— CHAPTER THREE —

Durability test

The chill of the room bit into Harry's skin, his bare feet numb on the floorboards. He was still in his pyjamas, thin and barely enough to protect him from the biting cold. His body was stiff from hours spent in an uncomfortable position, and his back ached with a dull, persistent throbbing. It was the kind of pain that sharply reminded him of the previous night's duel — a tangible, unwanted memory of Tom Riddle's ruthless spells. The soft, muffled light coming into the room indicated that morning was already upon them, suggesting that at some point Harry had succumbed to exhaustion and fallen into a restless sleep.

Harry's thoughts were tangled, a mixture of pain, fear, and determination. He felt the lingering pain of his physical injuries, but they paled in comparison to the mental wounds left by Riddle's brutal invasion of his mind. Memories — his most harrowing, his most painful memories — had been sifted through Riddle's Legilimency, leaving a sense of violation from which it was difficult to recover.

Equally nagging was the knot in his stomach, caused by the fear of what would happen now, when Riddle had found out about Voldemort's future. Why was he so stubborn? Why didn't he listen to Hermione and let go of following Malfoy? Because of his stubbornness and stupidity, Tom Riddle now had knowledge that could change the course of history, and the magnitude of it was frightening. But as the morning light chased away the darkness of the night, a Gryffindor determination slowly returned to Harry's heart. Riddle may have won the battle, but one battle won did not decide the whole war.

Comforting himself with this thought, Harry picked up his glasses from the cold floor, adjusted them and then pushed himself up from the floor with a groan.

Rubbing his numb shoulders vigorously to warm them up at least a little, Harry looked around. The room was almost sterile, its emptiness adding to the sense of isolation. A large bed, its headboard leaning against the wall, was flanked by two dark wooden bedside tables. At the foot of the bed was a wooden chest, its surface free of dust but somehow untouched, unopened for centuries. And the fireplace in the corner — extinguished, which explained the chill. Two doors on either side of the fireplace: one opposite the bed, the other opposite the window. And that was all. There were no pictures on the walls, no curtains in the window, no personal possessions to indicate that anyone had used this room daily. If Harry had planned to spend any more time in this room, its austerity and emptiness would have been overwhelming. Even the cupboard under the stairs where the Dursleys had locked him up seemed more comfortable.

Harry's eyes drifted to the window. It showed a view of the street, the world outside covered in a thick layer of snow that he wasn't sure was magical or muggle. The flakes were large and heavy, falling in a relentless, silent cascade, covering the twisted, narrow street in a deceptive layer of purity. The snow muffled the sounds from outside, casting a silence over the world that felt isolating, even claustrophobic.

Taking a deep breath, Harry steeled himself and turned towards the doors. He moved to the one opposite the bed, his heart beating against his ribs in a rapid rhythm. The doorknob was cold to the touch, but it turned easily and swung open only to reveal the bathroom beyond. The porcelain in the sink and bath was old, showing the wear and tear of time, but it was meticulously clean. Harry scanned the room quickly, taking in the claw-footed bath, the mirror hanging over the sink, its silver beginning to flake, the toilet with its tall cistern and wooden stool. It was so painfully ordinary, yet it was a harsh reminder that he was trapped in a time far removed from his own.

Back in the room, his eyes fell on the second door. It was identical to the first, but since the first led to the bathroom, the second must have led deeper into the apartment. Harry approached it with a caution born of both his situation and the instinctive knowledge that Tom Riddle's brand of hospitality did not include an easy exit.

His hand reached for the doorknob; his skin had barely brushed the surface when pain shot through his palm. It was an intense, sharp agony, like the bite of a flame. With a gasp, Harry recoiled and staggered back, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

He squeezed his burned hand, a blood-red blister had already appeared, as a crackle of apparition rang through the room.

Instinctively, Harry's body tensed, his feet moving into a defensive stance. His hand twitched at his side, ready to draw a wand that wasn't there. The moment of realisation was like ice water down his back: he was unarmed, vulnerable.

For a moment, Harry forgot the pain.

Fortunately, the figure that materialised in the middle of the room was small, with large bat-like ears and eyes that gleamed with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. The house elf was dressed in what looked like an old, tattered pillowcase, partially covered by a pile of clothes he had thrown over one shoulder. His hands, wrapped in bandages, held a tray with a steaming bowl with great care. His head was adorned with a series of bruises, large and small, of various colours, scrapes and scabs.

"Master Potter, I is Bug," the elf squeaked, his voice filled with a pride that seemed strangely misplaced. "Bug serves the great wizard, Master Tom Riddle, sir. Bug brought Master Potter breakfast and clothes."

Harry instinctively tucked his burned palm behind his back. Trying to ignore the pain spreading from his hand, he watched tensely as Bug walked towards the bedside table, his ears flapping slightly as he went. The house elf placed the steaming bowl of porridge on the bedside table. The aroma wafted over, rich and warm, making Harry's stomach churn. The clothes followed, laid out with precision on the bed: trousers, shirt, gown, robes and even underwear — a hint of past times in their cut and style.

Harry's gaze drifted away from the tempting bowl of food and stopped on the set with a mixture of suspicion and desperate longing for the jeans and jumper. His mind was racing. Here was his chance, perhaps his only one. "Bug," he said, his voice sharpened with urgency and pain, "I need your help."

Bug turned, his bat-like ears twitching. "Master Potter needs help getting dressed?"

"No, not with the clothes. I have to get out of here." Harry's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. He held back a grimace of pain. Bloody burn. "I'm a time traveller, Bug. If I stay here, trapped by Tom Riddle, I may never get back to my own time. Do you understand?"

The house elf's eyes narrow, and his previous submissiveness melts into a surprising sternness. "Master Harry Potter should not ask such things. Bug serves Master Riddle and no one else."

"But, Bug, don't you see? I don't belong here. I'm from the future — another time. And Tom Riddle," Harry looked around reflexively, as if expecting Riddle to suddenly appear out of a corner and instinctively lowered his voice to a whisper "he becomes something terrible. He hurts a lot of people. You don't want to serve someone like that."

Bug's eyes narrowed to slits, his face contorting with a mixture of shock and offence that might have been comical in other circumstances. "Master Potter should not say such things! Master Riddle is a great wizard, a powerful wizard!"

"I know he's powerful," Harry pressed on. He took a deeper breath and blinked his eyes rapidly to get rid of the tears coming to his eyes for his burned hand. By Merlin, how it hurt. "But he's no good. He's cruel, Bug, and evil. You could be in danger too. Look at the way you look. These bandages, these scratches. He probably doesn't treat you well either. You should get away from him while you can. You can even run away with me..."

The elf's cheeks puffed out, his small frame seeming to inflate with indignation. "Bug is serving the greatest wizard of all! Bug knows master Riddle is..." He faltered, as if the word 'evil' was a blasphemy he couldn't bring himself to repeat, "...a dark wizard, yes. But Bug serves proudly! Bug would never betray master Riddle! Besides, master Riddle is the best master Bug could think of. And master Riddle's punishments are second to none!"

Harry, taken aback by the house elf's fervour, felt a surge of something akin to anger and revulsion, or maybe it was just the hopeless frustration of realizing that Bug was another dead end. "So you'd let him keep me here? A prisoner?"

"Bug is loyal to master Riddle," Bug retorted with a stubborn jut of his chin. "Bug will not help Master Potter escape. If Bug finds Master Potter trying to escape, Bug will tell Master Riddle!"

Harry's anger grew stronger, but he continued, desperation lending a sharp tone to his voice. "Bug, just think..."

"No!" Bug snapped, his voice rising to a squeal. "Bug will not think bad things about Master Riddle! Bug will bring dinner, and Master Harry Potter will stay and eat and be grateful!"

With a final reproachful look, the elf snapped his fingers and disappeared with another loud crack, leaving Harry alone once more.

"Fuck!" Harry snapped. Angrily, he slumped down on the bed, ignoring the food and clothes. All his attention was focused on the pulsing pain in his hand, which was thankfully fading.

"Fuck you, Riddle, do you hear me?" he shouted into the empty walls. "FUCK YOU!"

He gritted his teeth. Oh no, he wouldn't give up that easily. He would get out of this room no matter what.

o.O.o

The sting of the new burns was a constant, searing reminder of Harry's failed attempts to escape. His determination to break free only resulted in more pain, leaving three angry red marks on his already injured hand. Despite the throbbing pain, the growling in his stomach could no longer be ignored. With a weary sigh, Harry resigned himself to his body's needs and turned his attention to the porridge Bug had left behind.

With caution laced with suspicion, Harry reached for the spoon with his less injured hand, wincing as he wrapped his fingers around it. The first spoonful was a challenge; his hands trembled, not only with pain but with a deep-seated disgust at anything Riddle offered. But the porridge was surprisingly delicious, its sweetness a small comfort against the cold, bitter reality he faced. It filled him up, each spoonful a reluctant acknowledgement of his physical needs over his emotional disgust.

After the meal, his resolve was strengthened by the food in his stomach. Harry's attention shifted to the clothes spread out on the bed. They were elegant, rich and soft to the touch, though made in a style that belonged to the world of fifty years ago. He hesitated, the thought of putting on anything associated with Riddle provoking a new wave of disgust. But practicality overcame his initial reluctance; the biting cold and incessant blizzard outside were not kind to bare skin and thin pyjamas.

Pushing out of his mind the thought that the clothes had been provided by Riddle, and who knew, maybe even belonged to him, Harry reached for them. The trousers were soft, a deep charcoal that whispered quality as he pulled them on. They came up to his waist, in the style of a bygone era, and were a little too long, the material falling slightly at his feet. The shirt, white and crisp, was complemented by a dark waistcoat that added an unexpected layer of warmth. Finally, he threw a black robe over his shoulders, its weight reassuring, almost protective. The socks, thick and woolly, were a simple pleasure, and the underwear, though old-fashioned, was a welcome change from his own worn-out clothes.

No longer just in his pyjamas, Harry felt a renewed sense of purpose. He was still a prisoner, but he didn't have to be an ill equipped one. As the storm raged outside, the room became his temporary world, a puzzle to be solved. He decided to check the walls, the floor, the bare frame of the window, looking for any overlooked detail that might help him escape.

He didn't believe that Riddle had secured the room so well that there wasn't at least one weak point.

o.O.o

Snow continued to pile against the window and the sky outside grew darker as evening fell on Knockturn Alley, as Harry's latest escape attempt came to an abrupt and noisy end.

Harry, frustrated by hours of failures, gritted his teeth against the pain and grabbed a wooden stool he had found in the bathroom and swung it as hard as he could to smash the window glass. The only effect he got was that the stool bounced off the glass, shattering in the process.

Not the tiniest scratch was left on the glass.

At the same moment Harry threw the rest of the stool to the floor with a scream of rage, the door creaked open to reveal Tom Riddle, his silhouette framed by the dim light of the corridor.

Riddle's gaze fell on the broken stool and a thin, sardonic smile flashed at the corners of his lips, a silent acknowledgement of Harry's futile rebellion.

"Potter, destroying your accommodations won't hasten your departure," he said smoothly. "So, I advise you to put it down."

Harry, whose breathing was heavy with exertion and nerves, lowered the remains of the stool angrily, eyeing Riddle with a mixture of defiance and calculation. "I was just testing its durability," he talked back, his voice less steady than he would have liked.

"Oh, indeed?" Riddle walked further into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. "And here I was, under the impression that you were conducting an escape attempt. Unsuccessful and a rather noisy one."

"No, this is just a warm-up," Harry growled, making an involuntary movement as if he was about to physically attack Riddle.

Riddle merely raised an eyebrow, as if the vision of Harry's potential attack didn't bother him at all.

"I think I preferred you in the night version. Curled up on the floor and broken down."

Harry shot Riddle a hateful look. "Wait until the roles are reversed."

"Not in this reality," Riddle said dismissively. His gaze then shifted to the untouched plate of food on the bedside table. "And what's this? A hunger strike? You do realize that weakening yourself is hardly a strategic move."

Harry crossed his arms, wincing slightly from the burns on his hands. "Maybe I'm just not hungry for anything served by a dark wizard."

"Ah, but you did consume the breakfast," Riddle countered silkily. "Inconsistent, Potter. Or perhaps just selectively principled?"

Harry's throat tightened, but his pride wouldn't let him show weakness. "The morning menu suited me better."

"Very well then. In that case, I'll order Bug to ask you what you want to eat next time before he prepares your meal," Riddle replied, this time not getting into a verbal argument.

"No need, I don't intend to stay here unto–"

Harry's reply was interrupted when Riddle's eyes focused on the oversized clothes Harry had put on.

"They seem a touch loose though," Riddle observed, his head tilting slightly as his gaze narrowed on Harry's attire.

"They're fine," Harry said quickly, uncomfortably aware of how closely Riddle was watching him. This abrupt change of subject threw him out of the rhythm.

"No, no, that won't do at all. I suppose we'll have to tailor these," the future Dark Lord said almost thoughtfully, lifting his wand in a casual gesture.

Harry didn't even have time to jump away.

With a flick of his wand, Riddle cast nonverbal spell. The clothes tightened around Harry's frame, adjusting to his size with an almost sentient attentiveness. Harry stood, startled, his arms falling to his sides as the fabric settled into a perfect fit.

"Comfortable?" Riddle inquired, a semblance of politeness lacing his tone.

"Why are you doing this?" Harry asked, suspicion heavy in his voice.

"Consider it a necessity," Riddle replied with an air of nonchalance. "I find it's always best to look one's sharpest, even in the most… dire of circumstances."

The sarcasm, the veiled threats, and the twisted hospitality — it was all so unlike and far from what Harry considered normal Lord Voldemort behaviour. Harry realised that he found himself in a rather terrifying moment, at once in the presence of a young man in his prime and an echo of the future Dark Lord that he had known so well.

A shiver of horror ran down Harry's back. It didn't bode well.

Riddle did not give Harry much time to dwell in the thoughts.

"Now, your hands. Show them to me," he said in a cold, commanding tone.

Harry's hands instinctively clenched into fists at his sides, a small act of defiance.

"Potter, let go of this childish behaviour and don't make life difficult for both of us. This is how it's going to be. I give you an order, you obey it." There was obvious impatience in Riddle's voice.

As he stepped closer, with an air of dark pressure, Harry found himself obeying despite his inner protests. Riddle's fingers were cold and surprisingly gentle as they turned Harry's hands palm up. The burn marks stood out against his pale skin, red and angry.

"Seven attempts to escape, each as ineffective as the last. One could admire your persistence or question your intellect for failing to learn from repeated failure," Riddle drawled, the undertone of his voice laced with mockery.

"I wouldn't do the latter if I were you. I've beaten you at least four times," Harry said without thinking, meeting Riddle's eyes with a defiant glare.

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly.

"I definitely preferred you in yesterday's edition," Riddle said in an icy tone, an unspoken threat just below the surface.

Harry decided not to be intimidated.

"Go ahead, pry into my mind again," he retorted fiercely. "But I'll tell you a secret, I've lived with these memories for years. And yet it still defeats you. So if you think your threats will make a difference, you are sorely mistaken."

As Harry started to pull his hands back, Riddle's grip tightened, his fingers clamped like a vice.

"Not so fast," Riddle said sharply. Then he released one hand to wave his wand, his fingers tight around Harry's other wrist. "Hold still," he instructed. "And get those nonsensical hopes out of your head. The sooner the better."

The first spell washed over Harry's hands like cool water, the sensation startling in its softness coming from Riddle. Harry's eyes widened as the red, raw skin knitted back together, leaving no trace of the burns.

The unexpected act of healing left Harry momentarily astounded, but it was swiftly overtaken by a fresh wave of dread as Riddle spoke again, this time in the hissing cadence of Parseltongue. Harry's skin crawled at the sound; the spell was cast, and a black arrow materialized on his hand. It danced for a moment, pointing at an unseen destination, before vanishing into his skin.

Harry's heart raced, a fresh wave of alarm flooding through him. "What have you done?!"

"I have healed your hands. And, by the way, I cast a tracking spell on you." Riddle's tone was matter of fact as he released Harry's hand.

Harry's heart pounded against his ribs, a drumbeat of impending dread. "You can't be serious," he spat, his voice hard with anger. "Marking me like I'm some kind of... of–"

"Preserve your shock and indignation for another time," Riddle cut him off, his voice low and laced with warning. "Your surprise is as unoriginal as your escape attempts."

"And your methods are supposedly more original? An invisible magical leash? Really?"

"A matter of perspective. For me it's a precaution."

"You're sick, Riddle! You can't just–"

"Can't I?" Riddle's interruption was razor sharp. "I've just done it. And mind your manners; I'm not your playmate from the Gryffindor common room."

"As if I could ever forget," Harry sneered, ostentatiously taking a few steps back to get as far away from Riddle as possible. He leaned against the windowsill and crossed his arms. "Anything else? Because I'd like to get back to testing the durability of the furniture."

"Actually, just one more thing and then we can move on to more interesting matters," Riddle said, ignoring Potter's cheeky comment this time.

He reached into his robes and pulled out a neatly folded piece of parchment. Holding it between his slender fingers Riddle nodded at Harry. Harry did not move; he stared at Riddle for a moment, then snorted in annoyance, pulled away from the windowsill and took three brisk steps towards him. Angrily, he snatched the piece of parchment from Riddle's hand and returned to his place.

Harry eyed the paper with distrust. "What is it?" He didn't even bother to unfold it.

Riddle's patience seemed to be wearing thin, but his voice remained calm. "Another extra precaution. You understand, of course. The oath you've taken is rather flimsy. I need assurances."

Harry's voice dripped with sarcasm. "What's the matter, Riddle? Don't you trust your own spellwork?"

A shadow of annoyance flickered across Riddle's face, quickly covered. "It's not a matter of trust, it's a matter of certainty. The oath is a leash, unfortunately a rather loose one, and since you've already shown what a barking mut you can be, it's time for a muzzle."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Charming analogy. But what if I refuse to be your obedient pet and don't let you muzzle me?" he asked.

"You won't. We both know that defiance is a luxury you can't afford, Potter. So be a good dog and read it. Aloud," Riddle said coldly.

"And if I don't read it? What then? Threaten to take my magic away again? Do you think I won't find a way to get back to my time?" Desperation crept into Harry's voice. It was enough that Riddle had cast a tracking spell on him, he wasn't going to let himself be enslaved any further.

"I wouldn't take it lightly. Even if by some miracle you succeed, there is still the matter of defeating my future self. And without magic..."

Harry and Riddle stared at each other for a moment, measuring each other with hateful glances; hot hatred in the green eyes, cold calculation in the grey.

Riddle's slender fingers stroked his wand, in a motion that was ordinary yet filled with sinister menace.

"But what exactly is it? What does it do?" Harry finally asked, stalling for time.

"It ensures your silence on matters that are... sensitive to me. You will find it impossible to talk about your time-travelling escapades, the future of Lord Voldemort and, most importantly, my Horcruxes. It's called the Thought Warding Curse. An ancient, almost forgotten spell. It will bind itself to your mind and should you so much as attempt to reveal what you shouldn't, your thoughts will scatter like birds before a storm. You won't be able to formulate those treacherous thoughts, let alone express them."

"And I won't even be able to talk to you about the future? And… other things?" asked Harry hopefully, which surprised even him. But if the spell worked that way, it wouldn't be so bad.

But there was something else in Riddle's words that caught Harry's attention. When Riddle spoke of Horcruxes, he sounded as if he was convinced that Harry knew what he was talking about. Harry momentarily decided not to lead him out of this misconception. Perhaps this would help him to find out what they were?

Hid thoughts were interrupted by Tom Riddle's laugh, short and sinister, echoing through the room.

"Oh, no, of course not. That would be too nice, wouldn't it? With me as the keeper of your silence, you will be able to talk about anything."

Riddle's gaze hardened, as if he had had enough of Harry's constant evasions. "Read it, out loud. It's an order," he commanded.

With trembling hands, Harry unfolded the paper. He scanned the contents with his eyes, and it was only now that the full extent of the hopelessness of the situation in which he found himself began to sink in. The Oath of Submission, then the tracking spell, now this. Even if by some chance he managed to escape the apartment, his chances of returning to the future would be minimal, as he wouldn't even be able to tell anyone that he had travelled back in time.

He lifted his eyes and looked at Riddle's face once more. He made no attempt to hide the hatred he had just felt.

"I'm not doing this willingly," he announced, as if it mattered.

With a deep breath that did little to calm the turmoil within, Harry began to read. The words felt like poison on his tongue, a poison that seeped into his thoughts, binding them.

"I, Harry Potter, swear that I will not reveal to anyone that I come from the future, nor will I share with them my knowledge of the future that awaits Tom Riddle, known in my time as Lord Voldemort, nor will I share with them what I know about Tom Riddle's Horcruxes."

With each syllable Harry read, the room seemed to pulse, the air thick with the magic that was about to bind his mind. When he finished, a silence fell, heavy and absolute. Riddle's wand moved through the air with eerie precision, the tip glowing with the culmination of the curse. The incantation left his lips and a sensation of ice crawled across Harry's scalp, a feeling of constriction, of walls closing in around his mind.

And then it disappeared.

Harry's throat tightened, his voice a hoarse whisper. "And now what? I'm just supposed to sit there nice and quiet?"

"Now follow me," Riddle commanded, turning on his heel with a swish of his robes.

As Harry stepped into the corridor, following the dark figure ahead of him, he couldn't help but wonder at the twisted fate that had led him here, walking in the shadow of a man who would become the darkest wizard of his age. And yet, in that moment, a spark of the old Harry Potter's defiance flickered within him, a silent vow that no matter what shackles were placed upon him, he would find a way to resist. He would find a way to fight back. For that's what he always did. He fought back.