Lightning Amongst the Stars

Chapter Three – In the Wake of the Odyssey

A vice tightened around Harry's chest. The world narrowed, sounds warped, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Sweat beaded on his forehead as his hands trembled uncontrollably. The ground fell from beneath him; he was drowning, and couldn't tell if he was swimming for the surface or deeper into the ocean of dread.

One breath. Two. A third, this time deeper. His stomach clenched and he tried to focus.

It didn't help.

Riddle was excruciatingly human and too solid for Harry's liking. He wore impeccable black robes, his handsome features marred only by a slight tightness around the eyes – was that suspicion?

"Who are you?"

That cold, high voice sent another wave of nausea through Harry.

What in Merlin's name was going on?

He opened his mouth, before clamping it shut. Riddle watched him and got up. Harry's muscles tensed involuntarily. This was a predator sizing up its prey. This had to be a trap of sorts. Anger coursed through him, hot and strong, and Harry was moving before he even realised what he was doing. He had no wand, no weapon, yet nothing was going to stop him from getting his hands on Voldemort and-

Riddle was far quicker. Had he been able to, Harry would have stood agape as Riddle stood and slashed his wand, almost faster than his eyes could track. Something invisible yet solid slammed into Harry's gut, immediately taking the wind from his sails. He retched and doubled over, before a chair deprived him of his ability to stand. Conjured ropes slithered over his torso, arms and legs, binding him securely to the furniture. Harry roared and strained, tensing as he fought against his holdings. Riddle watched him idly. After a moment of futile effort, Harry sagged, breath coming quick as he battled the ache all over his body.

"What – what are you?" Harry panted. Exhaustion from his journey and the fight against the ropes securing him to the chair made him slump.

Riddle's expression held not even a flicker of malice. It was strange; Riddle looked at him like Harry was a misbehaving puppy. Eyes full of disconcerting neutrality stared back at him. "I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"Where is Professor Dumbledore?" Harry demanded, spittle flying from his mouth in his bound position. He stared back at those dispassionate blue eyes, his teeth unconsciously bared.

Riddle raised an eyebrow, then returned to his desk. He leaned on his chair. "I believe you have some explaining to do. Though perhaps, I feel I should address your peculiar question first. Professor Dumbledore, I regret to inform you, is deceased, and has been for many years now. Though I must confess my own confusion, as his death is widely known."

It was like Harry had been slapped with a spade. Dumbledore, dead? Riddle's voice was the same – smooth, deceptively gentle, modulated. This could not be real. Harry stifled a hysterical laugh, barely managing to smother it.

"I don't… I don't understand." Harry choked out, clinging to the last shreds of a fleeting hope. Dumbledore had to be here. He had to be alive. He was the only one who could help Harry return to his own time. Dumbledore could not be dead.

"He...he can't be," Harry stammered, the words catching in his throat like shards of glass. "Dumbledore...he's..."

He looked around the office, his eyes desperately searching for the familiar twinkle of Dumbledore's eyes. But all he saw was the cold, imposing grandeur of the Headmaster's office, before his breath was stolen away.

There, amidst the stern visages of past Headmasters, hung a portrait of Albus Dumbledore. But instead of the vibrant, twinkling Headmaster Harry knew, the portrait was asleep, his eyes closed, his expression serene yet undeniably lifeless. The sight of Dumbledore's portrait shattered the last embers of hope Harry had clung to. The reality of his situation hit him with the force of a physical blow. His eyes fell upon Riddle. Indescribable loss crashed over Harry like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him. He had barely survived a war, witnessed the deaths of friends and loved ones, faced unimaginable horrors, only to be flung into this twisted mockery of his past.

"I'm-" he began, then faltered, his voice failing him. How could he even begin to make sense of an impossible truth? His mind reeled, struggling to grasp the implications of Riddle sitting before him, occupying the very space that should have been filled by Dumbledore's presence. The edges of his vision blurred. He slumped back, his hand instinctively grasping the rough wood of the chair he was bound to. The cool, smooth surface grounded him, offering a tangible anchor in the swirling chaos of his thoughts.

"Lost, perhaps?" Riddle suggested, his voice a silken thread cutting through the haze of Harry's disorientation. He had lowered himself back into his seat behind the desk, though he held his wand firmly pointed at Harry.

"Not lost, exactly," mumbled Harry, despair scrabbling with the absurd urge to simply blurt out the truth. How could he even begin to explain? Where would he start?

Riddle turned, his gaze sweeping the portraits lining the office walls. "Well, what has happened for you to attempt to attack me in my own office? Without a wand, I might add. I do not recall knowing you, or doing anything to incur your ire."

Harry's ears burned with embarrassment at his lack of wand as the question hung in the air. He could barely comprehend the situation; Dumbledore dead, Riddle as the Headmaster… the pieces of this twisted puzzle refused to fit, leaving a gaping chasm of horror where nothing made sense. The silence stretched, each tick of the grandfather clock in the corner a hammer blow against his rapidly fraying nerves. Taking a steadying breath, Harry forced his voice into a semblance of calm. "I- I need to get back." His hand gripped the chair arm with white-knuckled intensity. Portkeys, broomsticks, even whatever had caused him to end up here and that started this mess suddenly seemed infinitely more desirable than sitting before this not-Voldemort.

"Get back?" Riddle echoed. His head tilted in a birdlike gesture of observation. "Back to where? Or rather, back to who?"

The question was accusatory and heavy with something unsaid. Harry paused. Was this a test? A trap? But for what purpose? He squirmed under Riddle's intense gaze and certainly did not like the way he was being watched.

"I don't…" he started again, words failing him. How did one explain a broken timeline and a desperate hope the world could be saved when standing before the architect of its damnation?

He recoiled as Riddle's lips curled into a sneer, a horribly familiar expression that Harry knew only too well. His next words were like daggers, piercing through Harry. "Know? Convenient. I wonder, did you truly think I would be taken by such a flimsy pretence?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry protested.

Riddle rose again from his chair, but this time, his movements were graceful and predatory. He circled the desk and his eyes never left Harry's. "Do not lie to me, boy!" he hissed. "Who are you and why are you here? Who sent you?"

There was no trace of Riddle Harry knew, bound to trinkets and consisting of a half-formed spirit. This was an echo of Lord Voldemort at the height of his power; clever, merciless, and terrifyingly capable. Harry remembered Voldemort's prowess with Legilimency and quickly averted his eyes. Riddle stopped abruptly, his presence looming over Harry, casting a long shadow that seemed to engulf the entire room. "Did you come here to kill me?" he asked softly, his voice dripping with venom. "Perhaps a spy, sent to lull me with lies?"

The accusation felt like a poisonous cloud that threatened to envelop Harry whole.

"I'm not a spy," said Harry. "I'm not working for anyone! I'm just lost!"

Riddle's eyes flashed with a hint of the cold, violent rage Harry knew all too well, before it was just as suddenly wrapped away. "I would greatly appreciate it, if you did not lie to me. Omitting the truth does not absolve you."

Harry shrank as far back as he could in his seat.

"However, despite your reticence to explain your circumstances," said Riddle. "It is plainly obvious that you share a strong resemblance to one James Potter. And I know my students well enough to see that those are Lily Evans' eyes looking at me. So, I shall ask you one more time, who are you?"

Indecision warred within Harry, the words razors in his throat. He could not allow himself to be pulled into Riddle's clutches, not when the fate of his lost future teetered on a knife's edge. Instinct screamed at him to run but Riddle's ropes held him strong. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Should he tell the truth? That he was from the future, from a world consumed by war and Voldemort's cruel reign? Fear slithered through Harry's veins, leaving a hollowness that was replaced with insidious dread. What would Riddle see in a disoriented, time-displaced Harry Potter? A tool or a threat?

Exhaustion flooded his body like it had been injected. Physically and emotionally drained by the ordeal of his unexpected journey and the confrontation with his not-yet-nemesis, Harry battled with indecision. Perhaps it was the lingering trauma of the battles he had fought, or the constant fear and uncertainty that had plagued his life. Perhaps it was the sheer absurdity of the situation. Perhaps, deep down, it was an act of defiance, a refusal to be silenced by fear. Harry had spent his entire life fighting against Voldemort. Even in this altered timeline, facing the man who would become his enemy, he would not cower, he would not hide. Whatever the reason, it did not matter. He had nothing left to lose.

"OK," said Harry. "OK, I'll tell you. But you're not going to believe me."

Riddle stood up a little straighter. "Go on."

Harry took a deep breath, before he threw all caution to the wind. The words had tumbled out of him. He left out that Riddle was Voldemort, the prophecy, the Horcruxes and other details. And when Harry had finished explaining the tale of a lifetime of a Dark wizard hell-bent on erasing him, Riddle was silent. His eyes betrayed nothing, yet he had a feeling Riddle was hiding something from him. His nerves frayed and uncomfortable with the silence, Harry was about to speak again when Riddle beat him to it.

"How did you come to be here then?

Harry sighed, the weight of his inexplicable journey pressing down on him. "I have no idea," he admitted, his voice heavy with exhaustion and confusion. "I last remember fighting in Devon, before I blacked out. One minute I was duelling with Dolohov, the next… it's just flashes. A cave and faces, before I ended up here. It's like... like someone just plucked me out of my life and dropped me here. I don't understand how or why."

Riddle's brow furrowed, his gaze intense as he studied Harry's face, searching for any hint of deception or delusion. "Dolohov?" he questioned, his curiosity evident. "And who, exactly, were you fighting alongside?"

"I was with a group of Aurors," said Harry, choosing his words carefully. "And others who opposed him – You-Know-Who."

"You-Know-Who?" queried Riddle.

"It was what we called him. He made his name a Taboo later, but he inspired enough fear before then that people feared to speak his name."

Riddle's eyes narrowed, a flicker of disgust crossing his face. "You-Know-Who," he sneered. "That's a rather childish moniker for a Dark wizard, wouldn't you say? Besides, fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself."

A flashback to Dumbledore saying exactly that flashed across Harry's mind. Harry shrugged, unsure how to respond. The silence stretched between them. Riddle leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully. "A time traveller," he murmured, more to himself than to Harry. "Fighting against a Dark Lord in another time." He shook his head, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "It's almost too fantastical to believe."

But Harry could see the wheels turning in Riddle's mind, the brilliant intellect grappling with the impossible, searching for a logical explanation to make sense of this extraordinary situation. And as Riddle's gaze returned to Harry, a glint of something sparked in his eyes.

"How do I know this is true?"

Harry laughed, the sound hollow. "You don't. I suppose you'll have to trust me."

"Oh, no," said Riddle, his voice dangerously soft. "No, you are going to have to do better than that, 'Mr Potter'. Your apparent earnestness aside, I am going to have to insist on some sort of proof from you."

Harry almost snorted. What proof could he offer? He racked his brain, searching for something, anything, that would convince Riddle. Then, it hit him.

"There's a basilisk," said Harry. "Living in the Chamber of Secrets. It was unleashed thirty or so years ago, and it petrified several students, including a girl named Myrtle Warren, who died. Her ghost is in the girl's bathroom."

Riddle's eyebrows rose. "The Chamber of Secrets?" he repeated. "And you know this how?"

"I destroyed the diary that was controlling it."

Riddle's eyes widened. He sat back in his chair, his expression unreadable. He seemed to be wrestling with a torrent of unspoken thoughts, his composure momentarily faltering.

"Who was the Dark wizard? Who was You-Know-Who?" he asked, his voice low and intense.

A bead of sweat trickled down Harry's temple. He had tried to keep the truth hidden, but Riddle's curiosity had unravelled his poor lies. The truth could not be avoided forever, but the thought of uttering it in light of the connection between them felt like a python coiling around his throat, choking him. Harry swallowed hard, his voice barely an octave above a whisper when he finally spoke.

"You called yourself Lord Voldemort."

The effect was instantaneous. Riddle froze, his handsome features contorting with a shock that bordered on horror. He stared at Harry with a dawning comprehension that seemed to drain the blood from his face.

"I-" said Riddle, a tremor betraying him. "I was the Dark Lord? It was me?"

I. Riddle had made the connection. He understood. He looked at Harry with an intensity that bordered on desperation as if searching for a denial, anything to dispel the horrifying truth that had just been unveiled.

Harry met his gaze, his own expression a mix of pity and grim determination. "Yes," he confirmed. "Yes, you were."

A profound silence descended upon the office. Riddle's face was unnaturally pale. He stared at Harry, not with anger or hatred, but with a vulnerability that Harry had never imagined seeing in Voldemort. Harry felt a wave of involuntary pity wash over him.

Riddle shook his head as he took a deep breath. "What happened to me? What drove me to attempt to kill an infant? What could have caused such-?"

Realisation hit Riddle like a lightning bolt. There was no mistaking the look that adorned him. Any remaining colour he may have had drained away, leaving the Headmaster ashen and his eyes wide with a dawning horror.

"The diary," Riddle whispered, his voice hoarse. "The Chamber. It was just the beginning, wasn't it?"

Harry nodded slowly, his tongue so heavy he did not trust himself to speak.

"How many?" croaked Riddle. He sounded physically pained. Harry did not like the look he saw on Riddle's face. "How many Horcruxes did I make?"

Harry hesitated. "Six."

Riddle recoiled as if struck, his hand flying to his chest, clutching at his heart. "Six?" he repeated in a strangled voice. "I split my soul six times?"

The revelation of his future actions, the depths of his own depravity, appeared to render him mute. Riddle stared at Harry, his eyes filled with horror, disbelief, and no small degree of self-loathing.

"You were obsessed with immortality," said Harry. "You wanted to live forever, no matter the cost. To beat Death."

Riddle's face fell. "All to fail," he whispered. "All that to become a monster."

A poignant silence fell over the room. Harry struggled to reconcile the image of the tormented man before him with the ruthless, power-hungry Voldemort he knew from his own time. Voldemort didn't know hubris, shame or suffering.

"What of your curse scar? Was that me?" The question came suddenly, as Riddle's eyes zeroed in on Harry's forehead.

Harry's skin prickled. "The Killing Curse. You used it on me and it backfired."

Disbelief flashed in Riddle's eyes. "The Killing Curse? But that's impossible. No one has ever survived it."

"I did," Harry said quietly. "As I said, the you that I fought, that tried to kill me, he couldn't. And this scar – it's a reminder of that."

Harry was exhausted. This was not something he had expected to be doing, having a conversation with Riddle over how he had tried to kill Harry in another time. And it was Riddle. But despite his obvious difference to Voldemort – the lack of snake-like features, the crimson eyes, the aura of pure malice – Riddle still made Harry deeply uncomfortable. He was too used to seeing the man before him as a threat to his very existence. It did not help that Riddle's gaze dissected him with an unnerving intensity, searching for answers. Harry felt horribly exposed, as if his every thought and emotion were laid bare under that penetrating stare.

Riddle must have sensed his discomfort. "I assure you, you are in no danger."

He raised his wand, and Harry instinctively flinched. A flick and the bonds that had been constricting Harry's movement loosened before vanishing entirely. Harry gave a sigh of relief, the freedom of movement a welcome reprieve. He rubbed his wrists, the phantom sensation of the magical restraints lingering.

"Consider that a gesture of goodwill," Riddle said as he rose from his desk and strode towards a drinks cabinet. He poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. Surprisingly, he offered a glass to Harry, who declined with a shake of his head. Riddle filled his own glass, before knocking it back in one swallow. He refilled it, before sitting back down behind his desk. He took a sip, his eyes never leaving Harry's face. "I advise you not to try attacking me again."

"I won't," said Harry bitterly. "And thanks."

Riddle raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement, before taking another sip of his drink. The firelight glinted off the glass. "Perhaps we can start again then, Mr. Potter," he said, his voice regaining its smooth tone. "I can see that you are understandably apprehensive. However, I am not your enemy."

"That's unbelievably easy for you to say."

Silence reigned for a while longer as Riddle sipped the drink, deep in thought. "I can only begin to imagine your predicament. It must be harrowing."

"Look, I don't mean to be rude – really. But I don't belong here," said Harry. "I don't want to be here. Frankly, I don't want your sympathy or pity. I don't trust you, even if you aren't my enemy. I want to be back with my friends, with the people that need me. I need to find my way back."

Riddle set down his glass, the clink of crystal against wood echoing. "I don't pretend to know all facets of magic," he said, his voice thoughtful. "But I could help. I and many others consider myself to be fairly knowledgeable."

Harry's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why? Why help me get back home, and destroy a version of you?"

Riddle sighed, his eyes focused on the amber liquid inside his glass. "You obviously know much about me, Mr Potter. I can assume from what you have told me that the path I walked in your world was not one I have taken now, nor one I ever will do."

Harry watched as Riddle closed his eyes.

"I am not Lord Voldemort. Here, I was shown a different path. Here, I chose to be better."

"That's really good for you, and I'm sure everyone here is immensely grateful that you didn't decide to become a genocidal maniac. But in my world you did! You killed my parents! You killed my friends! Why the hell should I trust you?!"

Harry was yelling. It took everything he had to remain seated and not leap up from his seat, for fear Riddle would bind him to the chair again.

"You've tried to kill me my entire life," Harry spat, the words venomous. "Forgive me, Headmaster, if I show little interest in listening to anything you have to say."

He glared at Riddle, his green eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and defiance. The memories of his encounters with Voldemort, the near-death experiences, the losses he had suffered, flooded his mind and fuelled his rage. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes and he angrily brushed them away.

Riddle's expression remained impassive. "I understand your animosity," he said, his voice calm and measured. "However, I assure you, I am not the same man you seem to believe I am."

He leaned forward, his eyes intense. "I can't make you trust me, Mr Potter. I can only ask that you don't hold me to account for the actions of a monster who ruined your life." He paused and let the weight of his words sink in. "And, if you'll allow me to, I will do what I can for you and help you get back to your own time. Time magic is complex, but certainly not unknown. There might be a way to reverse whatever process sent you here."

Harry's anger momentarily subsided. "What? You think I can go back?"

Riddle nodded slowly. "I do," he said firmly. "But Harry – may I call you Harry?" At the nod, he continued. "I give you my word; it will require time, research, and your cooperation, but I will do everything in my power to help you."

The office fell quiet, save for the steady tick-tock of an ornate grandfather clock. It was a space Harry had visited countless times in his own reality, seeking guidance, comfort, or the occasional reprimand from Dumbledore. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow that played across Riddle's face, softening the sharp angles of his jawline and highlighting the intelligence in his eyes. It was a far cry from the cold, calculating gaze of Voldemort that haunted Harry's nightmares.

Riddle leaned back in his chair, his gaze softening as he studied Harry. "You are a remarkable young man, Mr. Pot- Harry," Riddle corrected himself with a small, self-deprecating smile. His soothing baritone held no hint of malice. "Not many wizards nor witches would have the strength of character or fortitude to have endured what you have, despite how outlandish it sounds. I believe you."

"But why?" Harry asked. "Why do you believe me?"

Riddle's gaze softened, a hint of sadness flickering in his eyes. "Because I, too, have seen things that others would not believe," he confessed, his voice low and confiding. "I have walked paths that many would rightly fear to tread."

He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "And because," he continued, his voice regaining its usual strength, "I sense the truth in your words, Harry. I see the pain, the fear, the burden on your shoulders."

Riddle rose from his desk, his movements fluid and graceful, and approached Harry. He placed a hand on his shoulder, the touch surprisingly warm and reassuring.

"You are not alone, Harry," he said firmly. "I will help you."

Relief washed over Harry, followed quickly by a fresh wave of uncertainty. Riddle seemed more like an ally than a threat, but he had almost too readily accepted Harry's truth without much in the way of questioning him. It was unsettling to be believed by the very person he had always considered his nemesis. And of all people, Riddle was his only hope.

"Alright," said Harry. "I'll hear you out."

Riddle nodded. "Thank you," he said, his voice filled with gratitude. "I assure you, you won't regret this."

Riddle paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Firstly," he said. "We must ensure your safety. You cannot remain here as Harry Potter. It is too dangerous, for you and for everyone at Hogwarts."

Harry started. "What?"

Riddle chuckled. He moved away, the firelight dancing across the shine of his long, black robes. "Trouble seems to have a way of finding you, Harry. We must take precautions. Your safety, the stability of Hogwarts; these things are paramount. Therefore, for the time being, you will remain here under my protection."

Harry started. "Sorry, but I'm not sure I'm following you. I'm staying here at Hogwarts?"

"Tell me, Harry, how old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen," Riddle repeated. "Old enough to attend Hogwarts, wouldn't you say?"

"You mean I can be a student here?"

Riddle nodded. "Indeed. It seems fate has granted you a second chance at a Hogwarts education, albeit under different circumstances. With a few adjustments, you could integrate into the student body. Attend classes, learn, experience Hogwarts as it should be experienced."

Harry nodded slowly, absorbing the information. Riddle walked back over to his desk, moving behind it to rummage around, as if trying to find something. "Hogwarts is a sanctuary, Harry," he said softly. "A place where those within can find solace and guidance. Albus held that opinion for many years, even during his short tenure as Headmaster. His predecessor – my old Headmaster – Professor Dippet did too." Riddle turned back to Harry, his eyes filled with warmth that Harry still found alien. "It is my hope that you, too, will find a home here whilst we figure out a way to get your back to yours."

"You sound like him."

Riddle looked up to face Harry, a confused look upon his face. "I sound like who, Harry?" He asked.

Harry swallowed as he stared at Riddle. "Like Professor Dumbledore, sir."

It was unbelievable, what was happening. But it was true. This Riddle was not Voldemort; this Riddle was more like Dumbledore. Here he was, sitting across from a younger version of the same man, a version who seemed almost human. He was not the cold, calculating killer who had murdered his parents and countless others. This Riddle was thoughtful, introspective, even vulnerable. He listened intently to Harry's story, his expression shifting with a range of emotions: curiosity, disbelief, even a flicker of fear.

Riddle gave a small smile. "You're very kind, Harry. But few men could match up to Albus Dumbledore, and I am most assuredly not among them."

"What happened to him?" Harry asked suddenly. He couldn't imagine a Hogwarts without Dumbledore. "You said earlier that he died."

Riddle's expression shifted, a shadow of sadness momentarily clouding his features. He hesitated, as if weighing his words, then spoke in a low voice. "Albus is indeed gone."

Harry's heart sank. "How?"

Riddle's gaze lowered and his expression grew sombre. "He was killed in a duel," he said, his voice heavy with grief. "Grindelwald killed him and his body was never recovered. If you do not mind, I'd rather not discuss a painful topic tonight."

Harry felt hot shame flit through him. "Of course, sir. Sorry."

Harry's heart sank. He knew of the legendary duel between Dumbledore and Grindelwald, the clash of titans that had shaped the course of Wizarding history. But in his own time, Dumbledore had emerged victorious. Harry wondered what had given Grindelwald the edge to win here.

Riddle gave a small smile. "No apology is necessary, Harry. Albus was something akin to a mentor figure to me, and his passing is regrettably still a raw wound. But, we cannot dwell on the past. We must focus on the challenges that lie before us."

Riddle abandoned his search and returned to his desk, opening a drawer and pulling out an ornately carved box. "Now, we must address the matter of your identity."

He opened the box, revealing a collection of small vials and delicate instruments. "Your name will require a modification. From this day forth, you shall be known as Harry Sayre."

"Sayre?" Harry repeated, the name tasting strange on his tongue in spite of the comforting ring it held. "Why that name in particular?"

"It's an old family name. A distant branch of my own lineage, in fact. You will pose as a distant relative of mine, arriving at Hogwarts after taking you in after a tragic family affair. Think of it as a bit of role-playing. It will provide you with a certain degree of protection from those who will have questions, and a plausible explanation for your presence here. And it will allow me to keep a close eye on you, to ensure your well-being."

"But won't people be suspicious?" Harry asked slowly. "A new student arriving suddenly-"

"I'm sure they will be," said Riddle. "But suspicion is far less dangerous than outright recognition. On that note, with a few adjustments, we can ensure your resemblance to the Potters is minimised."

"This is a lot to take in," Harry ran his hand through his hair as he slumped in his seat.

Riddle nodded, his expression softening slightly. "I understand, Harry. Believe me, I do." He paused, studying Harry with a thoughtful look. "Tell me, do you know of Metamorphmagi?"

Harry blinked, the unexpected question jolting him from his thoughts. "Metamorphmagi?" he echoed. "Yes, of course. They're witches and wizards who can change their appearance at will."

Riddle smiled. "Precisely. And while you are presumably not a Metamorphmagus, we can achieve a similar effect through less natural means. Come, let me show you." He beckoned Harry towards a large silver-framed standing mirror, its ornate frame gleaming in the dim light.

Harry hesitated, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. The thought of altering his appearance felt odd. It was only eclipsed in its oddness by the fact he was trusting Tom Riddle of all people. He walked towards the mirror and as he got closer, he startled. The boy staring back at him was a stranger, a pale imitation of the Harry Potter he knew. His unruly black hair was still black, but a little more tame with small, soft curls all over. The lightning bolt scar was now a faint, barely noticeable mark. His eyes took on an earthier colour, the green now flecked with brown, losing the vividness that associated him with his mother. His face had a sharper, angular quality, the cheekbones sharper, the jawline slightly more prominent. At twelve years old, Harry had made the observation in the Chamber of Secrets that Riddle and he looked somewhat alike. But standing here in front of the mirror which showed how he would look, he could believe that somewhere along the lines they shared blood.

"This-" Harry began, his voice thick with confusion. "This isn't me."

"It is and it isn't," said Riddle reassuringly. "You are still Harry, at your core. But for now, you must wear a different mask and assume a different role whilst you find a place here. Until you can go home."

He gestured towards the box laden with potions, vials of shimmering liquids, and delicate instruments. "I had the fortune of coming across some rare potions and their ingredients during travels in my youth. I obtained a recipe long ago for a particular concoction, similar to Polyjuice Potion, which enabled changes of appearance for an extended time. It is not permanent, merely long lasting. We will not completely alter your appearance, merely adjust certain features – a long-term, but thankfully temporary effect. It will be enough to dampen your resemblance to the Potters, to give you a new face and no questions being asked."

Harry watched Riddle pour a mixture of elixirs and potion into a crystal goblet, a sense of unease washing over him. He hated Polyjuice Potion and the feeling of being someone else. But what other choice did he have? Riddle was right – he needed to blend in without arousing suspicion. Riddle waved a hand over the goblet, muttering something obscure.

"Drink this," Riddle instructed, offering him the goblet.

Harry took the goblet, the liquid inside smelling of bitter herbs and something unidentifiable. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, steeling himself for the familiar, sickening sensation of transformation. The potion burned its way down his throat, leaving a lingering taste of copper and bile. He gagged, his stomach churning. Then, a strange tingling sensation spread through his body, his skin prickling with an unfamiliar heat. When he opened his eyes, the reflection in the mirror was how he looked. He still looked like himself, but it was Harry Sayre, not Harry Potter who was looking back at him.

"Remarkable," Riddle smiled, his expression almost wistful. "You remind me of myself, in a way. A young man thrust into a world he doesn't understand, forced to adapt to survive."

Harry nodded slowly and sat down, instead of answering.

"And lastly," said Riddle. "There is the matter of your sorting."

Harry followed his line of sight to the battered, tattered Sorting Hat that sat high upon a bookcase. "Is that necessary? I was in Gryffindor before and I'm more than happy-"

"Don't worry, Harry," Riddle said with a reassuring smile. He collected the Hat, before returning to where Harry sat. "This is just a formality. It will help us determine your placement within Hogwarts."

Harry barely suppressed a bitter laugh. He'd already been sorted once; the memory of the Sorting Hat's raspy voice declaring him a Gryffindor was etched into his memory. Riddle reached for the Hat, his long fingers brushing against the faded fabric. Harry watched as Riddle gently placed the Hat upon his head, a familiar darkness enveloping his vision. Silence – then – the Hat's voice boomed within his mind.

'Well, well, well, another intriguing mind,' said a voice in his ear, smooth and ancient. 'Courage and determination in abundance. A thirst for justice, a loyalty that runs deep. Here is one who has sat here before.'

Harry's breath hitched. The Hat knew.

'But of course. You are brave, Harry Potter,' the Hat continued, its voice echoing in the silence of his mind. 'Loyal, selfless, a true Gryffindor at heart. But there is another side to you, a hidden depth that could thrive in a different house.'

'Please,' he begged silently. 'Not Slytherin. Anywhere but Slytherin. Put me back in Gryffindor.'

'Gryffindor suited you then,' purred the Hat. 'But you have grown. You need something more now. You are cunning, resourceful, ambitious. You possess a thirst for knowledge, a hunger for power - qualities that could flourish in Slytherin.'

A shiver snaked down Harry's spine at the Hat's words. Slytherin. The house of dark wizards. The house of Voldemort himself. He had spent his life fighting against everything that house represented, yet the Hat's words spoke a disturbing truth. Harry knew he had always been different, an outsider even among his friends. He had a knack for bending the rules, a certain disregard for authority that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count.

'No, I know I can choose. I want Gryffindor.' Harry thought fervently. He knew he was being stupid, rejecting a house based on those who were in it. But now he wanted nothing more than the familiar sight and warmth of the Gryffindor common room.

'Indeed, and no doubt Gryffindor would welcome you with open arms,' the Hat acknowledged. 'But there's more to you than meets the eye. A sharp mind, a streak of brilliance. Slytherin will nurture you more than you could ever know.'

'No,' Harry protested. 'I'm not like them. I'm not Dark.'

'You believe that Slytherins cannot fight for good?' the Hat challenged. 'Every house has produced its heroes and its villains. It is not the house that defines you, but the choices you make.'

Harry's mind whirled. He knew the Hat made sense, but the thought of being sorted into Slytherin filled him with a sense of dread.

'A difficult decision,' the Hat continued as it mused, its voice filled with a contemplative tone. 'But I firmly believe your true potential lies in embracing your nature, in channelling your ambition and cunning towards a greater good.'

The Hat paused. 'And so, I say to you, Harry Potter, face your destiny. Embrace the path that lies before you. Sometimes the path we fear is the one we need to take.'

Then, in a voice that boomed through the office, the Hat declared: "SLYTHERIN!"

Harry gasped as the Hat was removed. He had been sorted into the house of his old enemy, the house that had bred the darkness he had fought so hard to defeat. And no matter how much he ignored it, there was a strange sense of rightness to it, a feeling that this was where he belonged. He looked up at Riddle. But the Headmaster's face held no surprise, only a smile with what Harry strongly suspected was almost pride.

"Welcome to Slytherin, Harry Sayre," said Riddle. "I have a feeling you'll do great things here."

Harry breathed slowly. Slytherin. Unexpected, but he would make it work. "Brilliant," he muttered.

"I will have one of the house elves show you to the Slytherin dorms, Harry. You will remain here at Hogwarts until term starts. I think, given the circumstances, that would be best. Tomorrow, I will take you to Diagon Alley. I believe a wand and some assets are in order."

Harry nodded, though he was confused. "Um – why-"

"You are posing as a relative of mine, Harry," Riddle said softly. "It wouldn't be too cavalier to assume that I should therefore treat you as one. If you are to stay here, then I will ensure that you are looked after. You will have everything you need to make your way here until you can get back to your home. And that begins with having a wand again."

It made sense. After all, Harry had nothing to his name bar the clothes on his back. He thought of his wand, the familiar weight of holly and phoenix feather in his hand. The extension of his will and conduit of his magic, it was more than just a tool; it was a part of him. Without it, he felt incomplete, broken. He would accept Riddle's unexpected generosity.

"Thank you, sir."

"It is of no matter, Harry," said Riddle, waving his hand absently. "I suggest you go to Madam Pomfrey and let her give you a look over. I'll have one of the house elves bring you some clothes and set you up in your dormitory in the meantime."

Harry smiled and nodded. He went to stand, before asking another question.

"Sir, regarding Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, my appearance and-"

Riddle gave a small smile. "Rest assured Harry, I will speak with them both. Their discretion can be guaranteed."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir."

Riddle nodded. "You may leave now."

Harry nodded in gratitude and turned to leave. As he was about to reach the door, Riddle spoke again.

"Harry, if you come across those of your time here, those you may not have got along with – those who were like me – what will you do?"

Harry froze with his hand on the handle. He thought a moment before turning and answering. "They're not the same people, I suppose. They're not yet the people I knew in my time."

A flicker of approval lit Riddle's eyes. "Indeed. I will ask then that you spare those who you may have had grievances against in your time. By your own admission, they are not yet the same people, if they ever will be."

Harry understood the implications as clear as day. He held Riddle's gaze for a moment longer, then inclined his head in a gesture of agreement.

"Of course, sir."

And as he closed the door and a house elf led him away, in the depths of his mind, Harry wondered if he was doing the right thing. Could he truly trust Riddle? Harry didn't know the answer. He was adrift, full of uncertainty, his compass spinning wildly, his instincts battling with his hopes. Tiredness dulled the edges of his mind and all he could do was follow the elf to the hospital wing. Once there, he thought about Riddle again. He would make more decisions tomorrow. Right now, he could only cling to the belief that he was doing the right thing. All he knew is that he had to keep fighting.

Fight to live. Fight to see his friends.

Fight to get home.

Riddle tapped a long finger against the worn leather cover of the ancient tome open before him. The words swam in his mind, the convoluted theories on temporal anomalies a swirling kaleidoscope of absurdity. He shut the book with a snap, the echo loud in the quiet of his office. He had remained there long after Harry had left, pondering the circumstances of the young man who had caused a small whirlwind with his unexplained and unexpected arrival. The entire situation reeked of the sort of unnecessary complications he generally sought to avoid or, at the very least, neatly manage. But how he could manage the revelation he would become the very thing Albus had tried to steer him away from? How could he rest knowing that there was a version of him out there that had travelled that dark path, achieving the dreams of his younger, naive self? That he had become a Dark Lord?

Harry's words had rocked Riddle more than he would care to admit. The idea that he would one day inflict such terror, such pain, on the Wizarding world filled him with a self-loathing he had never experienced before. He sat back in his chair, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. He had spent years carefully constructing a facade of control, and trying to act out of benevolence. He had embraced the role of Headmaster, guiding and protecting the students of Hogwarts, seeking to atone for the darkness that he had delved into in his youth and that had plagued him since. But now, faced with the horrifying truth of a future where he indulged in the Dark Arts, the walls he had built around himself threatened to crumble.

Harry's words echoed in his mind: "You were obsessed with immortality. You feared death above all else. You wanted to live forever, no matter the cost. To beat Death."

Was it inevitable? Would he still become that monster? The questions gnawed at him, their answers frustratingly lacking. He looked at his many books. Perhaps within their pages lay the key to his redemption? Even if they did, Riddle knew that deep down, fear held him back. Fear of the unknown, fear of confronting the darkness within himself, fear of failing to live up to the expectations that had been set for himself.

He stood, stretching muscles stiff from long hours of fruitless research and uncharacteristic stillness. It was unlike him to be so unsettled. Riddle felt unmoored, and it frustrated him. He paced the office, before stopping before the sleeping portrait of Albus Dumbledore.

"Could I have betrayed your trust, Albus?" he whispered to the painted image. "Could I become the very thing you warned me against?"

The portrait of Dumbledore remained silent, its painted face offering no answers as it slept on, only a gentle sadness that mirrored the turmoil in Riddle's own heart. He was Tom Riddle, the brilliant and ambitious young wizard, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the man who had vowed to protect the Wizarding world from the shadows that threatened to consume it. But he was also the boy who had grown up in an orphanage, yearning for acceptance, for belonging, for a place in the world. And as he stood in the silence of his office, the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future pressing down on him, he knew that he had a choice to make. He would become the wizard Dumbledore had always believed he could be. And he would ensure that the future Harry had described would never come to pass.

Harry Potter. It was clear the boy had been telling the truth, but even then, something about this boy pricked at his curiosity. His initial surface Legilimency had yielded frustratingly incomplete results. The boy's mind was turbulent – a swirl of fear, confusion – there was no deception in that jumbled landscape, only a desperate need to go back to where he came from. It also didn't explain the headache that was caused by his brush with Harry's mind. From the moment he attempted it, Riddle felt a slip-slide grasp of recognition, something familiar yet alien in equal measure. The sudden spike of pain that lanced through his mind took all of his Occlumency to hide from Harry and he quickly withdrew. He knew that the boy had not done anything to him consciously, but there was something that reacted to Riddle negatively in a way he had never encountered before. It was clear he knew of Legilimency too, given how quickly he had averted his eyes.

He pushed away the pile of scrolls on time magic, the dead ends of previous scholars mocking his own lack of answers. Magic, for all its vast potential, remained maddeningly enigmatic at times.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his brooding contemplation. "Enter," he commanded, his voice sharper than intended.

The door opened, and Professor McGonagall entered.

"Hello Minerva, thank you for coming," said Riddle.

"Good evening, Tom."

McGonagall sat on the chair opposite his desk. With a casual wave of his hand, Riddle floated over a tea to her, before also sitting down. "White, no sugar," he affirmed.

McGonagall gave a small smile of gratitude. "Thank you, Tom."

Riddle inclined his head, acknowledging her thanks. His brow furrowed slightly as he looked at her. "With as much detail as you can, Minerva, tell me everything about your initial encounter with Harry."

McGonagall sipped her tea, then took a deep breath. After she finished recounting her encounter with Harry, Riddle sighed.

"Minerva," said Riddle. "I understand your concerns. This situation with him is unorthodox, to say the least."

He leaned back in his chair, the shadows deepening the lines on his handsome face. "However," Riddle continued, "before we jump to conclusions, I felt it prudent to glean if what he said were true. A mere glimpse into the surface of his thoughts."

McGonagall's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Without his knowledge, Headmaster?" she questioned.

"Yes, to ensure we were – are – safe! Albus would have done exactly the same, if only to protect this school and those whose care which we are charged with."

"And what did it reveal?"

Riddle's gaze grew distant. "The boy has evidently been given extremely rudimentary Occlumency training and is aware of Legilimency. However, he wears his heart on his sleeve. There was… a storm of emotions, fear, confusion, yes. But beneath it all, a core of conviction and truth. He believes his story, Minerva, because he is telling the truth. I am inclined to believe Harry, despite how absurd his story is. Though absurd appears to be the operative word. Occam's Razor would suggest the simpler explanation: a spy, spinning tall tales to gain refuge. But I could not find any deception. He carries a weight of grief and confusion. He is just someone who is lost and desperate to find his way home. Harry is clearly distressed and he has experienced things that no child should have to endure."

"If that is the case, Tom, how do we help him? How can we help someone like that, especially if what he says is true? Are we able to get him back to where he came from?" McGonagall asked.

The firelight danced in Riddle's eyes, illuminating something she couldn't quite decipher. "The truth is, Minerva," he said, his voice low, "I do not know. Sending Harry back if what he says is true – and that's a considerable 'if' – could be disastrous, if not outright impossible. We have no understanding of how to cross over to these so-called alternate realities, no way of knowing where he might end up, even if he would get there unscathed. And that's not even beginning to scratch the surface regarding the ethics of knowingly sending him somewhere where he could be in grave danger."

McGonagall hesitated, her gaze flicking towards the piles of discarded books. "I wouldn't even know where to begin. Have you found anything useful?"

"Nothing concrete. This is something that Albus would have been better suited to solve," Riddle admitted. Time travel or trans-reality shifts were considered the stuff of children's stories, or wild hypotheticals debated by eccentric magical theorists, not serious areas of study. Yet, here they were. He sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "How is Harry?"

"He's stable," McGonagall began, perched on the edge of the chair. She took another sip of tea. "Poppy cleared him physically, though the shock and exhaustion he was suffering from was considerable."

"What are your opinions on him?"

"Well, he's lucid, albeit disoriented. You are correct about his conviction, however," McGonagall pressed her lips together.

Riddle leaned forward, his tone soft. "Harry was honest with me, Minerva. Admitted that what he claims is barely believable. I have no reason to think that he is being dishonest with me, despite not having all the answers. Not yet."

"I know, Tom. But he has given us nothing to suggest anything but that he is hiding something," said McGonagall.

Riddle rose, moving to the window and gazing out into the moonlit night. Riddle caught the reflection of his face in the glass as he did so. His features, usually set in controlled severity, held traces of an emotion he rarely yielded to – weariness. "He spoke of his time, quite hesitantly. There was another great war, a confrontation with a Dark Wizard."

McGonagall gasped. "With Grindelwald?" she asked, a shaky tremor betraying her underlying fear. "Surely not?"

"Yes, Grindelwald," lied Riddle smoothly. "And in Harry's time, Grindelwald was defeated."

Riddle watched as McGonagall's eyes widened. "His arrival," Riddle continued, choosing his words carefully, "may suggest that history, for all its appearance of inflexibility, is far more pliable than we assume."

He saw it then, a flicker of understanding and perhaps a hint of awe, in McGonagall's usually stoic eyes. The existence of this one boy shifted everything. Here was an opportunity for them to seize. The boy claimed to have defeated a most powerful Dark Wizard, to have rewritten the course of history. It was a testament to unimaginable strength, or perhaps, fate. Regardless, it had carried him here, to their time, to their reality. It was arrogant to dismiss it all as mere coincidence.

McGonagall sniffed. "Well then. He is obviously in need of help, and is alone in the world. And if he knows of a way to defeat the Dark Lord, then surely it makes sense to learn from him how."

Riddle nodded slowly. "That aligns with my assessment. Which is why I've reached a decision. Harry will remain here at Hogwarts, for the foreseeable future. In time, things might become clearer. Perhaps something in his subconscious will trigger a memory, a clue on how he got here. We will support him regardless, and help him find purpose. Albus wouldn't have wanted it any other way."

Riddle moved back to his seat, grabbing a book, signalling the end of the meeting. "He's a confused individual who needs our care. He poses no threat, and he deserves our help."

"If you're sure, Tom," McGonagall said as she stood, preparing to leave. "I do hope you're making the right decisions." She turned toward the door and began to walk towards it.

"Minerva," Riddle called out, his voice stopping her in her tracks.

She turned back to face him, a questioning look in her eyes.

Riddle's expression hardened. He dropped the book. McGonagall's tracked its fall, but completely missed Riddle raising his wand, his movements swift and precise.

"Obliviate!"

A flash of white light erupted from the tip of his wand, engulfing McGonagall. Her eyes rolled back into her head, her body swaying slightly as the memories of the past few hours were wiped from her mind. Riddle rushed to her side, catching her before she collapsed. He gently lowered her back into her chair, his face etched with a mixture of regret and determination.

"I'm sorry, Minerva," he whispered. "But I cannot risk this reaching the wrong ears. Harry may be the weapon we need to win this war, and that depends on secrecy. Forgive me."

With a sigh, he began the delicate task of implanting false memories, carefully constructing a narrative that explained Harry's presence at Hogwarts. He wove a tale of a tragic accident in the family, a transfer student seeking refuge in the midst of turmoil. He implanted these memories gently, meticulously, ensuring that they seamlessly integrated and left no trace of the truth erased. When he was finished, he stepped back, observing McGonagall with a critical eye. She stirred slightly, her eyelids fluttering open.

"Minerva," Riddle said softly, "are you quite alright?"

McGonagall blinked a few times, her gaze focusing on Riddle's face. "I believe so, Tom," she replied, her voice slightly slurred. "Just a bit – woozy."

Riddle nodded, a reassuring smile on his lips. "It seems you are quite exhausted. Perhaps you should retire for the evening."

McGonagall agreed. "Yes, I think I shall. Goodnight, Tom."

Riddle inclined his head towards her. "Goodnight, Minerva."

As the door closed behind her, Riddle's smile vanished. He had made a difficult choice, but the stakes were too high to falter. He had to win this war, defeat Grindelwald, and ensure the safety of the Wizarding world. But the act of altering and manipulating McGonagall's memories left a bitter taste in his mouth. Riddle slumped into his seat, and held his face in his hands. War was never kind to those in a position to stop it. He would do whatever it took to safeguard the future. And if that meant making difficult choices, even morally questionable ones, then so be it.

After all, he was no stranger to sacrificing a part of himself to achieve his goals.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this. Please feel free to leave a review.