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.

2. An Oversight

A/N: Stregian, thank you so much! I hope you enjoy the second chapter as well))

Chapter Two: An Oversight

The Great Hall was still lit with excitement and celebratory spirit. Some students were moving between the tables, chattering and laughing, so no one paid attention to their arrival.

Riddle walked confidently to the centre of the Slytherin table, secure in the knowledge that his seat would be waiting for him unoccupied. Harry threw a longing stare at his own place at the end. He didn't care if it was considered degrading, he'd rather sit there than be thrust right in the middle of the performance that was about to unfold. Riddle's followers would be outraged at the sudden change of seating patterns, and while it could be hilarious to watch any other day, right now, he felt bone-tired.

It was like after his victory, his enthusiasm and determination burst like a balloon. The euphoria that had been burning in his blood just ten minutes ago was now slowly but surely turning into ice, and after the electrifying intensity that withstanding Riddle's attention presupposed, the last thing he wanted was to keep up with other power-hungry Slytherins.

On their trip back to the Great Hall, Riddle didn't say a word. He didn't look at him again, but Harry's skin crawled anyway. He could almost see the whirlpool of thoughts in Riddle's head — pity that he couldn't actually decipher them to understand what was going on and what he should be preparing himself for.

Something in his story had obviously planted an idea in Riddle's mind. Harry couldn't tell what it was, but after the conclusions Riddle had already jumped to, it couldn't be anything good.

Maybe he'd made a mistake somewhere. Or maybe Riddle had seen some of the incriminating memories in his head. Could it be possible? And if so, what was he playing at now?

He should find a Pensieve to look through the memories of their bathroom conversation. Perhaps he'd notice something he had missed. And it would help him to memorise his own story better — if Riddle asked more questions, he should be able to keep his answers consistent with the version he'd presented.

"Move aside," Riddle ordered shortly as he took his seat. Avery, to whom he addressed his request, shifted automatically. It was like obeying Riddle's voice was a habit ingrained so deeply that his body obeyed mindlessly, without questioning it. He reacted only when Harry planted himself in the middle between him and Riddle: his eyes widened in alarm and his face lost whatever colour it had.

Everyone else fell silent, too. Greengrass, who was sitting to the right side of Riddle, gazed at Harry intently, her green gaze heavy with speculation. Lestrange looked startled into speechlessness while Alphard's mouth fell open in dismay. He didn't seem happy about Harry climbing up the ranks — if anything, he appeared devastated.

All these reactions were predictable, and Harry couldn't help wondering what Riddle was thinking. His followers would obviously be confused and resentful. What did he plan to tell them? Did he plan to do anything at all? Because if he decided to stay silent, Harry would have to fight off four of his angry classmates who didn't understand why he was suddenly being given privileges, especially at the expense of one of them.

Maybe not four at once, though. Greengrass would bide her time to see what was happening. Lestrange… yes, Lestrange would love to fight him just for the sake of it. Avery was even worse: he would see him as a mortal enemy because it was his seat next to Riddle Harry had taken. Alphard would be upset that he remained at the bottom of Riddle's circle while Harry rose up in ranks.

Out of them, only Lestrange and Avery would pose an immediate problem — Harry would have to watch out for them.

"Pass me some dessert," Riddle said. Everyone in the vicinity jerked before pausing. Their confusion was palpable — what, did Riddle never ask for anything sweet before? Why did they look so uncertain?

Riddle turned his head to Harry, effectively pinning him to his place with his gaze alone.

"Well?"

Harry's first instinct was to snap, 'Do you have short hands? Why can't you reach whatever it is you want?' But this would be openly challenging and he didn't want to provoke Riddle so soon and so publicly.

His second instinctive question was, 'How should I know what you like?'

As soon as this thought crossed his mind, the realisation shot up, jolting him into straightening. Chill travelled down his spine as the wariness began to accumulate again — Harry only hoped that he managed to keep it from his face.

It was a test, wasn't it? Riddle expected him to know his preferences. Did he have doubts about his story or did he simply want to see how different this version of the world was from the one Harry had allegedly come from?

He was overthinking it. Who cared what Riddle believed? No discrepancies would change Harry being his Horcrux because this part was true. And if he made any mistakes, he could always attribute them to the fact that their two universes were as different as they were similar.

Ignoring the way everyone stared at him, Harry reached for the plate with treacle tart and slammed it in front of Riddle.

"Enjoy," he murmured. He tried to sound pleasant, but based on how Greengrass' eyes flashed with disbelieving outrage, he didn't succeed.

It's not like he asked to sit here. He'd fulfilled his major goal — Riddle agreed to stay sane, and as long as he believed Harry had unique knowledge, he would at least consider listening to him. This was already more than he'd hoped to achieve at this stage.

Riddle was watching him. He didn't stop even as he took a slice and ate it slowly, so Harry was forced to look away first.

Since Riddle's face showed neither delight nor revulsion, he couldn't tell whether he'd guessed correctly and if Riddle was enjoying the tart. He chose to eat it, so at least he didn't hate it?

Maybe this was Riddle's plan: to make Harry obsess over the tiniest things about him. This was intolerable. Harry's headspace was already filled to the brim, he didn't need any more rubbish cluttering it.

His decision made, Harry spent the rest of the feast silently, drinking pumpkin juice and pushing his food around the plate to make it look like he was doing something with it. He had no appetite — even the adrenaline rush of today hadn't awoken it. When it was over, he was among the first to get up and leave the Great Hall.

It was Monday tomorrow, which meant that he had to go to bed earlier. Oversleeping in Gryffindor meant nothing; oversleeping in Slytherin meant committing treason, and as fed up as Harry felt with all these in-House rules, he didn't want to piss everyone off for no reason.

Besides, his bed was the only place where he was guaranteed to escape Riddle's attention. He'd been subjected to it just for an hour and yet he already felt battered with it.

He needed a break.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

During the next two days, everyone around him was suspiciously quiet. They clearly didn't know what to think about his status change. Riddle didn't speak to him much, but he still insisted that Harry sit next to him, and he was constantly monitoring everything he was doing.

He observed when Harry went to bed and when he got up. He watched what dishes he picked during his meals and how much of them he actually ate. Even during lessons, when Riddle was supposed to focus on dazzling everyone with his skills and knowledge, he found time to monitor him and listen to his answers with such intensity, as if Harry was sharing the most sacred secrets.

This was unnerving. He was used to scrutiny from his own time, when the world knew his name before he even realised what it meant, but Riddle's attention had a persistent assessing quality that he quickly grew to despise.

It had to be some variation of Riddle's magical allure, but every part of Harry thrummed with the need to correspond to his standards. He found himself wanting to study harder, to apply more effort, even though his logic screamed against it. It made no sense to him. The only comfort was that Riddle wouldn't benefit if Harry began to perform better — on the contrary, Harry would be sure to use his rapidly expanding knowledge base against him one day.

Alphard stopped following him around. He was quiet and dejected now, barely participating in conversations.

Avery, on the other hand, took every chance to glare at Harry. He was now sitting a seat away from Riddle, and from his reaction, you'd think he'd been disinherited. Harry didn't know why being rejected by Riddle focused Avery's animosity on him instead of Riddle himself, but then again, it didn't look like Slytherins relied on logic when it came to their hierarchy. They desperately wanted the place on the top, irrespective of the specifics and circumstances.

On Wednesday, Harry was sitting in the common room, making his way through his book on the Defence against the Dark Arts. He'd always secretly rolled his eyes when Hermione boasted of reading everything from cover to cover before the term even started, but the more he tried to follow her example now, the more benefits he started to see.

It felt good to learn more about the subject he loved. It felt good to be prepared for questions and unexpected tests, and Riddle's high standards had nothing to do with it. With every learned spell, Harry felt like he gained one more weapon that he could use for the protection of people he cared about. This breathed an entirely new kind of enthusiasm in him, so he was determined to finish the set books and then to move on to additional reading.

His mind carefully ignored the fact that knowing all the school spells didn't help Hermione; that having knowledge of everything and anything didn't help Dumbledore.

He wanted to study. He wanted to become better.

To his misfortune, from the moment Riddle decided on the new seating patterns, his far-away coach was taken by other students. Harry was now invited to sit closer to the fireplace — not too close, but enough to constantly remain in Riddle's line of sight.

Ignoring the scrutiny, he dived into his book, but when a pair of someone's shoes stopped right in front of him, he was forced to look up.

Avery, with his wand out, his haughty expression distorted into a fierce scowl.

Great. So they were doing it now.

"I challenge you to a new duel," Avery spat formally. "This time, being lucky won't help you."

Just like that, several missing pieces clicked into their place.

Avery thought Riddle had demoted him because of his failure to re-challenge Harry. After all, two months had passed, and he didn't use his chance to restore his reputation. Maybe he was wary of duelling again despite his practice with Riddle or he wanted to prepare himself even better — Harry could only guess at the reasons behind such a delay. But everyone else probably shared Avery's belief. They thought Harry was being given privileges not because he earned them but because Riddle wanted to punish Avery.

In reality, it had to be both. Riddle was interested in him as a Horcrux, but he was also intelligent enough to orchestrate a re-match between Harry and Avery while making it look like he had nothing to do with it. He knew what conclusions his followers would come to if he stayed silent.

He was resting in his armchair now, the orange fireplace flame underlining the smugness written into every line of his face. He was content to watch the performance he himself had organised, and Harry shook his head in disbelief. Why did the Slytherins need to make everything so bloody complicated?

"Remind me when the old duel happened," he said, moving his gaze to Avery again. "It was so long ago, I can barely remember it."

Someone in the room chuckled. Avery's face whitened, and he jerked his wand higher.

"Do you accept?" he barked. "Or are you willing to capitulate prematurely?"

Harry slowly closed his book, several options running through his mind.

He had no interest in entertaining Riddle's desire for dramatics. Agreeing to this duel meant agreeing to play by his rules.

On the other hand, he was not about to let challenges like this go unanswered. Giving up was not in his nature — besides, though he'd achieved his main goal of securing Riddle's attention, he still had a long way to go. To affect Riddle and interfere in his plans in the most bloodless manner, he needed his respect, and Riddle wouldn't respect him unless Harry earned it. Giving up without a fight would bring him the opposite results.

It looked like in this case, his instincts coincided with Riddle's wishes.

"I accept," Harry replied, more calmly than he felt. "But you will lose. Is this really something you want to face for the second time?"

Avery flushed furiously. Several sparks exploded at the tip of his wand, so Harry took out his own carefully.

"You may think that I'm trying to get a rise out of you," he uttered. "But I'm being honest. I saw the way you fight. I fought you myself. You're strong and you have a very good duelling style, but mine is better. If you challenge me now, you won't win."

To his annoyance, there was more laughter. Whether someone was laughing at him or at Avery didn't matter — Avery took it personally anyway. His face was entirely red, contrasting vividly with his blond hair, as his magic trembled in his rage.

"Raise your wand," he growled. "I won't ask again."

Harry shrugged and got to his feet. His gaze stopped at Riddle briefly.

Unsurprisingly, he looked unmoved by the tension crackling in the room. Curiosity was the only emotion Harry could decipher, and to his embarrassment, it only served to stimulate his battle-lust.

"Are we to fight in the middle of the common room?" he drawled. He addressed Riddle directly, which earned him a glance of distaste from Greengrass and an angry hiss from Avery.

Riddle's lips twitched in a condescending smile. He snapped his fingers, and all the furniture jumped backwards along with people occupying it. There were startled exclamations that quickly changed into the gasps of wonder.

Harry could reluctantly relate. This kind of magic was not just impressive — it shouldn't have been possible, not when coming from a 16-year-old student. Shifting multiple heavy objects with other wizards simultaneously, without his wand, non-verbally... Harry couldn't begin to imagine how much pure power this required.

Riddle did something again because all of a sudden, a translucent barrier weaved itself in the room, separating Harry and Avery from everyone else.

There was not as much space here as Harry would prefer, but he wasn't going to be picky. This setting had its benefits, too. It would take less time for the spells to connect with their target. Avery was quick, but Harry was quicker. Years of Quidditch had their impact: he would be able to avoid even short-distance curses effortlessly, something Avery would fail at eventually. In case his magic let him down, he would win with agility alone.

As soon as they took their positions, Avery lashed out. This time, he didn't bother with non-verbal magic — he shouted four different spells in succession. Harry managed to recognise the bone-breaking and finger-removing curses, so he formed a shield to protect himself from them. The latter two, he dodged, not willing to take any chances.

It would be easy to finish the duel through physical contact like he'd done the last time, but he didn't want to repeat himself. Since he was already indulging Riddle by agreeing to this duel, he might just as well try something new.

Harry waved away another curse flying at him and flicked his wand, murmuring a spell. He directed it not at Avery but sideways, towards the barrier. When Avery's brows furrowed in confusion, he quickly conjured a twisted mirror: it absorbed the curse and reflected it, automatically sending it in Avery's direction.

"Protego!" he cried out, but it was too late. The distance was even shorter this way, and since the curse came from an unexpected angle, Avery had no chance to even turn properly.

A flash of magic knocked him off his feet, crashing him into one of the glimmering walls and holding him splattered there. Avery looked dazed from the harsh collision, but he began to mutter the counter-spell. Harry used this opportunity to pour some of his magic into the floor. He slashed the air with his wand like he'd seen Sirius do it, and a small whirlwind popped up right in front of Avery, at his feet level.

This was the exact moment Avery managed to free himself. He dropped to the ground, but when he tried to take a step forward, the force of the whirlwind threw him right backwards. He tried once more only to be pushed off again.

A scream of outrage tore from his mouth: he waved his wand furiously, but it had no effect.

Removing this small hindrance didn't require much power, but there was a trick: one had to give it their absolute focus. Avery, being prone to anger, wasn't capable of accomplishing this, especially not when each failed attempt infuriated him more.

With another frustrated yell, he sent an array of curses at Harry. This was the only option he had left, and Harry welcomed it. He barely relied on his wand to avoid being hit — instead, he allowed himself to dissolve in the series of jumps, crouches, and falls, trusting his speed and his instincts to keep him going.

This kind of manoeuvring reminded him of Quidditch, and his heart clenched in nostalgia at the word alone.

He missed Quidditch with fierceness that was painful to withstand. He had no money to buy himself a broom here, but maybe he could find one in the study supplies and fly in the evenings? He would have applied for a position of a Seeker in a heartbeat, but there were no try-outs. The Slytherin team was already complete.

Duelling was the closest alternative.

Harry maintained his performance for a while, keeping track of Avery's increasingly louder shouts. Finally, when he had enough, he raised his wand.

"Expelliarmus," he called. Avery was right in the middle of casting another spell, so time was against him. His wand was torn from his hand, and as soon as Harry had it, he cancelled his spell. The whirlwind dissipated, clearing the path in front of Avery at last.

For a while, there was silence. Avery was panting, glaring at him with hopeless fury; the barrier still prevented Harry from seeing the specific reactions of their spectators, so he decided to make amends while no one could bother him.

He walked up to Avery, raising his hands when he stiffened.

"Here. Your wand," he said. Avery snatched it from his hands. His stare was burning in hatred, and Harry sighed wearily.

"I'm not your enemy," he uttered. "I warned you before the duel that you would lose — you refused to listen. You are a good duellist. I never even heard of some of the spells you used. But you lack agility and your execution is too formal. You can't always win by simply chanting curse after curse, sometimes you need more than that. You also get angry too quickly. This is not a good thing because it can be used against you."

He hoped his words came across as genuine rather than patronising, but Avery clearly didn't think so. With a snarl, he pointed his wand at him, the first letters of a dark curse spilling from his lips, but then a flare of magic threw him away violently.

It wasn't Harry's doing. When he turned in surprise, he saw Riddle with his wand drawn.

"Don't touch him outside the duel," he said coldly. Avery, who was still lying crumpled, looked up, his eyes full of shocked betrayal. Riddle sneered at him.

"Potter has won. If you don't like losing, I have an advice for you: don't lose. Even someone like you should be able to grasp it."

There were snickers around the room. Harry looked away from the cruelty of Riddle, searching for someone who would not be laughing. To his surprise, this someone was Alphard. He was staring at Avery with a conflicted expression, as if he wanted to help him to get up but couldn't find the courage to do it.

Slytherin really was a pit of vipers. No wonder it released so many dark wizards: if Harry had to spend seven years here, he would have lost his mind. Though maybe Riddle was the main instigator? How had Slytherin looked like before him?

The excitement began to die down. Riddle hid his wand and resumed reading like nothing had happened. Everyone else followed his suit, and Avery finally got up, holding his bleeding head with a grimace.

Harry itched to offer help, but he'd already tried and was rejected. He wasn't going to force his effort on someone who so obviously did not want it.

Apart from Riddle. Riddle was the exception because after everything his older version had done, he didn't deserve to be asked.

Harry hoped his victory of today brought him one step closer to his ultimate goal. He would get enough influence to push Riddle onto the opposite path — he believed it more than ever now.

He just had to be patient and to find a balance between remaining himself and showing Riddle that he deserved his respect.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Since Riddle was watching him at all times, Harry decided that he could stare just as unabashedly.

During the previous two months, he noted various details, big and small. But his new seat gave him more access, so very soon, he began to notice an unusual pattern.

Like most other students, Riddle was receiving the morning mail. What differed his from others' was a thick yellow envelope that came without fail and which Riddle never opened. No one apart from Harry seemed curious about what might be inside — although after what he'd seen, he was willing to believe that Riddle killed curiosity in everyone to make sure no one poked their nose into his business.

Harry didn't ask the questions he wanted, knowing he wouldn't get any answers, but every day fuelled his interest further. He managed to track the envelope to the dormitory, but Riddle just hid it in his trunk, which he sealed with a touch of his wand. He probably used a spell Harry'd be incapable of breaking.

Then again, who said he couldn't try?

After breakfast, he went to the library in search of some related spell-books. Choosing one with the cover he liked most, he walked to the least-occupied table, and when he looked up, he saw Aline. She was wearing standard Hogwarts robes, so it took him a moment to recognise her.

"Hi," he said belatedly. "Can I sit here?"

She measured him with a wary look. Her face had lost the inherent friendliness it had when he first met her, and Harry frowned slightly.

"Are you all right?"

Finally, some of the tension left her. Aline shrugged.

"I guess?" she murmured. "If you really want to know, that is."

"Why wouldn't I?"

He must have seemed genuine enough because Aline relaxed further and shifted closer to him.

"Slytherins don't seem to be the friendliest lot," she explained. "Not that everyone else is much better. I wish I'd stayed in Durmstrang. Grindelwald or not, at least I had friends there."

This was something Harry could relate to. Slytherin wasn't a place for making friends, not for him, not when everyone from the first- to seventh-years were a part of Riddle's fan club.

With his own obsession, the rest of the world slid out of his focus, but maybe it was time to expand his circle and include someone other than people he despised in it.

"I thought Hufflepuff was friendly overall?" he wondered. Aline grimaced as if she'd bitten into a lemon.

"Not to me," she said glumly, twirling her quill in her fingers. "In my experience, people are divided only in two categories here. Some don't want to be friends with me because I'm from Durmstrang. Others want to be friends with me because I'm from Durmstrang. Considering that I have no connections to anyone of note, even the latter group isn't thrilled. So as you see, I don't have many options."

"Me neither," Harry confessed, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips upwards. "Not on Slytherin anyway. We have a cult thing going on there — I'm not a fan."

"Tom Riddle!" Aline exclaimed. A light flush stained her cheeks, and Harry gaped in horror.

"Don't tell me you are one of them," he begged. Aline waved away his concerns, although her flush intensified.

"It's nothing serious," she assured him. "But he seems so nice to everyone. That he's handsome doesn't hurt. And I heard he caught a monster that killed a girl last year. It's a secret no one's supposed to discuss, but you know how it is, the entire school is gossiping."

Harry's mood darkened. Anger spasmed through him when he thought of Myrtle; it gained force when he thought of Hagrid, alone in his hut, watching how people he'd been studying with kept learning and advancing towards graduation when he had to stay behind.

Harry hadn't been planning on establishing contact with him because having anyone he really cared about was a dangerous luxury. But since he was now following the path of being Riddle's ally rather than his enemy… maybe he could afford to have someone from his past life earlier than he'd anticipated. Maybe he could have Hagrid.

It was decided. He would visit him soon.

"So… Is Riddle a bully or something?" Aline asked hesitantly.

"Imagine the worst person you have ever met. Multiply their worst qualities tenfold and you still won't arrive at Riddle," Harry murmured. When Aline continued to eye him sceptically, he shook his head, frustrated.

"You just said that Slytherins aren't friendly. You were concerned when I took a seat next to you just because I was sorted into this House. So what kind of person do you think Riddle is to command such adoration among all the Slytherins? They wouldn't pick a nice obedient prefect as their leader. Everything they do, they do with his explicit permission."

Realisation dawned on Aline's face. Her shoulders slumped, and she dropped her head on her hands with a groan.

"I knew it," she muttered. "The idea of him was too good to be true. But he's so smart and so charming, all the teachers love him. Even Peeves loves him! Everyone in Hufflepuff and even some Ravenclaws want him to tutor them, did you know that? His magic is something."

"It would be if he used it for good."

There was a clattering sound near the window. Harry turned his head and saw a grey owl with a small piece of parchment attached to its leg. Somehow, it managed to push itself through a small free space, and now it flopped towards him, eager to deliver its message.

Curious, he untangled it and gave the owl a pat in gratitude. The sharp letters instantly breathed the name Riddle into his mind, so Harry didn't have to guess whom it was from. He hadn't exchanged messages with Riddle's diary for a long time, but he still remembered his handwriting: neat and perfect unless he was in a hurry.

Meet me in the classroom on the third floor. Second door from the window. At nine o'clock.

They had just had breakfast in the Great Hall — if Riddle wanted to meet him, why hadn't he said so? What's with all the secrecy? Besides, nine o'clock was in ten minutes. Did he expect Harry to drop everything and run to find him?

"Anything important?" Aline asked. She was craning her neck, trying to get a look at the note. Pocketing it, Harry shrugged in response.

"I don't know yet," he said. His heart rate was already gaining speed: he couldn't tell whether he was dreading or anticipating this meeting. "I have to go, but maybe we could meet again? I wouldn't mind having someone sane to talk to."

"Sure," Aline looked pleased by his words. "You can find me either in the library or at the lake. Since I don't have people, I stick to books. Hogwarts' library is the biggest I've ever seen, there is so much to choose from here."

"True," Harry agreed. He grabbed his book from the table, stuck it into his bag, waved at Aline and walked out, every step sending a thrum of adrenaline through his blood.

He couldn't imagine what Riddle might want from him. To discuss their fake past again? To talk about Avery and the duel? Harry had no idea what was going on in Riddle's head at all — he couldn't guess a single thought, and this was infuriating as much as it was unnerving. He felt like he was in a vacuum, cut off from the important things that might be happening, invited only when Riddle came up with some use for him.

One of the staircases wanted to travel through different floors before finally bringing Harry to his destination. As the result, when he finally reached the right classroom, it was fifteen minutes past nine. Riddle didn't look happy about his lateness — as soon as Harry entered, he was subjected to a long, dark stare.

"Should have warned me about this at breakfast," he said defiantly, dropping his bag on one of the desks. "I have a schedule of my own."

"I had my reasons," Riddle told him. He waved his wand, locking the doors; another bright flash — the anti-eavesdropping charms. Displeasure faded from his face gradually, and now he looked assessing. "Since we don't have lessons in the next two hours, I wanted us to try something."

"To try what?"

Riddle hopped down from the desk on which he was sitting, circling the room in his slow approach.

"Near the entrance to the Chamber, I saw something in your mind," he said. His voice was like silk, and there was something so soft about it that Harry's body relaxed without his permission. "The image of how you and I met in your world. I spent a lot of time wondering what it could be."

"A memory?" Harry suggested. Riddle's magic was focused on doing his bidding: it flowed around him, soothing and persuasive. Harry never felt anything quite like this. Voldemort's power was toxic and he thrust it around like a weapon, oppressing everyone he came in contact with; Dumbledore's was so calm that it took some time before Harry learned to sense it. Riddle's magic felt addictive — just a small taste, and his mind and body were already convinced they needed more.

"It wasn't a memory," Riddle retorted thoughtfully. "Not entirely, at least. I checked what I could just to be certain, but this is not how Legilimency works. I did not try to enter your mind at that point, and while your shields are abysmal, they are set in place. I wouldn't have been able to simply fall through."

Despite the persistent attempts of Riddle's magic to pacify him, Harry stiffened.

What did Riddle imply? Did he have doubts about the validity of that 'memory'? He didn't seem angry or even suspicious. Perhaps Harry was missing something, but how could he help? He knew next to nothing about Mind Arts and he had no idea what could serve as a believable explanation.

But it looked like Riddle didn't expect one from him. He stopped several steps away, his eyes watchful.

"I think it was a shared thought," he murmured conversationally. "You were reciting your memory and imagining it. I imagined it, too, based on your words, and at that moment, we established a brief connection that allowed us to see one and the same picture. I want to know more about it. Can we affect what it looks like? How mutual is it? You were describing a real memory — would the effect be the same if we were discussing an imagined scenario?"

Harry's head began to spin. His heart alternated between galloping and freezing, and he had to concentrate to hide how unsettled he felt.

He didn't understand a thing. Was Riddle toying with him? Or was he really interested in some kind of mental experiment?

"I thought it's impossible to read someone's thoughts like this," Harry replied carefully. Tension was boiling in him, reaching such dangerous temperatures that when Riddle suddenly touched him, he jumped. It took him a moment to realise that Riddle simply brushed the hair off his forehead, revealing his scar.

"It is supposed to be," he murmured. His gaze was locked on the scar, as greedy and fascinated as it had been when he first saw it. "But there is no research at all about human Horcruxes, so we cannot know what impact this might have. You were right when you said that, technically, you are not my Horcrux. However, we clearly share some mental connection. I'd be curious to explore its possibilities."

Uncertainty still plagued him, but a tiny kernel of relief began to blossom, too.

So far, it appeared that Riddle wasn't doubting his story. On the contrary, he wanted to test it further, and Harry saw nothing immediately incriminating in it. Riddle thrived on pushing the limits of magic — of course he wanted to learn about something as unique as this.

"Okay," he said. For a moment, Riddle looked surprised, as if he didn't expect such an easy acceptance. "What? I wouldn't mind knowing how it works, too."

"That's… good to know," he replied after a slight pause. His magic stopped its alluring dance, and Harry finally managed to breathe easier.

Riddle believed he'd refuse, which was why he turned on the magical charm. He wanted to persuade him. But why would he assume Harry would be against an idea like this? Unless…

"Did you think I wouldn't want to let you into my mind again after your attack?" he wondered. Riddle said nothing, but in this case, it was probably a confirmation. Harry snorted.

"It's not like my agreement decides anything," he noted dryly. "I didn't give you permission the last time either but you still broke into my mind. At least now you're asking."

Riddle curved his mouth in disgust.

"I'm asking because I need your cooperation," he pointed out. "We both need to think about the same thing to initiate contact. I cannot force you to imagine what I want without resorting to measures I'm not prepared to use yet."

The words didn't sound like a threat — they were more like an honest precaution. Harry doubted Riddle had ever spoken so openly about his intentions to anyone, including his closest followers. It was a good sign — he didn't feel the need to hide entirely from him. With time, if Harry did everything correctly, this openness would grow.

A satisfied smile crossed his lips briefly. Riddle caught it, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"I cannot imagine what you found funny about my words," he said coolly. His magic tightened in affront. "Do you enjoy being intimidated? If so, it sheds some light on what kind of relationship you and I had in your world."

"I have never felt intimidated by you, Riddle," Harry replied in the same biting tone. Voldemort enraged and terrified him with his inhumanity; this sane version was distressing in his own way, but it wasn't anywhere close to what Harry would consider genuinely intimidating. He had grown to fear monsters — even the most rotten humans seemed tame in comparison. "Draw any conclusions you like from this. About my memories: it's in your best interests to stay away from them. You didn't seem to enjoy them, and it will only get worse if you try again. I told you already, we can't know how such a collision of two worlds can affect either of us. I came into your world; maybe seeing too much will drag you into mine for balance."

This idea seemed to disturb Riddle. He eyed Harry warily before shrugging.

"I have no intention of looking through your memories," he uttered. He sounded convincing, although Harry wasn't going to take his word for it. "What I already know is enough. I don't need to see more. Now, if you don't mind, I'd rather we went back to the experiment. Think of something that never happened. Try fleshing this image out."

Despite the flicker of hesitation, Harry obeyed. He imagined himself grabbing an old broom and soaring into the sky, far above the earth, away from this foreign time with its foreign people. Away from Riddle, who was a murderer yet who continued to evoke conflicting emotions in him.

Harry didn't hate him. This continued to surprise him. Even though Riddle had murdered at least four people to date, including Myrtle, he couldn't summon anything resembling true loathing. Maybe it was because his experience of Voldemort had left him numb to destruction, or because a part of him understood Riddle's rage at a part of his family who he thought had abandoned him due to his magic. He felt contempt, he felt disgust, but he didn't feel hatred.

It was harder to accept the feeling of admiration, reluctant as it was; the empathy and fascination that attacked him when Harry was least expecting it. Riddle was brilliant in so many ways — what happened to him over the years leading to Voldemort? Had he ever sensed that the creation of Horcruxes kept chipping away at his sanity? Had he ever had regrets?

Voldemort had taken everything from him. In turn, Harry wanted to give Riddle everything, be that understanding, friendship, or guiding opposition, to stop his transformation and to weed out the ugliest parts that enabled it.

All these feelings and nuances kept dragging him down. How good it would feel to hop on a broom and tear himself from this swamp, travelling to the clouds, blurring the edges between different time periods…

"You need to look at me when you're visualising it," Riddle's annoyed voice broke through his little fantasy. Startled, Harry raised his head, and their gazes instantly locked. A hot flash of something pierced him, but he didn't feel the same connection he had in the bathroom.

Apparently, Riddle hadn't either because he clicked his tongue thoughtfully.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," he ordered.

"About flying," Harry replied, trying to focus on the image rather than on the unblinking stare that was searing holes in his concentration. "I miss Quidditch, so I want to sneak a training broom out of the storage and to go up. To see if maybe something changed around here from the way I remember it."

"You played Quidditch?" Riddle sounded so perplexed, as if he'd never heard anything more shocking. "What a complete waste of time."

"Spending years searching the school bathrooms to find a room you can't tell anyone about is a waste of time," Harry snapped back. "Just because you couldn't make friends with your broom doesn't mean that flying is useless."

Riddle stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"You don't 'make friends' with a broom," he said slowly. "A broom is a mere conductor of your magic. You can fly on a chair or on a suitcase if you pour enough magic into them. They are an object, not a familiar."

"How does this change the fact that you are terrible at flying?"

This was only a guess on Harry's part based on the depth of disdain Riddle was displaying towards Quidditch, but the way he scowled told him that he'd guessed correctly. A short laugh escaped his lips, and it seemed to offend Riddle even further.

"You tire me," he said flatly, his dark eyes narrowing to slits. "I cannot imagine what you and I talked about in your world. You are the last person I'd consider for a role of a friend."

"Well, since you don't have friends, I don't think your criteria are well-thought-out."

Riddle pinched the bridge of his nose. Harry had a feeling that he had no idea how to react to banter like this, and this made him want to double down on small barbed remarks just for the sake of it.

With effort, he managed to keep his mouth shut. Now was not the time to push Riddle, no matter how much his more vindictive parts craved it.

"The experiment," he announced loudly. "Like I said, I'm imagining myself flying. What's next?"

Riddle looked at him again, still wearing an irritated expression.

"Keep thinking about it," he instructed brusquely. "And keep your eyes on me."

For a long minute, they stared at one another. Nothing was happening, and when another minute passed, Riddle huffed.

"So we can't recreate it like this," he murmured, tilting his head in wonder. He appeared to talk to himself rather than to Harry. "The last time was accompanied by emotions. We cannot force them now. Perhaps physical contact could compensate for it?"

Harry blinked, but before he could say anything, Riddle straightened.

"Give me your hand."

"What?"

"We are the carriers of the same shard of the same soul. It's possible that some physical contact between us could stimulate our mental connection. Your hand, now."

"Did someone curse you to turn every sentence you speak into an order, including when you're asking for a favour?" Harry muttered. Before Riddle could lash out, he lifted his hand, waiting.

There was a pause, and then Riddle reached for him, wrapping his hand around Harry's. His grip was surprisingly possessive: his fingers instantly tightened around Harry's wrist, pressing into his skin hard enough to hurt.

Harry didn't comment. They looked at each other again, and whether it was because of the touch or the proximity, a new kind of intensity sparkled. It engulfed Harry so thoroughly that he barely noticed how the image he was picturing suddenly changed.

It was still him, and he was still flying, but his broom disappeared. Instead, he was sliding through the air like smoke, supported by nothing but his magic. It was a mesmerising and astonishing sight, but before Harry could enjoy it properly, Riddle severed the connection. The image faded along with it.

"It worked," he whispered. He looked deliriously happy — much happier than what Harry thought the situation warranted. "It wasn't a fluke, then. The Horcrux inside you is connected to me."

"So what?"

Riddle didn't reply. He dropped Harry's hand, shifted away and drummed his fingers against the table, a private smile playing on his lips. He didn't seem inclined to speak again, so with a roll of his eyes, Harry went to retrieve his bag.

"If that's all, I'll be going," he said without turning. "I was in the middle of something when you sent your oh-so-important note."

"Wait," Riddle said suddenly. When Harry turned, he saw that the smile disappeared — now Riddle was simply gazing at him intently. "I have a question for you. Two questions, actually."

Anxiety pinched him. Harry tried to hide it by shrugging.

"Ask away."

He expected a question about the Horcruxes, so what Riddle said next surprised him into silence.

"What was the biggest gift you ever made to the version of me you knew?"

His mouth fell open as he tried to comprehend this inquiry. A gift? Riddle wanted to know about some imagined gift Harry had allegedly given him?

This had never been on the list of questions he'd been preparing himself for. Riddle's mind worked in ways that remained a complete mystery — how was Harry even supposed to answer this?

Frantically, he tried to imagine a scenario he himself had created. Him and Riddle growing up together, finding salvation and comfort in each other. Sharing their intimate thoughts, dreams, and plans. Basking in their mutual happiness upon learning they belong in Hogwarts, starting their first year…

What would Harry choose to give him as a gift? What could he give if he had no access to the Potters' vault, and all available to him was a meagre bunch of Galleons? Especially knowing Riddle and his undoubtedly capricious tastes…

Oh.

He knew the answer. He knew what he'd choose if that life was a reality.

"My money," he said quietly. When Riddle raised an eyebrow, he elaborated. "Everything I saved over the years to buy myself something. That year, I chose the most worn down books and the cheapest possible school tools to save up even more, and I gave it all to you on your birthday."

This made sense in his mind. He didn't know whether Riddle would have appreciated a gift like this, but he knew this would be exactly what he'd give him. The more he thought about it, the more real this scenario felt.

Riddle's face reflected nothing.

"Why on my birthday?" he asked neutrally. "Why not on Christmas?"

The answer was there instantly, as if Harry had visualised his fabricated world so vividly that he ended up making it a reality.

"Because Christmas is everyone's holiday," he murmured, his voice wistful. "Your birthday is yours."

Finally, there was a flicker of emotion on Riddle's face. He licked his lips, saying nothing, but that little flicker already told Harry everything he needed to know.

Riddle was affected by his answer. He didn't know in what way and to what extent, but the reaction was there, and it was gratifying.

"Was there anything else?" Harry asked. He wanted to make it sound curt, but his lies must have started messing with his head because his voice came out soft, almost affectionate.

His mind reeled from the horror of it. Something was obviously wrong with him if he was so susceptible to his own fantasies.

"Yes," Riddle said belatedly. His face went smooth and passionless again. "Where would you want to live?"

Once again, Harry's mind stumbled.

"Where I'd want to live?" he clarified. This was a simpler but also a much stranger question. Why did Riddle want to know?

His first and final thought was Hogwarts. Hogwarts was his home, his safe harbour, the embodiment of everything he cherished. Every bit magical, it was the only thing that stayed undefeated by time or battles.

"At Hogwarts, I think," he replied carefully. Riddle's eyes flashed with something — recognition? He looked like he expected Harry to say more, so words began to tumble out of his mouth spontaneously.

"It has always been my home. I didn't have many chances to travel, but I'm sure that nowhere will feel as familiar. Hogwarts is… It's special. It's everything I love about the wizarding world. I can't imagine a time when it didn't exist. I'd give a lot to witness how it was created, though — to see how all these towers and turrets were constructed, and how much magic had to be poured inside to turn Hogwarts into something so alive."

Riddle stayed quiet for a long time. At this point, Harry didn't have interest in trying to decipher the complex layers of emotions behind his indifference, so he just waited patiently. At last, Riddle's lips quirked in amusement.

"You would have liked to meet the Founders, then?" he wondered. "That's a lofty dream."

The glow that talking about Hogwarts had inspired in him faded. Harry frowned. Either Riddle chose to misinterpret him deliberately or he was trying to bait him into sharing more of his thoughts.

"I wasn't talking about the Founders," he objected tightly, "not really. Just… I know it's probably stupid, but when I think of Hogwarts, I can't imagine that four wizards are behind it. I feel like it was the creation of magic itself. It's too timeless and permanent to have been built by people."

Riddle inclined his head, accepting his elaboration. The way he was looking at him made Harry's chest tighten, and there it was again — that odd, double-sided connection, not at all similar to what he'd had with Voldemort.

He saw Hogwarts in his mind, huge and limitless, emanating magic. A warm glow surrounded it, elevating it above the rest of the world, coating it with protective fog and inherent mystery, and Harry couldn't tell which parts of this image were supplied by his mind and which came from Riddle. It belonged to the two of them — it was theirs, it was something they imagined similarly.

When the connection broke, Harry backed away, shaking his head to clear it. This was too much. He didn't need to confuse his confused emotions further with these flashes of solidarity between himself and Riddle.

Yes, to fulfil his end goal, he had to take root deeply in Riddle, but this didn't mean that he had to let him do the same.

He had to keep himself well-protected, but so far, he hadn't been doing a good job of it.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Riddle mostly ignored him after their meeting. The only time Harry found himself close was during the meals, and these were grating on his nerves because Avery kept sending him death stares. It killed his already non-existent appetite, so he stopped eating altogether on some days. One meal every once in a while would suffice.

On Wednesday, their Herbology lesson was cancelled because one of the Gryffindors accidentally flooded the entire greenhouse when trying to perform a watering spell. Everyone happily took this opportunity to wander off. Harry began to walk in the direction of the castle, too, when a new idea stopped him in his tracks.

Involuntary, his eyes found a hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and before he knew it, he was speeding up to reach it, his heart breaking into an excited gallop.

He knocked on the door, and when it opened, he gasped. Seeing Hagrid, so young and so gloomy, was a shock. It'd been years since the diary version of Riddle showed him his memory, so Harry wasn't prepared for this sight. Longing swirled in him — longing for his Hagrid, but he pushed it away.

"Hello," he blurted out. Hagrid sniffed, measuring him with a wary look.

"Yeah?" he mumbled. "You wanted something?"

Too late, Harry realised that he hadn't thought up an excuse for this visit. How many times would he make this same mistake?

"I…" he began hesitantly. Hagrid's brows furrowed, and the longer Harry stayed silent, the more pronounced his frown got.

"Werewolf cubs!" Harry exclaimed. Riddle's words rolled through his mind like an echo, his poisonous voice whispering, Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls. "I heard that you know where they are."

Hagrid crossed his arms against his chest defensively, his small eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"What's it to you?" he grumbled. "Who told yeh? I ain't a student no more. I don't need to follow rules."

He really should have planned it better.

"I know," Harry assured him, desperately looking for a good excuse. "I didn't come here to accuse you of anything, I swear. I'm just… very interested in werewolf cubs. I'd love to see them."

At this, Hagrid perked up. His gaze changed: it began to shine with happiness, and Harry had to swallow a lump in his throat.

Some things didn't change. It was just as easy to please Hagrid by faking an interest in one of his magical creatures now as it'd been in the past, and Harry was still willing to go an extra mile to preserve this expression of joy on his face. Even if this meant going to the Forbidden Forest in search of small werewolves.

"I can take yeh!" Hagrid said eagerly. He waved his hands in excitement, almost hitting Harry in the process. "They're a little bigger now but they still are the most amazing thing yeh'll ever see!"

Harry grinned, feeling happiness flow through his veins. The hollowness he'd brought from the Ministry filled up just a little bit, and he instantly felt warmer.

"It's a deal," he promised, outstretching his hand. "I'm Harry Potter, by the way."

"Hagrid." Despite his eager movements, he squeezed Harry's hand very gently. "Come by any time yeh want! But it has to be at night. You don't want to be expelled, take my word for it. Do you maybe want to have tea? I have lots!"

"I'd love to," Harry said honestly. Hagrid retreated into his hut, gesturing for him to come inside, and he moved to follow when something grabbed his attention.

Riddle stood on the opposite side of the lawn, closer to the castle. Watching him. Harry couldn't see his face from here, but his stomach still flip-flopped nervously.

Had Riddle just happened to see him or was he following him on purpose?

Either way, Harry didn't like it. Turning his back on him, he stepped into the hut, but the feeling of wrongness didn't abate — it followed him, hot on his heels.

Something was happening. Riddle was planning something. The problem was, Harry couldn't begin to tell what it was.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Riddle's mysteriousness and Avery's hostility were two problems, but Harry quickly came to realise that there was the third one. Alphard.

Ever since the change in the seating patterns, he had turned into a pale shadow of the boy Harry had met at the feast. He stopped talking, he stopped following him around, and when he was in Riddle's company, he didn't dare to look up.

Harry wished he could ignore or at least stop noticing it, but his concern persisted. He had no reason to worry about the boy who had tried to get close to him only because of Riddle's order, but a part of his foolish mind stubbornly viewed him as an extension of Sirius. It kept distracting him until he finally decided to do something about it.

After supper, Alphard separated from the group. No one seemed to be paying attention to Harry either, so he left the Great Hall and followed him.

Alphard walked out into the courtyard, his shoulders drooping. Soon enough, Harry realised where he was going: the Astronomy Tower. Curiosity piqued, he waited for several minutes before going up there, too.

The floor was badly lit, but he still managed to see Alphard quickly. He was sitting on the edge, looking at the sky, his wand lying nearby. At the sound of Harry clearing his throat, he jerked and whipped around. His shock turned into distaste before morphing back into the same dejected expression Harry had been seeing for over a week.

"Potter?" he murmured darkly. "What do you want?" Suddenly, a look of hope brightened his features. "Did Tom send you after me? Does he need me to do something?"

Disgust flared up, warming him despite the cold. Harry exhaled sharply.

"If you need a task so badly, you can go to Slughorn," he said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. "I'm sure he'll come up with something."

A deep scowl twisted Alphard's face. With a huff, he turned away.

"I have no idea what you've done for Tom to make him notice you," he said distantly. "But whatever it is, it cannot last. You are the most ill-fitting member I've ever seen. You are rude and clueless, and he hates that. Sooner or later, he'll kick you out."

Harry laughed, marvelling at this sect Riddle had managed to build. He didn't understand it — he never had and probably never would.

"Please," he drawled. "I didn't come looking for his favour. Whatever Riddle and I have is between us and us alone, and trust me, I have no interest in being a part of your group, or whatever it is you call yourself. I'm more interested in learning how you found yourself in your position."

Alphard instantly dropped his head.

"What do you mean?" he murmured.

"You are a Black. How come you are so desperate for Riddle's attention? And no offence, but it doesn't feel like others respect you much either. Why? I don't understand."

Since Alphard didn't immediately tell him off, Harry took it as an optimistic sign. He approached carefully, seating himself nearby. The wind was brutal, so he cast the warming charms and wrapped his arms around himself.

He didn't push, not even when minutes began to drag by. At some point, Alphard took a deep breath, obviously preparing himself for something.

"My family is not good," he said hesitantly. The fact that he was speaking at all struck Harry: it was as meaningful as the words themselves because if Alphard chose to share his story with him, of all people, he must be feeling at the very end of his rope. "They are all powerful wizards and witches, but some of the practices they engage into—" Alphard hesitated. Tired anguish froze his face in a miserable mask for a moment, but with effort, he shook it off. "They are not particularly… sane."

Harry was pretty certain he didn't react in any way, but Alphard still glared defiantly.

"It's not all of my relatives," he insisted. "But some. And I've been trying to understand why. I thought that maybe they dipped into dark rituals too much, or killed too many—" Alphard stopped again, his eyes cautious. When Harry said nothing, he relaxed a little. "Too many magical creatures," he murmured. Frustration injected passion into his voice, so his words were becoming more animated. "That maybe they provoked some curses and some of them are hereditary, awakened only if a person does the same thing that led to this curse. I've been doing research, studying patterns to see— but Tom thinks I'm wrong. He says that the type of madness I'm talking about doesn't exist."

Privately, Harry was inclined to agree. Sure, the Walburga he'd seen in his time didn't seem like the sanest person, but she was a portrait who spent years disconnected from the world, locked in her dark corner. Bellatrix's sanity might have taken a hit in Azkaban, but she was still very much in control of everything she was doing. Sirius was reckless, petulant, and insensitive sometimes, but none of it translated into being mad. More than that, when he was telling Harry about Alphard, he praised him more often than not. Harry had never gotten the impression that there was anything odd about him.

He thought the truth was rougher: some of Alphard's relatives were simply terrible people and he wanted to find some justification for their behaviour. However, he was not in a position to dismiss his worries either. He wasn't a friend and his knowledge was limited to the Blacks he knew.

"Lately, my family has been pushing me to become more active," Alphard continued. Now the words were escaping him rapidly, as if he was scared that any lengthy pause might steal his resolve. "They insist on my participation in different things, different rituals, and I don't want to do that. Tom tells me to fake it — I need my family if I want to stay useful. He promised he would deal with them after graduation, but it's almost two years away! I can't take such risks, I just can't, not until I know for sure that I won't end up like them."

Alphard's energy seemed to run out. He dropped his head again, a miserable sound tearing from his lips.

"My family resents me for it," he whispered. "They reduced my income and my access this year. This made Tom resent me, and everyone else resents me, too, because they agree with him. I try to prove that I can be useful anyway, but…" Alphard shrugged hopelessly. Despite the darkness and the angle, Harry thought he saw frustrated tears in his eyes, and his heart clenched in sympathy.

He missed his friends with wild, desperate fierceness. But at least he had his memories. He knew Ron and Hermione loved him as much as he loved them, even though he didn't deserve it. Alphard, in turn, saw acceptance neither from his family nor from the people who were supposed to be his friends.

Harry didn't even want to imagine the loneliness of it.

"They might resent you," he said when Alphard remained motionless, "but this says more about them than it does about you."

Alphard turned slightly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Harry leaned towards him, "that it doesn't matter whether you are right about your family. If you don't want to do what they do, then it's already a good reason not to do it. You don't need other excuses. And if Riddle and his herd don't get it, they are idiots, and it's their problem."

An involuntary chuckle escaped Alphard before horror promptly replaced it.

"Don't speak about them like this," he warned. His words lacked bite, though, so Harry allowed himself a brief playful smile.

"Or what?" he teased. "They'll curse me? It didn't work out all that well for Avery."

"That was a great duel!" Alphard's eyes lit up in excitement. "I've never seen him so angry! I tried to catalogue how many times he attempted to get through that whirlwind before being slammed back into the wall, but I lost count. Don't tell him that, but I was rooting for you. Sort of."

Well, at least someone was. This was surprisingly nice to know. Harry smiled.

"Thanks," he uttered. "I appreciate it. I don't think the other Slytherins like me at all. But hey, shouldn't it be a relief to you? As long as I'm here, you won't be the most resented member."

Alphard laughed again, more freely this time.

"They mostly resent you because Tom gave you a place next to him," he explained. "I still don't understand how it happened. Would you volunteer any information?"

Harry shrugged ambiguously.

"There's not much to tell," he said. When Alphard's face fell, he let out an exasperated breath. "I just helped him to avoid making a serious mistake. He's grateful for my help — although I don't know how sitting with him is a reward. We don't talk much beyond that."

The lost expression was fading from Alphard's face. His eyes began to sparkle with interest.

"A mistake," he repeated, sounding captivated. "I suppose you won't be telling me what this mistake was?"

At Harry's look, he sighed.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Tom would probably kill me if you told me anyway."

This reminded Harry of a small aspect he'd been meaning to clarify. He nudged Alphard slightly with his shoulder.

"Why do you all call him by his first name when he's never returning the favour?" he asked. Alphard looked surprised but pleased at the contact. He looked down for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, before turning back to Harry.

"First names are a reward," he said wistfully. "You need to deserve them because they distinguish you. When Tom calls someone by their first name, it's the highest form of praise. Greengrass nearly killed herself once in the hope to hear Tom call her Rosalia. I'd love it, too — there are so many Blacks, I'd like to be special at least in something. But with how badly I've been doing, it's hopeless. I'm lucky Tom lets me stay a part of the group at all."

The fragile light-heartedness cracked. A darker feeling leaked through, and Harry had to take several deep breaths to push it down.

"It's bullshit," he said quietly. When Alphard stared at him, he clenched his fists, trying to calm but losing to a wave of hot anger. "Your whole system is bullshit. I don't know how Riddle managed to get you all under his control so thoroughly that you perceive basic courtesy as some reward, but it's ridiculous. And you know what, forget Riddle — he has no idea what friendship is. But everyone else? Avery, Lestrange, Greengrass? You? You are all acting like you'd gladly kick each other in the dirt if you had a chance. At the same time, you stick together like friends. I don't know what kind of relationship you had before Riddle got to you, but this is not friendship."

Alphard reeled back, stunned. He began to lose the redness the cold had infused into his cheeks, and Harry leaned even closer, breathless with anger at Riddle and his mindless clique.

"You — you specifically are already facing problems," he insisted heatedly. "And instead of supporting you, your so-called friends follow Riddle's example by dismissing your worries and mocking you for them. If someone makes you feel terrible all the time, they are not worth your time, so I don't understand why you are even trying. For power? For knowledge? You could get them yourself, without turning yourself into their punching bag."

As soon as he spat the last words, he quietened, sensing how the energy that fuelled his frustration began to dim. Alphard kept staring at him with wide eyes, like he'd never seen him before, before finally licking his lips nervously.

"I just… I want to be noticed," he admitted tentatively. He kept giving Harry quick unsure glances, checking his reaction. "I want to be someone special, but it's impossible without Tom. Tom is… you are new, so you don't understand. But Tom is going to be very, very powerful one day. He may become the most powerful wizard in the world, and being close to him is going to be the biggest privilege anyone can dream of."

Anger stirred up anew, and Harry had to swallow the words before they escaped him.

He couldn't push Alphard. His loyalty to Riddle had been developing for years — it was unrealistic to hope that one heated speech could change anything.

"Do what you want," Harry said. Shivering at the coldness, he waved his wand, muttering the words of another warming charm. "But I hope you'll think about what I said. What is power when you spend your life miserable and the person you worship disregards you so easily? Is it really worth it?"

Alphard had no answer to this. He took his own wand, reapplying the charm as well, looking confused and out of place.

A reckless idea hit his mind. With a cheeky grin, Harry nudged Alphard again.

"I'm going to break into Riddle's trunk," he told him. Maybe it was stupid to share this, but Harry had a feeling this could work out. Nothing Sirius had told him about Alphard indicated that he was a loyal Death Eater — something stopped him, and perhaps Harry could accelerate this process by becoming a friend.

Alphard frowned sceptically.

"Don't be ridiculous," he huffed. "It's not funny."

Harry continued to look at him, and gradually, the confusion on Alphard's face changed into disbelieving horror.

"Are you serious?" he gasped. "You can't do this! You'll get yourself killed and I— I'll have to tell him!"

"Relax," Harry drawled, rolling his eyes. "I'm not going to use it against him. I just want to know what's in that envelope he gets every morning."

Alphard gaped. At first, he continued to look appalled, but then startled laughter broke from his lips. It was such an odd sound that Harry chuckled, too, a pleasant cloud of lightness wrapping around him.

It felt good to laugh with someone. He'd almost forgotten what it could be like, even if this moment was just a pale reflection of what he used to have.

"You are mad!" Alphard murmured through his giggling. "You are completely mad! Tom will kill you if he finds out, and he probably will. Do you have any idea of what kind of locking charms he must have in place?"

Harry snorted with more carelessness than he felt, clinging to this short moment of normalcy.

"I'll take my chances," he said. Alphard wanted to add something, but all of a sudden, a big red owl flew inside with a gust of the wind, almost landing on top of Harry's head. It let out an indignant sound, and when he accepted the note it brought, it jumped through the window without waiting for a treat.

"Who is it from?" Alphard asked with interest. Harry didn't reply, his eyes boring into the crisp lines.

Meet me in the Chamber at midnight sharp. I'd like to try something.

Riddle sounded as enigmatic as the last time. What else did he want to try now? Harry thought they'd figured out how their connection worked already.

Don't go, his mind whispered. A worm of distant suspicion shifted in his chest, but the hungry jaws of curiosity swallowed it within an instant.

He would go. He wanted to see what Riddle came up with this time — besides, now he knew for certain at what time he was going to be absent from the dormitory.

It was a golden opportunity to go through his trunk.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Ten minutes before midnight, their dormitory plunged into darkness. Avery was the only other person inside: he drew up the bed curtains tightly, and since not a sound slipped through, he was either sleeping or he used the silencing charms. Alphard remained at the Astronomy Tower when Harry left him, while Lestrange was in the common room, trying to charm some girl from the seventh year.

Any of them could walk inside any moment, but the opportunity was too rare to let it go. Gripping his wand, Harry approached Riddle's bed and pulled out a heavy trunk from under it. Some protective spell instantly burned his fingers, so he flinched away with a hiss.

It was just a hunch, but based on Dumbledore's memories, Riddle was a possessive hoarder. It was possible that he didn't rely on magic alone to protect his things, choosing something more impenetrable instead — something only Harry could break. If Parseltongue was involved, perhaps the magical system of defence wasn't as intricate as it could have been otherwise.

But either way, he had to lift it first. The trunk was wrapped into layers and layers of magic — the warning warmth of it snapped at Harry when he tried to bring his burned fingers closer. He had no idea what kind of spells these were, but after studying the lock-breaking book he'd borrowed from the library, he had an arsenal of different charms at his disposal.

Slashing his wand, he murmured the first combination. Riddle's trunk flared with magic. Harry couldn't tell whether it absorbed his attempt or if he succeeded in removing some of the protection, so he drew a twisted rune, murmuring the words of the next spell.

Ten minutes later, he sighed in frustration. He was getting substantially late for his meeting with Riddle, and while the amount of magic on the trunk certainly lessened, there was still enough of it to be a problem.

A new dubious idea occurred to him. Holding his breath, Harry pressed his wand to the trunk, letting the magic in both intertwine. The irritated glow of protective spells dulled, and his heart jumped in excitement.

He and Riddle had brother wands. Riddle didn't spend minutes dismantling his own spells to open his trunk — one press of his wand was enough. Maybe the magic was tied to his wand in particular, so a touch from it could cancel if not everything, then most of it.

Their wands were not the exact copy of one another, but Harry hoped the same core would be enough to trick Riddle's magic, especially with the combination of the breaking charms he'd already used and his Parseltongue.

"Open," he hissed. Sparks erupted from the point of contact between his wand and the surface of the trunk. This was accompanied by a soft click of the lock.

Triumph spiralled up through him. For a moment, Harry felt blindly, ridiculously happy, as if this one victory was everything he could have asked for. The joy chased away the shadows, and though he knew they wouldn't be gone for long, he relished the feeling of this comforting wholeness.

It was five minutes after midnight already, so he had to hurry.

Carefully, trying not to disturb the order of things, Harry began to sift through them. A Medal for Magical Merit, the one he remembered back from his second year. Endless expensive-looking quills, a crazy amount of trinkets, books of all sizes and volumes. Apart from the latter, he couldn't imagine Riddle buying all these useless things, so maybe these were the gifts he'd been collecting, holding them here as the reminder of his own importance.

More books, some clothes. Finally, Harry stumbled upon the yellow envelope. Eagerness spread, pushing him forward, and he grabbed it quickly before peering inside.

There was a thin diary in there. For a second, his fingers froze, his mind pausing in disbelief. Was it the diary? The Horcrux?

But he quickly noticed the differences. This one had a similar design and was clearly Muggle-made, but it was green, not black, and upon closer inspection, it didn't have Riddle's initials.

Curiosity gripped him in an even stronger hold. Harry opened the second page and stopped when he noticed the clippings from some newspapers attached to it. Similar clippings spread to other pages, too, and he stared in confusion.

These were excerpts from Muggle newspapers. This was what Riddle received each morning? Why on earth was he collecting them?

Harry stared at the titles and the text, and very quickly, his stomach sank.

March 3, 1943: 173 people are killed in a crush whilst trying to enter an air-raid shelter at Bethnal Green tube station in London.

September 9, 1943: Early last night enemy air-craft dropped bombs at scattered points in East Anglia and South-East England. Little damage was done and no fatal casualties have been reported. Three enemy aircraft were destroyed.

September 17, 1943: Problems of rehousing bombed out people and of looting.

They all were like this: excerpts detailing the war damage in London, the lists with shelters, the number of the deceased. Riddle seemed particularly fixated on the latter: each number was emphasised with ink, sometimes accompanied by the notes in his sharp handwriting.

Orphans under fourteen evacuated only, he wrote beneath one of the announcements.

Under the picture of a destroyed building, Riddle wrote: Protego Maxima and Fianto Duri: when combined, the shield withstands the impact of every magical explosion, but no information on whether it would work against Muggles' bombs. No way to check as of yet.

Some of the clippings came from the wizarding world, but they were the minority, and they all focused on one topic: the use of magic by underage students, the possible consequences and the tactics the Ministry used to track the rule-breakers.

Slowly, Harry closed the diary. An uncomfortable sensation was brewing somewhere in his chest, and even though he tried to ignore it as he locked the trunk to the best of his abilities, it continued to fester.

He'd never given much thought to the Muggle war. He knew Riddle grew up when it was happening and that he was sent to the orphanage every year, but it was all just a set of distant facts. He'd never lingered on the specifics of them, never considered the level of destruction involved and how this could be what had infected Riddle with his terror of dying, pushing him on the path to Horcruxes.

The sensation swelled further, rising and burning right under his skin. Harry stood up and left the dormitory, then walked out of the common room, in the direction of the second-floor bathroom. His head felt heavy with thoughts.

How could Dippet and Dumbledore ignore such a direct threat to the life of one of Hogwarts' students? Harry could remember the scene the Horcrux-diary had shown him: Riddle sending a letter imploring Dippet to let him stay at school; his uncharacteristic nervousness when he was invited to discuss it, his desperation. He decided to stop his murder spree after only one death to protect Hogwarts and his place in it, but from Dumbledore's memories, Harry knew it worked only partly. Hogwarts wasn't closed, but Riddle was still forced to return to the orphanage despite the special arrangements Dippet had promised to consider for him.

This was… wrong. This was beyond wrong — this was a crime. And the fact that Riddle obviously hesitated to use his wand in the fear of being expelled, forced to constantly evaluate whether the situation was deadly enough or if he could cope without magic, only added horror to the situation.

Anger at Dippet with Dumbledore and reluctant compassion towards Riddle fought for dominance in his chest. A tiny darker part of him pushed the glaring fact of his own less-than-ideal circumstances into his mind, but Harry shook it off.

He understood Dumbledore's reasoning when it came to himself, and he wasn't going to immerse himself into his past, at least not in the chunks drenched in bitterness.

The image of Riddle sitting with other children in some shelter, clenching his wand in stiff fingers, listening to the explosions and fighting the urge to use a saving spell filled Harry with bile. Swallowing with difficulty, he tried to focus on what lay ahead.

What Riddle had survived didn't matter at this point. It already had its impact, and none of the circumstances justified the cold cruelty he represented.

The halls and corridors were empty at this time, so Harry got to the bathroom quickly. It was fifteen minutes past midnight — Riddle would be furious at him for being late, but Harry didn't care. Doing what he had asked was a courtesy on his end. He didn't owe Riddle anything.

This time, Harry decided against jumping through the pipe. He conjured a flexible ladder and began his journey down.

The room was as dump and grim as he remembered. The chamber itself was lit by the same greenish gloom, with the carved serpents watching him silently from their stone pillars.

Shivering, Harry continued walking. He stopped only when he reached the statue of Salazar Slytherin, almost expecting to see Ginny lying crumpled next to its feet, but there was nothing but shadows. Riddle was nowhere in sight.

"Hello?" Harry called. "Riddle?"

He received no answer.

A feeling of dread twitched between his ribs. He tried to ignore it, but with every passing second, the silence of the room grew more oppressive.

Suddenly, a hot flash of instinct pierced him. Harry whirled around, but he only managed to see Riddle's emotionless face and the tip of his wand.

Then his world darkened.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

He woke up from the terrible pain boiling in every part of his body. His insides — no, his blood was on fire. The urge to scream was crushed by the stubborn want to rob his attacker of pleasure by staying silent.

A wheezing gasp still rolled off his lips. Harry tried to raise his head, and he immediately saw Riddle lounging nearby, watching him with satisfied, curious eyes.

"Welcome back," he greeted him pleasantly. "I'm afraid this meeting is going to be our last, and you won't enjoy it very much. But sacrifices have to be made."

"What are you talking about?" Harry rasped. The pain was overwhelming — he could barely think or put two words together. It felt like his body was rapidly turning into molten liquid, but he couldn't look down to make sure.

"See, I'm going to perform a ritual on you," Riddle walked closer lazily. He crouched, tracing his wand up Harry's face, towards his scar. "No one has ever done it before, so I'm honoured to be the first."

"What… what ritual?" Every word cost him tremendous effort. Harry couldn't hold his head up any longer — he let it drop, barely noticing the impact of the hard surface beneath the wall of fire that was devouring him alive. He could still see Riddle's face, though, the slow smile stretching his lips.

"Horcrux extraction," Riddle told him. His voice was ringing with self-satisfaction. "I used a blood-boiling curse on you — a modified version. I devised it personally. It will dissolve your entrails, but very slowly."

Harry couldn't speak. Every breath was an excruciating challenge.

"It's nothing personal," Riddle assured him. "In fact, I would have killed you quickly as a token of respect for what you meant to my other version. But I need this process to be slow enough to make the Horcrux inside you increasingly panicked. When it gets desperate to save itself, I will attempt to coax it into myself."

Harry tried to listen, to understand, but the pain was too much. It was difficult to concentrate. As if sensing it, Riddle shifted even closer, brushing the hair from Harry's sweat-streaked forehead with his wand.

"We have a connection," he murmured, almost breathing these words into his face. "That was what my experiment has been about. I wanted to see whether the Horcrux in you responded to me, and now I have my answer: it does. It means that when this slice of soul begins to feel threatened, when its current vessel — you — starts dying, it might choose to respond to my magic and to relocate into me, sliding into the place of the piece I have put into my diary."

It took some time for the words to start making sense to Harry, and then a horrible realisation flooded him, almost making him choke.

All this time, he'd been worrying that Riddle didn't believe his story, but it turned out that he had the opposite problem. Riddle believed him too much — he believed every word, and the idea of being a Horcrux away from losing his sanity scared him.

"Obviously, it might not work," Riddle shrugged his shoulders. "The Horcrux might die with you, but I'm willing to take this chance. After all, like you yourself have stated, it is not my piece of soul, precisely. But it might be compatible enough to merge with me instead of you. I prepared a daring spell and I'm most eager to try it."

The situation began to change. The more the pain went on, the more successfully Harry started to separate himself from it. His body began to get used to it, step by step, and this allowed him to clear his mind a bit.

"What makes you think you will go unpunished?" he croaked. "What if someone suspects you?"

Riddle looked delighted by the question.

"It all comes down to strategy," he informed. His wand stopped at Harry's scar again, as if he couldn't help himself. "And strategy is what differentiates me from the masses of other students and professors, including my followers — the sheep, as you called them."

"That makes you a herdsman," Harry murmured. His mind started separating itself from his body, desperate to hide from the pain — he felt like he was floating.

Riddle looked surprised at being interrupted, then annoyed. Then he must have decided to ignore Harry's remark because the same superior look slid over his features.

"I have calculated every step I took," he continued evenly. "I gave you a seat next to me to demonstrate my growing interest in you to my followers and to the public. I knew my decision would confuse and infuriate the former, meaning that the latter wouldn't be surprised if you were to be attacked by someone particularly jealous."

It was difficult to comprehend this, so Harry tried to weight each word separately. Riddle waited patiently, and when understanding flickered, Harry almost laughed in disbelief.

Riddle had been setting up his own followers. He showed only a fraction of interest in Harry: enough to disturb those who knew him, but not enough to make everyone else believe he and Harry were close in any way. Apart from looking, he didn't interact with him — he sent the notes to make sure no one witnessed their conversations or meetings. And Avery…

"My bets were on Avery," Riddle echoed him. He gently adjusted Harry's glasses before removing them altogether, still with his wand. "Everyone knew he lost a duel to you. When I gave you his seat, he was humiliated. I knew he would assume this was his punishment, just as I knew that he would try to take revenge. Him challenging you in the middle of our common room was exactly what I'd been expecting to happen."

An intrigued look suddenly lit Riddle's face before fading again.

"I admit, I didn't think you'd win," he uttered, cocking his head to the side. "Your victory was in my interests because it could serve as a good explanation as to why Avery would eventually kill you, but I didn't believe you'd manage it. You surprised me. I'm not sure what to think of your style — you seem to favour cheap tricks over powerful spells, but I can't deny that your strategy was effective."

"A buffoon," Harry suggested. Riddle had called him this in the woods, when he didn't know he was being watched.

He paused now, his eyes narrowing. If Harry had to guess, he would say that Riddle was trying to assess whether his words were a coincidence or a confession to his presence.

He must have decided to settle on the former because suspiciousness fled his face.

"Indeed," he said shortly. "Of course, I had an idea of how to make Avery look guilty of your upcoming murder if he won, but your unplanned victory simplified my task. He was even angrier and more resentful of you after it — there are enough witnesses to confirm this. They will say that the confrontation was coming. They will say that Avery was so jealous and bitter that he would be very capable of killing you. No one is going to suspect me, and I'll play my role well. This wouldn't be the first time, after all," Riddle flashed him a malicious grin. Harry would have loved to punch it off his lips, but thinking and wishing were the extent of his abilities right now.

"Avery might escape his precarious situation unscathed, mind you," Riddle added playfully. "I'm going to spin another theory first and see how everyone takes it. I'll tell them that you were struggling with adjusting to a new school and all the pressure that came with it. You did not make friends on Slytherin, so as a prefect, I would know about your failing mental state better than anyone. I'll mention that I seated you next to me to make you feel better; I'll point out how you were obviously depressed — never eating much, sometimes not eating at all; barely engaging with your fellow students."

What Harry wouldn't give for an opportunity to spit Riddle in the face. Or at least to kill himself personally instead of dying at his hand because how could he have been so stupid? How could he have missed it? He'd thought he had a relatively solid understanding of Riddle, but he was wrong, and now his mistake was going to get him killed.

Buried forever in the Chamber of Secrets. Taking Ginny's supposed place. There was some irony in this.

"Perhaps they will believe that you chose to run away and no investigation will take place," Riddle mentioned carelessly. His wand still felt warm. "You have no family. No one cares about you, so there are high chances that no one will bother to investigate your disappearance. Even Dumbledore won't give a damn because you were sorted into Slytherin and his benevolence only stretches this far."

This was too infuriating to leave unanswered, so Harry unglued his lips again.

"Not… true," he pushed out. Riddle laughed, the same high, cold laughter that never suited him.

"You overestimate your importance," he drawled. His wand touched Harry's lips briefly. "Both to this school and to myself. I see almost nothing compelling in you to let you live as a person, not merely a vessel for a Horcrux. And what I do see… I do not like."

This was mildly interesting, so Harry tried to lift his head anew to get a better look. He couldn't tell if he succeeded — his body felt like a separate part of him: he could no longer sense or control it.

Riddle might have read his silent question because he deigned to speak.

"I don't like you making contacts with a girl from Durmstrang," he said. His voice dropped, becoming dangerously quiet. "I don't like you trying to build a bond with that oaf Hagrid; I don't like your interactions with Black and your advice to Avery. I don't like your knowledge of Parseltongue. You are a potential threat, and it would be remiss of me not to remove it before it takes root."

In any other circumstances, he would be pleased to hear this acknowledgement. Riddle might not think much of him, but he did recognise him as a threat. This could be a start — if Harry's life wasn't about to end.

Think, his mind implored him. Think. Think. As long as you can speak, not all is lost.

How could he get Riddle to change his mind? How could he say anything Riddle hadn't already thought of? The fact that he was here, on the floor, dying, just underlined what a huge chasm separated them. Riddle was a brilliant and meticulous strategist, while Harry acted spontaneously. He couldn't see any of the steps Riddle had designed until it was too late.

"I know you," he said. This was the only thing he could come up with: his knowledge of Riddle from the alleged lifetime spent by his side.

He didn't hope for much, and he was right. Riddle barely reacted.

"You can recognise my handwriting and you know what my favourite dessert is," he said disdainfully. His upper lip curled. "This is useless to me. Your most valuable knowledge concerned the creation of Horcruxes, but now I know what danger they pose. You have nothing to offer me any more."

He was right. He was absolutely right, so all Harry could do now was stay quiet to die with whatever dignity he had left.

He lost to Riddle. Less than three months into the game, and he already lost. He'd thrust his trump card up front thinking that Riddle's curiosity would be enough to keep him close, and this mistake cost him his life and the world he'd been hoping to build.

He let himself down, and he let down all the people he loved. He would never see them again. Never come near them again.

Love. Dumbledore had believed it was the ultimate weapon, but how could it be? It could do nothing against those who refused to even acknowledge it, never mind experience it personally. Even worse, it turned into a weakness when dealing with people like Riddle.

On the other hand, hadn't love been what Riddle himself had suggested?

I must have loved you. I loved you, that would be the only reason.

It was his idea, his explanation for a Horcrux inside Harry. Even his voice changed when he said it, becoming softer, as if for one single second, he found the idea fascinating.

It's not like Harry had anything to lose. He might as well try.

"What about love?" he whispered. And that's when he saw it: the way Riddle's breath caught for a moment, the way his eyes flared greedily. The interest was there, Harry could read it even in his state.

Riddle might despise love, but he wanted to be the object of it. He already had respect; he had worship and blind devotion, but he needed more. He craved more.

Actually, hadn't Riddle tried to lure him into the Chamber of Secrets right upon learning that he's a Horcrux? He changed his mind only when he decided that his other version must have loved Harry. That was when he stopped him from jumping into the pipe, suddenly and instinctively protective of him.

Could it be that he had been planning to kill him or hold him hostage there until he prepared for his Horcrux extraction ritual? And only the idea of loving and being loved in some other world stayed his hand, at least temporary?

All these questions he had asked him… his need to see if Harry knew his preferences… he was fascinated by love. It drew him in.

The pain dulled even more, chased away by a bright explosion of hope. Harry licked his dry, blood-stained lips.

"Only I know you like you know yourself," he murmured. He tried to envision the imagined world he'd created, to borrow any kind of authenticity from it, to use it as inspiration in his quest for the right words. "I know how you were born and what your parents were like. I know about your mother, who was abused almost into becoming a Squib, and about your arrogant Muggle father, who rejected you. I know how much you despise your name, how you wish to distance yourself from it, to… to create a whole new personality."

He was speaking too much — it was becoming difficult to breathe. The waves of pain started to return, getting more insistent; darkness burned his eyelids.

"I know how much you hate the orphanage," he hastened to say. "I know you are collecting Muggle newspapers about the war because you are terrified of going back there. You sent a letter to Dippet asking him to let you stay at Hogwarts, and he even promised you a chance at special arrangements, but he never followed through. I know you store things, even those you don't need. The trophies… the gifts… you want to have something. You need to have something."

This last part was purely guesswork, but Riddle didn't deny it. He was staring at him unblinkingly, pale as a ghost, more open than Harry had ever seen him.

"I know what makes you who you are," he whispered. "All of it. And I…" The upcoming lie hurt his tongue, refusing to be spoken, but another, more immediate pain was engulfing him, so Harry still pushed it out. "I accept and love you unconditionally despite and because of it. None of the people you know or will know can say the same. You will never risk showing all of yourself to them. Some will only accept you as a pure-blood, some will expect only triumphs from you. No one will want to even imagine you as an orphan who had nothing and was needed by no one. No one but me."

"It's not me you love," Riddle snapped. He raised his wand, and Harry saw how his hand trembled. "You love a version of me. It's not the same."

He wanted to say something more, to make his lies more elaborate, more personal, but it was too late. The pain began to retreat again, only this time, darkness was coming as its replacement. Harry no longer saw Riddle, barely understood what was happening, but he still opened his mouth in a final effort.

"It is," he tried to say. He didn't hear his voice now, so he couldn't be certain if any words left him. "It's the same. You're the same."

The fight went out of him. The last twitches of consciousness died, and Harry no longer cared what his lies meant or what people he was betraying. He lost himself in the blackness, and his hopes and worries disappeared together with him.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

A voice was travelling on the fringe of his conscious. Harry couldn't decipher the words at first — he was drowning in agony, but gradually, they began to gain shape.

"You need to repeat after me. Say, 'I will never inform anyone about what happened in the Chamber of Secrets.' Do it."

Something was pushed into his hand — a wand? Harry clenched it automatically, and an instinctive relief spread through him, soothing his pain-torn body.

"Repeat these words," someone's voice barked. Harry thought he heard panic in it. "'I will never inform anyone about what happened in the Chamber of Secrets.'"

If saying this was what was needed for him to be left alone…

"I will never," Harry murmured, "inform anyone… about…" He blanked out for a second, but the voice repeated the words again. It sounded more patient this time. "I will never inform anyone about what happened in the Chamber of Secrets."

He could feel a weak flare of magic seeping out of his body. The darkness threatened anew, but the same voice murmured some spell, vanquishing it successfully.

"Good," it said. A hand stroked his hair possessively. "Now, one more thing. Say, 'I will never deliberately disclose my knowledge of Horcruxes or Parseltongue to anyone.'

This was more difficult, but Harry managed to utter the words from the third attempt. The pain was lessening, with another kind of magic spreading through him, enveloping his insides into a comforting cocoon.

"Good," the voice repeated. Then Harry was being lifted. He tried to protest, but a spell — and he plunged right back into the abyss.

THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

When he woke up again, he felt much better. His mind was almost clear, his limbs were almost functional, and the terrible sensation of the boiling heat disappeared without trace. His body still hurt, but distantly — this kind of pain was nothing new, so Harry pushed himself onto his elbows, surveying the room.

He was at the Hospital Wing. The room was the same he remembered, with only several small changes: the curtains were blindingly white, and there were more beds inside.

Eventually, his gaze stopped at the figure sitting in a chair right next to him, and his heart froze. The memories returned full-force, and Harry inhaled sharply, trying to slow their onslaught.

Riddle.

Riddle had tried to kill him. Everything was a ruse — he lured him into the Chamber of Secrets to perform a ritual and take the Horcrux out of him, offering himself as its new vessel. And then Harry…

He lied. He lied even more elaborately than before, confessing his non-existent love, promising unwavering acceptance…

Oh God. What had he done?

"Welcome back," Riddle purred, and only the sound of his voice stopped Harry from succumbing to panic. He tried to breathe more slowly, but his heart continued to pound, threatening to break his ribcage. "You look better."

"No thanks to you," he croaked. Riddle gave him a condescending smile.

"On the contrary, you are alive because of me," he said, dark satisfaction ringing in each syllable. "In a way, this means your life belongs to me now, don't you think?"

"Not when you were the one who tried to take it," Harry spat. His hands rolled into helpless fists. It was a good thing he didn't have his wand nearby because the urge to curse Riddle was unbearable, and this would likely be suicide even if he wasn't this weakened.

"But I didn't. I changed my mind, and so this changes things."

The hot fury stumbled before coming to a halt entirely. Its echoes still sent tremors of anger through Harry, but other feelings began to sneak in, too.

Riddle did save his life. Harry's lies must have been really convincing if Riddle was ready to sacrifice his meticulous plans and ideas just to keep him alive when he'd already chosen against it. Why?

Apparently, he'd blurted this question out because a thin smile touched Riddle's lips.

"Let's just say, I'm intrigued by the possibilities of your existence," he drawled. His attention felt sharp and intrusive in a way it never had before — there was something new to it, some deeper, more personal interest. "Having you alive is currently more interesting than killing you."

Bitterness and fury bit into Harry, urging him to hurl something devastating at Riddle — but he couldn't. And in the end, he had only himself to blame for what had nearly happened.

He was clueless and overconfident. He thought he understood what Riddle wanted. He was wrong, and this almost cost him his life.

He would not make the same mistake again. He would learn from it, and if Riddle planned something else, he would be more attentive — he would catch the signs early.

Still… wasn't acting angry natural, even in the context of his tale about love? If he loved Riddle, he would feel absolutely crushed right now, so there was nothing wrong in expressing his feelings.

"Do you think your actions have no consequences?" Harry asked coldly. "The Horcruxes clearly taught you nothing."

"But there can be no consequences," Riddle said, his smile widening to a darker grin. "You made an oath, remember? You cannot inform anyone about what has happened."

Harry's mind span, instantly rebelling against this restriction.

He could inform no one? Okay, the wording of the oath was pretty definite. But Riddle was missing one thing. The oath covered Harry and Harry alone. It didn't cover the second party — the guilty party.

A slow smile emerged on his lips, instantly wiping Riddle's from his face.

"Do you want to bet?" Harry asked. Riddle narrowed his eyes, studying him, his mind obviously whirling with possibilities.

He must have discarded each one because soon enough, he smirked again, baring his teeth in an indulgent challenge.

"Be my guest," he murmured, his voice soft and inviting. "Try to teach me a lesson. I'll be looking forward to it."

"You won't have to wait long," Harry promised.

He had a plan, one that would help him to work at least some of his current rage out of his system.