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.

3. Chapter 3 A Shifting Tone

Chapter Three: A Tone Shift

The shadows moved through the room, whispering something he didn't understand. Their voice was familiar: it had some note that a part of him instinctively recognised, but no matter how much he tried to absorb it, he couldn't arrive at the name.

The room darkened further. The walls and the ceiling disappeared — now all he had was the floor. Harry tried to keep his balance, but the darkness was absolute, too powerful to break through. His head began to spin as he kept walking forwards. He had no direction, no goal, just a desperate need to keep moving. Because if he stopped… if he stopped…

You left me, the voice said mournfully. Harry clung to it even as his feet started moving faster, eager to escape it. You let them take me and then you left. I'm still there. Did you know it?

The name caught up with him. It burned his lungs, scorched his throat, but he still breathed it out.

"Hermione."

As soon as he said it, the darkness shattered. His eyes flew open and he stared at the dark green canopy above his head, fighting for breath.

It took some time before his heart stopped galloping. Distantly, he could hear the others leaving their beds and dressing, exchanging low murmurs. It must have been time to go to have breakfast, but he couldn't force himself to get up. His body refused to move.

It was just a nightmare. It was meaningless. He hadn't left Hermione behind — he saved her in the only way he could by travelling through time, to a period where she wasn't born yet and where he had a chance to build a better world.

His original time no longer existed. Death Eaters who captured Hermione no longer existed. She no longer felt pain or terror — she was safe. He made sure of it.

…But what if he was wrong? What if his time wasn't obliterated and Hermione was still there, at the Ministry, tortured and abandoned by everyone? Abandoned by him.

A shudder went through him. Harry closed his eyes, tried to send the thought away, but it burrowed deeper into his mind with merciless glee. When he tried to fight back, it attacked, sending a volley of images detailing Hermione's possible fate.

How could he know if he really ended up in the past? What if this was the alternative universe like he'd told Riddle? What if he left Hermione for a fate worse than death?

His heart sank. Harry took a deep breath, gathered all his strength and forced himself to sit up.

On days like this, when his body insisted on shutting down and his mind was in the mood to torment him, the only thing he could do to distract himself was focus on the mechanics of his actions.

Shifting. Putting one foot onto the floor, then another. Standing up. Putting his clothes on piece by piece.

By the time he made it to the Great Hall, the breakfast was already coming to an end. Riddle ignored him when he sat down, but he radiated displeasure, probably from Harry's lateness. Greengrass and Avery sneered, Lestrange didn't bother to look up, and Alphard shifted uncomfortably, throwing quick glances at everyone, then directing a guilty look at Harry and dropping his head, pretending to ignore him, too.

His mood plummeted further. With a scowl, Harry put a sausage on his plate. He couldn't bring himself to eat it, though. Nausea rolled down his throat from the smell alone — his stomach wouldn't agree to accept even one piece.

The more he sat without eating, the more negativity he could feel. It accumulated around him from all sides, and finally, his patience snapped. He shifted to stand up, but before he could even move properly, Riddle's voice assaulted him.

"It's impolite to leave before everyone finishes eating."

It sounded very quietly, but the force of command in it was unmistakable. A protest rose up inside Harry by instinct alone.

"It's impolite to try to kill people, too, but I don't see it stopping you," he retorted. He spoke just as quietly, but if people like Greengrass and Alphard were listening attentively, they could probably catch it.

Riddle's eyes flashed in a warning. Harry smirked at him, a liberating rush of adrenaline washing through him and chasing some of the blackness away.

"I promised you a lesson," he added lowly. He stood up, not breaking eye contact. "I hope you're prepared because it's about to start."

Riddle's face didn't change, but Harry still sensed an explosion of rage in him. His magic turned toxic. It intensified oppressively, though if not for Harry's increased sensitivity, he would have never been able to tell. Riddle was good at keeping up a blank mask — sometimes. It slipped far more often when they were alone.

Lifting his bag, Harry left the table, his steps more lively than they'd been when he walked in. It was strange how one short poisonous exchange with Riddle re-energised him. The gloom seemed to retreat, and the anticipation of what was to come filled him to the brim.

The whispers of Hermione's ghost died. A small part of Harry missed them.

HTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

To his luck, Professor Merrythought didn't change the weekly tradition. Their lesson started with duelling, and Harry raised his hand so highly and so rapidly that it got him some surprised looks.

"Eager today, Mr. Potter?" Professor Merrythought asked, the corners of her eyes crinkling with amusement. "Very well. Who would you like to duel?"

"Tom Riddle," he said. Incredulous silence dropped. Some people began to whisper to each other, but Harry's eyes were fixed on Riddle and Riddle alone.

He was taken aback, Harry could see it. However, the expression of surprise vanished quickly. Raising an amused eyebrow, Riddle tilted his head derisively, his posture screaming of arrogance and superiority.

"I accept," he uttered. His voice sounded soft and demure, but what Harry heard was, 'If I must indulge your delusions, I shall, but you're only going to embarrass yourself.'

If only Riddle knew.

Professor Merrythought looked intrigued as she cleared the space for them, her eyes darting between them assessingly. Harry took his place and gazed at the other students. Alphard looked appalled; Avery and Lestrange were snickering, and Greengrass looked at him as if he were a cockroach. Her normally even features were twisted in disgust.

"Is this how you are hoping to teach me a lesson?" Riddle wondered. Professor Merrythought was now conjuring a barrier separating them from the students, so any words must have come out too unclearly to be deciphered. "I'm disappointed. I thought that you'd pose at least some challenge. Duelling? Truly? You know you won't win. You are no match for me."

"Who told you that I want to win?" Harry asked. His heart soared when Riddle blinked, a light frown creasing his forehead.

"All right, it's all done," Professor Merrythought announced. "Bow to each other. You'll begin at the count of three."

She might have said something else, but Harry barely heard it. His heart was beating with increasing frequency, his world focused on Riddle's smug face.

Two days. Two days had passed since Riddle attempted to kill him. Harry insisted on getting out of the Hospital Wing quickly for this opportunity, for this lesson, and though it was going to be difficult, he knew he could fulfil his promise. He just had to hold on long enough.

He didn't hear Professor Merrythought's count, but he knew when they had to start. In a split of a second, Riddle raised his wand, and Harry instantly reacted to it. They released their spells simultaneously: two beams of light collided, and their colour changed to golden. Sparks erupted, forming a dome around them. Harry's wand began to vibrate violently, and he gripped it tightly, channelling all his energy into it.

He'd used a dangerous spell, and Riddle had likely done the same. In these conditions, Priori Incantatem effect was inevitable, and it was absorbing them now, deliberating which of them to choose. The beads of light were scampering towards Harry before changing direction, and Harry focused even more, willing them to move to Riddle.

The magic didn't lift them up in the air like it had done for him and Voldemort, but even without it, it had the effect Harry had been hoping for. Riddle was astonished: if it wasn't for his instincts, Harry was certain he'd have dropped his wand. His shock and incomprehension were so vivid that it felt physically nourishing — and this was just the beginning.

The heat grew stronger. The wand trembled furiously, trying to wriggle out of his hold, and Harry clung to it like his life depended on it. If this was a mere battle of wills, he might have struggled more, but Riddle's confusion played to his advantage. Some more effort, and he would force Priori Incantatem on him.

Harry put all his rage, all his passion into his magic. The beads of light shifted to Riddle. Inch by inch, they crawled to the tip of his wand, and then they connected with it.

Echoes of every spell Riddle had been using lately began to materialise, flaring to life and fading. Some spells lingered, but simple ones like Reparo disappeared quickly, so it wasn't long until Harry saw what he'd been anticipating.

Riddle's creepy modified blood-boiling curse manifested as a hissing cloud of red smoke. Even as an echo, it vibrated with power, emanating a vicious energy that only truly dark spells had. It curled around a smoky silhouette resembling Harry before piercing it, causing it to collapse and shatter from the impact.

Other spells began to appear, but the shadow of the blood-boiling one stayed behind. It faded a little but it continued to glow ominously, a reminder of how much power and intent Riddle had put in it.

The memory of the pain it brought, the horrible sensation of feeling his insides turn to heated liquid blinded Harry. He lost his concentration and the magic halted, the still-visible spells cluttering around Riddle for a moment, then scattering.

All the smoke disappeared, so Harry could enjoy the look of stupefied horror on Riddle's face. For the first time since ever, he lacked words. He might have wanted to say something, to provide some explanation, but all he could was stare at Harry stupidly.

He lost. He lost, and he knew it. The entire class along with their professor saw what spell he had used, and while the majority probably didn't understand what it was, Professor Merrythought did. She knew dark spells, so she had to recognise what the hissing red fog symbolised. She also knew about the attack on Harry. While he claimed he hadn't seen his attacker, putting two and two together wouldn't take her long, and once she realised that it was Riddle who had cursed him, she would have to take action.

Justice, brief as it was, filled Harry with a heady sense of triumph. Adrenaline was still pulsing through his veins, and he allowed himself to bask in it, to let a reckless smile touch his lips.

Riddle stiffened. The primal rage that flared in his eyes almost coloured them red. His wand hand shifted, but then he dropped it listlessly. He had to know there was nothing he could do — not now, at least. Harry had no doubts he was already contemplating some complicated scheme of revenge, but at the moment, he didn't care. Grim satisfaction was swirling through his blood, and if they were alone, he would have laughed.

This was a lesson Riddle wouldn't forget any time soon.

"Mr. Riddle," Professor Merrythought said. Her voice was so rigid that Harry automatically glanced at her. She was equally pale, and she stared at Riddle like she'd never seen him before. "Come with me. We need to see the headmaster. Mr. Potter, please join us."

With a nod, Harry stepped out of the podium and went to collect his things. He brushed against Alphard, who stood frozen and lost, and gave him a brief cheeky smile. Alphard didn't return it, but Harry didn't expect him to. In another life, they might have been friends. In this one, Riddle was in Alphard's blood, and no matter how much it crippled him, Alphard would choose Riddle again and again. Some influences couldn't be broken.

Harry grabbed his bag and began to move towards the door, but Greengrass stepped in front of him. Somehow, she managed to look paler than Riddle. Her green eyes were wide with fury — even her lips were trembling in her barely suppressed hostility.

"I will make you pay," she hissed. This must have been the first full sentence she had ever spoken to him. "If you dare to say anything about him to Dumbledore, you can say goodbye to this school. I will make your life hell."

Dumbledore? Weren't they going to Dippet?

"Get in line," Harry advised her. "Better yet, get a life. He's incapable of whatever it is you think him capable of."

Greengrass gasped in outrage. Her magic crackled dangerously, but Harry ignored it. Not giving her another look, he followed Professor Merrythought and Riddle.

HTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Greengrass turned out to be right. For some reason, they went to Dumbledore's office. Dippet was nowhere in sight.

"Priori Incantatem," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. His gaze was shrewd as he directed it at Riddle's wand. "How interesting indeed. I have not heard of this spell being activated during a simple school duel."

"It was an unusual form of magic that activated it," Professor Merrythought said. She was avoiding looking in Riddle's direction, as if he wasn't standing right there. "I don't know what it was, but I think you'll agree that it isn't the most relevant issue here."

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore narrowed his eyes in concentration. "Do you have any explanation, Mr. Riddle? Why does your wand show the evidence of performing a blood-boiling curse?"

Riddle didn't say anything. He looked like a statue — only his eyes betrayed life in him. They were burning with so much anger and hatred that Harry thought this stare alone could generate enough magic to incinerate him.

He was certain that Riddle could come up with a dozen possible explanations. There was only one thing stopping him from trying to talk his way out of it: Harry himself. The Vow he'd been forced to make prevented him from telling the truth, but nothing could stop him from refuting any theory Riddle presented. As a victim, he had every advantage. Riddle was at his mercy now, and he was well aware of this fact.

"I see," Dumbledore said when the silence grew uncomfortable. He exchanged a grim look with Professor Merrythought. "I admit, I suspected that something untoward might be happening in Slytherin, but I didn't want to believe it. Mr. Riddle has exemplary records, after all, and Professor Slughorn has nothing but praise for him. It pains me to see that all of us were so wrong."

Riddle didn't move or react outwardly, but his magic whirled around in a furious dance. It was wild and frantic, and it was strong enough to potentially demolish Dumbledore's office until even the bricks weren't left. His knuckles turned white, and Harry took his last fill of this pleasing sight before squaring his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, professors, but you misunderstood," he said politely. "Tom didn't do anything to me."

Deep silence followed his claim. Everyone stared at him, but Harry had his eyes for Riddle.

Let him know who was saving him. Let him remember it. He wasn't the only one who could inflict damage and then change his mind — two of them could play this game.

Riddle stared back. His face was a waxen mask, his rage tamed by suspicion and disbelief. He stayed silent, probably unwilling to rely on Harry's fragile favour and risk making an even bigger idiot out of himself.

He was lucky that Harry had no intention of actually seeing him punished. Not like this. To ensure that Voldemort never came to exist, he had to play a longer, smarter game, and hopefully, the outcomes would be much more rewarding than Riddle's expulsion from Hogwarts.

"Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore asked. Harry finally tore his gaze away from Riddle and turned to him. "Have we misunderstood you? Are you denying the fact that Mr. Riddle attacked you?"

"I do," Harry kept his voice even. "He didn't attack me."

"What are you saying?" Professor Merrythought exclaimed. Unlike Dumbledore, who appeared neutral, she sounded wildly hopeful, like she was willing to cling to any rational explanation. She must really like Riddle to crave the confirmation of his innocence this much. "Did someone else use Mr. Riddle's wand?"

Dumbledore started at this, but before he could protest, Harry cleared his throat.

"Not exactly," he said. "Tom and I were practising new spells together. We understand that the war with Grindelwald might last for a long time, and we want to be prepared to fight. Not just duel, actually fight. We wanted to learn how to cancel the effects of the blood-boiling curse, and Tom tried to modify it to be less dangerous. But when he cast it, it was unbearable. He must have gotten something wrong."

The rise of Riddle's displeasure was palpable. A muscle twitched on his face at the insinuation that he could ever fail to do spell work properly, but he knew better than to argue. Harry measured him with a derisive stare.

"We didn't want to tell anyone," he added, looking at Dumbledore again. "So I pretended like I didn't remember anything. I don't know what happened just now, as we duelled, but Tom didn't try to hurt me on purpose. It was an accident."

"You two!" Professor Merrythought shook her head, almost sagging in her relief. "You stupid boys, don't you know how dangerous modified spells could be? You could have hurt each other in irreversible ways!"

Riddle pursed his lips so tightly that they practically disappeared from view. He probably didn't appreciate being called stupid, but even his arrogance wasn't stronger than his sense of self-preservation. He bowed his head in fake contrition.

"I was certain that my calculations were accurate," he murmured. "I apologise. From now on, we will keep our training restricted to safer spells."

"You do that," Professor Merrythought agreed. She tried to sound stern, but her lips were spreading in a helpless smile. "You know you can come to me with any questions, Mr. Riddle. You are a very bright young man, you have a great future ahead. I'd be honoured to help you. The same applies to you, Mr. Potter," she looked at Harry, warmer than he'd ever remembered her being. "That the two of you are already thinking of how to help to defend our country from that self-proclaimed Dark Lord, despite being students… it speaks of who you are and who you will become. As your teacher, I couldn't feel prouder."

Riddle looked so sour, as if his mouth was full of acid. Dumbledore was watching them all, and the calculating expression on his face made Harry shift cautiously.

He'd really have rather done this in front of Dippet. Interacting with Dumbledore still filled him with too many emotions. He didn't want to experience them, to torment himself with the thoughts of what he lost and might never recover. Hopefully, they wouldn't have private meetings from now on.

"Very well," Dumbledore said at last. His eyes lingered on Harry. "We'll put this incident behind us. I trust you'll show more care towards your actions. Mr. Riddle, you are a prefect. I would hate to see you lose this privilege."

His words didn't sound authentic, and Riddle must have felt this, too. He forced a tiny smile on his face.

"I understand," he said shortly. "If that's all, may we leave? As a prefect, I'd hate to be late for our next lesson."

Dumbledore nodded wordlessly. Professor Merrythought gave him the last cheerful smile. She clearly planned to stay behind, probably to discuss everything with Dumbledore, so Harry followed Riddle out and closed the door.

For a minute, they walked in silence. Harry could tell that they weren't going anywhere resembling a classroom — on the contrary, Riddle was taking him to a more secluded part of the castle where meeting a student would be a rarity.

He didn't mind. They would have to talk sooner or later. Riddle would never accept his defeat quietly.

They made another turn, and before Harry could react, Riddle grabbed him by his collar and slammed him against the wall. The impact instantly knocked the breath out of his lungs.

"I should have killed you," Riddle said. His face, which even Harry found mesmerizingly handsome, was contorted into an ugly grimace. "Letting you live was the biggest mistake I have made."

"Making a Horcrux was your biggest mistake," Harry told him. Riddle's hold was too strong to shake it off without cursing or outright punching him, so he kept still for now. "And if you're afraid of the consequences of your actions, you should think twice before doing them. You might be certain that you've taken everything into account, but as you've just seen, you can't account for every aspect. Some things are beyond your control."

Riddle snarled. He fist pressed against Harry's throat, and Harry released a hoarse chuckle.

"You are one sore loser," he rasped. He tried to suck in some air, but it was difficult — too difficult. "I didn't force you to accept my bet, you did it yourself. You were too arrogant to consider that you might lose. Well, you did lose, so you know what?" Harry grabbed Riddle's hand and twisted it, pushing himself off the wall aggressively enough for Riddle to step back automatically. "Deal with it. Be grateful that you lost to me and not to someone who would let you get expelled — something you deserve because, in case you forgot, you tried to kill me. Just like you killed Myrtle."

Riddle didn't try to attack him again, but his stare was deadly. His magic formed dangerous circles around him, vibrating with the barely suppressed need to lash out. He was the embodiment of fury, and it was so hypocritical that Harry shook his head in amazement.

"Are you completely unable to look at the situation in reverse?" he wondered. His throat still hurt, so he rubbed it carefully. "What if I tried to kill you? Something's telling me that you would have retaliated much more drastically. So why does me fighting back offend you?"

It seemed so simple and clear to Harry. Riddle was terrified of death — his obsessive collection of war-related clippings confirmed it. And despite this, he eagerly brought death to others, not stopping for a moment to think that maybe they didn't want to die, too.

He craved respect but he didn't respect anyone. He thrived on the system of humiliation he had built in Slytherin. How could this be? How could someone fear something and then inflict the thing that scared them on others with no qualms? Worse, with satisfaction?

"I'm unable to look at the situation in reverse because I could have never been in your position," Riddle hissed. He sounded livid — and was it English or Parseltongue? "I'm not stupid enough to let someone lure me into an impenetrable room and approach me from behind. I'm not stupid enough to let someone catch me off guard and attack me."

Disbelief stirred inside. Harry shook his head again as even more confusion flooded him. How could Riddle miss the point so completely?

"It's not about the specific details," he snapped, impatient. "It's about emotions. I tried to help you; I trusted your invitation to talk, and you used it against me. You nearly killed me. Now you're angry that I pushed back? You're unbelievable!"

Riddle glowered. His hand was in his pocket, probably clenching his wand, but he didn't take it out.

This was progress, and Harry knew that he shouldn't say anything else. Riddle was already brimming with violence: provoking him further, justified as it was, would do him no favours.

But his own anger was already spreading, too, just as hot and untameable. How arrogant and clueless could Riddle be? Could he seriously not comprehend that actions had consequences and that he was not exempt from them, regardless of how highly he regarded himself? If anything, Harry had shown him benevolence, but Riddle looked like he was one step away from cursing him again, this time fatally. Harry could bet that the only thing stopping him was the worry about the repeat of Priori Incantatem.

His lips curled in a mocking smile.

"Learned your lesson now, haven't you?" he drawled. Riddle stiffened. His eyes flared murderously, and he took a step in Harry's direction again. The heat from his fury reached him even before Riddle got too close — it electrified the air between and around them, the traces of angry magic almost forming a new fiery dome above their heads.

"How did you do it?" Riddle asked lowly. His breathing was uneven, his face flushed from his visible efforts to keep his temper in check.

"How did I do what?"

"You know what. That spell. Priori Incantatem. How did you manage to push it on me? Why did it drown my curse?"

"So you admit that there are things beyond your control or knowledge?"

Riddle whipped out his wand and pressed it against Harry's bruised throat. He was almost shaking now, his expression livid, his eyes unnaturally black.

Okay. Perhaps he'd overdone it a little. Another provocative line and Riddle would spit out a killing curse at him without giving it another thought.

Breathing in deeply to calm himself, Harry brushed his fingers across Riddle's wand. He expected to feel revulsion, alienation — this piece of wood had terminated so many lives, would gladly end so many more if nothing changed, but all he sensed was warmth. The angry magic emanating from the wand vanished, as if Harry's touch soothed it. He blinked, surprised, and noted how Riddle shifted, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"It's our wands," Harry explained belatedly. After all the taunting, it was odd to go back to speaking normally. "We have brother wands. They share a core. A feather that came from the same phoenix. We can't hurt each other in a duel, they won't let us. When we try, it triggers the reverse spell effect, and the losing wand produces the echoes of all the spells its owner used one by one."

Riddle's stare narrowed.

"The losing wand?" he repeated. Since it didn't look like he was about to fly into another fit of rage, Harry shrugged.

"I'm not really sure what determines it," he admitted. "Maybe concentration or the power of will. I knew what to expect, you didn't, so I won."

Riddle inclined his head, watching him. He got quiet again, but in a thoughtful way. Harry couldn't imagine what he was thinking.

Almost a minute passed in silence before Riddle spoke again.

"Why do we have brother wands?"

Harry hesitated. Fortunately, he didn't have to reply because Riddle did it for him.

"It couldn't be because of me making you my Horcruх," he murmured. "We were eleven when our wands chose us. What is the chance that we developed a friendship and then ended up with similar wands? There has to be something—" Riddle paused, a light frown marring his forehead. "There has to be a deeper kind of bond. If magic recognised it before I placed a piece of my soul in you…"

Harry had to take a deep breath to avoid groaning in frustration.

Great, just great. Riddle was making theories based on his lies again. Harry was pretty certain that the only reason he got a similar wand was because of Voldemort's Horcrux in him, but obviously, he couldn't say it, not when Riddle thought the ritual happened years later.

A new thought entered his mind, and he stilled, suddenly cautious.

On the other hand… was it because of the Horcrux? His wand had always felt so comfortable, so familiar. It was a part of him, and Harry could swear that this part went much deeper than whatever influence the Horcrux might have on him.

His wand was his. He refused to believe it would suddenly stop recognising him if he ever managed to destroy a Horcrux inside himself.

"What kind of bond could explain it, though?" he asked tensely. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. Was there something else linking him and Riddle together? The irony couldn't be crueller.

"I don't know," Riddle said. He was still staring, his calculating interest slowly growing into a more personal type of fascination. Harry shivered, uncomfortable with it.

"But those wands existed even before we came for them," he pointed out awkwardly. "If it wasn't us, someone else would have collected them sooner or later. I don't think it implies any kind of bond. Two completely unrelated people could be chosen by these wands in completely different periods."

"Yes," Riddle agreed slowly, his eyes still fixed on Harry, "but they chose us. People who share a past. Do you realise how unlikely of a coincidence it is?"

Harry took a step to the side, wanting to increase the distance between them.

"Okay, let's say it's not a coincidence. What is it, then? People are not just born bonded to each other."

"That we know of."

This left him speechless. Harry gaped, astonished and offended.

What was Riddle implying? That they were some kind of soulmates? The idea was disgusting, and he wasn't certain he managed to hide his revulsion on time. Riddle squinted.

"For someone who claims to love me, you don't seem overly enthusiastic about being in my presence," he noted. His voice got colder, and Harry's heart dropped.

He'd really trapped himself without ever meaning to. This was where half-baked plans led to. Just a few months in this place and he was already getting lost in all the lies he'd let Riddle believe.

He'd slip up. Sooner or later, he'd slip up, and Riddle would kill him for sure.

And since he thought of it…

"Why would I be enthusiastic about being in the presence of someone who tried to kill me?" Harry wondered. He hoped the coldness of his voice hid his nervousness. "Everything you did since my arrival is not exactly what I'd call friendly. And you and I don't have a close relationship here."

"Well, it is destined to change, isn't it?" Riddle stepped closer in pursuit. He slid his wand down Harry's face, and they both shuddered at the same time. The warmth was still there, tingling, coming to life between them. It was eerie how comfortable this sensation was and how much a part of Harry didn't want to pull away.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked hoarsely. Riddle tilted his head, leaning so close, as if he wanted to chase the magic that flowed between his wand and Harry's skin. His breath tickled, and Harry shuddered again, this time from the confusing mix of adrenaline, anger, and anticipation.

"The fate seems very insistent on throwing us together," Riddle murmured right into his ear. "Being placed in the same orphanage in your universe, having the twin wands… You coming here, in a world where I exist and your prototype does not. Me growing so— desolate to have you close that I immortalised you to always be with me…" He paused, and Harry drew in a sharp breath.

He wasn't sure he liked where this was going. Getting Riddle's attention was good, it was what he'd come here for, but this… whatever it was… it was unnerving. Worse, his body disagreed. It thrummed with energy he didn't understand, as if his magic wanted to crawl out of him and to meld with Riddle's. He'd never experienced anything like this with Voldemort, so why this, why now?

Riddle didn't seem to share his panicked thoughts. On the contrary, he looked wildly alive. His eyes were burning with fervent interest, and he still stood uncomfortably close.

"There has to be something about you," he uttered in wonder. "Something that has to speak to me eventually. I'm not sure what it is yet, but I don't believe in coincidences. We're connected. I'll find out how."

"That sounds like a threat," Harry pushed out. He shifted away again, breaking the contact between them. "Are you capable of speaking normally?"

"I thought you told Greengrass that I'm incapable of anything."

Oh. He heard that?

Harry flushed, mortified. Needing to busy himself with something, he focused on adjusting his bag, but then a welcome surge of resolution enveloped him. Grateful for this intervention, he looked up and stared back at Riddle.

"You know what I meant."

Riddle arched an eyebrow without saying anything. He appeared expectant, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Come on," he urged. "All your followers, all your fans, they have hopes and expectations that you will never fulfil, no matter how much you mislead them into believing otherwise. They think that if they try hard enough, achieve more, they'll earn your respect and regard. But it will never happen. You will never care about them, not even if they serve you for a thousand years. And Greengrass in particular would probably like to marry you."

Riddle tried to look dispassionate, but the corner of his lips curled in genuine disgust. Harry caught it, and then he couldn't help snorting with laughter.

"Exactly," he muttered with satisfaction. "Although, why not? She's from a prominent family. She's dedicated to your cause. You could get even more connections by— oh, right. Forget it."

"What?" Riddle asked. He sounded intrigued, and Harry thought he saw a ghost of a smile on his lips. Granted, it wasn't a very nice smile, but it wasn't a murderous scowl either, so it was probably a good sign.

"I just realised why you would never marry her even if it would make you the richest man in Britain," he explained. "Your ego would not let you. You want to build your own connections. Being a trophy husband would not appeal to you at all."

"A trophy husband?" Riddle repeated in amusement. He leaned against the wall, appearing relaxed and at ease. For some reason, Harry was struck by it, so it took a while for him to speak again.

He'd never seen Riddle look so… comfortable. He tended to sit, walk, and stand with a perfectly straight back — he barely resembled a human sometimes with all his visible flawlessness. To press against the wall like a normal person? It was out of character. Harry supposed he should be flattered that Riddle managed to relax in his company.

He'd feel better if it wasn't for a false reason.

The moment this thought crossed his mind, he scowled. If Riddle was warming up to him a little bit, why did it matter what caused it? His goal was to stop Riddle from becoming Voldemort, preferably through influence and persuasion. Every method worked, even if they were based on a lie.

"Or just a husband in general," he said. When Riddle looked at him questioningly, Harry waved his hand in a vague direction. "I mean that you wouldn't want to share an inch of your success with someone else. You'd want to be known for your own achievements, not for marrying a pureblood. Tying yourself to someone like this, even if only formally, in exchange for more power… no. You'd choose grander and creepier ways."

"Promise you'll never tell," Riddle drawled. He was smirking, glowing with smugness and a strange kind of delight. It was like hearing Harry talk about him, analyse him, pleased him like the self-absorbed narcissist he was.

He didn't need to know that most of Harry's observations stemmed from being his enemy, and that practically nothing he said to him was meant as a compliment.

"We should go," Harry murmured, turning his back to Riddle. "Being late when you specifically told Dumbledore we're heading to a lesson would be stupid."

Riddle didn't argue. It was strange how quickly his mood could shift: he had been half-ready to murder him when they came here, yet now he was in high spirits.

Harry wondered how soon the switch would come about again.

HTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

When they walked into the Charms classroom, all the Slytherins immediately went silent. The majority stared at Riddle, and he gave them a brief generic smile. This seemed to reassure them. Their curiosity was palpable, but they began to turn away with some reluctance — only a few continued to look.

Alphard, Lestrange, Avery, and Greengras were among them. They didn't seem to be blinking, their gazes fixed on Riddle questioningly. Each of them radiated so much tension and concern, like their lives depended on whatever had gone on in Dumbledore's office.

Harry barely managed to catch how Riddle made a quick motion with his hand in their direction. He didn't know what it meant, but everyone instantly relaxed. All fight went out of them. Greengrass smiled, looking unusually open and genuine. Lestrange shifted his focus, more interested in playing with his wand now that he knew Riddle wasn't about to be expelled, while Alphard and Avery just looked elsewhere.

"What's with the silent language?" Harry murmured. He moved towards Alphard, towards his seat, knowing Riddle was following. "It looks like something out of a ridiculous spy thriller. Or like dog training."

"The latter, I think," Riddle said. Harry's head snapped to him in surprise. He didn't know what he wanted more, to bark out a laugh or to gape in disbelief at the audacity. Riddle didn't look at him, though — he approached Greengrass and took his seat, calm and demure, confident that no one but Harry heard him.

Maybe I shouldn't be surprised, Harry thought as he pulled out his book and the quill. While Riddle probably saw merit in having a secret language he could use to communicate with his followers, it made sense that his primary need for creating it was his obsessive craving for control and his inflated sense of superiority. He must feel a stirring of sick excitement every time he moved his finger and saw the heirs of pureblood families jump in their eagerness to interpret it.

Harry risked a glance at him. Riddle was re-reading his essay; Greengrass watched him covertly, looking away just to glance at him again. Like she couldn't admire him enough.

At least Avery and Lestrange didn't seem as obsessed. Alphard wasn't either — if anything, he kept peering at Harry with increasing frequency.

When Professor Rosewood started the lesson, he finally found his voice.

"What happened?" he whispered. "What did you say to Dumbledore? What did Dumbledore say?"

"You are talking to me now?" Harry asked in disinterest. He didn't look, but he sensed how Alphard deflated.

They hadn't exchanged a word since Riddle's attack. Alphard didn't come to visit him at the Hospital Wing and he didn't speak to him upon his release, not even to find out how he was doing.

Harry suspected that all members of Riddle's closest circle knew what happened to him without having to ask. In fact, probably most of the Slytherin knew. But no one worried, and no one cared. It really was a pit with snakes, so removed from Gryffindor that if he allowed himself to dwell on it, he'd fall back into the bottomless swamp of depression.

He couldn't blame Alphard for being spineless when it came to Riddle — this seemed to be a trend among people in both timelines. But it didn't mean he had to play nice with him either.

Harry tried to focus on Professor Rosewood, but to his surprise, Alphard spoke to him again.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. He sounded genuinely apologetic, and Harry couldn't help turning to him. "I know I should have checked up on you. But if Tom was that angry at you for breaking into his trunk, I figured it'd be safer to act like I didn't know anything about your plans. It was selfish, but… I didn't want him to lose trust in me. And I couldn't really do anything for you anyway, so…"

"A trunk?" Harry repeated blankly. "You think Riddle put me in a Hospital Wing over a trunk?"

It was Alphard's turn to look perplexed.

"How can there be any other reason?" he wondered incredulously. "Are you telling me you somehow pissed him off in addition to going through his things? On the same night?"

"I don't think Riddle even knows about the trunk."

Alphard stared at him for a moment. Then his eyes lit up. He threw a cursory glance at Riddle before leaning closer to Harry.

"Tell me," he begged in a whisper. "So you did break into his trunk and he still has no idea? How did you do it? What about his locking charms? And why did he punish you if he didn't find out?"

Harry shook his head, amused despite his earlier determination not to indulge Alphard's curiosity. But there was something so endearing in his enthusiasm, something so playful — it reminded Harry of Sirius. And this meant he couldn't resist for long.

"I have a wand that's similar to Riddle's," he whispered back vaguely. "I managed to peer inside without triggering any curses, so yeah, he doesn't know. And you probably shouldn't tell him."

"I won't!" Alphard swore. He gave Riddle another brief glance and then lowered his voice even more. "What was inside? Did you discover what letters he gets each morning?"

Harry hesitated. Riddle obviously didn't want anyone to know that he was collecting Muggle newspapers about the war. That he was terrified of it. That he wanted to know what summer he would be facing when the school year ended. And somehow, telling Alphard about it didn't seem right, even though Riddle deserved none of the loyalty.

"The envelopes were sealed," he said slowly. "I wasn't sure I'd be able to seal them back, so I didn't touch them. Apart from that… there wasn't anything special. Just some useless stuff and gifts people must have given him."

"Oh," Alphard's face fell, but it brightened again before Harry could blink. "Did you see a toy model of a broom there? It's my gift, I gave it to him on his last birthday. I was wondering if he kept it."

"A toy broom?" Harry repeated in bemusement. Of all ideas for a gift, this one would never occur to him. "But Riddle doesn't like Quidditch."

Alphard gave him a strange look.

"Of course he does. He might not be involved in the team but come on, who doesn't like Quidditch?"

Riddle doesn't, Harry thought. He didn't say it aloud, but Alphard still got an apprehensive look.

"You think it was a bad gift?" he asked. His shoulders drooped. "I actually don't know if Tom likes Quidditch. He never said— I just assumed. But it was an expensive model, a unique one. I had it made for him specially, it even has his name on it."

Harry cringed inwardly at the thought of the face Riddle must have made when he saw this gift. A toy broom symbolising a sport he despised with the name he hated engraved on it… this couldn't have gone well.

But if Alphard didn't think anything was amiss, then Riddle must have reacted with basic decency, miraculous as it was. If so, Harry wasn't going to dash Alphard's hopes either.

"It sounds great," he said encouragingly. "I'd have loved getting a gift like this. I used to play Quidditch before, did I tell you about it? I was a Seeker."

Based on how Alphard's eyes flashed with excitement, the crisis was successfully averted.

HTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Harry didn't speak with Riddle again that day. He couldn't even if he wanted to: it seemed like the entire Slytherin House clung to their leader even harder than before, swarming around him like besotted flies. Harry got evil looks here and there, but mostly, people appeared to wait to take their cue from Riddle. Since he didn't do anything, by the end of the day, the hostility faded, and Harry could enjoy being the subject of indifference again.

The next afternoon, he found himself paired with Riddle during Herbology. They were supposed to clean a magic-sensitive plant off its endless thorns manually: the task was boring but Harry liked it a lot. It reminded him of the months he spent taking care of Aunt Petunia's garden. Those weren't good memories — they were filled with scorching heat, sweat, hopeless thirst, and tiredness, but the fact that they were a part of life where most people he loved were alive and happy made Harry cherish them.

He was so focused that he almost missed Riddle speaking to him.

"How am I supposed to duel you?"

It took a few seconds for Harry to register his voice, and a few more to process what was said.

"You want to duel me?" he clarified. His fingers stilled. "Why? Didn't you tell me it wouldn't be a challenge because you'd beat me before I knew it?"

Riddle shrugged, carefully severing yet another thorn from their plant.

"That doesn't mean I won't ever want to have some fun at your expense."

With a huff, Harry focused on his work again. He wasn't going to respond, especially since he was certain Riddle knew the answer already. The only sure way for them to duel was for one of them to use another wand. This solution had plenty of drawbacks, and it was obvious enough not to warrant a discussion.

Besides, he knew it wouldn't satisfy Riddle. The attacker would have to be the one to change their wand, and changing the wand would mean losing some advantages. Harry doubted Riddle would feel the difference, considering the extent of his powers, but underperforming even by a tiny degree would be unacceptable for a self-absorbed control freak like him. So he had to be looking for other solutions.

"I could snap your wand," Riddle said conversationally, and Harry took in an exasperated breath. Yes, this was about what he expected to hear.

"Try it," he offered. His voice was mild, but he snapped the thorn with more force than needed. "I will get another one. Ollivander must still have a copy of mine in his shop. You snap that one, I will find a way to snap yours. Don't think you're the only player here, Riddle. I guarantee that I will give as good as I get."

He expected Riddle to bristle in response to an answering threat, but to his surprise, he got the opposite reaction. A touch of a smile ghosted over Riddle's lips.

"Perhaps," he allowed after a lengthy pause. Harry glanced at him sceptically, but nothing in Riddle's face betrayed that he was toying with him.

What did it mean? That he acknowledged Harry's possible worth as an adversary? Or as an ally since, technically, they were supposed to be friends.

The thought planted a pleasant glow in his chest. Harry nurtured it, letting it envelop him in a thin layer of optimism.

It was barely anything, it wasn't even the beginning, but if everything went like it was going, he might achieve more substantial progress in the future.

This hope helped to keep the nightmares away — for that night, at least. The next one, they came back with the same bloodthirsty vengeance, stealing his sleep and making all progress in the world seem hollow.

HTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Predictably, Harry had no interest in eating his breakfast. He stared at his plate with eggs and mushrooms blankly, not bothering to summon even a flicker of appetite because he knew it wouldn't come.

Maybe he should start skipping breakfasts altogether. He usually managed to eat something in the evenings, but mornings and afternoons were a lost cause. All he felt at the sight of the food was dejection.

He was about to pull out his Potions book to re-read the chapter Slughorn had assigned when Riddle's cold voice pierced him.

"You need to eat."

At first, Harry wondered if he'd imagined it. Riddle knew he wasn't much of an eater, yet he never cared enough to comment. What was Harry's health to him? Why would he suddenly feel invested?

Harry turned his head, suspicious, and met Riddle's even stare.

It wasn't just a figment of his imagination, then. Riddle had actually given him health advice.

"I'm not hungry," Harry said. Riddle didn't react save for a slight narrowing of his eyes.

"You need to eat," he repeated. His voice held a warning this time, and Harry's body itched to rebel out of pure instinct. He didn't move and didn't look away: he stared as fixedly as Riddle was looking at him.

Suddenly, a picture flashed right before his eyes. It featured his food disappearing from his plate and travelling straight to his stomach in some flash of magic. Harry blinked, startled, and the image vanished.

What was… Had Riddle initiated whatever mind link existed between them to threaten him into eating? It hadn't worked like this before, not in this way. Was it getting stronger? Or did Riddle find a new way to manipulate it?

It was so odd, so out of blue that Harry almost wavered. He glanced at his plate. His breakfast didn't gain any allure, so he turned to Riddle again, frowning this time.

You wouldn't dare, he thought. Was it even possible to simply spell food into someone's stomach? If it was, Harry doubted it was pleasant. Physical sensations aside, it would be embarrassing — someone would notice, and he didn't want to attract any unnecessary attention. Not of this kind.

There was also a thing like consent. Unsurprisingly, Riddle was more than willing to overlook it, but Harry would be damned if he let him.

He glared. Riddle let out an exasperated sigh. Then he stared at him again, and in a moment, a new image came. It was of the food Harry had on his plate, only this time, it was accompanied by something else. A feeling of hunger, an appetite of the magnitude that Harry hadn't experienced in what felt like years. It certainly didn't belong to him, so… did Riddle somehow implant it? Did he share an echo of his own hunger to stimulate Harry's?

His mind reeled. Uncertain, Harry looked at his breakfast and tried to hold onto the feeling Riddle had lent him. His stomach grumbled, and before his brain could shut it down, he began to eat. Fork after fork, repeatedly, until the food disappeared and the foreign hunger abated.

Now that his plate was empty, he fixed his gaze on it, confusion and another, more complex emotion swirling in his chest in anxious circles.

Riddle had gotten him to eat. Through their mind link. Riddle decided to make Harry's abysmal eating habits his problem and he found a solution in less than a minute.

It was impossible to understand how it made him feel. Surprised — because since when was Riddle interested in someone's well-being? Harry wasn't even one of his followers. Suspicious — for the same reasons. Nothing came free in Slytherin, so if Riddle decided to help him, he probably wanted something in return. Envious — because Harry used to love food. He spent a bigger part of his life without getting enough, always limited to a selection the Dursleys had decided on. Hogwarts became a dream come true in every possible way, including in terms of food. It seemed to have infinite supplies of everything, and having access to it, having a variety was one of the delights Harry could never get his fill of.

Losing enjoyment of it had cut him. Not deeply — after everything that happened, what was another loss? — but he never stopped missing this small source of persistent joy. And now Riddle had given it back to him.

Another feeling stemmed from this realisation. It curled in his blood, slid under his bones, entwining so deeply with his essence that he knew it would be hopeless to try tearing it back out.

Appreciation. Harry was grateful to Riddle, of all people, and it was the worst feeling he could have possibly developed.

Reluctantly, he turned to his left. Riddle instantly caught his gaze. He didn't smile or say anything; he didn't try using their connection again, but somehow, his face radiated satisfaction. There was a softer tilt to it, and for some strange reason, Harry felt almost flustered.

Should he mouth thank you? Or smile, or do something else?

In the end, he couldn't bring his body to obey. But he held Riddle's gaze for a long moment, and when it was finally broken, a tight string inside him loosened. Harry looked away, relieved and embarrassed.

This was just one meal. Thankfully, it was over — he could finally leave for a classroom and focus on doing something less complicated.

A sudden thought occurred, and Harry paused. What if Riddle was planning on making his trick into a habit? What if the gift of an appetite wasn't a one-time thing?

Another mix of contradictory emotions flooded him. Harry grimaced.

He didn't know what answer he'd like to hear.

HTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

To his relief or frustration — Harry wasn't certain which one it was yet, Riddle must have deemed his success satisfying enough to repeat it. Over the course of the next two days, they developed a pattern.

They arrived at the Great Hall around the same time. Riddle didn't touch his food until Harry settled down and looked at him. When their gazes met, Riddle transferred the echoes of his hunger to him, misleading Harry's brain into thinking he wanted to eat. Riding this illusion, Harry began to quickly consume the food he chose, and several minutes later, Riddle started his own meal. If his appetite vanished prematurely, Harry would send him a careful look again, and he'd get another dosage of hunger.

The effect of eating properly three times a day quickly caught up with him. For the first time in a very long while, Harry felt sated and full of energy. Life thrummed in him constantly, and it only intensified his conflicting feelings towards Riddle.

They didn't talk about it, so Harry had no idea what Riddle was getting out of helping him. Maybe it was all about his ego: he sure looked smug and satisfied as he watched Harry devour his food. But even so, it couldn't diminish the warm fluttering of gratitude that had already made a nest somewhere between his bones.

Riddle returned one of simple but essential pleasures to him. Harry didn't have many of them left.

He didn't know if others had caught their exchanges. If they did, Harry comforted himself with the thought that they would never figure out what's happening. Maybe they thought Riddle was simply intimidating him with all the staring — it certainly made more sense than whatever this mental thing between them was.

With some reluctance, Harry began to spend his evenings in the company of Riddle and his circle again. As Riddle didn't mind his presence, no one else voiced their protests either.

In fact, the first time Harry re-joined them, Alphard instantly shifted closer, grinning his welcome and making him feel more at ease. He'd looked at Riddle prior to that to check for his reaction, but Harry supposed some things couldn't be helped.

He wasn't certain what he was doing. His vague plan to gain himself a role of someone Riddle would listen to had become too vague at this point. So he built some rapport with Riddle, and he was spending time with him and his followers. So what? He still wasn't included into whatever creepy meetings and discussions they had between themselves. And if Riddle was to ever invite him, which was probably to be expected, what would Harry do? His influence was extremely small. He hoped to increase it with time, to earn more of Riddle's regard for his voice to be heard, but realistically, years could pass before it happened. If he joined these clueless Death Eaters and was told to do something terrible, what would he choose?

He'd probably ignore the order, and this wouldn't warm Riddle up to him at all.

Maybe he should just stop fretting and go with the flow. He'd deal with questions and dilemmas when they came. At the very least, it would benefit his sanity.

Harry tried to focus on writing an essay for Dumbledore, but his thoughts kept wavering in all directions, desperate to flee the academic confines he was trying to restrict them to.

Actually, Dumbledore's lessons were pretty interesting. He was a good teacher, which wasn't surprising. What intrigued Harry was that he seemed to play the role of the headmaster already. Dippet didn't show up all that often, and when there was a serious problem, Dumbledore seemed to be everyone's first choice of a mediator. It was like with Professor Merrythought, whose first instinct was to bring Harry and Riddle to him even when the matter concerned the almost-fatal attack between students. Why him? Why so early? Harry thought Dippet retired years from now. He'd been meaning to ask someone about it but it slipped his mind.

"Why is Dumbledore doing the headmaster's duties?" he asked aloud, turning to Riddle expectantly.

It was a simple question, but the reaction to it was anything but. Riddle looked genuinely astonished at being spoken to — it lasted for a second only, but his surprise was palpable. Everyone else stirred as the tension Harry didn't understand brewed. The silence of their group deepened, the temperature dropping to a freezing one despite the fire crackling just a few steps away. Alphard threw a concerned look at him. Avery and Lestrange stared with open distaste, and Greengrass looked half-affronted, half-smug, like she was offended on Riddle's behalf but eager to see whatever consequences were about to be unleashed.

Was no one supposed to address Riddle directly during these little seating sessions? Or was no one supposed to ask him about Dumbledore? Maybe it was both. The craziest thing was that so many people could be brainwashed into thinking that asking a normal question was a crime, that it was something to be discouraged and punished.

It was no wonder that some Death Eaters were so firmly under Voldemort's thumb. After getting used to existing in the world created by him, following the rules he imposed, the reality with its established social norms must have felt foreign. They were no longer able to fit in properly, so they'd rather change everyone else's reality, too, rather than accept the fact that they fell victim to the charismatic lies of a psychopath.

Either way, Harry wasn't going to play along. He raised his eyebrow, staring at Riddle and waiting for his answer — or his dismissal.

At first, he thought he wouldn't get anything. Riddle was studying him silently, probably weighing his options. Then, slowly, his posture relaxed. The corners of his lips quirked up.

"It's been this way for several years now," he replied. His puppets sucked in shocked breaths, and even without looking at them, Harry could tell they were gaping. He ignored them. Riddle did, too. "Dippet is too old to fulfil his obligations as he should. He's reluctant to leave because he only trusts Dumbledore as his successor, and not everyone at the Ministry is convinced that Dumbledore is the best choice for a position this high. The prospect of heading Hogwarts invites stiff competition, so Dippet and Dumbledore are trying to do a smooth transition."

"So what, they are waiting for everyone at Hogwarts to start perceiving Dumbledore as the headmaster?" Harry clarified. "For him to have all the local support? And then the Ministry will be forced to agree to let him take Dippet's position because of the pressure?"

"Something like this," Riddle agreed. He brushed his fingers against his chin, his expression darkening. "Dippet is getting senile. He's incapable of monitoring what's happening at his school. He often forgets the most basic of things and he needs Dumbledore to set him right."

"There was a ceremony last year," Alphard blurted out. He must have felt at ease enough to get over his initial astonishment and join the conversation. "Tom was getting an award for ridding us of that idiot half-breed Hagrid and Dippet got his name wrong! Tom's a prefect, he's the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen, he helped to stop those attacks, and someone calling himself a headmaster couldn't be bothered to say his name right. It was scandalous."

The temperature dropped again. Harry glared at Alphard, who flinched away from him in defenceless surprise. The need to stand up for Hagrid was strong, but almost immediately, he realised that something else was wrong.

Everyone dropped their gazes. The tension skyrocketed, thick and sharp, and when Harry looked at Riddle, it was his turn to stop breathing.

Riddle had undergone an immediate transformation. He looked lethal, his stare deadly, heavy with a promise of retribution. The magic emanating from him brimmed with a thousand warnings, and it had an instant effect. Alphard went unnaturally pale. Like others, he hastened to lower his head, but his shoulders were vibrating with anxiety and tension. His brief enthusiasm vanished like a ghost, replaced by remorse and fear.

It was painful to watch. Harry didn't want to stay here for a single moment longer, but he was rooted to his spot.

It felt like an eternity passed before Riddle finally looked away from Alphard. He went back to his book, and everyone almost shuddered in relief.

No one risked saying anything again.

HTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

Harry stayed because he couldn't think of a reason that would explain his haste. He tried to tune the rest of the world out and to focus on studying — Hermione would have been proud if she could see him. He actually succeeded in understanding the chapter and then writing an essay, and when he finally looked up, tired but pleased, he realised that the common room was nearly empty.

Some students still occupied armchairs in the distant corners, talking or laughing quietly. Alphard, Avery, Lestrange, and Greengrass packed their things up and were about to leave. Only Riddle stayed where he was. Harry had a feeling that he had issued some kind of order that made others head for their dorms — otherwise, he doubted they'd move anywhere.

He tried to catch Alphard's eye, but Alphard deliberately avoided looking at him. With his head ducked, he hurried away.

After they all disappeared from view, Riddle put his quill away and stretched his legs, letting out a quiet contented sigh.

"I was wondering if I was ever going to see it," he said. A little amused smile was playing on his lips. "You intimidating my followers. Considering the degree of our… closeness in your world, I imagine you had some control over them. I was curious if you were ever going to forget yourself and exercise it here, and you did. It was funny to see Alphard squirm just from the force of your glare. I don't think anyone but myself and maybe his family ever elicited the same reaction in him."

A wave of sickness hit Harry. Had he… intimidated Alphard? This was never his intention. He didn't even linger on his reaction because Riddle's dissatisfaction quickly stole all the attention.

Riddle seemed oblivious to his discomfort.

"And all over speaking to me without permission," he drawled. His eyes shone with glee. "You always ignore the rules I have established. Sometimes I asked myself if it was because they differed in your world or you were simply too used to being above them. Now I see it's the latter. You had no trouble talking to me yourself, but the second Alphard did the same, you shut him down. Interesting. Did none of the rules apply to you? At all?"

Harry barely had time to make sense of it all. His head was spinning.

Just how many false assumptions could one lie spawn? Where would this end? All he did was want to defend Hagrid, and somehow, it was twisted into him trying to impose Riddle's stupid rules on his followers. Glaring Alphard into submission for doing something he himself had done.

The worst thing he was, he didn't really see a way out. To clash with Riddle over his lack of morals now would mean to alienate him. Riddle wouldn't listen to him, he wouldn't take Harry seriously, and Harry would never make it deeper into his inner circle. But to outright lie and make it look like he was okay with these displays of humiliation of others, like he didn't mind Riddle spewing his self-absorbed rubbish…

Neither confirming nor denying anything was probably his only option. For now.

"I've never been good at following rules," Harry said vaguely. Riddle laughed, and though Harry half-expected him to get annoyed, all he got was indulgent fondness.

"Yes, I can see that," Riddle said. He was staring intently again, as if trying to see what lay under Harry's skin. His gaze was dissecting and curious, and somehow, it felt so clinical, so dehumanising that another sick feeling twisted Harry's stomach.

Riddle might have started treating him with a semblance of respect and interest, but Harry had never felt less human than he did under his stare right now. It was like he was an object, a favourite pet that Riddle had grown fond of. A Horcrux that didn't belong to him but was close enough to it to be interesting, an owner of the wand so close to his that it made him its, or Riddle's, extension.

His skin crawled at the thought that this was how it was all going to be — Riddle indulging him when he felt like it, trying to figure him out, and then, inevitably, getting bored. Throwing him away like a thing that had gotten too old to be entertaining.

Maybe there wasn't much of a difference between Harry and Riddle's other followers, in the end. It's just that Harry was a current favourite because of his fake story and the Horcrux connection between them.

Frustration and bitterness bit into him. To lessen their sting somewhat, Harry squared his shoulders and stood up. He was too rattled to keep looking at Riddle, so he started collecting his things instead.

"You know what? There were rules all right," he said harshly. With the corner of his vision, he saw Riddle lean forwards in his curiosity. "But they applied to me as much as they did to you."

This had the desired effect. Riddle pulled back, his disbelief so loud that Harry could almost sense the magic behind it.

Served him right.

"Excuse me?" Riddle's voice was sharp with incredulity. "Are you saying you had me follow some rules of yours?"

Unbelievable. Riddle really thought that only he had the right to control and influence the world around him. He thrived on making up stupid rules just to sustain his ego, but a suggestion of someone doing the same to him appalled him.

"That's what happens in friendships, Riddle," Harry uttered through gritted teeth. Heat surged through him, pushing him to say more, to throw Riddle out from his comfort zone and make it count. And if he had to lie again, so what? He was already buried under the mountain of lies. Some elaborations on them couldn't hurt. "It's not just you imposing rules and your friends following them. You and I had plenty of differences, especially when it came to our worldviews. To keep being friends, we had to negotiate and arrive at the point where we could accept these differences in each other. I made concessions for you, but you also made concessions for me. Otherwise, it would have never worked."

This time, he did glance at Riddle. Riddle still looked stunned, like he genuinely couldn't comprehend what he was hearing.

"Concessions like what?" he asked warily. "And what worldview differences? The way one perceives the world defines them. If your and my definitions did not match, what could we have possibly had in common apart from magic?"

Circumstances, Harry thought. A miserable childhood with Muggles. The lack of home. The desperate need to have one. Their reverent love towards Hogwarts and their inability to let go of it.

It was a lot. In fact, if he thought about it, it looked like he and Riddle had more in common than Harry did with his friends. Wasn't it ironic? How could someone with so many similarities end up being so different?

But Riddle knew this answer already. He believed he and Harry had lived through the same version of a past. Yet for all his intelligence and perceptiveness, he did not understand the deeper implications of it. To him, the shared circumstances were just that — the events they both faced. He couldn't comprehend the feelings that would have inevitably come with them. The need to rely on each other; the trust born out of having no one else to confide in. The care and the loyalty that might have blossomed between them if Harry's story was true.

Sure, Riddle himself came up with the conclusion about love, so he had to have some idea of what sharing years of life meant, but Harry had a feeling that his understanding was extremely superficial. He understood concepts, not emotions that lay behind them. And it was… sad. Because how could a gap like this be ever bridged?

"A lot of things," he said quietly. His anger cooled down, the thoughts of the past that never happened filling him with a strange feeling of guilt. Lowering his head, Harry finished packing his supplies and threw the bag on his shoulder. "Forget it. It's not important."

Riddle stood up, too.

"Why?" he asked. Harry gave him a long look, not sure what to say to make him drop the topic.

"Because you and I don't have what I had with another version of you," he responded at last. He'd already given similar answers before and they always seemed to work, but this time, something was different. Riddle's face darkened. He didn't say anything, but his hostility passed through Harry like it was his own, and he took an instinctive step back.

"Good night," he added stiffly. He left before Riddle had a chance to stop him — if he even wanted to.

HTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH

At breakfast, Riddle helped him to eat, but they didn't exchange a word. Riddle spoke to Greengrass instead, listening to whatever important thing she was saying attentively, while Avery and Lestrange argued about Herbology. Alphard was the quietest. He looked lost and miserable, and Harry ached in sympathy despite his previous annoyance.

They needed to talk. He didn't want Alphard to think that what happened yesterday was the result of Harry supporting Riddle's tyranny. Maybe he couldn't help beyond that, but he could do this much.

He managed to catch up with him only after the end of their last lesson. Riddle threw an inscrutable look at him, his eyes lingering when Harry stopped near Alphard, but he walked past them without saying anything.

"Hey," Harry said, "could we talk?"

Alphard peered at him uncertainly.

"Sure," he murmured. He rubbed his shoulder, like he felt uncomfortable in his presence, and Harry's heart dropped even lower. Whatever awkwardness he felt from the perspective of apologising dispersed, and he took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry about yesterday. I know how it must have looked like, so I want to set things straight. I didn't mean that you shouldn't talk to Riddle — this was the last thing on my mind."

To his surprise, Alphard smiled at him briefly.

"It's all right, Harry," he uttered, and Harry blinked. This had to be the first time Alphard called him by his name. Knowing all the stupid notions Riddle had cultivated, it meant a lot. "You don't need to explain, really, I understand. We all do, even Rosalia, despite her tries to remain oblivious. There is something about you that Tom likes and that makes him single you out. It's unusual because you are new and you are not, well, you are not…" Alphard fell silent, waving his hand hopelessly. Harry sent him a dry smile.

"Not smart, talented, or unique enough to be an exception?" he finished. "I'm aware of this. But if anything, my example should show you that all these conceptions are flawed. You don't need to be smart, talented or unique to deserve human decency and consideration. They should be a given in every relationship."

"Yeah, not with Tom," Alphard grumbled. Then he glanced at Harry nervously and bit his lip, obviously regretting saying it. Did he think Harry would report to Riddle? What a mess.

"The point is that I disagree with Riddle's rules and I'd never try enforcing them," Harry said strongly. "What happened yesterday was me getting upset over you badmouthing Hagrid."

Alphard's jaw dropped open. His eyes grew almost comically round.

"Hagrid?" he squeaked, and the expression of pure shock on his face was so pronounced that Harry felt himself growing frustrated again. "The half-giant? What the hell?"

"He didn't do anything," Harry hissed. They took a turn to a less populated corridor, but he still lowered his voice just in case. "You know he's innocent. Riddle killed Myrtle and set him up. He was expelled over nothing, he lost his chance to study magic and make something for himself in the future, and you think he deserves being mocked?"

"I… that is…" Alphard stammered. He looked spooked now, like he had no idea what to say. His eyes moved restlessly, checking for potential people who could overhear them. When he spoke again, his voice sounded strangled. "How do you know about…"

He didn't dare finish his sentence, but Harry understood the question.

"It doesn't matter how," he said. "What matters is that basic decency should apply to everyone. If you were ever to speak with Hagrid, he'd treat you with more respect than anyone in Riddle's gang, including Riddle himself. But you worship Riddle and bring someone who already suffered at his hands down. I don't get it."

Alphard opened his mouth but then snapped it shut. They walked in silence for a while: it wasn't exactly comfortable, but it also was not as heavy as Harry expected.

He doubted he'd managed to convince Alphard of anything. Most likely the silence was the result of Alphard not wanting to start a bigger argument. He probably thought that Hagrid, with his origins, wasn't worth anything, hence not deserving respect or friendliness.

Maybe he would change his mind later. Maybe, if everything went well, Harry would take him to meet Hagrid and Alphard would adjust some of his beliefs.

Harry was so engrossed in his vague half-plan that he didn't pay enough attention to his surroundings. As a result, he almost walked into another student — Alphard had to jerk him aside to prevent their collision.

"Sorry," Harry muttered. He looked up and froze.

He'd never seen this student before, but he instantly knew his name.

This had to be Fleamont Potter.

The resemblance was astonishing, although Fleamont was more like Harry's father than Harry himself. He looked a little younger, so he was probably in his fourth or fifth year. No wonder they hadn't crossed paths until now.

Harry could have sought him out, but the truth was, he didn't want to. His real family didn't exist yet, just as his real friends. And making new ones, getting too close to someone else… it would only make losing them harder. He wasn't sure he'd survive it, not again. It was easier to pretend that Fleamont and whatever other relatives he had weren't in this world at all.

Fleamont stared at him like he'd seen a ghost. He paled, throwing quick glances at the Slytherin crest on Harry's tie, at Alphard, then at Harry again. His features tightened.

"My parents told me not to speak to you yet," he said abruptly. Harry blinked, taken aback, but Fleamont was already hurrying away, his hands rolled in tight fists.

"What a weirdo," Alphard snorted. He watched Fleamont go, shaking his head in disbelief. "Gryffindors. No sense to be found there."

Harry rolled his eyes. His heart was beating unsteadily, a strange sensation roiling in his gut, but he tried to push it down.

He didn't know how to feel. What to think about him apparently being the topic of conversations in the Potters' household.

"Do you know anything about him?" he asked. They resumed their walk to their common room, heading towards the dungeons.

"About Pott— Fleamont Potter? Not much. He's a typical Potter heir. Loud, boring, self-righteous. He's on the Quidditch team, he's a Beater, but he doesn't play all that well, I've seen better… Oh!" Alphard's face lit up. "You told me you were a Seeker, right? Wherever it was you studied before you came to Hogwarts. Reckon it's a family thing."

An uncomfortable feeling intensified, so Harry tried clearing his throat.

"I'm not a part of their family," he uttered. "I wasn't lying the last time I told you that."

Alphard looked contemplative for a second. He probably wanted to comment more, but a brief flash of seriousness changed back into playfulness.

"I hope you didn't lie about playing Quidditch either," he said. They entered the common room and paused for a moment, looking for Riddle and others. Suddenly, Alphard clapped his hands together. "I know! You should be our new Seeker!" His eyes shone with excitement. "It'd be the first time someone from our year got the position! Can I see you fly? We could have a play-match this evening!"

"It might have escaped your notice, Black, but Slytherin already has a Seeker," someone's voice said sharply. Harry turned around. A tall blond-haired boy stepped forwards, studying Alphard with a disdainful look.

A twinge of protective instinct stirred in his chest, but Harry dismissed it. It was getting ridiculous, Alphard didn't need his protection from someone's sharp tongue — scratch that, he didn't need it in general.

As if to support his thoughts, Alphard snorted. A mirroring expression of disdain overtook his face.

"Maybe so," he said haughtily, "but it's not like you're any good at it, Magnussen. You haven't caught a Snitch for a year now. The only reason we won is because the Chasers managed to score enough points to beat everyone else."

"No one can be lucky all the time!" Magnussen spat. His ears grew red, and Harry felt a pang as the memory of Ron brushed against his mind. "It's not my fault that the Snitch has been a field away from me for the last couple of matches! I passed all the try-outs every single time. I'm the best, everyone knows it, whereas this half-blood piece of…" Magnussen stumbled over his words, his eyes darting to Riddle quickly. "Potter," he corrected himself awkwardly. "No one knows how Potter plays. He's not qualified to be a Seeker."

"Well, he can't be any worse than you, can he?" Alphard drawled. He also glanced at Riddle, predictably watching for his reaction, and Harry shook his head in disbelief. As always, his blood began to boil.

It was insane. Riddle wasn't even involved in Quidditch, why did anyone care about what he thought? Where were the actual players, why did they not stick up for their teammate?

Harry would have been tempted to ignore this latest unfolding drama and go back to the dormitory, but he couldn't do it when he was being put in the middle. Alphard meant well, Harry appreciated his enthusiasm, but he had to agree with Magnussen here.

"It's fine, Alphard," he said. Only some people bothered to look at him — everyone else was too busy watching Riddle, apparently waiting to model their behaviour after him. "We can play this evening or tomorrow. I don't need to be on a team."

The protest came from the unexpected side.

"Sounds like you think you're doing me a favour?" Magnussen snapped. He didn't move, but his stance radiated aggression. "Who do you think you are? I earned my spot. You come from nowhere and you think you are some king of the seekers, is that it? Think you're automatically entitled to my position?"

This was becoming frustrating.

"Cool off," Harry advised him. "I already said I have no intention to compete for your position."

"As if you could!"

"Enough of this," Riddle said. His voice was quiet, but everyone immediately froze, almost quivering in anticipation of what he was about to say next. The silence was absolute, and Harry turned his head with some reluctance.

Riddle was still sitting in his chair, resting his chin on his hand, looking bored. His eyes, though… They were fixed on Harry with a focus that sent a tiny thrill through his body. It was like no one else was present in the room, like everyone but Harry was insignificant.

It was better than the objectifying stare from yesterday… or maybe not. Because the feeling that came with it was strangely addictive and therefore dangerous. It created the risk of him falling victim to Riddle's deadly charm like the rest of his housemates, even if temporary, and it was unacceptable.

"Do you want to be a Seeker?" Riddle asked him.

No one said a word, not even Magnussen. The attention of the room was on him now, and Harry shifted uncomfortably. When this circus was over, he was so going to curse Alphard with something that would render him mute for a week. He did not appreciate being put on the spot, and the last thing he wanted was to make enemies over something he didn't care that much about.

"I do," he said aloud. "But I don't need to be on a team to pl—"

Riddle seemed to lose interest in him. He looked at Magnussen instead. His lips parted in a muttered spell as he made a quick complex movement with his wand. A ball of blinding yellow magic shot forwards, and before Harry could blink, it enveloped Magnussen's arm.

An awful sound of breaking bones assaulted his ears, and for a moment, he blanked out.

It was a vivid reminder of the Ministry. It was a reminder of Tonks, of Luna, of Ginny, so fragile and so broken, so silent — forever silent.

The fog of the memories faded when Magnussen screamed.

Harry started, feeling bile rise up from inside. Magnussen's arm was not simply broken — it looked like someone tied it into several knots, disregarding the bones or softening them enough to make them pliable. Even worse, some magic continued to twist it. It pulsed right beneath the skin, glowing with now-pale yellow light. It looked sickening, and Harry grabbed his own wand instinctively, wanting to help but not knowing how.

Magnussen's screams were deafening. It was as if he'd sucked all the air out of the room because no one else was breathing — everyone was watching with morbid fascination, not moving, not looking away.

"Shut up," Riddle said pleasantly. To Harry's incredulity, Magnussen's cries ceased as if by magic. He still looked grey, his body shook from pain and shock, but not a sound escaped his lips.

The feeling of unreality intensified. Harry raised his wand higher, but he didn't even know what he wanted to do. What he was witnessing was too grotesque for him to comprehend — one student couldn't possibly have this much power over everyone. Riddle wasn't Voldemort yet. Why did everyone obey him? Not even his inner circle, but other students, students who had to have normal lives, who had to know what normal interactions were supposed to be like.

"Black," Riddle called dispassionately. Alphard jerked like he was electrocuted. "Take him to the Hospital Wing. Miss Blainey won't be able to fix his arm for at least two months, but she'll give him something from the pain."

Managing to look grateful for receiving an order, Alphard nodded and hurried towards Magnussen. They both left, but not before Harry got to see Magnussen's face again.

He looked lost. His eyes were empty — wherever he was mentally, it wasn't here. Harry saw this exact look on the faces of his friends and in the mirror too many times to remain unaffected. Fury stirred up, and he whirled to face Riddle, the biting words hot on his tongue.

Riddle outpaced him.

"Congratulations," he said. He was smiling, but only barely — it could just as well be a sneer. "You will be representing the Slytherin Quidditch team from now on."

Cheers rolled through the room. Other students broke into excited chatter; some even approached to clap him on the back.

Harry despised them all. Most of all, he was furious with Riddle. Waiting until the buzzing diminished a bit and people started to go back to what they'd been doing before the interruption, he stepped closer, the angry undefined words burning in his throat.

Once again, Riddle spoke first.

"How is that for a concession?" he asked.

Whatever plans Harry had flew out of his mind in an instant. His lips parted in surprise, and for a moment, all he could do was stare incredulously.

A concession? Riddle called breaking the arm of their team's Seeker a concession? Was this a reference to the conversation they shared last night, where Harry claimed that he and his made-up version of Riddle had been making compromises for one another?

"I don't think you understand the definition of "concession"," he uttered slowly. Riddle shrugged.

"On the contrary, I understand it well enough. I made a concession for you, so I believe it's your turn now."

Incredible.

"I didn't ask you to make me a Seeker," Harry snapped. Frustration boiled, sending hot bursts through his body. "How can you concede something when I never made a demand for it?"

Riddle gave him an inscrutable look. Harry honestly couldn't tell if this was some sick joke or if he genuinely believed that by attacking another student and temporarily disabling him, he was doing Harry a favour.

"But I asked you just now," Riddle purred. Despite the outward sweetness, his voice was dangerous. "I asked if you wanted to be a Seeker and you said yes. I merely fulfilled your wish. I suppose this makes you my Seeker now, so hopefully, you will catch that Snitch in the next match."

Something about these words made blood rush to Harry's face. He stood there flushing, unsure what to say and how to start making sense of whatever was happening.

"Technically, I'm Alphard's Seeker," he pointed out for the lack of anything better to say. "Since he nominated me for this position."

Riddle's eyes narrowed. A visible shadow of displeasure darkened his face. He didn't glare, not exactly, but his stare sharpened enough to make Harry even more uncomfortable and confused.

He didn't understand what Riddle was trying to do. Did he really want to make a concession for him? Why? Out of some warped sense of competition with his other self? Did this mean he was interested in trying to re-create the relationship he believed he and Harry had in another world?

A strange combination of hope, satisfaction, and disquiet filled him. Realising that he was still clutching his wand, Harry put it away awkwardly.

"I'm not going to catch a Snitch just because you stole Magnussen's position and gave it to me," he grumbled. "I'm going to do my best anyway — that's if I end up playing. Who is the captain of our team? I'm pretty certain it's not you."

The shadows vanished from Riddle's face. He actually smiled, like he found Harry's quip amusing.

"Rodger Lyre," he said. It was astonishing that he knew the name of the captain at all, considering his revulsion towards Quidditch, but this time, Harry didn't comment. "Lyre? Do you have any objections?"

Riddle didn't raise his voice, but of course, he didn't have to. The moment the words were out of his mouth, everyone quietened again, and a lanky boy with yellow hair waved his hand from one of the couches. He was one of the people who clapped Harry on the back in congratulations after the horrifying display with Magnussen.

"That's me!" he called out cheerfully. "Good to meet you! If Tom thinks you're an asset to the team, I'm all for it. I'll let you know the training schedule tomorrow, we are making a new one."

Harry forced a smile. He doubted it looked nice, but Lyre seemed to be too happy to notice.

"And you'll have to pick a broom," he added. "We have a good selection, Black's father made sure of it. Will be fun to have a Potter playing against Gryffindor."

If possible, Harry's mood soured further. He turned back to Riddle but his eyes stopped at Avery, who was sitting nearby. His face was drawn with fury just like it'd been when they had their duel. Harry frowned.

"Don't tell me you wanted to be a Seeker, too," he said. Avery blanched, his glare intensifying, and it got even more heated when Riddle snorted with laughter. Harry shifted his gaze to him, then to Greengrass, and just like that, all concerns and protests disappeared.

Greengrass didn't look angry. The expression she wore went far beyond that.

Her whole body resembled a coiled spring. She was biting her lip so hard that Harry could swear he saw the drops of blood staining her teeth. Her hands were clutching the arms of her chair forcefully enough to look like they were caught in a painful spasm. Her eyes were icy, but the black hatred in them was so biting that Harry had an absurd vision of this ice cracking under its force and spilling in the form of tears.

She was as likely to cry as she was to spit fire, and since both options seemed suddenly plausible, Harry couldn't tell which was worse. He swallowed, his body stilling instinctively.

Greengrass had despised him before. Now, she seemed to have elevated him to an object of hatred. For the first time since his arrival here, Harry felt a sharp edge of fear pressing against his ribs, the kind he didn't experience even when he was dying from Riddle's spell.

Riddle was an expected enemy. He was something Harry had been preparing himself for, something he had lived through before. He was unpredictable, but only relatively. Greengrass, on the other hand…

Harry hadn't anticipated making another serious enemy. One he knew nothing about, one he didn't understand and couldn't grasp. Looking at her now, he felt dread climb from inside, coating him with its slow-acting poison.

Greengrass was a complication he didn't need but one he would have to watch out for from now on.

He had a feeling Riddle would be delighted to watch this particular confrontation unfold.