful and effective, and Harry felt a pang of grudging respect.

If Avery had fought him like this from the start, Harry would have won anyway, but his victory would have taken him much longer.

Five minutes later, Riddle made a swift wand movement. Avery jerked automatically. He realised that no spell was coming too late — by that time, Riddle sent Petrificus Totalus towards him, and Avery failed to block it. His body seized and he dropped onto the ground wordlessly.

Harry winced. Although Avery couldn't speak right now, he had to be in terrible pain, with bruises rapidly spreading all over his back.

He knew Riddle would do something cruel just for the sake of it. Even if his lessons were useful sometimes, the sadism behind them prevailed. Voldemort ruled with fear, not loyalty, and there was nothing surprising in him starting developing his approach early.

Riddle walked towards Avery and knelt next him, pointing his wand at him.

"Rennervate," he said. Avery gasped before a cry rolled off his lips. He tried to hold it back, but the pain must have been bad enough to shatter his composure. He jumped to his feet in an attempt to remove pressure from his back, but his feet nearly buckled from strain, resulting in another choked whimper.

Riddle pulled out another vial from his pocket, and Avery reached for it blindly, as if he knew for certain this was an antidote.

"Yes, drink this," Riddle murmured, a terrible smile stretching his thin lips. "See, I can be merciful. All you have to do is to honour your obligations."

Harry would have been more willing to believe this if Riddle didn't pull his nail down Avery's cheek at the same time, leaving a tiny bleeding scratch behind. When Avery cried out, an expression of delight overtook his features.

This was far from Crucio yet, but the road to it was already being paved. And Riddle's idiot allies followed it readily.

Avery hastened to gulp down the potion, probably worried that Riddle could use his slowness to inflict more damage. He gave a sigh of relief immediately afterwards.

Riddle got up, disinterested now. He didn't say anything else, and Harry waited until he and Avery disappeared from view before finding his own way back to the castle. His thoughts were swirling without stop as gloominess began to conquer even the more optimistic sides of him.

So, what did he learn here? Despite having already split his soul once, Riddle remained smart and rational — relatively. He was a promising leader, his magic was absolutely brilliant, and based on Avery's behaviour, he knew how to ensnare a person so tightly that they kept supporting him even despite the physical punishments. At some point, there would be nothing but terror and desperation keeping them by Riddle's side, but this time hadn't come yet. Riddle still had valuable things to offer.

Unfortunately, none of it solved Harry's main problem. Riddle wasn't offering anything to him, and from his words, he didn't take him seriously. At such a pace, Harry would need years before Riddle even acknowledged him as a fellow Slytherin.

Frustrated anger shot up, electrifying his nerve endings and antagonising his magic. Harry kicked a stone, a hot flood of dejection spreading and burning through him.

He had to think of something, and he had to do it quickly.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Riddle was planning to create a second Horcrux. It was becoming increasingly obvious.

Between fighting off Alphard with his insistent conversations and ignoring Avery's calculating glowers, Harry quickly noticed the change. Riddle grew even more obsessed with his ring. He touched and caressed it constantly; he spent hours examining something that looked like a self-written diary and making occasional corrections. Harry managed to catch a glimpse of the library title he was reading: 'How Meaningful Dates Shall Strengthen the Rituals and Intensify Their Effects,' and it became the last clue.

Riddle wanted to perform the ritual on Halloween. This meant that there were only three more days for Harry to come up with some brilliant scheme that would allow him to stop Riddle and to convince him to at least delay his plan.

This was an impossible task.

His panic began to feel suffocating. The already tasteless food lost even the nutritional appeal it had — Harry felt sick at the sight of it. He couldn't focus on the lessons, not even on the Defence Against the Dark Arts. Whenever he saw Riddle, adrenaline detonated in his veins, and he couldn't force his lungs to work properly.

What could he do? What could he do? What weak spots did Riddle have that he could hit?

He was self-absorbed and arrogant. Reputation meant everything to him. He loved no one — his only infatuation was with himself. All of this didn't mean much and it gave him nothing to…

A sudden thought exploded in Harry's mind, burning his insides raw with its shrapnel. It was so unexpected and insane that it paralysed everything in him, and for a moment, he stared at nothing, wide-eyed and astounded by his own daring.

Riddle was in love with himself. He elevated everything about himself to godly status. He was obsessed with his lineage and he considered deigning to speak to someone a great favour.

Wasn't Harry lucky to carry a piece of him inside?

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

He kept hesitating and changing the details he was willing to share with Riddle almost until the last moment. Being a Horcrux was a strong card, but should he reveal it so early on? What if this had terrible consequences and he would live to regret it?

But the evening of Halloween came and nothing else occurred to him. Riddle visited the feast, giving cheerful smiles and murmuring meaningless celebratory rubbish to persons of note. Then, when everyone started eating, he said something to Greengrass, got up, and walked out of the Great Hall.

It was now or never. Harry couldn't let him make another Horcrux and lose an even bigger part of his already lacking humanity.

Fortunately, as he was exiled to the farthest end of the Slytherin table, no one paid him any mind. Pushing his untouched plate away, Harry left the hall, too.

He didn't need to follow Riddle to know where he was going.

The corridors were empty — even the ghosts and the portraits were all busy celebrating. Riddle couldn't find a more perfect moment for re-entering the Chamber of Secrets to perform his ugly ritual.

Harry sped up, made a turn, and slammed the bathroom door open.

Riddle was already standing at the sink. At the sound, he whirled around so instantly that Harry almost missed it.

For several seconds, none of them said anything, just staring at one another. This was the first time Riddle was looking at him so specifically, and satisfaction warmed Harry's blood.

Finally.

"Disturbing the peace of the dead?" he wondered. Myrtle didn't seem to be around, but Riddle still visited the bathroom where he'd killed her with careless ease. How could a person feel absolutely nothing towards a life they'd taken? Harry struggled with accepting his role in the deaths of several Death Eaters who tried to kill him. He would never want to see them as ghosts, but it was obvious that Riddle had no such problem.

"Stalking me to the bathroom?" Riddle asked coldly. The initial wariness faded, and now he raised his chin, derisive as ever. "How desperate must you be?"

His scorn heated Harry's blood further. He barked out an unpleasant laugh, thrilled to finally be in the position to answer.

"You are one to talk," he drawled. "A person who's so desperate to escape death that he would rather mutilate his soul than stay mortal. It's pathetic. You are pathetic."

It felt so good to say this at last. It lessened the unbearable weight that kept pressing at him, freeing him from the curse he couldn't shake since the moment he laid his eyes on Riddle.

Astonishment painted itself across Riddle's features. It was brief, but it was profound and unmistakable, and Harry wanted to crow in delight.

"Yes, I know all about that," he uttered, making a step in Riddle's direction. His heart was beating so fast that he barely heard his voice. "I know about your diary. I know about the plans you have for your ring. I know about Myrtle and about your family; I know about the Chamber of Secrets and about the Basilisk. I know everything you are and everything you will be."

Riddle's wand stabbed him in the chest. His magic stormed around them, frozen and deadly, with the first warning sparks searing through Harry's clothes.

"What are you?" Riddle hissed. It was funny that he'd chosen 'what' as opposed to 'who,' considering the answer Harry was about to give him.

"I'm your Horcrux," he said.

Riddle's eyes widened. Shock and disbelief cracked the threatening mask he was wearing. A myriad of emotions shot across his face, making it look more alive than at any point Harry had seen before. Surprise, wonder, suspicion, curiosity — they bled into one another before wariness engulfed them all. Riddle's wand wavered for a moment, but he didn't put it down.

"My Horcrux," he repeated slowly. He sounded as if he was tasting the idea, considering it yet not being anywhere close to accepting it. "From the diary? Are you a reflection of my soul?"

Harry snorted.

"Do you think the reflection of your soul looks like the Potters' descendent?" he asked humourlessly. Riddle narrowed his eyes, recognising the taunt but probably still feeling too uncertain to react.

"You were right about that, by the way," Harry added. Now that he finally held Riddle's attention, he felt a sense of power he'd never imagined before. His confidence skyrocketed, whispering that he was doing the right thing, infusing him with even stronger determination. "I'm related to the Potters. Only my family is dead and they were never from here. I come from what you may refer to as an alternative world where the events happened differently. In that world, you succeeded in becoming Voldemort. You intended to split your soul into seven parts, but you ended up losing your sanity and your looks, everything that makes you who you are now, much earlier."

Riddle lowered his wand a little. His wariness was still there, but it gained a more considering glint. Whatever he was feeling, he was more open to Harry's story.

Which meant that Harry had to try to make it convincing. Making up an alternative world was preferable to confessing to time travel: Riddle should never be tempted to make a journey of his own, and since Harry entertained the thought of presenting himself as a neutral ally, he couldn't be that much younger. Riddle would never believe that Voldemort, who was over sixty at that point, chose to confide in a fifteen-year-old.

But if mixing truths with lies worked on Dumbledore and Dippet, it would work on Riddle, too — he just had to stick to what he was saying.

"You opened the Chamber, killed Myrtle and turned your diary into your first Horcrux," Harry murmured. Riddle tilted his head slightly, neither confirming nor denying it. "You killed your father and your grandparents later on and made the Peverells' ring into another Horcrux. But it damaged you too much. You became emotionally unstable. Irrational. The moment one of your followers did something that displeased you, you put them under Crucio. No one was loyal to you any longer, no one wanted to serve you. They feared you and your magic, but that was it. And I… I became your last Horcrux."

Riddle's lips parted at this. He gave him a once-over, slowly scanning him from head to toe, as if looking for any tangible confirmation of his words. Harry brushed the hair off his forehead to reveal the scar.

"This was the result of your ritual," he said blandly. "A dark curse that put a piece of your soul in me. It connected us in several ways."

Riddle's eyes snapped to his scar and stayed fixed on it. Carefully, he pressed his wand to it, tracing it lightly. Whatever thoughts he had, Harry couldn't read them.

"What ways?" Riddle asked finally. Pulling away from his touch, Harry stepped towards the sink, eyeing a little silvery snake on the tap.

"Open," he hissed. The sink began to move rustily, but instead of watching it, he turned to see Riddle's reaction.

His expression was all disbelief again, but now it was marred by anger. His wand moved higher as he obviously contemplated an attack, and Harry rolled his eyes in disgust.

"Please," he spat, "I have no interest in claiming a part of your heritage. I'm a Potter, remember? I'm not the heir of Slytherin. You yourself passed your Parseltongue to me when you made me your Horcrux."

Riddle grimaced, but he dropped his wand. Harry took it as a good sign.

"Your decision turned you into a monster," he added quietly. "You no longer looked human. You went insane, and the destruction of everything became your single goal. Nothing else interested you. None of your plans were ever realised."

"So you are saying that having just two Horcruxes already damaged me?" Riddle asked. His voice sounded tight. "And making the third one — making you. It became my… my downfall?"

Even uttering these words aloud terrified Riddle. Harry could see it: his pupils were blown wide, the fear etched into every flawless line of his face.

Everything sang in him at this sight. He'd made the right choice — he'd proven his intimate knowledge of Riddle and now he had a chance to scare him off the Horcruxes once and for all.

Harry didn't know how it would alter the future, but it couldn't be for the worse. Human Riddle had to be more reasonable than Voldemort in his insanity.

"Pretty much," he muttered. Riddle blanched, his grip on his wand tightening. "You lost yourself. You were still alive when I left, but it wasn't you any longer. If you saw it, you wouldn't recognise yourself."

Riddle's breathing stumbled. He stood there aimlessly, shocked and lost, and for the first time in two months, Harry felt a pinch of sympathy.

Fortunately, it was instantly washed away by the horror.

No. He wasn't going to sympathise with Riddle. He might not be Voldemort yet, but he was still a monster, and he had only himself to blame for making choices that pushed him past the brink of sanity.

Harry straightened, squinting assessingly.

"I can show you something… if you want," he offered slowly. While Snape had failed to teach him any Occlumency, Dumbledore managed to instil the solid basics in him during those days at the Ministry. Harry would unlikely withstand the full mental attack by someone like Riddle, but he could protect the initial layers of memories as well as pick which of them to push to the surface.

He tricked Riddle once, he could trick him again.

"I can't show you everything," he added. "And I hope you will respect my memories enough not to try digging. I don't know how seeing the world I came from can affect this one and everyone in it, including you. But if you need more evidence, I can share the glimpses of what I've seen. Maybe this will be enough to convince you to stop your insane quest of mutilating yourself."

Riddle's lips thinned. He remained silent for a while, observing Harry intently. Going from spending two months unnoticed to rapidly becoming an object of such an intense scrutiny was strange, but Harry held Riddle's stare, refusing to look away first.

"Fine," Riddle agreed lowly. "But not here. I wish to see what you're willing to show me in the Chamber of Secrets. It's the safest place in Hogwarts and I don't feel comfortable plunging into anyone's mind in a public bathroom."

"Too bad Salazar Slytherin decided to make an entrance here," Harry snarked. "How many girls' lavatories did you sneak into before you found it?"

For some reason, Riddle frowned, gazing at him strangely.

"I'm not certain I appreciate your tone," he uttered. "You forget your pla-"

He fell silent abruptly without finishing his sentence. Harry couldn't help smirking. It was just like he'd thought. Riddle had no idea how to feel about him now. Status-like, Harry was nothing, but as a Horcrux, he deserved special treatment — at least in the eyes of someone as self-absorbed as Riddle.

He was almost curious to see what Riddle would eventually decide to do about him.

Harry moved towards the pipe, but Riddle's voice made him pause.

"There is something I don't understand," he said. His gaze lost its edge, and now it felt like he was speaking to himself rather than to Harry. "I selected each of my Horcruxes very carefully — past, present, and future. Each has a special meaning. My diary was meant to be a weapon, a testimony to who I am. I couldn't claim my rightful legacy publicly, so I made sure that in the future, my diary would disclose the truth by guiding someone else towards the Chamber. The ring is the priceless heirloom. I couldn't find a worthier vessel for a piece of my soul. The objects created by other Founders have the same value. But you... what's so special about you? I don't understand."

Harry blinked, at a loss for words. He had no idea what to say and whether Riddle expected him to speak at all.

This wasn't a part of the story he'd given much thought to. For some reason, it never occurred to him that Riddle would be overly curious about the reasons behind his 'creation.' He'd had vague thoughts of blaming everything on an accident, but in retrospect, of course this wouldn't satisfy someone who had such an obsessive approach to anything he considered relevant.

How could he have been so stupid? This had to be the first story he planned!

His mind raced in panic while Riddle continued his chain of thought.

"By making you a Horcrux, I essentially immortalised you," he murmured. He was still gazing at the wall unseeingly. "There are few things that can kill you now apart from the ones magic cannot counter. So why would I do that? Why would I grant you that much power?"

There were not many scenarios Harry could think of to fit Riddle's description, so he didn't risk opening his mouth. Not that Riddle seemed interested in his explanations.

"Even if you were my closest ally, which I highly doubt, I would not consider sharing my secret with you, never mind making you a part of it," Riddle pressed his finger to his lips thoughtfully. "You are neither powerful nor smart. And yet, you don't seem to be afraid of me, although you have to know the extent of my powers. If anything, you are disrespectful, something I do not tolerate from anyone, including my friends."

"You have friends?" Harry grumbled, crossing his arms against his chest defensively. He didn't know where Riddle was going with this, but he already didn't like it. "Or is that a euphemism for the sheep you call your followers?"

This got him a reaction — Riddle stared again.

"Indeed," he murmured. His voice went so quiet, it was barely audible now. "I don't have friends. Yet despite everything, somehow, I chose to make you a part of my immortal life. To elevate you to a status I assign only to the most precious of things. This means... that I must have..."

Riddle stopped. His face changed suddenly, a new foreign look crossing it. His eyes widened, his mouth half-opened, and he stared at Harry with obsessive fascination.

"I must have loved you," he whispered incredulously, wonder enveloping his words in an even softer layer. "I loved you. That would be the only reason."

"Er…" Harry stared back helplessly. His mind went blank, with every last bit of rationality withering in horror.

If he'd had enough time, he could have thought of multiple scenarios — except for this one. Never this one. Riddle decided that he had loved him? It was absurd. It was disturbing! The last thing he wanted was…

But wasn't it better to let Riddle entertain his delusion? It made more sense than to admit they were enemies and that Voldemort made him a Horcrux when trying to kill him. Riddle would want to know why, and mentioning the Prophecy would be a suicide. It would nullify every inch of victory Harry had managed to score tonight.

He had to play along. Riddle had only himself to blame — he'd given him perfect ammunition. Still…

"I don't know about love," Harry murmured awkwardly. This word should have never sounded in this context, not in connection to Riddle. "You never… I mean… you never told me. So I don't know how you felt. But we were close, yes. We—" images from his real life flashed before his eyes. Riddle standing in the Chamber of Secrets, commenting on how alike they were. Dumbledore sharing his memories of attending Wool's orphanage; the depressing walls and tiny rooms there, and Muggles with grim faces, terrified of Riddle and despising him for it. Grabbing the first opportunity to get rid of him.

Back then, Harry's heart had clenched painfully. Regret and empathy entwined, and he couldn't immediately push them down because…

Because he related to it. He related to Riddle. This thought was the first he'd had when Dumbledore was showing him the past, and it stayed with him throughout, pulsing in his mind insistently, making him want to curl up in shame and to never look Dumbledore or his friends in the eye again.

But this was a new world where no one had expectations of him. He could use his shameful feelings here — he could create a story out of them.

"We grew up together," Harry said slowly. A possible scenario quickly built itself, unfolding right before his eyes. "At the Wool's. We had magic, but we didn't understand what it was, and other people, Muggles… they didn't understand us."

Riddle's face changed at this. His gaze did, too — it gained a new kind of intensity, as if one more link emerged between them and he sensed it palpably.

"You know how it is," Harry shrugged, feeling even more awkward. "Two children who had no one else."

For a moment, he let himself imagine this scenario. The Dursleys dumping him at the orphanage and him meeting Riddle there. Meeting a sullen, angry, magical boy — a boy just like himself.

Would they have been friends? Watching Riddle bully and torment other children would have been something he'd fight against, but even despite all the cruelty, Harry suspected he would be unable to sever their connection. The desperate longing to have someone like him, to be understood and accepted would be too big of temptation.

How would it change Riddle? How would it change him?

"Before I came to Wool's, I lived with another pair of Muggles," he confessed hesitantly. He didn't want to lie to Riddle, but since this wasn't an option, he wanted to share as much truth as he could. "They weren't what I'd call the nicest people. I kept dreaming of making a friend or having someone from my family come and save me. But no matter how much I dreamed, it never happened. I ended up at the orphanage, and I met you there."

"How old were you?" Riddle asked. He pocketed his wand, finally dismissing him as a threat, although his gaze stayed glued to Harry's face.

"Five," Harry blurted out. It was a random number, but he hoped it made sense. "I was five. We didn't become friends right away, but when we realised what we had in common... Something changed. There was a connection, and it got stronger with years. "

Riddle stayed quiet for a long time. Finally, when Harry began to worry that his story was about to be rejected like the fabrication it was, Riddle gave him a tiny odd smile.

"Yes," he agreed. "I imagine it would."

They stared at one another again, and then something happened. Harry didn't know if it was an instinctive mutual attempt at surface Legilimency, if the Horcrux had something to do with it or whether it was simple imagination, but all of a sudden, he felt as if he plunged into Riddle's mind just as Riddle plunged into his.

He saw the story he'd just described. He saw himself and the child that Riddle had been once, meeting in a small grey room, locking gazes and instantly recognising something in each other. He saw their first conversation — himself, awkward and hopeful; Riddle, wary and suspicious. He saw the bond they could have had, forged in the gloomy idea of being the only special children in the world, destined to be disliked and feared by everyone else, having only each other to rely on.

The fantasy, or whatever it was, ended as swiftly as it began. Harry blinked rapidly, stunned, and saw an equally stunned expression on Riddle's face.

Silence dragged on, and each minute made him feel more and more uncomfortable. Unable to tolerate being dissected like this, Harry faced the pipe again.

"Right," he said loudly. "You wanted to see some of the memories. Let's hurry this along. The Halloween feast won't last forever, I'm sure your lackeys are already suffering without your grand presence."

He began to lower himself into the pipe when Riddle's hands suddenly wrapped around his waist and pulled him away viciously. In his surprise, Harry jerked, hit his leg and hissed in pain.

As soon as he felt solid ground under his feet, he whirled around, already glaring.

"What the hell are you doing?" he barked. Riddle still had a tight grip on his back, his dark eyes narrowed in displeasure.

"Are you insane, stupid, or suicidal?" he asked coldly. "Why would you jump into that pipe?"

"Because I've done that before?" This came out sounding like a question. Confusion temporarily overshadowed every other emotion Harry was feeling. "What's your problem?"

Riddle shook his head incredulously.

"What kind of wizard are you? Did it never occur to you to conjure a ladder or to summon the Basilisk?"

"I'd rather bring a broom," Harry muttered. He tried to twist himself out of Riddle's grip, but it only tightened further.

"A broom," he repeated. "To travel down a pipe like this. You are not helping me to decide between insane, stupid, and suicidal."

"Why do you care at all?" At long last, Riddle let go, and Harry instantly made several steps away. An uncomfortable thought entered his mind, and he frowned. "You are aware that I'm not your Horcrux literally, right? I don't carry a piece of your soul. We are connected symbolically, not physically. Another version of you put it inside me, so your life isn't tied to mine. You don't need to concern yourself with my safety. Besides, it's not like I would die from an unfortunate fall."

Another strange expression crossed Riddle's face.

"I'm aware," he said laconically. Then he went back to being silent, and Harry fought the impulse to step even further away.

Riddle's habit of staring and not talking made him uneasy. He couldn't pinpoint why, but this silent gaze sent warning shivers down his back. Riddle's eyes reflected absolutely nothing: he could be thinking of anything or not thinking at all. He barely felt human.

"Are we going into the Chamber or are you planning to spend the entire evening in the girls' bathroom?" Harry snapped impatiently. Annoyance was good — he preferred it to anxiousness. He would never give Riddle the satisfaction of seeing how unnerving he found him.

"I changed my mind," Riddle spoke. His hand dived into his pocket, undoubtedly wrapping around his wand. "Show me what you wanted to show me now."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but the next second, the unbearable pressure pushed against his mind. Riddle's assault was ruthless: he tore through the shields Harry was proud of in less than a second, searching for any memories with hungry insistence.

Harry's first instinct was to succumb to panic. His mind almost jumped to the exact memories he didn't want Riddle to see, and only excruciating pain from the attack hindered him. For several moments, he saw nothing at all — he could only think of the liquid agony spreading through his mind like fire.

Fury came next. It was so like Riddle to trample boundaries and attack when he knew no one was watching and that he would face no punishment.

Well, maybe he wouldn't be punished traditionally, but it didn't mean Harry couldn't find an alternative.

He concentrated on the ugliest memories of Voldemort he could recall. A white-faced, serpentine-like monster with insane crimson stare and high-pitched laughter; the mindless torture of his masked followers; a decrepitruin peering from the back of Quirrell's head.

Riddle's horror was like a breath of fresh air. It left its icy prints across each memory, and Harry poured every effort into showing more while keeping them short and vague.

A flash of Tom Riddle from the Chamber of Secrets, just to prove that they were acquainted. A more distorted flash from Dumbledore's memories — the Wool's, Riddle's young face; back to Voldemort again.

Harry was starting to worry that he would be out of memories before Riddle's appetite was sated. Desperately, he focused on a diary reflection of Riddle screaming and twisting, and this, finally, was enough. Riddle tore away from his mind, his face contorted in a disbelieving grimace.

The pain was visceral. Harry leaned against the wall, pressing his hand to his forehead.

Damn Riddle. So he wouldn't let Harry jump down the pipe, but he had no qualms tearing his mind to pieces?

"Why have you waited two months before telling me this?" Riddle asked. Reluctantly, Harry glanced at him again. He still resembled a ghost, his face abnormally pale. "And how did you come into my world? Was it on purpose?"

"Not exactly," Harry replied carefully. Riddle believed him entirely, he could see it. He just needed to solidify his success. "We were at the Ministry. Trapped, with Dumbledore and aurors and your followers."

"Dumbledore!" Riddle hissed. His eyes flared with familiar rage. "I knew it. I knew he would be a hindrance."

"Yeah, well, maybe you could have posed a real challenge to him one day, but you ended up turning into a disfigured half-wit," Harry grunted. His head was still splitting in two, and his resentment towards Riddle reached a new peak. "We were trapped, almost everyone died, and you didn't seem to become any saner. I stumbled into some room that the Ministry kept well-protected. I don't know what happened but the next thing I knew, I was here."

Riddle didn't comment. His gaze remained shadowed.

"As for why I waited… I didn't know what kind of world I was in at first," Harry made a vague gesture. "As you noticed, my other version doesn't exist here, so I wasn't sure about you either. I realised that you are the same arrogant arsehole you were in my time early on, but I hoped you never made any Horcruxes. When Halloween approached and I saw you toying with your ring, I knew the events were unfolding similarly. I had to interfere. Because…" Harry hesitated, wrestling with a strange, uncomfortable truth.

He came here for his friends, for all the people he loved and lost. They were his first and biggest motivation. But maybe, just maybe, he also came for Riddle, at least a little bit. For the grim-faced little boy from the orphanage who wanted to prove his worth with such fervency that it numbed him to the devastation he was leaving behind.

Harry felt nothing but contempt to the version of Riddle he'd encountered in the Chamber of Secrets, but he felt pity and regret towards the bright and moody child from Dumbledore's memories.

Maybe, with an effort, he could find the latter in the former — maybe he could help him to reach a balance between evilness and greatness.

"Because you can be so much more than what you allowed yourself to become," he murmured. His voice was softer than he'd expected. "My world suffered from your wrong choices. So did you, without even realising it. And if I got a second chance, I want to make a positive difference. I want to show you that there is another way, and you don't need Horcruxes to accompany you on it. You have your diary — that's enough. You can stop here, while you're still you."

Riddle pressed his lips together. There was a storm of thoughts behind his eyes, but each held so much darkness that Harry couldn't see past it. He waited, not daring to breathe, hopeful but wary at the same time.

His plan had to work. It had to, Riddle's self-preservation instinct had to win out. He'd seen the flashes of the memories — this was the most powerful weapon Harry had at his disposal. It had to intimidate Riddle enough to make him stay away from Horcruxes.

It felt like an eternity passed before Riddle finally spoke.

"Fine," he said. His voice sounded even, as if he wasn't affected by his own decision. "One Horcrux will do until I figure out something else."

The relief that flooded Harry was so powerful that it dizzied him briefly. He smiled at Riddle before he could stop himself, and Riddle gave him an assessing stare.

"I'm curious about something," he uttered. "For my closest ally, you have an abysmal grasp on Occlumency. Why is that? I'd think I'd have bothered to teach you how to keep your mind impenetrable, considering that you were the carrier of my secrets. Of my very soul. Are you that talentless?"

Whatever lukewarm feelings Harry developed froze over. He scowled, his resentment rising in a new dangerous wave.

"Maybe you're just a shit teacher," he quipped. "Have you ever considered this? It's ironic, what with your ambitions to teach at Hogwarts."

He instantly realised that he went too far. Riddle wasn't used to someone speaking to him like this, and he obviously didn't like it. He went utterly still. His magic crackled, its presence suddenly filling the entire room, deadly and violent. Harry shivered.

Riddle jerked his wand out. The movement looked instinctive, like he couldn't help it, and Harry's heart sank.

He clenched his own wand, bracing himself for the possibility of an unwanted duel, watching cautiously how Riddle's nostrils flared, how his face contorted viciously. But then he took a visible breath, and the tension went out of him like he simply spelled it away. An artificial smile slid over his features.

"Fine," he repeated a little woodenly. "I'll see if I can do something about it. Now, if you don't mind, we need to return to the feast."

Harry couldn't relax just as abruptly, so he stood frozen for some time, observing how Riddle closed the entrance and hid his wand again. When he turned to face him, he looked pleasant and welcoming, and so fake that Harry felt nauseous.

"We don't need to return together," he said stiffly. Spending even a minute in the company of Riddle when he was in his model-prefect mode was sickening. "You go first and I'll sneak to my place in ten or so minutes."

"No," Riddle rebuffed him sharply, his stare narrowing in consideration of something only he understood. "You'll sit with me from now on. Let's go."

He walked down the corridor, obviously deeming the matter closed. He acted like his — invitation? order? — was the gift from Merlin himself, and a caustic remark rolled on the tip of Harry's tongue. Only some miracle helped him to swallow it and to follow Riddle silently.

He had to be careful. He'd already shaken Riddle's world greatly tonight — he had to give him time to process everything.

He won. He actually won. He made a difference, he stopped Riddle from splitting his soul any further. It was an impossible progress, considering how fruitlessly he'd spent the first two months.

And yet, Harry couldn't help feeling that he was missing something.

He didn't like the way Riddle studied him. He didn't like the calculating glint in his eyes.

He'd spent too much time staring at Riddle, and now that Riddle was staring right back, dread settled low in his stomach.

Something wasn't right. And he had no idea what it could be.