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.

4. A Shifting Tone Part 2

Chapter Four: A Shifting Tone. Part 2

Magnussen returned to the common room a day later. His face had an unhealthy yellowish colour, and his arm was wrapped in a strange-looking bubble, which instantly attracted attention. Other students watched him curiously; a couple approached, murmuring something and poking at it. Magnussen let them, but he didn't say a word. He barely looked at anyone at all, spending most of his time studying the floor or his boots.

It wasn't that he was ignored by everyone, but Harry couldn't help noticing that even people who were supposed to be his friends didn't seem in a hurry to comfort him or really talk to him. In his experience, Quidditch players stuck together. Magnussen had to have some popularity as a Seeker, yet his old teammates acted like they were strangers.

Harry, in turn, seemed to have developed the opposite problem. Riddle's open favouring of him automatically made him an object of interest. People who had been only observing him before to see which side he was going to fall on began to approach him with attempts at establishing rapport. Even those who used to glare began to look friendlier. This increasing attention was unnerving, so Harry decided to stay out of the common room until the interest faded — if it faded at all. While Alphard, Avery, Lestrange, and Greengrass paled in comparison to Riddle, with his formidable presence, they were popular in their own right. Multiple people looked up to them and sought them out, and Harry shuddered to imagine that this was to be his future, too.

In another situation, despite his reservations, he might have tried using this dubious advantage to make more connections, to get more people to see that they could do something better than to follow a power-obsessed maniac. But from what he'd witnessed so far, Slytherin was a hopeless place. Nearly everyone was in Riddle's thrall, from first- to seven-years, and he saw no realistic way to change their minds in a year and a half he had left of Hogwarts.

"Why does everyone worship Riddle?" he asked. Alphard, who was keeping him company in the library, jerked in surprise.

"Because he's the best," he answered slowly. "Everyone knows it."

"No, there has to be more," Harry tapped his quill against his essay absent-mindedly and winced when he saw a few ugly smudges spreading on his parchment. "He might be powerful and smart, but I doubt this is enough to matter to the first-years or even to impress the seven-years into becoming his puppets. Take Dumbledore. He's stronger and smarter than Riddle, but he doesn't have a crazed following."

Alphard's face changed. For a moment, he looked torn between yelling and laughing, his features twitching oddly, before he finally let out a choked giggle.

"Please never repeat this to Tom," he implored. "Never ever say it to his face because this will be just…" Alphard winced, as if he was in severe pain. "Tom hates Dumbledore. And Dumbledore is nothing but a Mudblood lover. He doesn't have what Tom does."

Anger was an immediate, fiery thing that beat furiously in his chest, demanding to be unleashed. With an effort, Harry swallowed it down.

Snapping at Alphard wouldn't help. He was more ignorant than malicious. Talking and trying to explain was a better solution.

"So what does Dumbledore lack?" Harry asked. There was still an edge in his voice, but Alphard didn't seem to catch it.

"His family is okay enough, I suppose," he muttered. "And sure, he's powerful and he's good at magic. But Tom is so much more than that. He's a legend, or he will be."

A legend to scare children with, Harry thought sourly. He knew better than to say this aloud, and his patience paid off. Alphard waved his wand, putting the anti-eavesdropping charms around them.

"You know Tom is a half-blood," he whispered. He still looked wary despite the charms, his eyes kept scanning the room restlessly. "I mean, it's obvious, what kind of a surname Riddle is? It's so Muggle. But it doesn't matter because the other half of Tom, the one that matters, comes from Salazar Slytherin himself."

Oh, that. Was that really what the whole cult thing was about?

"I know he's the heir of Slytherin," Harry said curtly. He had no desire to listen to the awed recounting of an uninspiring story. "Are you telling me it's common knowledge? The entire Slytherin knows, even the children, and they — what, develop an automatic reverence? Just because he's distantly related to a wizard who's been dead for longer than we can comprehend?"

"No!" Alphard cried out in aggravation. He glared at Harry, but with exasperation rather than with real anger. "Merlin, the things that keep falling from your mouth! Being the heir of Slytherin has utmost importance. Slytherin was one of the greatest wizards to ever exist, he gave birth to so many of our beliefs, to the magic we know today. And Tom is his direct continuation. Salazar Slytherin's essence lives in him — he has his powers, his intelligence, he can talk to snakes. He can give us the future that Slytherin was unable to secure."

Harry knew he should stick to his strategy of staying silent, but the blood that instantly flooded his head washed away all the reason.

"And what kind of future is that?" he interrupted. "One where only pureblood wizards exist? Because if so, then guess who's not going to make the cut? Riddle. Wizards like Dumbledore. Me."

Alphard paused, like he always did when Harry said or asked something he didn't consider. A pensive frown creased his forehead.

"It's not only about that," he said slowly. "Obviously, there will be some adjustments to reflect the modern reality of things. Half-bloods aren't that bad—"

"Riddle is a half-blood," Harry cut him off in a steely voice again. "Do you understand it? These are not just words. One of his parents was a Muggle. If it wasn't for this Muggle, Riddle wouldn't have been born. So by saying that half-bloods 'aren't that bad,' you are saying that Riddle isn't that bad. And somehow, I doubt this is the kind of compliment you want to give him."

For the first time, Harry saw a flash of real anger in Alphard's eyes. This was the most daring emotion he displayed since the day they met, so despite the situation, Harry felt strangely gratified. If Alphard got mad over being challenged, then maybe, with time, he'd be willing to re-evaluate his beliefs.

"I know it!" Alphard snapped. He looked rattled. "I know it, I'm not stupid. Tom is… Tom is a half-blood, yeah. But it doesn't matter. Half-bloods have magic, this is what's important."

"Muggleborns have magic, too."

Alphard huffed, his face going bright red in incredulous frustration.

"You are impossible to talk to," he growled. "I honestly can't believe Tom likes you when you should be number one on his future kill list. Forget about Muggleborns! What matters is that Tom is the heir of Slytherin and he's every bit as powerful, clever, and talented as people believed the heir would be!"

There was no arguing with this level of devotion, so Harry shrugged, neither accepting nor denying it. It seemed to mollify Alphard a little because he relaxed.

"Not everyone knows, though," he added, his brows knitted in disapproval. "It's just us, the Knights, and most seven-years. When Tom came in, when he was sorted into Slytherin, we were not…" Alphard stopped suddenly, his expression twisting into a pained grimace. A look of shame spread across his features, and Harry's stomach tightened unpleasantly.

He knew where this was probably going. Dumbledore had never told him — if anything, he tried to make it sound like Riddle charmed everyone on his first day, but a part of Harry always suspected that it was an omission at best or a downright distortion of truth.

"We were not kind to him," Alphard said softly. He didn't raise his gaze, choosing to stare at the table instead. "No one liked him or accepted him. No one wanted to sit next to him or to sleep in a bed next to his. Rosalia even refused to eat if he was sitting anywhere she could see him, she claimed that his stench ruined her appetite."

The heavy feeling worsened. Harry turned his head, observing the rows of heavy shelves, almost seeing the glimmering of Riddle's ghost sliding between them, collecting books, ignoring the snickers and the taunts.

Nothing would ever justify what he became and how many people he hurt. But Harry could see how it would be satisfying for Riddle to watch his worst tormentors turn into his lapdogs. He himself could never forget the excitement that flooded him when Hagrid gave Dudley a pig's tail — it didn't last long, but it didn't really go away either. Every time he saw Dudley's distress at his new appearance, a dim light of satisfaction glowed in some very distant part of him.

It was a wrong part that he never liked and which he acknowledged with great reluctance, but it existed. In Riddle's case, he imagined it was multiplied tenfold.

The shallow glee of Harry turned into the darkest malice for Riddle. Harry's delight and relief at knowing that Dudley was too terrified of him to chase and beat him up again transformed into Riddle's bloodthirstiness and spite.

They were similar. They were different. Sometimes he struggled to understand what mattered more.

"We all tried to curse him at first, but it never worked, not once," Alphard said. He managed to sound half-guilty, half-proud. "We knew more general spells, but Tom… it was like he knew all the curses and counter-curses. I think this knowledge always lived in him. Maybe it was another gift of Salazar Slytherin — he was born with it. He was destined to lead and to be better than others."

Snorting wouldn't be appropriate, so Harry bit his tongue, willing himself to stay quiet. Alphard was talking — it was good. It was his chance to find out more about Riddle, even if some ideas were beyond ridiculous.

He would bet everything he had that Riddle made sure to learn what he could about magic before coming to Hogwarts. Maybe he managed to buy some cheap copies of advanced spell-books; maybe he stole them or he just spent his every waking minute in a library. After surviving the orphanage as a bully, Riddle would leave nothing to chance. He'd arm himself as thoroughly as was humanly possible.

"Sometimes we attacked suddenly and he had no time to react, but his magic did it anyway," Alphard finally looked up, his grey eyes heated with admiration. "It formed some really powerful shields around him, we couldn't break past them. It went on for a month or two, and that's when everything changed."

He paused, and Harry leaned closer instinctively, fascinated against his will. When Alphard spoke again, he lowered his voice even further.

"Tom waited until the common room filled with people," he whispered. "There weren't that many, but there was enough. Then he walked in himself and stopped in the middle of it. There was something about him in that moment that drew everyone's attention. We all stared. He began to talk, and he said… he said that he was watching us all this time and that he was disappointed. That we were all pathetic idiots for who couldn't tell a Mudblood and the heir of Slytherin apart. Everyone laughed, of course. Some people got angry that he dared to insinuate he was related to Slytherin in any way. They were about to curse him, even those from the sixth year and above, but that's when he spoke Parseltongue."

Alphard fell silent. His eyes glazed over, like he was reliving a particularly cherished memory.

"I was instantly under its thrall," he murmured, and the overflowing affection in his voice made Harry sick. "It was the most beautiful, the most mesmerising sound I've ever heard. Not everyone was convinced, though, some thought he was just pretending, but the next moment, a horde of snakes shot out from every corner of the room. I still don't know where they came from… maybe Tom planted some of them in advance. Or he cajoled all the snakes from the paintings, armchairs, the walls, stuff like this. But there were many and they all listened to him. He controlled every one of them: he told some to surround us, others wrapped around students who were the nastiest to Tom — Rosalia, Augustus, some older ones… The rest of the snakes, he just summoned them close. They loved him. They kept hissing, climbing him, sliding around his arms, and he just stood there and looked at us like we were rubbish. It felt surreal. I guarantee that not a single person graced with this sight will ever forget it. They'll carry it through their life."

Many of them won't have to carry it for long, Harry thought, bitterness and reluctant appreciation coursing through him alternatingly.

He understood why Riddle cared so much about staying the only Parselmouth that he forced Harry to make an Unbreakable Vow about it. It was one of his greatest weapons and he couldn't tolerate even a hint of a chance that he might have to share it.

It was frustrating. If all the Slytherins were so susceptible to the tales about Salazar Slytherin, he could have challenged their system of beliefs by showing off his own skills, and now he was certain he would have achieved at least relative success. More people would reject Riddle's total control and his seductive promises; more of them would survive instead of dying for the vague future they wouldn't get to witness.

But the vow immobilised him. He would have to account for it in his future decisions.

Disappointment threatened to drag him down. Its weight intensified, but with some effort, Harry recovered.

Whatever. If he couldn't influence anyone in Riddle's surroundings, he would go with the initial plan of focusing on Riddle alone. Maybe on Alphard, too, since he displayed at least some willingness to adapt another point of view.

"Tom promised us things," Alphard continued, still hushed. "He acknowledged the limitations of his age and his unfortunate circumstances, but he made it sound so vague and unimportant. Temporary. He said that he would do great things, bring the legacy of Salazar Slytherin to its glorious new beginning. We all believed him. It was impossible not to when he was standing there like this, alternating between speaking English and Parseltongue. And the power he displayed — it was incredible for a first-year. He was someone to follow, someone to respect, we all understood it then."

"What about others?" Harry asked. "You said only some students were in the common room. Did the rumours spread? Because I get a feeling that the professors are not aware of Tom's status. If they were, Hagrid would not have been expelled."

Alphard's eye twitched at the mention of Hagrid, but discussing Riddle must have felt too exhilarating since an awed expression slid over his face anew.

"I was wondering about it," he admitted. "I kept thinking why Tom chose to present himself only to specific students and no one else. But a few days later, I understood. It was ingenious, what he did. Most of those who saw his display were possessive of this knowledge. We were the selected ones, the ones who knew that the heir of Slytherin is finally here. We saw what he can do, and no one else did." Even now, Alphard glowed with pride. "So there were some rumours, yes. There were hints and secrets, the allure of a mystery that everyone was drawn to. The entire House was dying to know what went on, but none of us said anything to anyone else. What happens in Slytherin stays in Slytherin and all that."

"Even the oldest students?" Harry asked. "No one told the news to their parents?"

Alphard let out a chuckle.

"You don't understand," he said kindly. "Everyone knows that some families are related to Slytherin. Take the Gaunts — they are a bunch of crazies who can barely lift their wands. It's not about being physically related, it's about actually being the Slytherin's heir. Tom is it. He's the power, he's the magic. He is like… he's like Slytherin reborn," Alphard's cheeks flushed, his eyes flaring with bright, fanatical fire. "But no one will believe it until they see it, and if they realise he's a half-blood, they'll be prejudiced against him before even meeting him. So we are all biding our time until he has a chance to flourish publicly, to show what he can do. And he will. I know he will, we all do."

Well, that was one way of putting it. Alphard probably didn't realise just how much Riddle hated his name. Years from now, people would only know Voldemort. How many of those who could link Tom Riddle to him lived for at least two decades?

If Harry had to guess, he'd say that Riddle was probably torn between two wishes. One was to be known and acknowledged for who he was right now. Another one realised that it would be more beneficial to leave Tom Riddle behind and later ascend as Voldemort, a creature with the past no one knew and could never challenge.

Currently, Riddle was going for a middle approach. He disclosed the truth to some but not the others, and though Harry hated to admit it, it was a brilliant move. Like Alphard said, it only strengthened the mystery around him. Students who knew the truth guarded the specifics of it zealously, enjoying the status of the selected secret-holders; those who didn't witness anything heard the rumours that only inflamed their interest.

It was a form of a domino effect: the heirs of several respected families revered Riddle, making it look like there was something special about him; this made more people take note, and as a result, it grew to the extent where even the first-years automatically joined the worship circle. They didn't need to know anything about him being the heir of Slytherin, they only needed to believe that he was someone special. Naturally, the level of his magic, his cleverness, and his charisma intensified this effect.

It was ridiculous. Were people in the other Houses equally obsessed with history? Who cared if the heir of Slytherin or Gryffindor or whatever came to Hogwarts and showed promise?

Then again, the Slytherins always seemed to value traditions more than others. Or maybe it was specifically the old pureblood families. Harry couldn't relate to it, but he imagined it was similar to Muggles' reverence towards King Arthur. A figure from the myths wrapped in mystery expected to do great things.

His stomach soured. A sense of foreboding settled low in his chest, extinguishing the remnants of optimism.

How did one fight a legend? If Harry had more time and more training in his world, he might have opposed Voldemort, using his own overblown reputation. But in this world, he was nothing. If he failed to convince Riddle of anything and Voldemort took his place, who would listen to him? Who would take his side?

Dumbledore. But without defeating Grindelwald, Dumbledore would probably lose to the idea of the heir of Slytherin in terms of reputation. And what if the events in this world developed differently for some reason? What if Grindelwald triumphed? People were focusing on the war with him while Harry was already thinking of the next one.

His head ached just from thinking about it.

To make things worse, Alphard continued to talk with the same fervent look in his eyes.

"And when it happens," he said breathlessly, "when Tom becomes the most powerful man in Britain, we will all make history. Because we knew of him before the world — we studied with him, we trained with him. Of course only some will become a part of his inner circle. Like us, his closest allies, his friends," Alphard wrapped his hands around himself, staring into the future Harry couldn't see, still flushed with his eager anticipation. "But even general Slytherins who never even talked to him will get their place under the sun. Mark my words: one day, just saying that you studied with Tom will bring you power and recognition. Everyone wants to touch greatness, and when they can't, the next best thing will do. Our entire House realises this — those who know about him, those who don't, those who suspect they know. Just being near Tom is a privilege that will pay off fantastically several years from now."

"I'm sure it will," Harry said softly. "Although maybe not in the way you're all expecting."

He didn't think Alphard heard him. He was too lost in his fantasies to listen.

Well. He got a clearer answer than he'd been hoping for.

Now he had to figure out what to do with it.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The next morning started with Dumbledore's lesson. Harry sat next to Greengrass, of all people, and though he had easily ignored her before, this time was different. Her biting frostiness distracted him. She didn't say anything — she barely looked at him, but he somehow still sensed her meticulous consideration of him.

"Today we will be learning how to transfigure an inanimate object into one of classical elements," Dumbledore said. He was wearing a mind-boggling set of silver robes decorated with tiny golden lions. It clashed unflatteringly with his auburn hair, but every time Harry looked at it, he felt a pang of wistfulness. Longing washed over him in waves, so he tried to concentrate on Dumbledore's face. Somehow, it felt less familiar than these ridiculous, endearing robes.

"Who can tell me what classical elements we know of? Miss Kyle?"

"Water, air, fire, and earth."

"Good. Five points to Gryffindor. Is that all?"

Harry peered at the piece of simple Muggle rubber lying in front of him and Greengrass. They were supposed to transfigure it into one of the elements? He wasn't sure how to do it. Didn't transformations like this require huge volumes of power?

He supposed if anyone could teach them, it would be Dumbledore.

"Cut your piece from the rubber in front of you," Dumbledore instructed. Harry sighed before darting a quick glance at Greengrass.

This was one of the details of all Dumbledore's lessons: he encouraged students to work together. Even those who disliked one another were forced to interact at least in some ways.

Greengrass didn't look at him. She snapped her fingers similar to the way Riddle liked to do it and the rubber split itself into two parts.

"Thanks," Harry said neutrally. Her face tightened. This was the extent of her response.

Dumbledore allowed them to choose which element they'd like to try turning their rubber into. The earth and the air sounded too strange to Harry — what was that supposed to even look like?, so he chose fire.

Ten minutes later, when his sad piece of rubber continued to lie on the table motionlessly, frustration began to spread. Harry glanced around the room, curious if someone else was having any progress, and after making certain everyone was stuck just like him, he felt a little better.

Even Riddle was struggling, but when Harry looked closer, he realised there was a good reason for it. Riddle had split his rubber into four tiny parts and situated them on top of one another under different angles. He was clearly trying to transform each piece into a separate element, and Harry's magic hurt just at the thought of how much power and concentration were needed to accomplish something like this.

Shaking his head in disbelief, he went back to his own task. Riddle was… many things. Absurdly pretentious, greedy for praise and recognition, but also wildly talented and daring enough to embrace seemingly insurmountable challenges. Harry genuinely wanted to see if he was about to succeed.

Greengrass succeeded first. She raised her hand, smug and glowing with self-satisfaction, but when Harry looked at her element, he saw nothing at all.

"Look here, please," Dumbledore called out, gesturing at their table. "Miss Greengrass has managed to transfigure her object into air. Swift, solid work. Three points to Slytherin."

Some vaguely unpleasant observation slipped into Harry's mind. It led to other equally unpleasant thoughts, so he tried to ignore it for the time being.

"Unfortunately, the sight is not impressive," Dumbledore added. "I'm sure you can tell me why. Mr. Potter?"

Harry didn't have to wonder about the answer.

"Because there is nothing to see," he said, glancing at where the rubber was supposed to be. "She might have just as well used the Invisibility Charm."

Greengrass glared. She started to say something, but Dumbledore's good-natured chuckle interrupted her.

"Exactly," he said. When Greengrass pursed her lips, he gave her a kind smile. "No offence implied, Miss Greengrass. I commend you for finishing this transfiguration first. Perhaps you can try again with a more complex element now."

Dumbledore moved to other students, and Harry was left in the company of icy silence. It didn't bother him, though. Dumbledore did.

On the one hand, he appeared fair. He gave points to all Houses and he was reluctant to assign punishments to anyone. He paid attention to all students; he genuinely helped everyone who needed it during his lessons. But there were small things — a collection of them, really, that Harry couldn't help but notice with increasing frequency.

Even today, Dumbledore had given a girl from Gryffindor five points for a basic incomplete answer while Greengrass got only three points for being the first to accomplish her transfiguration successfully. And although Dumbledore praised her, somehow, he managed to produce the opposite impression.

Harry pressed his lips together. His piece of rubber stared at him in disapproval, silently rebuking him for his thoughts.

It's not that Dumbledore played favourites. But maybe he wasn't as objective and unbiased as Harry believed him to be.

"Mutare in ignem," he repeated for the thirtieth time, giving his wand an agitated wave. In that very moment, he felt a change: his magic flowed smoother. The rubber disappeared and a flame emerged in its stead.

Harry's heart jumped in excitement, but then he got a better look and it dropped back down in dejection.

This wasn't really a flame, this was just a weak flickering fire. His transfiguration was complete, so that was something, but it was barely more inspiring than Greengrass' rubber that dissolved in the air.

Disappointment pooled in his stomach. Dismissing Greengrass' loud snort, he cancelled his spell and tried to focus again.

He didn't get this chance. Excited exclamations and other sounds of delight and astonishment filled the class. Greengrass drew in a sharp, awed breath, and Harry instantly realised what he was about to see. Despite his automatic desire to scowl, he turned, and his eyes widened.

Knowing was one thing, but seeing it… Riddle finally managed to transfigure all four pieces of his rubber. The lowest one turned into a rich layer of earth; bright orange flames were streaming from it, rising up in vivid curls. There was an invisible layer following it, and the rectangular of clear water sat on top.

It was a beautiful sight, and the magic that fuelled it was even more so. It stole Harry's breath as completely as it did Greengrass'. He stared, admiring it, unable to imagine what concentration and control of magic it took to transform four different objects into four elements simultaneously.

Riddle's wand-hand was trembling with effort. Predictably, he glowed with a sense of accomplishment, but Harry felt like there was more to it.

Riddle couldn't take his eyes off his work. He was sincerely admiring it, fascinated like he found it mesmerising in general, not just because he was the one behind it. He was as in love with magic as Harry felt, so despite the fact that Riddle was openly showing off, he was unable to fault him for it. If he could do something like this, he'd probably want to display his abilities, too, to share the beauty of having so much magic with others.

"Impressive, Mr. Riddle," Dumbledore said. Harry glanced at him, reluctant to look away from Riddle's creation but distracted by the notable coldness of Dumbledore's voice. "While you misunderstood the task a little, this is certainly a creative approach. One point to Slytherin."

Greengrass hissed, her magic heating violently. The Slytherin part of the classroom went completely silent. The anger and disbelief brewed, stirring hostility and hatefulness that reminded Harry too much of the Ministry. The air turned electrified, the suffocating atmosphere grew so stifling that Harry's heart went into a sickening gallop.

He was almost afraid to look at Riddle, but the fear rarely affected his decisions. He turned, immediately soaking in his tense posture and pale face.

Riddle was struggling to remain impassive, but he was failing. His display, which had been so perfectly controlled just a moment ago, was now glowing precariously. The fire was raging, the water tilting under awkward angles and threatening to spill over.

Riddle was more patient and less impulsive than Voldemort, but sometimes the line between them was thin. He was close to losing control either verbally, snapping something cruel and unacceptable at Dumbledore, or magically, and Harry shuddered to imagine the consequences of both.

The idea came to him spontaneously. He stared at Riddle, trying to stir the mental connection between them. He didn't know how to do it without eye contact, he wasn't certain it was even possible, but he still poured all his energy into it.

In the end, he didn't know if his plan worked or if Riddle simply felt his gaze, but their eyes met, and Harry jumped onto this chance with everything he had.

Before this, he'd only been a recipient of the effects of their bond. Riddle shared his hunger and Harry accepted it, absorbed it into himself. Now, he was trying to send something in return.

He projected calmness and peace. It was difficult to do when he himself was feeling anything but: his emotions were in turmoil, he felt too rattled and too confused, but the fact that Riddle needed his help grounded him.

He thought of the moments of peace he had enjoyed in his real world. The rare times when the Dursleys went away and he was left alone in their house, free to roam it and savour every minute of knowledge that he had hours of undisturbed and comfortable quiet ahead. Lying in a flower bed right after overhearing the news on TV, breathing in the sweet floral scent and basking in the overwhelming relief that only came with the realisation that nothing bad happened.

It was surprisingly simple to slip back into the blissful peace of those rare moments and then push this feeling through the connection with Riddle. Harry still wasn't sure what he was doing, exactly, he just trusted his magic to guide him.

Riddle's stare remained locked on his. His face was still tense… until it suddenly wasn't. Harry watched how serenity overtook it, sensed how aggression seeped away under its force.

Riddle relaxed. He continued to look at Harry for some time, and when he finally turned away, a strange pang of loss reverberated through Harry's entire body. Somehow, his mind felt lonely and incomplete after the severance of their connection, and he took in a slow breath, trying to shake the feeling off.

"Thank you, professor," Riddle said politely. He waved his wand and the water flowed down, gradually crushing the air and extinguishing the fire. The earth soaked it in before melting away, too.

This display was as magical and captivating as the one preceding it. Some students broke into applause, and Harry barely stopped himself from joining in. Almost defiantly, he looked at Dumbledore and was surprised to see his stare returned.

Dumbledore's gaze was probing and thoughtful. Slowly, he lowered his head, studying Harry, then throwing an indecipherable look at Riddle.

He wasn't the only one. Harry could feel Greengrass burning holes in him with her eyes, so he snapped his attention back to her.

This time, he didn't see the hatred. Only familiar rage and less familiar hurt.

"What did you do to him?" Greengrass asked. Her voice was very quiet.

There wasn't much Harry could tell her.

"Nothing," he replied stiffly. "What could I do? He's sitting a table away."

"I don't know. But you did something."

With a shrug, Harry turned and surveyed the somewhat charred piece of rubber. He tried to concentrate, but Greengrass interfered again.

"I don't know what hold you have over him," she murmured, her green eyes glistening dangerously, "but I'll find out. Remember this: you might climb very high, but one day, you'll fall back into the nothingness you came from, and I'll be the one to push you down there."

"This would imply that you're already standing somewhere on the top," Harry retorted mildly. "And if you are, then why don't you just ask Riddle what's going on? I'm sure he'd tell you everything. You are his closest ally, after all."

He didn't really expect his words to have any reaction, so he was taken aback by a flash of insecurity on Greengrass' face.

Her worries must be running deeper than Harry believed. He thought it would take her a while to realise that she wasn't Riddle confidant. If she was at this stage already, then maybe his presence was accelerating the dissonance and the doubts among future Death Eaters.

He filed it away for later consideration. His head was already spinning with thoughts, his chest compressing with conflicting emotions that he didn't know how to sort through.

Harry felt angry with Dumbledore. It was bizarre to feel like this, especially over Tom Riddle, but the anger was there, indignant and righteous. It insisted that Dumbledore treated Riddle unfairly. That this kind of behaviour was unjustified and provoking, and that it only widened the gap between the Houses that Dumbledore was supposed to want to bridge.

There was an even stranger sensation of pride. Harry had no idea why it existed in regard to Riddle — it's not like they were really friends. Why was he so pleased that Riddle managed to perform another beautiful feat of magic?

Riddle was a murderer. He was a murderer and Dumbledore knew it. Not being praised academically was a laughable price in comparison to the one he deserved to pay, so how could protectiveness and disgust co-exist in Harry?

Greengrass with her threats, his own underwhelming performance… Frustration, confusion, and bitterness clashed. His magic boiled in response, and Harry made another harsh movement with his wand.

"Mutare in ignem," he commanded.

The next moment, his rubber vanished. A strong, roaring surge of fire shot up to the ceiling, exploding with heat and with the blinding orange sparks. Harry recoiled in astonishment, barely having time to shield himself, and he sensed Greengrass doing the same.

There was a pause, and then Dumbledore chuckled.

"Well, this does look impressive," he said. He gave Harry an approving smile, but there was a trace of calculation in it that made him wary. "Good work, Mr. Potter. A little unexpected, if I may say so, but good. Five points to Slytherin."

Harry swallowed. Another storm of contradictory emotions whirled through him, and he gave Dumbledore a tight nod of thanks.

Dumbledore was right, it was unexpected. His previous attempt had been lukewarm at best, so what changed so much that he now managed to generate this kind of flames?

Sure, getting five points flattered him: it pleased the part of him that craved recognition and appreciation — and wasn't it similar to Riddle, too? But if he got five points for his performance, then Riddle had to get fifty. Harry didn't need praise when it wasn't given fairly. He needed to be singled out by Dumbledore in front of the entire Slytherin even less.

Carefully, Harry risked glancing at Riddle, and he froze in surprise.

Riddle was already looking at him, and he didn't seem affronted, like Harry might have expected. On the contrary, there was deep satisfaction in his gaze, and it deepened when he surveyed the fire that was still raging in front of Harry.

He… liked what he was seeing? Even if it was something that unfairly earned Harry more points?

Riddle's surname actually suited him very well. There was no way to understand him.

Harry turned away, barely realising that his lips curled in a smile.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

When he accepted the position of a Slytherin Seeker, he didn't realise that the match was to take place that very month. Harry got to train only once with his new team — two days later, he was already expected to compete.

"Please win," Alphard begged him. Even though the match hadn't started yet, he looked so excited that Harry began to worry he would implode. "For Slytherin and for Tom. And for me! You know Tom will kill me if my recommendation falls through and you end up losing to Gryffindors."

This was the worst possible attempt at cheering him up. But if Alphard wanted to annoy him, he certainly succeeded. Irritation whirled up in Harry in one hot and indignant wave.

"I didn't ask you to recommend me," he grated, clutching his broom tightly. "Riddle didn't push me into accepting this position because of your recommendation, the victory doesn't depend on me alone, and if I don't catch the Snitch, Riddle is as likely to kill me as he is to kill you."

There. All his protests expressed in just two sentences.

To his aggravation, Alphard just waved it all away

"Nah," he said dismissively. "Tom won't kill you. He likes you, so even if you lose, he'll just go after someone else."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then another thought hit him, and he promptly felt sick.

What was he doing? Discussing the idea of Riddle killing someone with such ease, like it was some funny joke. Like Riddle hadn't killed Myrtle and his family; like he hadn't tried to kill him.

Shame and disgust crashed into him. Ignoring Alphard, Harry walked towards his new teammates, staring at the piece of pale sky he could glimpse from his place.

Slytherin wasn't good for him. He should have never agreed to play for them. He didn't like them, and he didn't deserve Quidditch in the first place.

It began to snow, so the ground glistened with fresh blinding whiteness when Harry took off. He barely paid attention to the referee and the commentator — he didn't even know their names. Actually, he didn't know the names of the majority of his team. There was Rodger Lyre, the captain and the Chaser, and then there were Isidora Fourpetal and Everest Graytwig, who played Beaters. Harry only remembered them because they kept bickering and arguing all the time, and they seemed more interested in sending Bludgers after each other than in really playing.

Depression set in deeper, unfolding its gnarled roots.

This was not his world. This was not his team, this was not his House. Playing Quidditch meant listening to Fred and George's endless jokes, rolling his eyes at Wood's anxious mumbling, grinning at Lee Jordan's collection of quips and soaking in the cheers of an army of students wrapped in red and gold.

Everything was different now. Everything was wrong.

The balls of different sizes whistled past him. Figures in red and green flashed left and right, up and down, moving so fast that Harry barely had time to see their faces. Unfamiliar, foreign faces.

Bitterness clogged his throat. Annoyed with himself, Harry tightened his grip around his broom and rose up higher, surveying the pitch.

He had to focus. There was no time to wallow in self-pity, not again. While playing for Slytherin hadn't been his idea, it gave him an opportunity to stand out. People loved successful Quidditch players who helped their teams win, and he might need people in the future, if things with Riddle took an ugly turn. He might not be able to sway anyone into abandoning Riddle indefinitely, but being in a position to ask for favours was an advantage he could use.

"Ten points to Gryffindor!" the commentator cried out. Harry winced, swirling to take a better look. A vicious fight was taking place near the Slytherin goalposts. Lyre and the other Slytherin Chaser were trying to manoeuvre their way out of it, passing the Quaffle to each other, then accepting it back, evading the Gryffindors and pushing forwards.

Their movements were swift and efficient, but they failed to leave the zone of danger and move closer to the middle of the pitch like they wanted. Gryffindors were playing well, Harry readily admitted it. Their Chasers and Beaters formed a tight barrier around Lyre and his partner, not letting them through and methodically trying to knock them off their brooms.

The first stirring of excitement jolted Harry out of his melancholy. At long last, he felt awake. Forcing himself to look away from the goalposts, he scanned his surroundings, seeking a familiar flash of gold.

The Snitch wasn't anywhere in sight, so he began to look for the Gryffindor Seeker instead. It didn't take long: Harry noticed him almost immediately. A large boy in red uniform was flying some distance away from other players — like Harry, he was scrutinising the field attentively. He seemed too big to be a Seeker, but Harry decided to make his judgement later. He had to be chosen for this position for a reason.

Closing his eyes briefly, Harry turned his broom up and accelerated, breaking through the icy air, taking deep breaths as he ascended. The wind whipped his face and his hair furiously, and the sensation was so familiar and welcoming that a short laugh escaped his chest. Reaching a dangerously high point, Harry changed direction abruptly: he made a sharp loop and then dived down. His stomach dropped in the most thrilling way, and he laughed again, revelling in this feeling.

Freedom. Freedom, finally.

"Gryffindors score again!" the commentator yelled. His voice almost drowned in the chorus of groans and elated screaming. "So what do we have here, folks? Gryffindor is ahead with twenty points, Slytherin has none. Don't you boo me, it's not my fault! Better look up there! Seems like the Slytherin's new Seeker is having fun. Well, at least someone from that crew is still cheerful, eh?"

Harry rolled his eyes, twisting himself into another loop before stopping to look around again. No Snitch. The other Seeker was doing lazy circles, so he couldn't see it either.

The audience was discussing something loudly. Harry couldn't decipher a word, but when he looked down, he was startled to realise that he could see everyone's faces clearly. It was like he was standing just a few inches away — neither distance nor his imperfect eyesight stopped him from noticing every little detail about their expressions.

Curious, Harry studied all the people, and before he knew it, his gaze took him to the front rows of Slytherins, to a figure that sat in the middle of them.

Riddle came to his match.

The second this absurd thought blossomed in his mind, he scowled, embarrassed by his own way of thinking. It wasn't his match and Riddle hadn't come here for him. Despite his revulsion towards Quidditch, he still kept up with the events and activities the rest of the school loved — he probably visited every match unfailingly.

Still, at this moment, Riddle was staring at him in particular. He could probably see Harry as clearly as Harry saw him — there must be some kind of charms woven into the invisible field between the audience and the players that improved visibility. Watching the match and being able to see every moment of it had to be more exciting than relying on the commentary and tiny figures darting around. Why were these charms cancelled by the time Harry entered Hogwarts? They seemed like a good idea.

Riddle tilted his head. He looked bemused, like Harry's behaviour didn't make sense to him. He probably couldn't understand how anyone could enjoy dancing like this, shooting high in the air and then dropping down, flying faster than it looked humanly possible. All Riddle saw was senseless danger — he couldn't imagine the freedom of it, the sharp edge of knowledge that for several endless moments, the world stopped existing. There were no worries, no problems, only the sensation of freefall, of blurring with the broom and the air, becoming just another element of nature.

A reckless idea surfaced. Harry whirled around and shot up again, cutting through the wind. He flew up, up, up, up until he couldn't even see the pitch properly. His skin began to tingle from the cold, so he stopped, took a lungful of icy air, and then allowed himself to fall.

The wind roared in his ears more loudly than ever before. It felt like his body was left behind — Harry's mind couldn't keep up with the speed he was moving at, and for a moment, exhilaration consumed him entirely.

He was light. He was wind. He was air.

He was free.

When he drew to a stop abruptly, his heart continued to beat wildly. His head spun — he felt drunk on the simple joy of his experience. Before it passed, he sought out Riddle again. Their gazes locked, and Harry pushed his feelings through their bond, hoping that it was going to work despite the physical distance between them.

He didn't feel any noticeable change, but Riddle's face transformed. His eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, like he was the one crashing down, chased by the gusts of wind. He shuddered, and when he tried to comb his hair, as if worried it might have been ruffled by the illusionary fall, Harry saw that his hand was shaking slightly.

With a triumphant grin, he stirred his broom away, still glancing at Riddle occasionally. He didn't know if Riddle appreciated this experience — he was rapidly regaining his composure, but he still looked a little shaken. Did he manage to share the excitement, to feel the same breath-taking pull of a thrill Harry felt, or did his mind reject these sensations?

When Riddle looked at him again, he didn't appear impressed, but he wasn't angry either. All he did was raise both eyebrows and shake his head slowly, like he couldn't believe Harry might have enjoyed any of it. His expression was deeply disapproving, and Harry giggled before he could stop himself.

His heart skipped a beat when Riddle's lips twitched in an answering smile.

Just then, Riddle's eyes darted to the side. Harry heard a whistling sound at the same time, and he jerked away, barely avoiding a collision with a Bludger.

Okay. Maybe it was time to actually play.

Slytherins had managed to score ten points when he wasn't looking. Right now, a fight for a Quaffle was unfolding in the middle of the pitch, and the Snitch was still somewhere Harry couldn't see.

He chose a random direction and flew there. To his frustration, he found his gaze sneaking to Riddle repeatedly despite his best effort.

Now he understood why the charms that allowed the players and the viewers to see each other might have been lifted. They were distracting, dangerously so.

A Bludger came at him again. Harry twisted out of its way with a frown. Turning his head, he noticed Everest Graytwig floating a short distance away, eyeing him strangely.

How did the Bludger reach him when a Beater from his team was so close?

Suspicion tickled the back of his mind, but Harry had no time to consider it because something more important happened.

The Snitch. It was hovering near the Gryffindor goalposts, flickering in the weak sunlight. Harry's pulse skyrocketed, and then he was off, choosing speed over subtlety, recklessly confident that he would be able to catch it.

Someone shouted nearby, but he couldn't tell if it was someone from his team or if the Gryffindors were trying to alert their Seeker. He pushed down with all the strength and magic he had, his eyes focused on the Snitch and Snitch alone.

When only inches separated them, Harry thrust his hand forwards. His fingers trembled in anticipation, and he was so concentrated on the imminent victory that he barely reacted to the danger. Rapid whistling and a heavy flow of air reached his ears only in the last second: he tried to move away, but all he managed was to avoid a direct hit to his body. The Bludger connected with the edge of his broom, sending him in a mad spiral.

The world spun around him, and not in a pleasant way. The powerful blasts of wind nearly knocked him off his broom: Harry clung to it as tightly as he could with his hands and thighs, waiting for the worst vertigo to pass, but as he feared, it only got worse. His limbs were quickly turning numb from the force with which he was holding on. He yanked his broom violently in the opposite direction, trying to break from the spin.

It worked. Not immediately — he nearly fell off twice and some of his bones groaned unnaturally, but the whirling finally came to an end. His broom slowed, and at long last, he felt in control again.

Harry waited for his breathing to stabilise. His heart was still beating somewhere in his throat, but his senses began to return. Following some strange instinct, his eyes found Riddle, and something warm stirred in his chest.

Riddle was looking at him already. There was a complex expression on his face that Harry couldn't decipher properly, but it was almost like… almost like Riddle was impressed.

Distantly, he heard the shouting of the commentator.

"…a fact, Harry Potter is still in the game! That was some amazing manoeuvring! Can't say the same about the Slytherin Beater, though. Looks like Graytwig was trying to steer the Bludger away but accidentally sent it in Potter's direction. A shame!"

Graytwig.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he looked at the boy. Accidents happened, but the Bludger went after him three times in the past five minutes. At least two of these times took place when Graytwig was nearby. This wasn't normal.

Maybe Graytwig was Magnussen's friend who didn't risk supporting him directly but who wanted to avenge him in a way he could, like by making sure that Harry lost the match. Or maybe he was yet another disgruntled fan of Riddle who felt jealous and bitter at the lack of attention.

Whatever the reason was, Harry didn't have time for it. The Snitch was gone now — the only consolation was that the Gryffindor Seeker hadn't gotten a chance to catch it either.

Harry held Graytwig's gaze for a long moment.

"Don't do it again," he warned. Not waiting for a reaction, he jerked his broom up, towards the clouds, increasing distance between them.

The match went on. The other Seeker was paying closer attention to Harry now: he was following him more often than not, probably hoping to join in if Harry were to notice the Snitch first.

Ten more minutes passed, with both Gryffindors and Slytherins gaining more points. The overall score was 40:30 in favour of Gryffindors, and that's when Harry caught a glimpse of something gold again.

It was now or never.

Without pausing to check what the other players were doing, he shot forwards, nearly melding with his broom to gain maximum speed. Twenty seconds, that's how much he needed to reach the Snitch and hopefully grab it. If the Gryffindor Seeker wasn't tailing him…

But he was. Harry didn't see him directly, but a big shadow fell on him. There was a swooping sound from above, and he had to steer left to avoid the possible collision.

The other Seeker wasn't deterred. He dived under Harry and then rose up again swiftly right next to him, forcing him to jerk in the opposite direction. He was fast and agile, and his size suddenly made perfect sense for the aggressive tactic he was using.

It was clever: he wasn't breaking any rules, but he toed this line boldly, making zigzags around Harry in such proximity that flying in a straight line wasn't possible. The bursts of air from his movements posed danger of their own, and the fact that he was much larger made Harry flinch away automatically. The Seeker was diving and emerging from under him with no regard for closeness: a moment of slowness or hesitation, and Harry would be thrown off his broom for sure.

It wasn't like the Seeker would push him off deliberately — collisions happened, so no rules would technically be broken, but he was making the crash almost inevitable. Harry could either give up and fly farther away, leaving him with a direct path towards the Snitch, or stay where he was, desperately avoiding the masked attacks and somehow managing to grab the ball first.

None of these options was viable. He had to think of something else and fast. The Snitch was just five seconds away, so the time was running out.

When the Seeker emerged from beneath him again, nearly touching his shoulder in the process, Harry went for a mirroring attack. He dropped down in a dive of his own, temporarily increasing the distance between them. Then, before the Seeker could react, he stormed back up. He made a wide loop to stall, to make certain that the Seeker wouldn't have time for counterattack, and then he aimed his broom straight at his head.

He was using the same tactic, the only difference was that the Snitch was too close now. The Seeker had no time to think of another way out: either he stayed and they both crashed or he moved away and sacrificed the chance to catch the Snitch to Harry.

If Harry were in his place, he'd choose the former. It would result in trauma, yes — colliding at such a speed and falling from this height was bound to bring significant injuries, but it would ensure a victory for Gryffindor. They had more points, so even without the Snitch and with two Seekers out, they'd be able to win.

Apparently, this Seeker was more mindful of his safety. He might have been aggressive when he was the one attacking, but now that the tables were turned, he panicked. He swirled on his left to get away from Harry, and Harry grabbed this chance eagerly. He straightened his broom and crossed the remaining distance between him and the Snitch in less than two seconds, wrapping his hand around it. Its wings fluttered, and Harry jerked upright, his head dizzy, his lips spreading in a wide, triumphant grin.

The crowd roared so loudly that whatever the commentator was saying dissolved in the sound. Harry's body still throbbed from the powerful adrenaline rush, his hands shook, but he held the Snitch up and circled the pitch with it, accepting the cheers and the disappointed groans.

Joy unfolded in him, streamed through him, made him feel light and invincible. For a blissful minute, Harry felt absurdly, ridiculously happy. He tried to absorb this moment, to memorise every second of it to the best of his abilities. It wouldn't last, he knew it wouldn't — the darkness would come back, but for now, for a moment, he could have this reprieve. He could stockpile all this happiness and bury himself in it, forming protective layers that could maybe keep the shadows at bay for some time.

Unwittingly, his eyes shifted to the source of most of his shadows. Riddle was clapping with the others — somehow, he managed to make even this gesture look arrogant, but his face was alight with curiosity. There was a pale colour on his skin, like despite all odds, he managed to feel at least a semblance of excitement from Harry's battle.

This wasn't supposed to mean anything, but Harry's heart fluttered anyway.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

After the match, he was surrounded by happy Slytherins from all sides. This was the first occasion he could recall where Riddle remained in the background. He approached only after everyone separated into groups and continued to celebrate, his expression distantly pleased.

"Not bad," he said lazily. "For my Seeker, it was quite a satisfying performance."

"Still Alphard's Seeker," Harry pointed out. This time, Riddle didn't get annoyed — he just shrugged uncaringly.

"He only nominated you. I chose you. Besides, Alphard pledged allegiance to me, so this makes you mine anyway."

Incredulous, Harry huffed, unable to believe this level of audacity.

"I think you live in the wrong part of the world," he noted dryly. "You'd be better placed in some Muggle region where slavery is still legal. You'd feel right at home there."

Riddle smirked, twirling a glass with some sparkling liquid in his fingers, before suddenly stepping closer. This eliminated almost all the distance between them, and Harry tensed, unsure what brought this on. Riddle was taller than him, so now his lips were almost brushing against Harry's forehead.

"I don't need to live in a Muggle world to own someone," he murmured. Belatedly, Harry realised why he was standing so close — he didn't want others to overhear his outrageous statements. "You should know this. After all, you know me better than anyone."

Harry's mind stumbled. For a moment, he grasped for a response blindly, but he didn't know what to say.

Was it a taunt? If so, why? Was Riddle suspecting something? Or did he just delight in being able to spew his entitled word-vomit to someone who was supposed to take it all without blinking?

The first possibility was too terrifying to even contemplate, so Harry decided to go with the latter.

"It's because I know you that I'm not going to entertain your disturbing fantasies," he said. Somehow, he managed to sound less harsh than he intended. "No matter what loyalty anyone promises you, it is not infinite. If you treat people who pledged themselves to you cruelly, they are not going to stay. I saw it happen. And by the rate you're going, I think it might happen again."

Riddle was quiet. He was still standing too close: his breath was hitting Harry's face, coating it with warmth and with the subtle scent of alcohol. It made him feel weird, so Harry made a subtle step back.

It worked, but only to an extent. Riddle was still way too close for him to be comfortable. Harry's heart, his kidneys, his liver — everything inside him seemed to be pulsing in some strange need to bridge the distance again, to leave his body and crawl into Riddle's.

Try as he might, he couldn't find an explanation for it. Was it because of the Horcrux? He'd never felt this way with Voldemort. Then again, maybe being constantly in a fight mode in his presence had something to do with it. If they weren't always locked in a chase, if they ever stopped long enough to simply stand there, would Harry have felt the same inexplicable yearning?

This was too disturbing to consider. But what were the alternatives?

"Cruelty is necessary," Riddle said suddenly. Harry flinched a little, frantically trying to remember what they'd been talking about. "It makes them push themselves harder because they are desperate for praise. The important thing is to maintain a balance. The version of me you knew might have lost sight of it, but I won't. I didn't make more Horcruxes. My sanity stays clear."

Oh, right. Riddle's attitude to his followers.

"I don't see much of a balance here," Harry said. He glanced at the others fleetingly, swallowing a sigh when he saw them all rapidly look away. Only Greengrass kept staring, both of her hands wrapped around her glass in what looked like a crushing grip. "When was the last time you called any of them by their names? All I see is you bossing them around."

"Then you are not looking hard enough," Riddle took a sip from his glass, his eyes studying Harry's face attentively. "I teach them. I give them advice. Most importantly, I made each of them a personal promise that I intend to keep if they keep behaving the way I expect them to. They all know it. Trust me, they will do the impossible to stay in my good graces. And that's not even mentioning—"

"The amazing fact of your existence," Harry finished for him. It was so predictable that he couldn't help but snort. "I know this part. They believe you will become the most powerful wizard the world has seen and that being your closest allies will be a privilege most of the society would kill for."

Belatedly, he realised his interruption might have gone beyond what Riddle would tolerate from him. He tensed, but the tension seeped out when Riddle lowered his head demurely.

"Don't you?" he murmured, his eyes glistening darkly. Harry swallowed. Wariness and confusion squeezed his chest tight, and once again, he found himself at a loss for words.

The more they talked, the more lost he felt. He knew how to deal with an arrogant or angry Riddle — it came to him instinctively. But when Riddle was like this, a mix between playful and threatening, his brain went silent. He didn't know how to react, what he was expected to say. His skin was on fire, the magic underneath roiling anxiously, hesitant as to what it was supposed to do.

"I'm… not certain what I believe yet," Harry admitted finally. He looked away from Riddle's hypnotising stare for a moment, gathering his composure. "I know you will become someone impressive. You already are. I don't doubt that you will be able to change the world either, it's just I'm not sure it will be for the best. Actually… I'm not sure you yourself understand what you want to become."

He'd never considered this at depth before — not when Dumbledore was showing him his memories, not in this new time. Now that he thought of it, though, he realised how true it was.

What had Riddle been trying to do? After Hogwarts, after his application to be a professor was denied, he chose to work at an obscure shop for an undetermined number of years. He travelled to Albania, began to establish himself as Voldemort, and asked Dumbledore for a position at Hogwarts again.

Why do all that, what was the point? Was he interested in finding and collecting some dark artefacts? The things that belonged to the Founders? Or was he biding time until Tom Riddle's name faded from the minds of most of the people he had studied with so that Voldemort could really take his place?

It seemed like such a waste. Maybe this version of Riddle would be able to explain his reasoning better.

"Well then, you will have to wait and see," Riddle drawled. For some reason, Harry's answer seemed to have pleased him. He looked self-satisfied; the intensity that had been cloaking him all this time began to dissipate.

Maybe Harry was wrong. Maybe Riddle knew exactly what he wanted to be, and it pleased him that there was something Harry didn't know.

"What are you going to do about Graytwig?" Riddle asked suddenly. It was so abrupt that Harry paused in surprise. His brows furrowed.

"Do you mean about him trying to sabotage me?"

Riddle didn't say anything — he continued to wait, like the question was too stupid for him to bother answering it. Harry sighed in exasperation.

"I'm not going to do anything," he uttered. "I told him not to do it again. Hopefully, he got whatever his problem was out of his system. Everyone is happy that I helped us to win, so I don't think he'll try anything like this again."

Riddle blinked. He stayed silent for some time, still waiting for something, and when Harry didn't elaborate, his eyes slowly widened.

"You can't be serious," he said incredulously. Harry crossed his arms against his chest, giving him an unimpressed look, and Riddle scoffed at him.

"I realise that you might be naïve in some matters — I must have shielded you relentlessly to compensate for your softness and absentmindedness, but surely even you understand how Slytherin works. Of course Graytwig will try again. Regardless of how satisfied everyone is right now, they won't stop him. They'll anticipate his next move, and he will keep escalating until you are out of team or you retaliate strongly enough to make him cower."

Disbelief and anger gripped Harry's by his throat, temporarily robbing him of his ability to speak. He didn't doubt that Riddle was telling him the truth — in some ways, he supposed he should have felt grateful. It was a warning that he was sure most other people wouldn't have gotten. Riddle was trying to help him. But the words themselves made him see red.

What was wrong with Slytherin? Harry didn't have many delusions about how harsh people could be: Gryffindors hadn't been the kindest and the most accepting of housemates either. They turned on him so often that the pangs of pain and dejection still haunted him whenever he allowed himself to think of those times.

But Slytherins took hostility to a new level. Apparently, the more vicious and toxic a person was, the more they respected them. If they were willing to sacrifice even Quidditch for the sake of their poisonous rules, not minding to see Harry fail if he didn't have the guts to defend himself against an unprovoked attack, then their priorities were even more insane than he realised.

"Then I'll be out of the team," he said bitterly. Riddle's lips parted in disbelief. "What? I didn't ask to be a Seeker, it was Alphard's idea and your decision. But you know what, I'm a damn good one. I might not be able to catch the Snitch every time, but the team is stronger with me. If Slytherin doesn't care about winning, then it's not my business. It's good to win but I don't care about losing either."

"That's not the point," Riddle snapped. He looked appalled, like he couldn't begin to wrap his mind around what he was hearing. "You cannot let people attack you and get away with it. You are showing weakness."

"I'm showing that I'm above this ridiculousness. I don't care enough about Graytwig to waste my time plotting revenge against him."

Riddle narrowed his eyes, trying to stare Harry down.

"It's weakness," he repeated lowly.

"It's indifference. It's not the same thing."

"If you do nothing, the entire House will see you as a pathetic fool."

"Good thing I don't care what they think about me, then."

Riddle took a deep breath. He didn't stop staring — he stared like Harry was the most incomprehensible being he'd ever had the misfortune of speaking to.

"You infuriate me," he said, almost in wonder. For some reason, this seduced a short laugh out of Harry's throat.

"You are saying it like no one ever infuriated you before," he pointed out, amused. "You were just ready to curse Dumbledore during our last lesson."

"No, not like that," Riddle tapped his fingers against his glass. Despite his words, he didn't appear angry — if anything, he seemed fascinated. "I want to curse a lot of people. However, I don't want to curse you. I want… something else. I'm not certain what."

"To punch me?"

Riddle tilted his head, considering it.

"Possibly," he acknowledged after a pause, sounding surprised by his own admission. A troubled expression threw shadows on his face. "This is atypical. I cannot think of anything more belittling than engaging in Muggle primitive violence. You must be a bad influence."

There were so many things Harry wanted to say in response to this… Being a bad influence on a murderer — that would be a day.

He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from mentioning it. There was no point in dragging their argument out any further. Sometimes he felt like he and Riddle could snap at each other for eternity if none of them put a stop to it, and since Riddle wasn't the type to fold first, Harry had to show initiative.

To his chagrin, staying silent didn't help. Riddle continued to speak.

"It could be that I see your point, no matter how naïve and irritating I find it," he noted, giving Harry a lengthy, considering look. "In the ideal world, you could have been right. Many people are hopelessly beneath us, so silencing each of them would be a waste of time. They are not worth it. But we don't have an ideal world yet. And in this one, if you allow yourself to be attacked, it will only give a free pass to everyone else."

"People are not mindless vultures," Harry argued. Frustration burned bright, and right now, he wouldn't mind punching Riddle himself — punching him for entering a toxic kingdom of damaged people and using his influence to make it worse. "Some of them might not like me, fine, but I didn't do anything to any of them. Why would they all want to beat me down just because they might consider me weak?"

"Because that's what people are," Riddle growled quietly. Despite Harry's warning look, he stepped closer, the heat from his body instantly wrapping itself around Harry. "Muggles are like that, wizards are like that, and purebloods in particular are like that. They are raised to feel superior to others. They think everyone with a lower status is their servant, and unless you can prove yourself, they will keep coming after you. Power is the only language they understand, and if you don't speak it—"

"Yours is a terrible world to live in," Harry said. He shuddered, and he didn't know if it was because of Riddle's proximity or his words. "Not all people are like this. One of my best friends was a pureblood. He never looked down on me or on anyone else. He was kind, and I'm sure there are many other such people everywhere, in every House, including Slytherin. The only difference is that the kind of behaviour that would get you shunned in normal places is worshipped here. The more people play along, the worse it gets, and I'm not going to contribute to it. I just want peace."

The next moment, Riddle's magic stung him. It was just a jolt, but the sensation was painful enough for Harry to reel back, surprised and wary.

"One of your 'best friends'?" Riddle repeated. There was an ugly, mocking note in his voice that immediately got Harry on edge. "And who that might be?"

This was a disturbing reaction to an innocent remark, and tried as he might, Harry couldn't figure out what caused it. Did it somehow go against the stories he'd been feeding Riddle? He didn't have the best grasp on them — he really had to watch what he was saying more carefully, but he was pretty certain he never mentioned being friendless.

"It was a Weasley," he said shortly. "What, did you think I didn't know anyone but you and your followers? I wasn't living in your trunk."

"My trunk would have been better company," Riddle retorted. He scrunched his nose in disgust. "Weasleys are blood traitors. I cannot imagine what I was thinking letting you mingle with someone like that."

Predictably, Harry's blood boiled. He had to suck in several deep breaths to calm himself and stop his hand from inching towards his wand.

Arguing with Riddle in the middle of the Slytherin common room wasn't good; arguing about the stupidity of blood purity here was a terrible idea. He had to let this topic go — for now.

"It's not the point," he said when the final buzzing of irritation quietened down. "The point is that some people might be horrible, but I'm not going to help to expand their numbers. I am who I am. I will not lower myself to their level just so that they would accept me and we could be horrible together."

"An idealist," Riddle said softly. His face was free of that ugly flash of anger — now it was twisted in bemused fascination. "That's what you are. A dreamer who is destined to always be disappointed."

"Better be disappointed than give up and join the people you consider normal," Harry responded. Riddle shook his head, looking even more confounded.

For a few moments, they didn't speak, just looked at each other. Then Riddle raised his glass, as if in a toast.

"Congratulations on your game," he said politely. Harry snorted at this random display of pretentiousness, and Riddle sent him an annoyed look before moving away, re-joining his crowd of admirers.

"Hey, Potter!" someone cried out. Harry turned to people whose names he didn't know and who were waving at him enthusiastically. "Come join us!"

He hesitated, but only for a moment. Putting a fake smile on his face, he went to this small cheerful group, Riddle's words about all Slytherins waiting for an opportunity to drag him down spreading like a dark echo through his mind.

They may try. He doubted they'd do a better job than he did himself on a regular basis.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Despite Riddle's warning, everyone seemed to warm up to him after his victory. Harry still came across hostile or calculating stares more often than he thought was warranted, but plenty of people started to greet him whenever they crossed paths, and even though it was meaningless, this fact planted a small seed of warmth in his chest.

It felt nice to be liked after so long, even if shallowly. Accepting the position of a Seeker was worth it just for this change alone.

Christmas was approaching, and the castle was slowly being transformed. It was snowing from almost every ceiling now — all snowflakes had different shapes and they weren't cold at all, so Harry quickly developed a habit of letting them cover his hands and then scrutinising them, admiring their unexpected angles. He got some weird looks as a result, but he ignored them.

What he couldn't ignore was the occasional stares from Riddle. He seemed as captivated by the fake snow as Harry, but he didn't let himself linger or enjoy it. He pretended like it was meaningless, like he took it for granted, and if Harry wasn't watching him as closely, if he didn't intimately understand what magic must mean to him, he might have bought it.

As it was, he caught the way Riddle slowed down a little when the snow was falling, allowing it to coat his robes in a thin layer of sparkly whiteness. He saw how Riddle tried to look at the maze of the snowflakes discreetly, obviously led by the same curiosity as Harry was.

Riddle might have rolled his eyes at the cheerful Christmas songs sung by the portraits and the ghosts; he might have walked right past the giant Christmas tree in the Great Hall, but Harry caught every pause, every glimpse of a genuine smile, every seemingly casual touch, like when Riddle brushed his fingers against the vivid green branches on his way to breakfast. He was excited for Christmas at Hogwarts, and Harry shared every bit of this sentiment.

"Are you staying or going?" Aline asked him. They were sitting in the library, finishing the last Astronomy essay of this year. Harry wasn't fond of this subject, so the work was moving at an excruciating pace.

"Staying where?" he clarified distractedly. Aline huffed in amusement.

"At school. For holidays."

Oh, that. Nodding, Harry rubbed his eyes, already feeling exhausted.

"Yeah. It's not like I have anywhere else to go."

"But what about summer? Don't you think it's something you should figure out with the headmaster?"

What Harry liked about Aline was that she never asked questions he would be unwilling to answer. He knew she had to be curious about where he came from and why he had no one to go to, but she must have sensed how uncomfortable he was with the topic because she never tried to bring it up.

The questions she did ask were the ones that he himself was asking. The truth was, he had no idea where to go. He would have loved to stay at Hogwarts, but if Riddle's request was denied, he doubted he'd have better luck. He had to discuss it with Dippet — or with Dumbledore if he was really acting as a headmaster for the most part.

"I will," Harry murmured. He stared at the essay, but unfortunately, it didn't start making sense to him.

Aline was still looking, and he belatedly realised that it was rude not to ask anything about her plans in return.

"What about you?" he questioned, a little awkward. "Do you and your mother…"

He didn't have to finish his question. Aline leaned back, a heavy frown creasing her forehead.

"We are going back to Scandinavia," she muttered. "Just for the holidays, but I still don't get it. She was so worried about Grindelwald that she made us move here. She got me to change schools, and now suddenly she thinks it's safe enough to go home for a couple of weeks? Makes no sense to me."

"Maybe she misses people she left behind," Harry suggested. From the newspapers, he knew Grindelwald was escalating in his recruiting effort and in his raids, with Scandinavia being his major playground, but if it were him making this choice, if he had a chance to see Ron and Hermione, he would have gone back in an instant, regardless of the danger.

Although he probably wouldn't have taken his hypothetical child with him, so who knew what Aline's Mom was thinking.

"Maybe," Aline agreed. It was half-hearted at best, so Harry dropped the subject.

He really had to finish that essay.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

The day Hogwarts Express was supposed to arrive to take students who were going home back to London was the day a steady stream of people formed to give Riddle Christmas gifts.

It was as amusing as it was entertaining: Riddle sat in his favourite armchair, cool and indulgent, like he was some spoilt king, while other Slytherins kept approaching with packages of all sizes and colours. Harry was curious about the contents, but not enough to ask questions.

At least Alphard gladly volunteered this information.

"I got him a mood artefact," he murmured, breathless with excitement. "I convinced our house-elf to take it from father's desk and send it to me. It's an important thing — costs a fortune, too. It shows what mood other people are in when they interact with you. It should be useful, Tom will be able to see if someone harbours some anger or resentment towards him and tries to hide it."

A trickle of cold slithered down Harry's spine. He swallowed, his heart sinking.

This kind of gift posed a problem. What if it showed that he had murderous intent whenever he was in Riddle's company? Could it even show something like this?

"What kinds of mood does it detect?" he asked carefully. He hoped Alphard didn't hear the tension in his voice, but he needn't have worried: if anything, Alphard seemed ecstatic to have his gift acknowledged, even if it was Harry doing the acknowledgement.

"All major ones," he stated proudly. "Happiness, sadness, anger, attraction, these types of feelings. Come to think of it, Rosalia is going to be so embarrassed! I can imagine what that stone will show when she speaks to Tom!"

So maybe hatred, disgust, and murder intent weren't among the options. Harry breathed a sigh of relief, finally allowing himself to smile. Thinking of what Alphard's artefact might show about Greengrass was amusing.

As if overhearing their thoughts, Greengrass strode towards Riddle with a delicate package of her own. She gave it to him with a respectful smile, and Riddle accepted it graciously.

"I did everything to convince my parents to let me stay at Hogwarts for the holidays, but they refused to hear it," she said. Harry cringed at her earnest tone. "I'm sorry. I hope you know I would be thrilled at the chance to keep you company."

"I do," Riddle told her solemnly. "And I understand."

His voice was so soft, it was almost sweet. Harry resisted the urge to gape; he did gape when Riddle touched her hand.

The touch was brief and barely there, yet it made Greengrass light up. She glowed, her eyes going misty, her smile trembling, and the way she stared at Riddle was downright painful to observe.

It was such an obvious manipulation on his part that Harry could vomit. He didn't have to wonder at the sudden softening of Riddle's demeanour — he didn't doubt it was all calculated. Riddle's followers were leaving for two weeks: they were going to spend time with their families, in a normal world, away from his influence. Sending them off with some positive reinforcement was the smartest thing he could do.

"Hey, Potter," Avery called him. He was perched on an armchair close to Riddle's, his eyes narrowed in a challenge. "Where's your gift? Or do you think Tom doesn't deserve one?"

The room instantly went silent. To Harry's amusement, Riddle looked pained at Avery's comment — he probably knew Harry enough at this point to realise that any answer he gave was bound to be offensive.

"I suppose I could get him something from the kitchen," Harry offered contemplatively. He quirked an eyebrow at Riddle. "Would you like that? I got dragon-shaped cookies for Hagrid. Maybe there is still a couple of them left. Might have gotten stale, though."

He knew this was going too far — there were outraged gasps all around him. Even Alphard looked shocked. Avery spluttered, his eyes burning furiously; Greengrass pulled out her wand, grim and deadly.

Riddle sighed. His fingers tapped against the arm of his chair once, like he was rapidly going through the possible responses and assessing their effectiveness. He couldn't let an insult like this go, even Harry understood it, but he was also conflicted about holding Harry to the same standards as he would everyone else.

Finally, he smiled. His smile had too many teeth in it: it was eerie enough to stir unease in Harry's body.

Strangely, though, he also felt exhilarated. Brimming with life, with fire. He didn't know why.

"I might like that," Riddle purred. Every word was wrapped in silky layers of threat. "Once everyone leaves, you and I will take that trip to the kitchen. You'll show me what you mean then."

The tension in the room immediately melted into excitement. Harry could see it on the faces of the majority: they looked morbidly fascinated, dying to know what Riddle was about to do, bemoaning the fact that they were going to miss it.

Harry had to applaud Riddle's solution. Now everyone was certain that Riddle would punish him in some terrible way, sadistic and prolonged enough for it to require another setting and no witnesses. But there being no witnesses was the key. The entire Slytherin was leaving — no one but Harry and Tom were staying at school. He could bet that Riddle wasn't planning on doing anything — for whatever reason, he was interested in keeping the odd truce they established after Harry had the power to get him expelled and decided against using it.

Well, somewhat. Right now, arguing further would definitely be suicide. So Harry shrugged vaguely and looked away, waiting for everyone to settle. A few minutes later, the anxious murmurs quietened, and more people started heading to Riddle with gifts, their faces a reflection of respect, wariness, or adoration.

It was so boring and annoying that even studying was more interesting. Harry took out a book on offensive spells and delved into reading.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Two hours later, Hogwarts Express departed, carrying almost the entire Slytherin House with it. The common room was immersed into complete silence now — only the fire continued to crack in the fireplace. Riddle was standing near it, observing the flames, and for a reason Harry didn't understand, he felt pleasantly at ease.

All tension seeped out of him the moment the last student left the dungeons. He relaxed, taking the entire sofa for himself and stretching across it comfortably. It was like Riddle wasn't there, like he was a natural part of school, someone that Harry's mind automatically accepted as Hogwarts' extension.

It was strange to think of Riddle in these terms, but he felt too good and peaceful to care.

"Have you always been this aggravating?" Riddle wondered. His voice was lazy and amused, so Harry nestled into the throw pillow with a contented sigh.

"Depends on who you ask," he murmured. "Your other version definitely found me aggravating. Your followers weren't my biggest fans either. And my relatives… yeah, they would agree with this, too. They found everything about me aggravating."

He realised belatedly that this wasn't the best topic of conversation. Coldness instantly replaced serenity. Harry tensed, staring at the pillow, waiting for Riddle's reaction.

He couldn't remember what his fake backstory had been. He had mentioned the Dursleys, hadn't he? He said something about living with Muggle relatives before he was sent to Riddle's orphanage. But how old was he supposed to be?

He was an idiot. An idiot who couldn't keep track of his own lies.

"The Muggles you spent your first five years with?" Riddle asked. His words lacked colour, and Harry didn't know if this was because he was suspecting something or because he found the subject unpleasant.

Five years. Was this the timeframe he'd used? Was Riddle trying to catch him in a lie?

His heart was beating so painfully that Harry could barely draw a breath. He swallowed, frantically looking for memories, but they were all murky. He would have to be vague, neither confirming nor denying anything.

"I still remember them," he replied carefully. It wasn't a lie, so saying it was simpler. "So much time passed since I saw them last, but I still remember it like I was with them yesterday."

"Because they tried to damage you," Riddle said. His eyes glowed darkly, reflecting his own recollections. "You always remember people who try to damage you. The only way to shake off their influence is to make them pay."

There was a cold finality in his words that made Harry shiver. He didn't want to ask, wasn't sure he should be doing it at all, but the words burned his tongue, so he had to get them out.

"Like you made your family pay?"

Riddle stilled. For a moment, none of them spoke: Harry was waiting, not daring to breathe, while Riddle observed him closely.

"That Muggle filth wasn't my family," he said finally. Whatever coldness his voice held, it wasn't directed at Harry. On the contrary, the gaze he gave him was surprisingly soft, and it wasn't the fake one he had bestowed on Greengrass. It was real, and Harry's heart skipped a beat in response. "From all that I've been hearing, in your world, you have filled this position."

For some reason, the words hit him with the shock of a physical blow. If Harry wasn't lying down, he would have staggered in astonishment, torn between revulsion and longing.

The idea of Riddle seeing them as family… it unsettled him. It wasn't right. Riddle was a murderer who grew up to kill every person he loved. He destroyed his real family, and for him to try taking their place, even in some imaginary world… it was infuriating, and hurtful, and the worst thing was, some stupid ingenuous part of Harry lunged at this idea with fever that took him aback.

This part was ecstatic over Riddle's words. This part wanted them to come true desperately, like Riddle was the one and only chance at a family the universe could offer. It didn't matter who he was or what he'd done, only what he suggested they could be.

Harry didn't know which of these crazy thoughts and contradictory feelings came to the surface, but something must have slipped through because Riddle suddenly looked satisfied.

"I never even let them speak," he confessed, his eyes gaining a strange, unsettling glimmer. "The Muggle filth that thought they were too good to be my family. The one who resembled me physically opened the door. He recognised me, I could see it on his face. That ghostly shade his skin had acquired, those horrified eyes — I remember every moment. He tried to open his mouth, but I did not wish to hear the sound of his voice. He was the first to die. Two words, only two short words, a flash of beautiful green, and all traces of life fled him."

Riddle shivered, and Harry had a sinking feeling that it was out of some twisted sort of pleasure. The thought made him ill.

"I would have left then, but I heard other voices," Riddle added. An excited flush slowly coloured his cheeks, filling them with deceptive warmth. "I walked inside. The older man was sitting at the table, the woman was trying to peer into a window. They were dressed exceptionally — for Muggles. He had a green double-breasted suit on, with so many pockets that if that cow Mrs. Cole saw it, she would have wept from the wasteful use of expensive materials. The woman wore a midnight blue long dress. Their hair was slick and styled like they were planning to go out instead of having a typical boring supper at home."

This time, Harry was the one to shiver. Disgust was coursing through his veins, so he barely managed to arrange his features to look normal and not betray the stupefied horror he could feel beating inside his ribcage.

For some reason, the amount of details Riddle was so easily recalling frightened him. The relish with which he spoke every word, the look of pleasure on his face — he was clearly reliving those murders, absorbing every drop of joy from those dark memories. It wasn't normal, and the fact that Riddle was describing it so calmly created a jarring dissonance in Harry. His mind screeched to a stop, confused and unable to reconcile the contents of the story with Riddle's conversational tone.

"I could tell they mistook me for their dead son," Riddle let out a high laugh, brushing an unruly curl of hair behind his ear. "Their anxiety faded and they smiled, and that's when I killed them. First the woman, then the man. She was still smiling when she fell; he, on the other hand, began to realise that something was wrong, but he had no time to react. His expression froze between uncertainty and fear. It was a bizarre sight. A mesmerising one."

And Riddle really looked mesmerised. The excitement in his eyes was palpable, and Harry had to swallow the bitter taste of words that he wanted to spit.

You are sick. You are a monster. You need help.

He couldn't say it. Riddle would never forgive him — it would ruin all his plans before they had a chance to gain shape.

But he had to say something. Riddle was still lost in his murderous daze, but he would wake up soon enough and expect a reaction. What could Harry say that wouldn't be aggressive yet which also wouldn't be a complete betrayal of who he was?

He was desperately grasping for answers when Riddle's eyes met his. The contact was startling, and suddenly, Harry knew what to ask.

"And did it make you feel better?" he wondered. His voice was colder than it should have been, but he didn't care. "Did you 'shake off' their influence by killing them?"

Riddle's eyes narrowed.

"Almost entirely," he replied. He sounded just as challenging. "My last name is the only bridge that still unites us. Needless to say, I'll be getting rid of it sooner rather than later."

"Yeah, exchanging it for something as stupid as Voldemort."

Riddle's magic crackled warningly. His eyes narrowed further.

"Why do I get a feeling that you disapprove of each of my actions? That's not very friendly... for a friend."

Maybe it was wiser to shut up, but Harry couldn't do it. Riddle's disgusting story, the obvious delight he got from murdering innocent people rattled him: his emotions kept fluctuating wildly, and he had to find a way to let them out.

"Here you go again, confusing friends with your stupid boot-lickers," he growled. He couldn't stay in one place any longer, so he stood up and began to pace, increasingly agitated. "I'm not interested in saying things I don't believe just to get on your good side. I don't care what you promise or how much power you might have one day. You want to be called Voldemort, fine. I think it's a terrible name, and I think it's ridiculous to come up with it only to make sure that people fear to speak it, but it's your choice. But killing your family, that's..."

Riddle hissed, his fury triggering Harry's own.

"Those Muggles were not my family."

"Exactly! They were ignorant and they didn't have any influence on you to begin with. Do you even know what happened between your parents? Were your grandparents aware that you existed? If they were, then yeah, abandoning you wasn't right. But to kill them over this? Killing is not a solution. They didn't even understand why you sentenced them to death because you didn't bother to speak to them."

"They didn't deserve to be talked to."

"Then there was no point in their murders! They never knew!" Harry clenched his fists. He only vaguely understood what he was saying. How to put his justified revulsion towards murder in words that someone like Riddle would understand? Appealing to morals wouldn't have any effect. Riddle didn't have any. He had to somehow make his point without sounding passionately righteous.

Another deep breath. He had to be calm. Getting angry wouldn't help him, not against Riddle, who would only get pissed in return.

"Look," Harry tried, lowering his voice, "all I'm saying is that murder isn't something you should ever automatically resort to. You made a Horcrux, so you realise what a damaging effect it has on a soul. You said you got rid of your fam— of the Muggles' influence, but what influence is that? What changed from their death? They still abandoned you. The impacts of you growing up in the orphanage didn't suddenly disappear just because you killed people you blamed for getting there. You did it for revenge, not for freedom."

"I highly doubt you know what you're talking about," Riddle interrupted him coldly. Derision filled his gaze, the kind of arrogant dismissal that instantly got Harry's blood boiling. "What do you know of murder? Without killing anyone, you will never be in a position to speculate on what it means and how liberating it can be."

Harry knew he had to stay silent. He knew he couldn't share what he wanted — it would send the wrong message to Riddle, it would stir up the memories that he still felt too conflicted about to approach, but the odd need to prove himself, to make his words count was stronger. It scorched his throat with its merciless burns, and Harry opened his mouth to spit it all out, unable to keep it inside any longer.

"I killed before. Not long before coming here. I killed two people, and I don't regret it."

Riddle's eyes widened. Derision melted away, with a bright, fervent intrigue blossoming in its place.

Harry knew it would be there. A treacherous part of him, the one that was increasingly needy for Riddle's attention, was anticipating this moment, greedy for approval, yearning for appreciation. It was the exact same feeling that Riddle's followers fell victim to, but at the moment, Harry didn't have strength to be appalled with himself. The dam that had been holding most of these particular memories at bay broke under his confession, and now they were flooding him, dancing chaotically in his mind.

A flash of brilliant white hair, a shocked look in grey eyes that used to observe him with superiority and impatience but which now turned panicked and vulnerable. Lucius Malfoy, staggering on instinct after Harry attacked him the Muggle way by crossing distance between them in one swift jump and landing a punch.

It hadn't been strong enough, but Malfoy didn't see it coming. His alarm and surprise gave Harry the precious five seconds of distraction, and he used them to send a simple blasting curse at Malfoy's head.

He wasn't certain what outcome he'd been hoping for. He'd used Confringo before, had seen it used by many other wizards during their days at the Ministry. The amount of damage it caused differed, so he didn't know what he should expect this time.

It was one of the worst days, and his emotions were running wild. Tonks and Lupin had been murdered barely five minutes before Malfoy found him. They were battling Death Eaters Harry didn't know, and when Lupin fell, Tonks screamed and dashed towards him to catch him. This was instinctive, too, as instinctive as Malfoy reeling away from the punch, and in both cases, the pause cost a life. Tonks was hit by some terrible spell that slashed her into four parts. Harry was standing close enough to get instantly drenched in her blood. He remembered screaming, then just sitting there uselessly, tugging at his hair again and again with no purpose, no way of comprehending the new world around him.

Malfoy's gleeful laughter dragged him out of his stupor. Their duel was brief and unequal: Harry only survived because his adrenaline was jerking his body around in manoeuvres he didn't think he was capable of and because Malfoy was trying to incapacitate him, not kill him.

By the end of the first minute, he did his jump. Then he used his curse, and Malfoy's head exploded like a water balloon Dudley had loved bombarding Harry with. Only there was blood instead of water, and unlike Harry, Malfoy didn't move again.

Someone's fingers brushed against the side of his face. The touch was quick but grounding, and when Harry blinked, he saw Riddle standing close, watching him curiously.

"A story you would like to share?" he asked. It sounded more like an order than a question, and Harry swallowed nervously.

He already started this, he might just as well continue. It was another point he and Riddle had in common, so maybe this would get Riddle to at least consider his perspective.

"It happened at the Ministry," Harry said softly. "When we trapped — you and your followers, me, and Dumbledore with his people. An enemy attacked me. Someone older and much more experienced. He already killed some of my friends and I knew that if I let him win, I'd be killed, too. There was no way out. So I did it first. I threw a blasting curse at his head. The effect was stronger than I expected, and he…" Harry flinched as the sound, the smell, and the feel of blood coating him in sticky hot layers assaulted his mind. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to focus. "I didn't have a choice. I had to do it."

"Of course you did," Riddle purred. To Harry's surprise, he reached out and stroked his hair, each movement too calculated and possessive to feel soothing. "There is nothing wrong with protecting yourself. I'd think my other version would have taught you that from the beginning. What about the second person? Was it also motivated by self-defence?"

"Not really," Harry said warily. If Riddle was trying to make him comfortable, he was failing spectacularly. He almost never touched anyone — he definitely never caressed anyone's hair, so this sudden change automatically filled Harry's body with tension.

This was a glaring attempt at manipulation. Why Riddle believed that initiating physical contact would make him open up was beyond him. Did he think it was something friends did? Was it another attempt at mirroring the actions he imagined had taken place between Harry and his non-existing version?

Whatever Riddle was thinking, it was making Harry feel odd, so it was better to put a stop to it as soon as possible.

"I was protecting my friend," he admitted. The images flickered, but with an effort, he pushed them down. "They grabbed her. Five Dea— Dumbledore's people. They weren't like Dumbledore, though, they were going to torture her. I couldn't defeat them all, so I took out one to maybe make things easier for her. I thought… one death meant one less person who would hurt her."

Riddle hummed. His gaze was inscrutable, but Harry had a feeling he knew what was hidden behind it.

It pleased Riddle that Harry has blood on his hands. However, he could not be happy about Harry killing to protect someone else. He probably considered it another weakness, a pathetic motivation that was not worth the trouble.

"How did you kill this one?" Riddle asked. Harry shrugged.

"I just did a lucky throw," he said. "I had a knife. I put an accelerating spell on it and sent it flying. It got him in the throat."

"What an unexpectedly vicious little ally you could be," Riddle drawled. His voice sang with dark satisfaction. He lowered his head, bringing his face closer, the same curiosity Harry had already seen flaring in his eyes. "I wonder, would you have killed to protect me?"

There it was, just like Harry suspected. The strange selfish possessiveness Riddle kept displaying whenever he learned that Harry had other connections apart from their alleged friendship.

"You don't require protection," he said coolly, twisting himself from under Riddle's touch and stepping away. What was it with Riddle consistently breaking into his personal space? "And I think you're missing the point. Like you, I took someone's life, and while I don't regret it, it was the last resort. It didn't feel mentally liberating — how could it? Your relatives, you don't even know why they abandoned you. You didn't bother to find out. What if your mother used a love potion on your father, and that's how she got pregnant? If, say, Greengrass did the same to you, would you have stayed with her and cared for your child?"

Riddle's face contorted. His revulsion was palpable, and Harry smiled grimly.

"Exactly," he uttered. "Knowing you, you would have probably killed her without giving her pregnancy a second thought. And even if your father was with your mother out of his own free will and then he left her, what makes you think he told his parents the truth? Maybe they would have taken you in if they knew about your existence. Maybe they would have loved you."

"I never needed their love," Riddle said. His expression was still twisted in disgust. "Nor their acceptance."

"But you blamed them for leaving you."

"Not necessarily."

"Then why did you kill them?"

Riddle's lips parted as if to answer, but then he snapped his mouth shut. A range of conflicting emotions swam in his eyes, uncertainty being the most prominent.

He didn't know what to say, Harry realised belatedly. The knowledge soothed the remnants of nervous energy that kept flickering inside him. Riddle entered this conversation confident about his answers, but now he was lost, unsure how to justify his murders in a way that would have meaning.

Voldemort didn't care about meaning. Riddle did. This had potential.

Harry didn't delude himself into thinking that he succeeded in changing Riddle's mind, but if Riddle ever gave his words at least another thought before murdering someone, it would already be a victory.

"I don't think you should have killed them," he concluded, taking a step towards the coach. "I think you made a terrible mistake. You ended lives and sullied your soul for nothing. The damage you experienced because of the way you were forced to grow up is still there, and killing them didn't make it disappear. And the way you try to compensate for it now, by treating everyone like your pawns — what is it, an attempt to reaffirm your control?"

"It's a way of life," Riddle told him. He tilted his head, observing Harry intently. "You are mistaken if you think that I treat others in the manner I do because of some perceived trauma. What my circumstances taught me is that to get anywhere in this world, you need to have power. This is precisely what I am in the process of accumulating. People are drawn to the exclusiveness. The more unattainable the praise is, the more desperate they are to earn it. Believe me, if I gifted smiles and assistance left and right, my circle of followers would have been much smaller. People would take it for granted, and this is something I will never allow. And then there is you."

Harry tensed when Riddle followed him again, his eyes sharp and attentive.

"We are similar," he stated, and Harry's breath caught in his chest when Riddle carefully touched his scar. It was barely a touch, more like an illusion of it, but the warmth still simmered, pleasant and sparkling. "Our circumstances defined parts of our personalities. The difference is that I chose to adapt. I know what mask to take on, how to act to make others do what I want. I keep pretending until they give me everything I ask for, and I discard them after they become useless. You, on the other hand…" the corners of Riddle's lips curled in amusement. "You are too artless and hot-headed to pretend. You express your trauma by acting out. When I see a boundary, I keep probing it carefully until I find a way in. You tear right through it, damn the consequences. It's no wonder you react like you do when my followers harass you. You detest restrictions, and when they try to put you into what they perceive to be your place, you rebel. "

Harry wanted to argue on principle. He began to speak, but Riddle's smirk rapidly shut him up.

Right. He was just proving Riddle's point.

With a huff, Harry rubbed his face, amused and frustrated despite himself.

It was uncanny how perceptive Riddle was. He didn't really know Harry, he could only base his conclusions on the fake stories he heard, and yet his assessment was accurate. Harry did hate boundaries. He acted out. He was hot-headed and he was rebellious — if he hadn't been, if he had more patience, if he was more willing to listen, maybe he wouldn't have gone to the Ministry. Maybe he wouldn't have dragged all his friends with him and they wouldn't all be dead.

A sharp sting of pain pierced his insides. Harry flinched and shook his head, trying to attach himself back to reality instead of letting his mind slip in the pursuit of memories he didn't want to relive.

"So what?" he asked. "You and I both had an imperfect start of life and yeah, we might react to it differently, but it won't go away if you kill every person who you think contributed to your misery. Murder is ugly. You may have not fully comprehended what it does to your soul, but I've seen the result first-hand. You saw it, too, in my memories. You became a monster."

"The version of me who created too many Horcruxes became a monster," Riddle corrected him. He walked towards one of the shelves and picked a decorative vase from it. "Not every murder has the same effect."

"Murder is the main component of the ritual. Just because it won't disfigure you physically right away doesn't mean that it has no effect on your soul or sanity."

Riddle rolled his eyes, but he didn't argue. Instead, he placed the vase on the table and gestured at it.

"Transfigure it into fire," he ordered. The change of subject was so abrupt that Harry thought he must have heard it wrong at first.

"What?"

"The vase," Riddle nodded at it impatiently. "Turn it into fire the way Dumbledore showed."

Mystified, Harry considered rejecting this dubious proposition. He wasn't one of Riddle's followers, he didn't have to obey his chaotic orders.

But curiosity was a powerful thing. It gnawed and gnawed at him until the tingling of temptation became overwhelming.

"Fine," Harry grumbled. He took out his wand and tried to concentrate. "Mutare in ignem."

Nothing happened. Under Riddle's watchful attention, the embarrassment was even worse than it'd been during the lesson. Harry cleared his throat and tried again.

"Mutare in ignem!"

This time, his mortification brought its fruits. The vase shuddered and folded into a soft mess before suddenly flaring with orange.

Harry began to smile, but his triumph was short-lived. It passed in less than five seconds, and then he was left feeling upset and humiliated once again.

While he succeeded, his display was pathetically weak. The fire was barely there, it had no power — even the colour was pale, more yellow than orange. Considering the magnificent performance Riddle had managed to organise on his first try, Harry's result was unworthy to even exist within the same plane.

"Hmm," Riddle drawled. He didn't curl his lips like he did when he was displeased — he just looked thoughtful. Harry shifted, unsure what this exercise was supposed to be about, but before either of them had a chance to speak, a loud popping sound broke the silence. An old-looking House Elf emerged in the middle of the room: with a bow, he offered a sealed envelope to Harry.

"An urgent letter for Mr. Harry Potter," he announced.

"Thanks."

The elf gasped. Riddle stared at him in disbelief.

Maybe Hermione was right — well, to some extent. Wizards really needed a wake-up call if a simple 'thank you' spoken to a helpful creature shocked them this much.

There was no name on the envelope. Intrigued, Harry opened it, but his stomach dropped the moment he began to read.

Dear Mr. Potter,

We have never spoken in person, but we heard much about you from our son, Fleamont Potter. If you're agreeable, we would like to meet with you today, at three o'clock sharp, at Hog's Head, to get acquainted and to discuss some details. We are certain you have as many questions as we do.

Anxiously awaiting our meeting,

Henry and Leonore Potter

Slowly, Harry re-read the letter, but the words didn't change. It was the same invitation written in the same unfamiliar handwriting, signed with a painfully familiar surname. His surname.

The Potters wanted to meet him? He didn't know what to think of it. His heart was hammering in his chest violently as the air got progressively more unfulfilling.

He didn't want to see them. If he pretended like he had no blood relatives in this timeline, he would be safe. They would be safe. Whatever bloodbath his attempts to make Riddle see sense led to, no one from his family would have to suffer.

But… they were his. His great-grandparents, the most real link to his father he ever had. Fleamont, too. If he agreed to see them, if they managed to build some semblance of relationship…

Elation exploded in him just as his anxiety tried to rein it in.

He shouldn't meet them. But he wanted to. Would it hurt to at least see where it could lead?

A snort interrupted his thoughts. Blinking, Harry caught Riddle leaning away, having undoubtedly read his letter.

Noisy bastard.

"I hope you aren't planning on going," Riddle said. His voice was shrouded in ice. "Nor honouring their offensive letter with a response."

"Offensive?" Harry frowned. The lines were already burned in his memory, but he still read them again to make sure he didn't miss anything. "What do you mean? It's just an invitation."

Riddle stared at him silently for a moment. Then a short incredulous laugh rolled off his lips.

"Sometimes I struggle to understand what you're doing in Slytherin," he said. Despite the words, he sounded almost fond. "Your naivety is astounding."

Harry bristled, and Riddle must have sensed it because he spoke before Harry could snap at him.

"Consider the moment they chose to write you this letter. Right after Hogwarts Express departed. Almost the entirety of the castle has left, so Hogsmeade will be near empty. Hog's Head in particular is empty at this time of the day. The Potters don't want the rumours to spread, so they are trying to see you discreetly, to hide you like a little shameful secret they perceive you to be. They'll need to be in London to meet their son in several hours, so they don't expect your meeting to last. And of course there is the time itself. Three o'clock is in forty minutes. They are trying to take away your chance to discuss your plans with someone who could talk you out of going or decide to accompany you."

Riddle grinned, then, cold and unpleasant.

"Luckily, you have me."

Harry was already reeling from the volume of alleged manipulations Riddle had uncovered in one short letter, but this just made him gape.

"What?" he demanded. "Are you— you are not coming with me!"

"So you do want to go? Even despite the fact that they are obviously manipulating you?"

"I don't really think their manipulation is a problem — if they are manipulating me at all," Harry added. The more he thought of it, the more confident he felt. "Even if you are right, so what? Of course they are wary about meeting me. I'm not supposed to exist, they probably think I'm the result of some scandalous affair."

"Aren't you?" Riddle raised a thin eyebrow. "You are a half-blood, which means that one of the Potters entered a relationship with someone below their level."

He was infuriating. Harry rolled his hands into fists as the flood of indignation washed over him.

"My mother was a Muggleborn and my father was lucky to marry her," he spat. "Their relationship wasn't scandalous. If you end up marrying Greengrass, will you say she married below her level, too?"

As he expected, Riddle sneered, the familiar expression of distaste and anger crossing his features.

What Harry did not expect was for a calculating half-smile to appear on his lips.

"You are bringing Greengrass up disturbingly often," Riddle noted lazily. "I wonder if it means something."

Harry flushed, embarrassed and offended simultaneously. Sending Riddle a glare, he turned and marched to the bedroom in search of his winter cloak.

"I'm going," he called out. "I want to hear what they have to say. If you go with me—"

"I will."

"…at least stay somewhere they can't see you. What's your interest, anyway? Even in the unlikely case everything goes well and they decide they want to keep in touch, I won't introduce you to them. I won't let you use them."

He didn't have to turn to know that Riddle was smirking.

"We'll see," he promised silkily.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Riddle was right. The Hog's Head was almost empty at this time of the day: there were only five people inside, and two of them were seated together at one of the tables, awkward and stiff. A man and a woman in rich, heavy clothes, with hoods that shielded their faces.

Swallowing, Harry threw a quick look at the window. Riddle was there somewhere. They agreed that he would wait for several minutes before making his way inside.

Harry still didn't understand why Riddle wanted to come with him. Letting him see the Potters couldn't be a good idea, not when he knew that whatever interest Riddle had in them, it was bound to cause trouble in the future. Still, selfishly, he was glad that he wasn't alone. It gave him the strength to approach the table and look at the couple waiting there.

"Hi," he said carefully. "I'm Harry Potter. I got your letter."

The Potters stared at him silently. They both had light brown eyes and dark hair, only the woman's was curly. Despite sending him the invitation, they looked shocked to actually see him. Mrs. Potter gripped the arm of her husband tightly like she needed support, and Harry shifted uncomfortably.

Maybe coming here was a bad idea. There was resemblance between them, it was undeniable, but it wasn't as strong as he feared. They didn't have to be connected, they could pretend like this meeting had never happened. Harry had Riddle and his gang to focus on, he couldn't allow himself to have distractions, more weaknesses that Riddle could use against him. If he just left…

"Please, take a seat," Mr. Potter urged, and all thoughts about leaving evaporated. Harry dropped into a chair, his eyes darting between the couple.

His family. The family he might have met if the circumstances were a little different, if they lived long enough to see their offspring flourish.

Flourish and then dwindle away. Poisoned by the man who was stalking them even now, waiting for the right moment to come closer.

The door to the Hog's Head opened. Harry didn't have to look in that direction to know that Riddle came inside, and despite everything, despite all his suspicions, a part of Harry loosened, comforted by his presence.

"We won't waste your time on trivial chatter," Mr. Potter said. Mrs. Potter remained speechless, staring at Harry like she was seeing a ghost. "We would like to know who your parents are and where you were born."

Harry hesitated. Strange dejection wrought itself into his bones, making them feel suddenly heavy.

He didn't know what he was expecting and if he was expecting anything at all. Maybe for Potters to smile at him. To ask if he wanted something to drink. Mr. Potter made it sound like trivial chatter would waste Harry's time, but it really looked like he didn't want to waste his own.

Everything was so cold and detached. Riddle was right, he shouldn't have come.

"I was born in Britain," Harry said stiffly. He didn't want to continue to look at the Potters, but his stubbornness didn't allow him to glance away. "My mother was a Muggleborn. My father was a pureblood. A Potter. They are both dead now. I never knew them, so I can't tell you much."

The Potters exchanged grim looks.

"Would you agree to do a blood test to prove your relation to us?" Mr. Potter asked. The word choice and the tone intensified the sinking sensation inside Harry's chest. He pursed his lips, trying to ignore it, but it was difficult to pretend.

This meeting was making him feel bad. He couldn't really blame the Potters — why would they be amicable to a stranger with a dubious background who claimed to be related to them, but he was also fed up with feeling like he didn't belong. He didn't volunteer to come here, they invited him themselves.

Still, they were his family. He could try to make an effort.

"I could do a blood test," Harry murmured. "If it's important to you."

He hoped that his agreement would satisfy them, but his hopes dissipated when the Potters exchanged another, even grimmer look.

They were probably hoping that he'd refuse and they'd have an excuse to ignore him from now on. As if Harry was begging to be noticed.

"Look, this is a misunderstanding," he said sharply. At their startled looks he stood up, wanting to be as far away from here as possible. "I'm not asking to join your family. I don't know you and you don't know me. Fleamont and I aren't friends, we never even see each other at Hogwarts. I came to study here because of my circumstances, but they have nothing to do with you, so we can just go on like we've never met. If you're worried that I'm going to make trouble for you, don't be. I just want to finish Hogwarts and to try building a life for myself. That's all."

The Potters continued to watch him silently. With a frustrated sigh, Harry turned around, intending to walk out and return to the castle, when Mrs. Potter suddenly cried out, "Wait!"

Harry froze. He could see Riddle now that his back was to the Potters: he was looking at him, his stare an odd combination of glee and disappointment. Harry didn't understand what it meant, only that Riddle wasn't in a supportive mood — and why would he anticipate support from someone so inherently incapable of it anyway?

Taking a deep breath, he faced the Potters again. Mr. Potter still appeared to be deeply conflicted, but Mrs. Potter's expression softened. She gestured at the chair.

"Please, sit. We didn't mean to offend you. It's just an unusual situation for us. We have some ideas as to the identities of your parents, but... we never even suspected you exist."

Harry took his seat again, twisting his hands nervously.

"I meant what I said," he uttered. "I'm not going to make trouble. If that's what you're worried about…"

"We aren't worried," Mr. Potter interrupted. To Harry's surprise, he sounded gentler, too. "Taken aback, but not worried. We would like to know more about you. Fleamont said you're in Slytherin?.."

There it was again, the same wary hesitation. As if Slytherin were a House designed specifically for dark wizards.

"I am," Harry said. It came out more defensively than he intended. When the Potters looked at each other again, he frowned. "There is nothing wrong with Slytherin. Being ambitious isn't bad."

"Of course it's not," Mrs. Potter hastened to reassure him. She smiled at him, and however hard Harry looked, he saw nothing but genuineness in it. This made him relax a little, so he tried for an answering smile.

"Do you know what you'd like to do in the future?" Mr. Potter asked. Harry bit his lip.

The question was so simple, but he had no idea how to answer it. What did he want to do? His thoughts were so full of Riddle, he didn't really consider his options. All he had was his past dreams, the ones he shared with Ron and which seemed so distant now that he could no longer recognise them.

"I used to want to be an Auror," he muttered, staring at his hands. He could almost feel Riddle's disgust with his back. "But I don't know about it now. I like Quidditch. I'm playing for the Slytherin team. I also like Defence against Dark Arts, so maybe I could try being a teacher at some point? I haven't decided."

"These are all excellent choices," Mr. Potter said wholeheartedly. Harry swallowed when he saw the first flickers of warmth in his eyes. "Don't be in a rush to decide, you still have time. And if you ever want to discuss it with someone, you can contact us. Just send us an owl, we'll be happy to hear from you."

"I… thanks," Harry said. His heart was beating quickly again, only this time, it wasn't because of his nervousness. He felt strangely open, more vulnerable than he allowed himself to feel in months.

It would be nice to have the Potters to talk to occasionally. Even if it never went anywhere, just having this opportunity was already more than he'd dared to hope for.

"Did you make friends at Hogwarts already?" Mrs. Potter wondered. She shook off her hood like an annoying fly, smoothening her dark hair. "If you are on a Quidditch team, you must be popular among your peers. Any special young ladies vying for your attention?"

"No!" Harry exclaimed. He could feel his face growing hot in embarrassment. "I mean, there are no girls. But I have some friends. Sort of. Alphard Black and…" he stumbled, unsure if he should finish this sentence when the person he was about to mention sat right behind him. Would Riddle find this offensive? Maybe he didn't want to be known as Harry's friend.

Then again, why would Harry care about it? It's not like he dragged Riddle here. He could say whatever he wanted.

"And Tom Riddle," he finished. Mr. Potter leaned forwards, looking interested.

"He's the Slytherin prefect, isn't he? Fleamont speaks about him sometimes. He sounds impressive."

The last thing Harry wanted to do was to flatter Riddle, but the truth was the truth regardless of his feelings about it.

"He is," he agreed reluctantly. "He's brilliant. The top student at school and one of the greatest in Hogwarts' history."

The Potters exchanged a glance he didn't understand.

"Well, then," Mr. Potter said. He stood up, helped his wife to do the same, and then offered his hand to Harry. Harry shook it, comforted anew by the warm, strong grip. "We have to leave now in order to meet Fleamont on time. It was a pleasure to meet you. Next time, we would love to welcome you to our house. Maybe over summer? Do you know where you're going to spend it already?"

Harry shook his head silently.

"Perhaps we'll discuss it later," Mr. Potter gave him an encouraging smile. "We'll be looking forwards to seeing you again, Harry."

"Here, take this," Mrs. Potter took out a small bag from her robe and handed it to him. Harry accepted it automatically and frowned when he heard the familiar clink of galleons inside.

"Why…" he began, but Mr. Potter didn't let him finish.

"We want you to have it," he said. "It must be difficult to change your life so abruptly. Being without people you know, in a new place, it's hard to imagine the strain you must be feeling. At least now you'll be able to spoil yourself a little."

Harry stared at the bag. It burned his hands, and he didn't know if this was because he didn't feel he deserved to have it or because of what this gesture meant.

It was kind of the Potters to want to take care of him when they didn't even know him. It was almost like having a family, like entering Gringotts for the first time and seeing all those galleons his parents had saved for him.

"Thank you," was all he managed to say. He didn't trust his voice to speak more.

Mrs. Potter patted him on his shoulder. Then they left, and Harry spent some time staring at the place they'd been at, confused and overwhelmed.

The meeting went better than he'd thought it would. His initial reservations didn't go anywhere — it was dangerous to get attached to anyone here, but he couldn't fight the treacherous warmth that was busy taking root in his heart.

He liked them. He wanted to see them again.

"Well, that was underwhelming," a voice drawled. The words were the opposite of what Harry was feeling, so he snorted under his breath.

"That's not the word I would choose," he said. Riddle strolled past him towards the exit, and Harry followed him silently.

Riddle was angry. He could tell from the tense set of his shoulders and his stride. The only thing he didn't understand was the reason behind this anger. What about his and the Potters' exchange could have possibly annoyed him?

He wanted to ask, but the words didn't come. Harry kept walking until Riddle decided to break the silence himself.

"Do you realise why they had that bag of money with them?"

The biting tone told him that whatever guess he came up with, Riddle, with his current mood, would eviscerate him.

"I'm sure you are about to tell me."

"They were thinking of buying your silence. They wanted to offer you a measly sum in exchange for you pretending like you don't exist." Riddle threw a disgusted look at him. "You managed to sweet-talk them into changing their mind. It would have been impressive—"

"I didn't try to sweet-talk anyone!"

"…Exactly," Riddle glowered at him. He continued to walk so quickly that Harry barely managed to keep up. "You weren't pretending to be a simpleton, you were a simpleton. An uncertain blabbering mess all but begging to be accepted. You should have either cut ties with them or used their foolishness to milk them for opportunities."

This was so outrageous that Harry didn't have time to react to a personal insult.

"I think you got the two of us confused," he growled. His magic began to boil in him furiously. "I don't use people for connections. Especially not my family!"

Riddle stopped walking abruptly. Harry nearly collided with him, pausing at the last possible second and fighting the urge to step back when he saw the deadly rage on Riddle's face.

What was causing it? This reaction didn't make any sense.

"Then you should start using them," Riddle spat. The pull of his magic was steadily intensifying, almost burning Harry with its furious licks. "Your innocent face clearly touched them enough to want to sponsor you. You could get far more money from them. With some effort, you'll easily get an invitation to spend your summer at their house instead of being stuck in some Muggle hole. They could buy you a house of your own. Set up a career for you — all without you having to move a finger to earn it. Not everyone has this kind of opportunity, and if you have it but don't use it, then you're a fool."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Harry yelled. His blood was pulsating so loudly in his ears that the sound of his voice was barely audible against its thudding. "I just met them! I don't care what they planned to do about me at first, what matters is that they liked me and I liked them. The money, the career, the house — who cares? I'm just glad that maybe in this world, I will finally have a chance to get to know my family, to spend time with—"

The next thing Harry knew, Riddle backhanded him. It wasn't a punch, but the blow was strong enough to send him stumbling. The feverish heat that began to emanate from his lower lip told him that it was split, and Harry licked the blood off it, numb with shock.

"They are not your family," Riddle hissed. His eyes glowed dangerously. "You will either use them or you will never communicate with them again. Do you understand?"

The disbelief lingered. It stole his speech, so Harry stared at Riddle wide-eyed, feeling completely at a loss.

Either Riddle was completely crazy or he was jealous.

Jealousy. Was this the problem? And if so, then it wasn't the envious kind of jealousy, it was the possessive one. Sure, maybe Riddle wished he also had a family who could accept and support him, but he already got most of what he wanted. He had a trunk full of expensive gifts from his followers; if he needed money, Harry was certain that Greengrass, Avery, Alphard, and probably Lestrange would instantly throw everything they had at his feet. If he requested a place to stay, any of them would be ecstatic to host him, and as for career, Slughorn and the majority of other professors would be thrilled to recommend him for whatever position he wanted.

No, it wasn't about what the Potters could offer. It was about Harry suddenly having a family he could get close to.

His lies had a double-edged effect: Riddle considered him an ally now, but an ally that was supposed to belong solely to him. Actually, he had called them a family — he meant the other version of himself, but with the way he put it, it sounded like this was an idea he was curious to explore.

He didn't want Harry to have the Potters, not unless his intention was to manipulate and discard them. He perceived them as a threat to the possible future he was envisioning — the future the two of them could share.

It was supposed to be flattering, but all Harry felt was a sudden flood of rage.

This, this was the reason he didn't want to meet his family. It wasn't about irrational fears, it was about complete certainty that sooner or later, they would be taken from him. Whether it was because of the prophecy, circumstances, or Riddle's possessiveness, they were in danger just by interacting with him, just by entering his life.

Riddle seemed intent on taking everything and everyone from him, in every timeline, for any reason. Harry should have found a way to kill him instead of choosing to play this game based on a giant lie that was bound to catch up with him at some point.

There was a tinge of redness around the edges of his vision. His fury was rising, pressing against his insides, aggravating his magic and leaving a scorching trail of heat behind. Riddle's slap must have damaged one of his teeth, too, because his mouth kept filling with blood.

Barely realising what he was doing, Harry gripped his wand. Riddle glanced at it, and then his eyes narrowed in a calculated look. Without a word, he snapped a branch of the nearest bare tree and threw it at Harry's feet.

"Transfigure it into fire," he said. Each word was a command. "Now."

Harry wanted to lash out. His magic was clouding around him, filling every part of his mind to the point where even thinking was difficult. Rage had him in a chokehold: obeying Riddle's order seemed like the only way to get rid of it. Either that or he would direct everything he had at Riddle himself. At this moment, he couldn't remember why this was a bad idea, but he trusted his instincts. They helped him to still be alive.

"Mutare in ignem," he growled, his wand pointed at the branch.

An explosion thundered. The branch burst into a flame so bright and so powerful that it swallowed the neighbouring tree. A column of fire shot up to the skies, and Harry stared at it with his mouth open, stunned that something like this came out of his wand.

"Now this is what I call magic," Riddle murmured. He was staring at the fire assessingly, cataloguing every fiery inch. When he turned to Harry, his face was alight with approval.

"I suspected this might be the case after that lesson with Dumbledore and after you told me how you killed a man with Confringo. Now I'm certain. You are more powerful than you appear, probably more powerful than you yourself know. Only you have a serious limitation: your magic is directly tied to your emotions. If you feel calm, you can try all day long and you won't be able to conjure anything of substance. Breathe a little fire in you, though," Riddle smiled, mischievous and unsettling, "and you get impressive results. Well done."

Harry continued to stand, torn between looking at Riddle and at the fire. His anger faded — now he only felt amazed.

He'd never given his magic much thought. He loved it, but he understood early on that he'd never be able to grasp the level on which Dumbledore and Voldemort operated. While he got genuine enjoyment out of every spell he cast, he never really admired his magic… with the exception of Patronus. And Patronus was the definition of emotive magic, wasn't it?

The fire was majestic. It contrasted sharply with the blanket of pristine-white snow, and it continued to flow upwards in one even flow, spreading in flower-like orange tongues at its top.

Beautiful. It was beautiful. Harry couldn't get enough.

"You really didn't know," Riddle uttered thoughtfully. When Harry threw a quick glance at him, he saw how perplexed he looked. "Did the other me never comment on it? Surely he must have noticed."

Oh.

Harry lowered his head, struggling to think of some answer.

He couldn't find it. There was nothing realistic he could say.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly, avoiding looking in Riddle's direction. "He never said anything about it."

He waited for some response, not daring to breathe too loudly. It was moments like these that posed the biggest danger. Riddle was frighteningly intelligent. He was going to connect the dots one day, and Harry's inability to account for the giant holes in his story meant that it would happen sooner rather than later.

He could feel Riddle cut the distance between them, stopping close. He brushed his fingers against Harry's split lip in a fleeting caress, and it was so startling that Harry looked up, shivering when he saw an enigmatic smile.

"I suppose every relationship has its shortcomings," Riddle murmured. When Harry blinked at him wordlessly, he turned to the fire and began to make a range of complex movements with his wand.

Bewildered, Harry watched how the flame hissed and folded obediently. But it didn't disappear. It diminished to a tiny size and slithered into a small square-shaped glass Riddle had conjured, spilling inside comfortably.

"There," Riddle said, satisfied, as he handed the glass to Harry. "Keep it. It should remind you of the power you are capable of. You and I will have to work on cajoling it out of you more often — having to rely on emotions as fuel is interesting but severely limiting. I'll think of the ways to remove this block."

Harry stared at the offered gift, uncertain of what to say. Was this an attempt at an apology? And that phrase — what was it that Riddle had said before? Every relationship has its shortcomings? Did he try to negate the fact that he hit him by pointing out that the other version of him had never told Harry about the extent of his magic? That it made them even in some ways? One was throwing punches, the other one was hiding crucial information?

Harry wasn't as upset by being hit as Riddle seemed to think. Shocked by it, yes, because he'd sooner expect Riddle to curse him than to slap him. But what bothered him most was the reason it happened.

"I'm not going to follow your orders," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes in a warning of his own. "I will communicate with the Potters as I see fit. I don't care what you say about it."

Riddle gazed at him, his stare mostly inscrutable.

"I suppose we will have to see," he uttered. His hand remained outstretched, waiting, and with a huff, Harry accepted the glass.

They made their way to Hogwarts in silence, and despite everything that happened in such a short period, despite the fact that Riddle alternated between violence and helpfulness, which reminded Harry too strongly of the approach he used with his followers, he suddenly felt content. Excited, almost.

He might have stronger magic than he used to believe. Riddle might be interested in tutoring him the way he did his closest allies: if they were ever to oppose each other, this experience could become invaluable. And he might have the Potters.

There were problems, too. Riddle was too unpredictable and dangerous. Harry doubted he'd do anything against the Potters, not now, when his power was still so limited, but it was a potential cause for concern. Riddle was also taking his lies with increasing seriousness, and the day he learned that there was never an alternative world, that Voldemort and Harry had never been close...

Something clammy wrapped itself around his heart, and Harry clenched the fire-lit glass tighter, trying to dismiss the feeling.

It was Christmas. There was a bigger number of good things that happened today than bad ones. He could afford to spend these holidays without driving himself crazy. Just this once.

He would resume worrying later.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Despite the almost-fight they'd had, spending time with Riddle was turning out to be surprisingly comfortable. The entire Slytherin was empty, so they had multiple rooms for themselves. It allowed them to work out a semblance of a schedule.

They woke up at different times: Riddle was an early riser while Harry preferred to stay up late and sleep until nine. After breakfast, they both spent time at the library. Riddle was always reading a new book, while Harry either tried to finish the one he'd started or just watched Riddle instead. They had lunch together, and afterwards, they tried to outboast each other as to which of them knew Hogwarts better.

When their competition first started, Riddle immediately pointed at the Chamber of Secrets as the jewel of school only he had discovered. Harry was greatly satisfied to wave his claim away.

"I found it, too," he bragged, grinning when Riddle scowled in disbelief. "And no, you didn't show it to me. You did leave some… hints… but you didn't tell me where it was. So it's a place both of us knew about."

When his turn came, Harry dragged him to the West Tower, recreating the route he remembered from spending hours scrutinising the Marauders' Map. Riddle was supposed to stop him the moment he recognised the location, and he did when they accessed the ground floor, an arrogant smirk twisting his lips.

"I cannot say I look forwards to emerging in the middle of Hogsmeade fountain," he drawled, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Were you planning to let me pass first? Hoping to see me step on the ice and fall through into the water, perhaps?"

"It's not like you would drown," Harry grumbled. Here went his plan. "There is barely any water there."

"I wouldn't. But I would drag you in with me just for the sake of it."

Yeah, Harry had no doubts that this was exactly what would happen. Maybe it was better that Riddle knew about this passage already.

The next day, Riddle took him to the Room of Requirement. The look of arrogant satisfaction on his face was so pronounced that Harry pretended he had no idea where they were going until they stopped next to the empty wall.

"I'm certain I've never seen this place," he murmured thoughtfully as he walked past the area where the door was supposed to be. Once. Then twice. Riddle was beginning to look suspicious. "What could possibly be hidden here?"

He passed the door one final time, and Riddle scowled.

"All right, you obviously know about it," he snapped. "This little competition makes no sense, it's clear that I showed you all the hidden spots in your universe."

"Not at all," Harry said honestly. As if Voldemort would ever help him to make his way around Hogwarts. "You liked to hoard your secrets. I did my own searching, and I didn't tell you about the things I discovered, too."

This seemed to mollify Riddle.

Their game continued, but neither of them was able to score the first point. Riddle knew about the passage near the Hieroglyphic Hall; Harry knew about the one behind the Gregory the Smarmy statue. Riddle was aware of the secret road to Honeydukes while Harry instantly recognised the Whomping Willow passage. He had a suspicion that if he hadn't, Riddle would have gladly watched him getting beaten by that monstrous tree half to death.

To be petty, Harry dragged him to the corridor on the third floor, grinning the more he watched Riddle's distress unfold. It was clear that he had no idea where they were going, and it wasn't surprising. The secrets of that corridor appeared only decades in the future — but Harry wasn't about to tell him that.

Riddle wore a hilariously dark expression when he stared at the door Harry had led him to.

"And what am I supposed to be looking at?"

"Don't you know?"

An eviscerating glare was sent in his direction. Harry snickered.

"There was a three-headed dog hidden here for a while," he explained, waving his wand to open the door. "It was guarding an entrance to some underground chambers. I bet you never knew about it."

"That's because you are making it up," Riddle said snippily. He walked into the room, examining every crook in it. "A three-headed dog, really? No one would have sanctioned placing some mindless beast into Hogwarts."

"Salazar Slytherin placed a Basilisk in here, didn't he?"

Riddle whipped around to glower at him.

"Do not compare an ancient and noble creature with some mutt," he grated. "How do you know about the dog? Why did I never discover it?"

"How should I know? You were a part of a half of my adventures. I spent the other half without you."

"It's a wonder that nothing bit your head off, then," Riddle crouched in the middle of the room, his eyes narrowing in consideration. A movement with his wand, and he uncovered a masked trap door. "How did you get away from the dog?"

"By running, mostly." Harry sat down, too, peering into the dark abyss below. Sweet, painful memories stirred, and he drew in a deep breath to calm himself down. "I think everything probably looks different down there now. Would you like to—"

"Yes," Riddle interrupted him. There was an annoyed, possessive look on his face, like the fact that he might not know Hogwarts as well as he believed offended him.

There was no Devil's Snare downstairs. The chambers were still in place, but they were mainly empty, with some random things scattered over the floors. Harry got stuck in the room where the Winged Keys used to be: there was a fascinating little closet there that showed a different number of brooms every time he opened its door. Riddle wandered further, in the direction of the Chessboard Chamber, and he came back holding a thick book that looked so ancient, it was almost falling apart.

"Are you still playing with those brooms?" he asked, exasperated. "What is so special about them? They must be old and useless. Surely your current one is faster."

"Yes, but I don't recognise these models," Harry reverently touched the gloomy wooden surface, trying to see the faded letters on it. "These could be the first brooms ever."

He could hear Riddle snort and murmur "Ridiculous" under his breath. He didn't rush Harry after this, though, patiently waiting for him to sate his curiosity.

They left the dungeons pleased and with their hands full — Riddle was still hovering over his ancient book while Harry dragged one of the oldest-looking brooms into their common room.

They shared supper, and afterwards, their schedules diverged. Some days Harry went back to wandering around Hogwarts, cataloguing the places that'd been relevant to him, Ron, and Hermione, breathing in the memories until his lungs hurt. Sometimes Riddle went out, and sometimes they both stayed in the common room, stretching in front of the fireplace and doing their things. They read; they talked; Harry took shallow naps and Riddle showed off his magic, making the snakes decorating the room come alive and surround them.

The first time Harry used his own Parseltongue to command them, Riddle stared at him for an entire minute. Harry knew that he was taking a risk: Riddle despised having to share his unique ability, perceiving it as a threat to his kingdom, but he felt mellow and curious enough to do it anyway.

Finally, after an eternity of silence, Riddle leaned back in his chair, still watching him. His eyes lost their hard edge, growing softer, more intrigued than offended.

"You sound different," he noted slowly. Harry raised his eyebrows, so he clarified, "When you speak Parseltongue. Everything you say is correct, but the way you say it… it doesn't sound completely natural. I wonder how I managed to transfer this ability to you."

"The Horcrux…"

"Yes, but a Horcrux is a part of a soul. I doubt that Parseltongue is engraved on mine. I'd be more willing to believe that you are also the heir of Slytherin, albeit a very distant one, but it's clear that you are not a natural speaker. This is interesting. I'll try to research it. Maybe I'll be able to find some answers."

"I can help," Harry offered before he could think twice about it. Riddle measured him with another long look.

"Fine," he agreed at last. "We'll start tomorrow."

They kept going through the books for two days. When December 31rst arrived, the owls unleashed another flood of gifts on Riddle — his followers and his other fans wishing him a happy birthday, no doubt. For the first time, Harry felt a little awkward.

He wasn't supposed to give Riddle anything. They got closer than he had dared to hope for, but nothing really changed. Riddle was still a murderer who tried to kill him, a person who cultivated a toxic atmosphere wherever he went and who was quick to issue threats. He was violent and unpredictable — Harry still had an aching tooth and a split lip as evidence. And yet…

And yet he still felt compelled to make a gift of some sort. This desire was like a persistent itch under his skin: it spread and pulled at him, demanding his attention.

Even if he were to succumb, there was nothing he could offer Riddle. He had some money from the Potters, but what could he buy? What would Riddle like?

By supper, Harry still hadn't come up with anything, so with some reluctance, he dropped the idea.

The Great Hall was decorated particularly brightly. The artificial snow blanketed the floors: it kept falling from the ceiling in individual snowflakes and sometimes in piles, dropping on top of random people and making them shriek with cold and joy. All seven students who remained at Hogwarts were seated together with professors. The table was full of the most extravagant dishes, so Harry and Riddle focused on trying as much as they could stomach before finally relaxing.

Well, Harry relaxed. Riddle still looked tense and unhappy. It could be related to the fact that Harry got a place near Dumbledore, which meant that Riddle was forced to sit nearby, too.

Maybe he could distract him.

"Let's spend the evening not in the common room," Harry blurted out. It was the first thing that came to his mind, and when he saw Riddle's bemused face, he nearly groaned.

It didn't sound the way he intended. Way too suggestive, way too presumptuous. It wasn't like they spent every evening together, just most of them. He should have phrased his half-baked idea better – considering Riddle's current fool mood, he could react snappily.

To Harry's relief, Riddle didn't seem annoyed. He tilted his head, considering his offer.

"What are you proposing?" he asked, light curiosity colouring his voice. "Because I have an idea, but I also have a feeling that you might not like it."

When Harry frowned, trying to work out what it meant, Riddle shared a brief image of the Chamber of Secrets with him, putting the Basilisk slithering all over it at the centre. Even the mere image was enough to make Harry flinch.

"No," he replied strongly. When Riddle smirked at him condescendingly, he narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me if I don't have the best memories of that place. I'm sure you can understand why."

"Perhaps." Riddle took a sip of hot chocolate. For some reason, Harry found the sight riveting. It was strange thinking that Voldemort had loved sweet things. Or had he? What if he lost all interest in basic human pleasures along with the last shards of his humanity?

It did not matter. Voldemort would never come to exist. Not again.

"How about something that actually feels comfortable?" Harry asked. When Riddle glanced at him in interest, he imagined a Room of Requirement shifting and twisting to assume the shape they both wanted. Carefully, he pushed this image through the link he could almost feel between them, and Riddle's lips twitched.

"Fine," he allowed haughtily, taking another dignified sip from his cup. "I wonder what sort of monstrosity you'll imagine as a suitable place for celebration."

This was uncalled for. Maybe Harry didn't have sophisticated tastes, but at least he wasn't pretending to be a crow like Riddle, obsessed with everything that looked expensive and shiny.

"At least you wonder," he pointed out. "I don't. I can bet your side will be decorated with your life size portraits."

"Now you are just giving me ideas."

Harry snorted with laughter. The effect of the hunger Riddle had shared with him had almost dissipated by now, but he was in such a good mood that he willingly dragged an additional piece of meat pie onto his plate.

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said suddenly. Startled, Harry turned to him, trying to swallow the chunk he'd already bitten into. "There is a matter that I would like to discuss with you. Could you come into my office once you finish your meal? I promise it won't take long. I wouldn't want to distract you from your… celebration."

There was only a slight pause before the last word, but Harry sensed it. The food seemed to get stuck in his mouth — he was closer to choking on it than to swallowing it.

What was Dumbledore implying? What did he want to talk about?

Normally, he wouldn't worry. But he could feel Riddle freezing next to him. Whatever amusement and celebratory spirit he'd developed were gone now, the shutters firmly in place. And the circumstances in which Dumbledore made his request… did it have something to do with Riddle? Maybe he overheard their conversation, vague as it was, and now he wanted to ask questions?

Whatever the reason was, Harry didn't like it. There was nothing he could say to this younger version of Dumbledore. He couldn't confess to time travel, he couldn't share everything he had already done, what he was potentially planning to do. There was a good chance that Dumbledore wouldn't approve, and Harry couldn't afford it.

Dumbledore had had an opportunity to change the course of history. He'd had decades to stop Riddle from becoming Voldemort, and then he had more decades to put an end to him, to at least train Harry if he believed the prophecy and thought that the fate of the world hinged on his shoulders.

I'm afraid the burden the destiny has attached to you is heavier than you could have ever carried, he'd said.

Back then, Harry felt too devastated to give it much thought, but now bitterness roiled in his gut.

It would have been nice to at least be given a chance. Not to grow up with the Dursleys but with someone who could train him, help him to become, if not great, then at least someone prepared.

Or maybe it wouldn't have helped. Dumbledore had all kinds of training, he was more powerful than Harry could imagine ever being, and he failed. He lost to Voldemort.

It was Harry's turn to do things his way.

"Of course, professor," he murmured. He finally managed to swallow the bit of pie, but now it felt like it floated somewhere in his chest, filling it with unpleasant weight. "I'll be there."

"Good," Dumbledore gave him a subdued smile before turning to murmur something to Slughorn, who burst out in a joyous drunk laughter.

Harry didn't utter the word until the end of the supper. Riddle had turned into a frozen statue: he did not touch his food and he refused to look in his direction.

It was upsetting. Harry didn't understand why Riddle reacted so strongly: so what if Dumbledore wanted a word? If Harry had chosen to stay silent about the attempt on his life, he would obviously not disclose anything else, whatever it might be. Really, even someone as incapable of trust as Riddle should have realised it by now.

When the feast was finally over, they both stood up. Riddle turned to leave wordlessly, and before Harry could change his own mind, he grabbed his hand and squeezed it briefly.

"I'll meet you there," he said, an image of the Room of Requirement flickering in his mind. "Okay?"

Riddle didn't bother to reply. His eyes were glued to their hands. They were distant, reflecting a detached curiosity, but at least they showed some emotion. It was something, so Harry was reluctant to let go.

He did when he saw Dumbledore watching them, the incredulity on his face quickly changing back to neutrality when he noticed Harry's gaze.

"Right this way, Mr. Potter," he called.

Dumbledore made some small talk about the feast and holidays as they climbed the stairs to his office. Harry responded, but his heart wasn't in it. He felt increasingly tense, and when they were finally inside, he blurted out, "What did you want to talk to me about?"

The serenity on Dumbledore's face cracked. He took a seat, gesturing for Harry to do the same.

"I was contacted by Henry and Leonore Potter," he murmured. Harry's heart jumped in his chest. "They told me that they met you a week ago at Hogsmeade. They had the highest opinion of you."

Something warm and joyous spilled in him. Harry couldn't help but smile a little.

"I liked them, too," he said quietly.

"I'm not surprised that you did. They are good people. And I can see why they liked you as well. I've been watching you, Mr. Potter, ever since you joined our school. I had some reservations, I admit. I felt curious about you, with your obvious resemblance to the Potters and your placement in Slytherin, and my curiosity paid off."

Harry didn't know how to respond. It sounded like a compliment, but he was still too hesitant to say it for sure. So he stayed silent, waiting for elaborations.

"I concluded that you are kind," Dumbledore said softly. The spark in his eyes was so painfully familiar that a lump formed in Harry's throat, suddenly robbing him of his ability to breathe properly. "You pay attention to those who aren't used to anything but taunts. Your compassion pushes you to offer help to those who need it but are too afraid to ask for it, and you do not retaliate even when it is deserved. There is only one exception that baffles me. I suspect you might have guessed what it is."

This time, his heart fell to the very bottom. Harry licked his lips, painfully aware of the guilt that tried to make its way to his face, that twisted it into a grimace.

Being friends with Riddle was important for his plan… but he knew how it must look like to someone like Dumbledore, who knew what Riddle had done and who at least suspected what was happening in Slytherin.

"At first, I believed that you fell victim to his charm as much as nearly every other student," Dumbledore continued, his voice still soft but his eyes sharp, watching Harry's every reaction. For a moment, they lingered on his split lip before going up again. "But I realised I was wrong after Mr. Riddle had attempted to murder you. Granted, it wouldn't have been the first time he killed a student, but the way he did it? It was unusual. Unexpected. As unexpected as him changing his mind and then seemingly falling under your charm in return."

Belatedly, Harry figured out that he should have feigned shock. He wasn't supposed to know about Myrtle. Riddle's closest allies wouldn't have the same problem, but he was new, and no matter how close Dumbledore thought he and Riddle had gotten, this piece of information was not something anyone would willingly share.

His lack of reaction seemed to give Dumbledore the confirmation he needed. His expression cooled, just like this voice.

"But you know all that already," he stated. "After seeing the way you treat Mr. Riddle and the way he allows you to treat him, I cannot say I'm surprised. But I am intrigued. See, in all the years that I know him, I have never once seen Tom form a single genuine connection with someone. He pretends well, and if I wasn't already wary of him when he came to Hogwarts, I might have remained as clueless as everyone else. But I was tasked with delivering his letter to him, and out of surprise, he let the mask slip. I couldn't unsee it even if I wanted to after that."

This was almost the same thing his Dumbledore had told him. Harry had stayed mostly silent then, but he found that he couldn't do it now, not again. His insides quivered with protest, with resentment that had stirred to life as he was listening to Dumbledore at the Ministry and which came roaring now that he heard the same story again.

"He was just a child," Harry said harshly. When Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up in astonishment, he tried to ignore the immediate pang of guilt. "Tom might have had problems, but with the way he lived, how can it surprise you? You should have… you had to tell him who he is. He came to school not knowing anything — Slytherin was unkind to him just like they are to every Muggleborn student. He thought that maybe he had found a home, but he had to fight for survival here again. It wasn't fair."

Dumbledore didn't seem bothered by his words. He didn't even try to protest.

"I could have told him, yes," he agreed, patting his coloured beard. "I could have told him that he is the heir of a once-noble family with magic far more powerful than I was used to seeing in children his age. But I didn't, and if I had a chance to go back, I would have done the same thing."

When Harry blinked, shocked into silence by such callousness, Dumbledore's expression softened.

"I knew that eventually, Tom would discover the truth," he explained. "By that time, I was hoping that he'd develop at least some sense of compassion towards actual Muggleborn students. After being treated like one, he would personally understand the hardships these children face. He was a bully at his orphanage, and I believed that facing role reversal would make him reflect upon his behaviour. With his power, he could have made a priceless difference…" Dumbledore's voice trailed off. Regret flickered across his features. "Alas, he chose another path. He's acting smarter now, he knows how to hide, but at the heart, he remains the same child I saw when we first met."

The ugly feeling that kept hissing inside him intensified. It swelled, fixing Harry in his place with its pressure.

"Then why did you say that you would have done the same thing again?" he asked hoarsely. "If your plan didn't work?"

"Because I'm afraid that without it, Tom's behaviour might have become even more extreme," Dumbledore responded. The look of regret grew into solemnness. "I could have never risked it. This remains the only viable course of action I could have taken."

Harry didn't speak again. A dull sense of sickness was pooling in his stomach, his breathing quickening as a surge of resentment continued to build.

For some reason, this explanation reminded him of the words his Dumbledore had spoken at the Ministry, of the apology he tried to voice.

You arrived at Hogwarts safe and whole, as I had planned and intended. Well, not quite whole. You had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years.

Back then, Harry had shaken off the apology, insisting that it didn't matter, clinging to Dumbledore as he was his only hope, drowning in an endless guilt at having brought so many people he loved to their death.

Now, he couldn't help drawing parallels between those words and what Dumbledore had just said about Riddle. And his bitterness soured even further.

Was there a reason why he'd been sent to the Dursleys apart from blood magic? Come to think of it, it didn't make much sense. Even if he was safe at the house, he spent at least half of his time outside — at school, wandering the streets, tending to the garden. He'd have been much safer at Hogwarts, surrounded by people loyal to Dumbledore and Dumbledore himself. Surrounded by magic.

Maybe Dumbledore had seen something ugly in him, too, like he had in Riddle. It couldn't be because of the Horcrux, he himself said he began to suspect that Harry could be one years later. So it had to be something else, something inherent to him, something—

His defensive walls slammed down instinctively. Harry looked up, still quiet but less rattled.

He had to finish this discussion. He could think about everything he heard later.

"There is a thing I have noticed," Dumbledore was the first to break the lengthy silence. He sounded calm and methodical, like he was solving a puzzle rather than manipulating people's lives and toying with their sanity. "You refer to him as Tom in our conversation. You did the same thing when defending him here the last time. And yet I have only heard you call him by his last name in your personal interactions. Why is that?"

The surprise from this observation was strong enough for Harry to temporarily forget about the rest. Was this the thing he was doing?

"I didn't notice," he admitted. Dumbledore nodded like this was precisely the response he'd been expecting.

"Henry and Leonore keep wondering where you came from," he said suddenly. "They have ideas but they are too hesitant to look into them. I believe they don't want to know the truth because it could lead to heartbreak. I, on the other hand, am not held back by these limitations."

Harry's heartbeat rapidly picked up the pace. He stared, dread catching him in its paralysing grip.

Could Dumbledore know? Was this why he'd summoned him here?

No. It was impossible. Maybe he suspected but he couldn't find out, he just couldn't.

"I won't bore you with details, I'm sure you are anxious to go back to whatever celebration you and Tom have planned." Dumbledore sent him a fleeting, somewhat confused smile. "Let's limit it to, I know as a fact that you never existed in this world or this timeline until this year. You are not related to any of the Potters here directly, not in the way they believe. Now, I do not know how you arrived or what your plans are, but based on everything I've seen, I can make a guess."

He fell silent, then, giving Harry time to digest everything and react. The problem was, Harry had no idea how to do that.

His head was spinning wildly. His heart continued to gallop, forcing his lungs to contract more often than it was comfortable. He was confused — why was Dumbledore not demanding answers? He was wary — what was he supposed to do now? And another part of him trembled with longing, urging him to confess, to blurt out everything and ask for advice.

Only… maybe Dumbledore wasn't the best person to ask for advice. Not when it came to Riddle.

He would only make things worse.

Grim resolution settled inside. Harry clenched his jaw, neither confirming Dumbledore's claim nor denying it.

After a few more seconds, Dumbledore sighed.

"I mean no harm," he said quietly. "I can see that your focus lies on Tom. I cannot imagine what you told him, and as your professor, I feel compelled to warn you to be careful because he already tried to harm you once. But I cannot deny that you've been having a positive impact on him lately. As long as this is what you are after, I'm not going to interfere. If anything, I want you to know that you can always ask for my help."

This sounded… too good to be true. If it wasn't for Dumbledore's earlier words about Riddle and the direction his thoughts had taken afterwards, Harry would have gladly jumped on the offer. If he could only trust someone with every secret, if he could have Dumbledore back…

But it wasn't achievable. Dumbledore could never be a quiet adviser, he was a leader — a leader who failed. This time, Harry would make his own decisions.

"I appreciate it," he said carefully. His heart thudded hollowly. "If I ever need help—"

A sudden idea occurred to him. It instantly took root in his mind, and Harry straightened, excitement and hope flooding him in equal measure.

"Actually, there is something you could do," he uttered. Dumbledore leaned closer with interest. "Tom— Riddle hates the idea of spending his summer at the orphanage. There is war happening, and London takes a lot of damage. There are bombs and deaths everywhere. He's constantly scared for his safety, and he's afraid that he can't use magic or he might be expelled, and this makes his feelings towards Muggles even worse than they already—"

The more he spoke, the more shadows fell on Dumbledore's face. By the end, he looked so regretful and resolute that Harry stopped talking without finishing his sentence. His enthusiasm died, and he clenched his fists, sensing rejection before it came.

So much for offering to help him.

"I'm sorry for having to turn your first ever request to me down," Dumbledore said. He sounded sincere, but Harry didn't care. His resentment returned with full force. "I might have considered it before last year. But Tom crossed the line. He took one life and he ruined the life of another student. Maybe if he's forced to worry about his own survival, he might realise what it feels like, and next time…"

"Next time, he'll just do something worse!" Harry raised his voice. Fury kicked into his brain, electrified him, and now that he started talking, he found that he couldn't stop. "Don't you see that your approach doesn't work? Tom didn't stop bullying others just because he himself was bullied, and he isn't going to suddenly start valuing people's life just because he spends every summer terrified about his own! You only feed his anger and his spitefulness. You'll push him to become someone worse than he could be."

Dumbledore hesitated before giving a slight shake of his head.

"I'm sorry," he repeated quietly, "but Tom will stay where he's supposed to. If he seeks destruction, he should witness first-hand what chaos and suffering it brings. If he's charmed by death, let him experience its breath. Nothing else is powerful enough to make him pause and think of what he wishes to unleash on the world."

His Dumbledore believed that love was the most powerful weapon. Maybe this one would change his mind in years… or maybe his Dumbledore was a liar. It wasn't like he'd never lied before, after all.

Anger choked him. Harry's fingers were trembling, his vision blurring when he pushed himself off the chair and stood up, too sickened and disgusted to spend another minute here. His heart throbbed with something that felt like heartbreak.

Dumbledore was supposed to be… kind. Empathetic. Compassionate. Yes, there were moments at the Ministry where Harry couldn't help but flinch, startled by the casual displays of cruelty, like when he watched the memory of Dumbledore burning down Riddle's wardrobe, but he wasn't always like this. He was a good man. And maybe Riddle deserved every ounce of wariness Dumbledore demonstrated towards him, but…

But it was wrong. Dumbledore was wrong. It was easy for him to sit in the safety of his office and plan to teach a damaged boy a lesson that was bound to damage him even more. Murderer or not, Riddle didn't deserve to be sent back into hell when there were so many opportunities to help him. That Dumbledore didn't want to do it, didn't want to show kindness when he so easily could…

Harry clenched his jaw so hard that his teeth hurt. Resentment continued to rage, but suddenly, resolution halted it.

Maybe he couldn't give Riddle a safe summer, but he wasn't completely powerless. He could do something, too. He could make sure that Riddle wasn't alone.

He knew for a fact that Dumbledore's approach wouldn't work. Riddle's future entailed becoming Voldemort and slaying Muggles and wizards who opposed him like flies. No one helped him when they could, and by the time people would do anything for this chance, he no longer needed it. Maybe Harry could break the pattern.

"Then I hope you'll be able to honour my second request," he said coldly. He didn't look at Dumbledore again, but he knew he was being listened to. "Arrange for me to spend my summer at Wool's. I'll go with Riddle."

For a while, he got no response. Then Dumbledore asked, "Are you sure?"

There was something loaded in his voice, but low-burning anger didn't allow Harry to turn back.

"Yes," he uttered tensely. Dumbledore sighed.

"Very well. I'll make it happen."

Contempt killed any words of thanks Harry might have said otherwise. He nodded and walked out of the office, fighting not to slam the door shut with all the force he felt simmering in his muscles.

The more distance he put between them, the more upset he felt. His thoughts swirled chaotically, his heart continuing its uneven beating.

He was disappointed. Disappointed in Dumbledore. This wasn't a feeling he wanted to examine too closely. For a very long time, Dumbledore had been his constant — even in this world, he entertained the fantasy of forming a connection with him. Not now, but maybe years later, after his plans with Riddle hopefully led him to a better place.

He didn't want to let go of these plans. But he also couldn't accept the idea of a Dumbledore who knowingly sent a student into danger for some higher purpose.

Unless…

Harry stopped next to the Room of Requirement, staring at the blank wall.

Unless it was him and Riddle. Dumbledore was genuinely protective of everyone else, from students to the Order of the Phoenix members, but he gave up on Riddle the day he met him, and he condemned Harry for reasons he couldn't fully grasp even despite having multiple conversations with his Dumbledore.

He couldn't think about it now. It was New Year, and Riddle's birthday, and he'd had the best mood in ages just thirty minutes ago.

He just wanted a comfortable place to retreat to, something cosy and warm, safe and familiar.

The door flickered to existence. Harry walked inside and stopped, befuddled for a second, his gaze jumping back and forth.

Riddle was already inside. The room looked as cosy and lovely as he'd been hoping. It resembled a common room a little, but it was more personal, more homely. There was only one couch placed right in the middle: it faced a vast, triangular-shaped fireplace where bright flames were already swirling. Huge letters that shaped the words "Happy Birthday" stretched above. A huge brightly-decorated Christmas tree was standing behind the couch, enveloping it in a greenish shadow. Tiny toy Quidditch brooms were making excited loops around it, and a pile of gifts was covering half the floor. There was a window with snowy mountains as the background, and lines of Christmas stockings covering every wall.

It was the colour combination that stopped him in his tracks. Half of the room shimmered with Slytherin colours: green and silver entwined harmonically, giving the room soothing hues. Another half, on the other hand… it was proudly glistening with gold and red. There was even an image of a huge golden lion painted across one of the walls, and Harry cringed, embarrassed but unable to do anything about it.

He risked glancing at Riddle, wincing again when he saw the confused and incredulous look on his face.

It was clear that they both wanted the room to become something comfortable and suited for a quiet holiday, but their vision differed a little. They liked different colours: Riddle embraced his Slytherin legacy while Harry longed for the familiarity of Gryffindor brightness. Christmas stockings looked weird to him, just as all the wrapped packages under the tree and the letters above the fireplace. And why did it have a triangular shape? This had to have come from Riddle's imagination. Everything else was his, though.

If it wasn't for the fact that he was supposed to be a Slytherin, he wouldn't feel stupefied. But Gryffindor colours — Riddle would never let him live this down. Worse, it could jeopardise everything.

"I'm sure there is a riveting explanation for this," Riddle said slowly. He was staring at the lion with a sort of fascinated horror. "What is this? Did Dumbledore manage to leave such a profound impression during your meeting?"

For a moment, Harry hesitated. Several lies sprang to his mind, but the need to say the truth countered them. It was surprisingly overwhelming — it blocked any attempts at silencing it, so after more deliberation, he decided to stick to his tried and tested method of mixing truths with lies.

"When I was being sorted, the Hat offered me a choice between Slytherin and Gryffindor," he murmured. Riddle looked so comically shocked that Harry nearly laughed despite the situation. "I thought Gryffindor would suit me more, but I needed Slytherin because I wanted to g— be close to you."

His mind rebelled even before he finished speaking. Now that the words were out, Harry froze, appalled and mortified.

'Get.' He'd been about to say that he was sorted to Slytherin because he wanted to get close to Riddle. Fortunately, he realised how incriminating it would sound, so he switched to the alternative at the last moment.

Unfortunately, this alternative was incredibly sentimental, needy, pathetic, and so humiliating that he expected the Room of Requirement to organise a hole through which he could fall. His face, his ears, his entire body was burning, mortification capturing every part of him and infusing them with desperate panic.

Riddle's face changed. Disgust shifted away, replaced with appraisal and wonder. Whatever he was thinking, he didn't look repulsed, and Harry let out a breath of relief. The flush of self-consciousness faded, finally stimulating him to move.

"Gryffindor," Riddle mused as Harry approached the tree, studying the mixed decorations on it. "I suppose it does suit you. You are certainly headstrong and straightforward. Ruled by emotions, as your magic proves. But Slytherin is a worthy choice. It will let you achieve more, and hopefully, by the end of the next school year, you will develop subtler behavioural nuances than the ones you currently possess."

"Please, subtlety is not a Slytherin thing," Harry sat down on the couch, marvelling at how comfortable it felt. "Slytherins are as transparent as Gryffindors, only Gryffindors don't try to hide it. Which makes Slytherins look like fools."

Riddle clicked his tongue in disapproval. His eyes were twinkling with amusement, though, so it probably wasn't serious.

"I see how it is. There is a Gryffindor traitor in our midst, after all."

"Maybe. What are you going to do about it?"

Riddle just smirked.

A moment of quiet stretched. Harry returned to gazing at the room, finding more and more details and trying to decide if they were Riddle's or his. He was so absorbed in this task that he barely understood he was being talked to again.

"Thank you, by the way."

Riddle thanking him for anything was so shocking that Harry thought he might have misheard him in his distracted state.

"What?" he muttered. His mind flashed to his conversation with Dumbledore, but he shook the idea off. Riddle couldn't have heard what they discussed. "For what?"

"For wishing me a happy birthday."

Harry narrowed his eyes. There had to be a catch here somewhere.

"I didn't wish you a happy birthday," he said slowly. Maybe it was wrong of him, especially since the words kept burning the tip of his tongue, but it was enough to press against his stinging tooth to make it bleed to remind himself why he shouldn't want to do anything nice for Riddle.

"Your subconscious did," Riddle told him. A self-satisfied smile was tugging the corners of his lips upwards. At Harry's uncomprehending look, he nodded at the bright letters forming 'Happy Birthday' above the fireplace.

What?

"What?" Harry spluttered. Riddle laughed, and no matter how pleasant this sound was, it made him bristle even more. "I didn't conjure this thing! That's all you!"

Riddle's condescending look was only aggravating his agitation. Harry pointed under the Christmas tree.

"What about all the gifts and all these socks?" he demanded. "They definitely didn't come from me. You are unbelievable, by the way — did you not get enough things from your admiring crowd that you decided to give yourself some more?"

Riddle shrugged, unrepentant and calm.

"I am not in control of what this room digs up from my mind," he noted. "But I assure you that I am not responsible for the lettering. It never even occurred to me that such a thing exists. I'm used to postcards and letters, not this huge — I'm not certain what to call it."

Still wary, Harry looked at the cheerful letters. In a way, they were familiar: he remembered the Dursleys putting them up for Dudley's birthdays. They bought a new decoration every time, choosing letters of different shapes, sizes, and colours. Harry watched it all, and eventually, he began to play a little game. He bet on how the inscription was going to look like the next year. It was a bet against himself, but it was still fun, or as fun as it could be.

Was it possible that his own mind got the Room of Requirement to conjure these letters without him realising it? Riddle wouldn't lie about it, there was no point. And who knew, maybe these birthday decorations didn't even exist in this time.

It was… awkward. Harry could feel the blush returning, filling him with uncomfortable heat yet again.

It was a bad idea to have come here. The Room of Requirement turned from his ally into a traitor: Gryffindor colours, the Happy Birthday decoration — the only thing that could make it worse would be a radio announcing that he was a liar who came from the future to stop Voldemort from killing as many people.

"Whatever," he grumbled. He turned away from the fireplace, determined to ignore the letters from now on. Riddle's chuckle reverberated through him again, but with an effort, he managed to ignore it, too.

Silence lingered. Harry was about to relax when Riddle asked him, "So what did Dumbledore want?"

The warmth that'd been slowly wrapping him in a cocoon vanished. He tensed, the half-forgotten anger gathering under his skin anew.

He didn't want to talk about it, but he knew that Riddle wouldn't back down until he learned everything. Sure, he might lie, it wouldn't be the first time, but what was the point? If Dumbledore fulfilled his request, Riddle would find out anyway.

"What do you think?" Harry snapped. Guilt twinged, reminding him that at least this time, Riddle wasn't at fault, so he took a breath and tried to speak calmly. "He wanted to talk about you and my relation to you. He noticed that we are… closer than he's used to seeing. He didn't really ask me anything specific, he mostly just talked about his observations. He said he knows I didn't exist in this world, so he probably suspects you and I knew each other from the— from where I came."

Riddle's expression got darker. He pursed his lips, considering this.

"What did you tell him?" he asked at last.

"Nothing much. I didn't confirm or deny any of his hypotheses. He didn't really seem suspicious of me — he actually said that if I need help with anything, I could ask him. I think…" Harry hesitated. The thought was half-formed, he couldn't be certain it was true, but the more he pondered on it, the more he believed he was right. "I think he wants me to trust him. He knows I won't tell him anything willingly, and he's probably wary of using Legilimency because he's not sure where I'm from and how seeing it could change things. As long as he doesn't see me as a threat, he'll probably let me be, hoping that one day, I trust him enough to tell him everything."

Riddle continued to look at him. Harry had a hard time reading his face.

This silence was making him nervous — the more Riddle stared, the more on edge he began to feel. There wasn't anything suspicious in his words, was it? What was Riddle thinking about so intently?

A sudden flash of irrational fear loosened his tongue, and Harry found himself speaking again, "I asked him to let you stay at Hogwarts during summer."

This got him the effect he'd hoped for. Riddle's attention snapped to him with a new, more understandable kind of intensity. His body coiled in anticipation, but even as he stilled himself for a rejection, there was an undeniable fierce hope blossoming in his eyes. His breath audibly caught in his throat, and Harry immediately felt terrible.

Stupid. He shouldn't have said this. He should have limited himself to telling Riddle that they were going to spend this summer together. Giving him false hope, even for several seconds, was the kind of cruelty Harry had experienced too many times to want to inflict it on someone else.

"He said no," he added hastily. His heart ached in sympathy when Riddle recoiled a little. His face went ashen, and then the hope on it changed into a wild, uninhibited rage that Voldemort was known for. It was so terrifyingly familiar that Harry flinched, unable to help himself.

"I asked him to let me come with you," he blurted out. He knew it wouldn't make a big difference — Riddle was scared of dying, he wouldn't care if he had company when the threat to his life remained in place, but Harry wanted, needed to do something to lessen the blow, even a tiny bit. "To the Wool's. I understand that it hardly changes anything, but I thought... at least you won't be alone."

Riddle froze. Slowly, his face regained colour, but it kept twisting in so many different emotions that Harry couldn't keep up. Finally, Riddle let out a bark of harsh laughter.

"You can't want that," he spat. Red spots bloomed on his skin in a random order, and his hands shook visibly when he ran them through his hair. It was quickly becoming slick with sweat. "If you spent even a day there, you cannot want to go back. You can't. You won't."

He was losing control. His magic overwhelmed the room, and their surroundings swirled frantically in a fruitless attempt to adjust to his new needs.

Harry had never seen him like this. He'd never seen Voldemort like this either. Riddle seemed seized by panic: his breathing was growing laboured, his eyes losing their focus, hazy with whatever memories he was thinking of. His control was gone entirely, his emotions bursting free, and if nothing stopped him…

Harry rushed forwards, following an instinct, not his mind. Riddle's wild magic resisted him: it didn't want to let him pass, but he managed to break through anyway, and when he did, he grabbed Riddle's hand and clenched it in his. Again.

"It doesn't matter," he said strongly. "Hey. Can you look at me?"

At first, he thought his words wouldn't have any effect, but after what felt like minutes, Riddle's gaze finally stopped at him.

"It doesn't matter," Harry repeated. "I will go with you and we'll make it through this summer. Together. And then we will return to Hogwarts and graduate, and you'll never have to set foot in London again."

He could feel the air around them shift. Riddle's gaze cleared, his breathing slowed down. He continued to look wary, but his features softened imperceptibly. The corners of his mouth rose.

"My Gryffindor," he said quietly. Then he squeezed Harry's hand right back.

It felt like a promise binding them together. The promise of what, Harry didn't know.