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Chapter Text

The Hall of Prophecies was eerily quiet, except for the soft hum of countless glowing orbs stacked on endless shelves. Harry moved cautiously, his wand ready in one hand while the other trailed along the cold metal edge of a shelf for balance.

“This feels wrong,” Hermione said softly behind him, her voice barely above a whisper. “We shouldn’t be here.”

Harry didn’t respond. The oppressive atmosphere of the place was already gnawing at him, but his scar burned faintly, guiding him closer to his target. He stopped abruptly, staring at a sphere glowing faintly on a lower shelf.

“This is it,” he said, his voice flat. He bent down to inspect the tag:

S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D. - Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter

Hermione stepped up beside him. “Harry, we don’t even know if taking it is a good idea. What if this is what Voldemort wants?”

“That’s exactly why we need to know what it says,” Harry replied. He reached out, and his fingers brushed the smooth surface of the orb. The moment he lifted it, the room seemed to shift—the air grew heavier, and the faint hum of the orbs became a low, unsettling vibration.

Harry froze, his wand raised in the hand that wasn't carrying the prophecy. A quiet rustle came from behind a nearby shelf, followed by the unmistakable click of boots on stone.

“Stay together,” Harry whispered.

Out of the shadows stepped Lucius Malfoy. He moved with calm precision, his wand already drawn, his pale features unreadable in the dim light. Behind him, other figures emerged, their faces obscured by masks, their movements quiet and deliberate.

Malfoy’s gaze settled on Harry, unflinching. “Hand it over, Potter.”

The simplicity of the demand made Harry hesitate, but only for a moment. He tightened his grip on the prophecy and took a step back.

“No.”

Malfoy exhaled sharply, almost as if he pitied the boy’s defiance. “You don’t understand what you’re holding. You can’t begin to grasp the consequences of your actions.”

“Then explain it,” Harry said, his voice steady.

“That’s not how this works,” Malfoy replied. He raised his wand slightly. “Give it to me. Now.”

Spells erupted almost immediately, not from Malfoy, but from the masked Death Eaters who flanked him. Harry barely had time to react.

“Protego!” he shouted, throwing up a shimmering shield. The first wave of spells ricocheted off harmlessly, but the impact sent him stumbling.

“Run!” Harry barked, ducking a streak of red light.

Hermione fired a quick stupefy, narrowly missing one of the Death Eaters as Ron yanked her back behind a shelf. Ginny moved fluidly, using the narrow aisles to her advantage, her spells sharp and focused.

Harry sidestepped an incoming hex and retaliated with a swift stupefy and expelliarmus, disarming one of the masked figures. His movements were precise, calculated, not like the flailing improvisation he usually relied onn.

Malfoy stayed back, watching the chaos with cold detachment. He didn’t shout or bark orders; he didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to direct his allies.

“Harry, we need to move!” Hermione called, her voice tight with urgency.

Harry glanced at the nearest doorway and shouted, “This way!”

The group sprinted toward the circular room, their footsteps echoing. Harry yanked open a door at random, ushering everyone through. They spilled into a strange chamber filled with ticking clocks and the hum of something ancient and alive.

“The Time Room,” Hermione muttered, her eyes darting around.

Harry cast a quick spell to lock the doors, but it didn’t do much against experienced wizards. The door burst open moments later, and the Death Eaters flooded in. Harry ducked behind a desk, firing off a Petrificus Totalus that struck one of their attackers squarely. Fuck, Harry thought, feeling the pressure of the situation truly crush him and force him to face the fact that he was too careless going in here. It was all his fault. He turned around, frantically trying to locate his friends and think of a way out of this. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny and Luna worked in tandem, their spells keeping the advancing Death Eaters off balance.

Lucius stepped into the room last. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Instead, he gestured with a flick of his wand, sending a wave of dark energy crashing into the shelves behind Harry.
“Look out!” Hermione shouted.

Harry had been too far into his thoughts to notice the danger until it was too late. The shelves toppled upon Harry, and the Time-Turners shattered on the floor. A golden light erupted, rippling outward like a shockwave. The noise was deafening--a crackling roar that swallowed all other sound.

Harry felt the magic pulling at him, twisting his body like a rag doll. He tried to hold onto the prophecy, but the world was already slipping away. His mind felt like jello and his body was shaken with fear.

“Harry!” someone called, but the voice was faint, distant.

And then--

Nothing.

...

When Harry eventually woke up, it was to a familiar smell of metallic, earthy Blood-Replenishing Potion. He recognized it immediately by the sharp, iron tang lingering in the air and the disgusting aftertaste clinging to his dry mouth.

As he sat up, disoriented, his mind raced. He had just been in the Department of Mysteries...Time-Turners shattering, golden light swallowing everything. Now, he was here, but where was here? The room was dimly lit, with high, vaulted ceilings and stone walls that seemed far older than Hogwarts’ hospital wing as he knew it. A row of neat, narrow beds lined the room, but their design was subtly different, simpler, more utilitarian.

A brisk voice cut through his thoughts. “Ah, you’re awake at last. Try not to move too much.”

Harry turned toward the voice. A tall, stern-looking woman in a starched white uniform approached, carrying a tray of potion vials. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, and her spectacles caught the low light as she examined him.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” she said matter-of-factly. “Whatever nonsense landed you in such a state, I’d suggest you avoid it in the future. Magic isn’t something to trifle with.”

Harry blinked at her. This wasn’t Madam Pomfrey. The woman’s attire and demeanor were formal, almost old-fashioned, and her accent carried a clipped edge.

“I--um, where am I?” he managed, his voice hoarse.

“Hogwarts, of course,” she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You were found unconscious near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. No sign of what caused it, just you, crumpled on the ground like a rag doll.”

“The Forbidden Forest?” Harry repeated, frowning. His last memory was the Time Room, the explosion of golden light. What was he doing near the forest? What about the department?

“Yes, and quite a spectacle you made of yourself,” the nurse said, setting the tray down on a nearby table. “You’re fortunate a group of students spotted you before anything worse happened.”

“Students?” Harry’s stomach twisted uneasily.

“Indeed,” the nurse said, raising an eyebrow at his tone. “Mr. Malfoy and his friends brought you in. I’ll have to speak to the headmaster about all this.”

“Malfoy?” Harry’s head snapped up. The thought of Lucius saving him boggled his mind further, his confusion deepening. This wasn't right. Could this be a dream? “Wait, what’s your name?”

The nurse gave him a sharp look. “Madam Gilbert. And you are?”

This rang more alarms in Harry’s head. Not to sound pompous, but who in the wizarding world wouldn’t know who he was at this point? Brushing a hand over his forehead, he confirmed that his lightening bolt scar was still there and uncovered by his hair.

He was scared and wary.

“Harry.” He paused. The woman--Madam Gilbert--simply nodded.

Harry’s heart was racing, his mind scrambling to make sense of everything. Madam Gilbert raised her eyebrows but didn’t comment on the boy’s unwillingness to share his last name. Instead, she had only returned to her tray of vials, her sharp, efficient movements continuing as if nothing were amiss.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” she repeated, shaking a bottle of a silvery liquid and pouring a few drops into a spoon. “Take this, and try to relax. It’ll help your body recover from the shock.”

Harry obeyed, swallowing the potion in one go. The bitter, unfamiliar taste burned down his throat, but it seemed to soothe the pounding headache that had settled behind his eyes. Madam Gilbert’s presence was clinical and unyielding, like a machine that went through the motions of healing without any trace of concern or sympathy. Harry didn’t mind. At the moment, he didn’t know what to make of any of this, and her businesslike approach left him too confused to care.

“So, child, what happened? Why are you here?”

The panic in Harry’s face must’ve been obvious, because her expression softened and she spoke again, “Was it Grindlewald? You’re safe now, you know?”

Grindlewald? If Harry had been confused before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.

Harry blinked, “Grindlewald?”

“Oh, you poor child. Was that how you ended up in the forbidden forest?” she asked. Her previous stern tone had much softened after Harry's confused words.

Harry internally sighed at his situation. Of course this had to happen. Unsure of what else to say, Harry just agreed. “Yes?”

He didn't know what he was saying or doing. Harry figured he might as well go along with whatever, because this must be some crazy dream. Maybe his mind comforting him as he is being tortured by death eaters. There's no way this is real.

She set down the spoon and adjusted her glasses, then gave him another look. “I’ll be back in a moment. The Headmaster needs to be informed, and I need to discuss your condition with him. Don’t try to get up.”

With that, she swept from the room, her robes swishing behind her. The door clicked shut, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts. The mention of Dumbledore gave him a minor sense of relief; Dumbledore could help him, explain everything.

Harry waited, the silence in the hospital wing pressing in on him. His mind was racing, still unable to make sense of what had happened. He was in Hogwarts, he was certain, but it was different. The medical wing wasn't exactly how he had remembered it-the beds were worse then he remembered, dilipidated and smaller. He had to think. The last thing he remembered was the Time Room, the explosion of golden light--and then nothing. He could still feel the weight of the prophecy in his hands, but it had somehow been lost in the chaos, and now it was gone. He even checked his pockets and, nothing.

As the minutes stretched by, his mind settled into a state of alertness. There was no sign of his friends, and that only added to his growing unease. Ginny, Luna, Ron, and Hermione should have been here too, they had to be. He’d never felt so isolated.

He needed to know what was happening. How long had he been asleep? He needed to get back to his friends.

Harry’s hands were shaking as he reached for his wand, relief washing over him as he grabbed in on the bedside nightstand. The familiarity was calming. He muttered a quiet “Tempus,” pointing it at the window where the dim light filtered through the stone.

The time appeared in glowing letters, but when Harry read it, his blood ran cold.

Thursday, November 16, 1943.

He stared at it, his heart pounding in his chest. The words blurred for a moment, and he blinked hard, trying to make sense of what he had just seen.

No. No, that couldn’t be right. He cast it again, only to be shown the same thing. This had to be some kind of mistake. Maybe he was still delirious from the potion. Maybe the nurse had mixed something up. But as he focused harder, his chest tightening with panic, the reality crashed down on him with an awful finality as he cast it a third time.

1943.

That was... nearly fifty years before he was born. How was it even possible? How had he ended up here?

His head spun, his thoughts tumbling over one another. Time-Turners. The explosion. The golden light. He had somehow been flung into the past. But how? Why? The furtherst time turners had ever worked were a few hours. Not years, not half a century! What was he supposed to do now?

He clutched his wand tighter, trying to steady his breathing. This wasn't possible. His mind darted back to the Department of Mysteries. The Death Eaters. Malfoy. The time room. But it was unheard of for any wizard to travel back in time so far! How could this have happened?

He couldn’t risk staying in the hospital wing much longer. He needed to figure out how to get back to his own time, to find his friends. They must be lost somewhere here as well, just as confused as Harry was.

With a deep, shaky breath, Harry pushed himself to his feet, his knees wobbling slightly as the effects of the potions still lingered in his system. He took a tentative step, then another, moving quietly toward the door. The last thing he needed was to get caught trying to leave, but he couldn’t stay here, not when everything was falling apart.

As he reached for the door handle, the sound of footsteps outside froze him in place. He held his breath, straining to hear. The footsteps stopped just outside, and Harry panicked. He ran back to the bed, practically throwing himself under the covers (painfully, he internally noted, that his legs were sore and strained with excessive movement. Brilliant.) and hoping they didn’t notice his abrupt movements.

The door creaked open and out came Madam Gilbert and another man; Harry’s eyes widened as he realized this was the man he’d seen in the portraits behind Dumbledore in his office.

A closer look got Harry's memory to jog and remember the mans name; Headmaster Dippet. The portrait versions of him had always exuded a kind of stoic authority, but in person, the man looked older, a bit worn, though still impressive.

“Has he regained any memory?” Dippet whispered, his voice tinged with concern as he stepped further into the room, not aware that his whispers could be heard by Harry .

Madam Gilbert gave a firm, professional nod. “He’s awake. But, Headmaster... I don’t believe he remembers much. He claims to have no memory of how he ended up in the Forbidden Forest. His condition was severe. I’ve treated him as best as I could, but...” She trailed off, looking down at Harry who was caught staring at them. Harry simply looked away in mild embaressment.

“Ah, I see,” Dippet murmured. “We must get to the bottom of this, of course. We cannot afford to let such a mystery go unresolved.”

Then Dippet spoke again, his voice loud and probing as he addressed Harry. “Young man,” he began, “I must ask, how did you manage to get past the Apparition wards? Hogwarts’ wards are quite strict, as you know. There’s no way you could have gotten inside without...well, without some form of transgression.” He paused. “How did you get here?”

Harry could feel his heart thundering in his chest. How much could he reveal? How much could he risk? He needed a cover story, something that would fit the time period but not make them suspicious. He had to be careful.

His voice came out hoarse, strained, but he hoped it was convincing. “I... I don’t remember,” Harry said quietly, keeping his eyes closed. “I was... I was... Obliviated.” He winced at the lie but pushed forward. “I... I woke up in the forest. I don’t know how I got there. My memory’s foggy.”

There was a tense silence. He could feel Dippet’s sharp gaze on him until there was a familiar push on his mind; similar to Snape, yet less forceful. Harry automatically responded with what little knowledge he had, and thrust his mental walls up. Dippets eyes only widened slightly before returning to normal and withdrawing from Harry’s mind. Why would he do that?

Madam Gilbert, standing off to the side, didn’t interrupt. Harry’s heart was still racing. The potion-induced haze was starting to lift, but his thoughts were still swirling in confusion.

“I see,” Dippet said slowly, as if mulling over the words. “Obliviated, you say. Well, that’s troubling, but not impossible. You’ve certainly caused a stir, young man. I trust you’ll explain more as your memory returns. For now, we have the matter of your identity to address.”

Harry nodded slightly, still playing the part of someone trying to recover from shock. “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice rough.

“Do you remember your name?” Dippet asked.

Harry was hoping they wouldn't ask. He had thought briefly about it; would it be wise to tell them of his Potter heritage? Would it make sense in this time?

Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Harry…Evans.” He paused, simply substituting his mother’s last name, then added quickly, “But I... I know that my family...” Harry’s throat tightened, but he kept his voice steady, “My parents are gone. They were killed.”

Dippet’s brow furrowed, and for the first time, there was a trace of sympathy in his expression. “Killed?” he repeated, as if weighing the significance. “That’s tragic. How old were you, when...?”

Harry swallowed hard. “I was very young,” he said quietly, “I don’t know much about them. I was told that they were killed by a dark wizard.”

"Who have you been living with since?" Dippet inquired, "Is there anyone we can contact?"

Harry paused before answering. "My godfather."

Harry thought before continuing, realizing that Sirius wasn't here anymore. "But he passed recently. So I've been on my own."

“An unfortunate fate Grindelwald has instilled upon you,” Dippet murmured. “Tell me, son, how has your schooling been?”

“Good,” Harry felt his voice squeak as he conjured a lie, shocked as he spoke and realized how easy it was, “I was homeschooled. But I’ve been studying hard for my OWLs.”

Dippet smiled, “Of course. You seem like a smart young lad. Perhaps... perhaps that’s why you’re here, young man. There’s something we can offer you here at Hogwarts. A place to grow, to learn, and to understand more about yourself and your place in the world. If you were getting ready for your OWL’s that would make you a fifth year. How old are you?”

“16,” Harry was silent for a moment, trying to digest Dippet’s words. He could hardly believe what was happening, but he had to go along with it. For now. Perhaps later he would simply tell Dippet the truth of the situation, but for now, he wasn't sure who he could trust.

Dippet turned to Madam Gilbert and nodded. “If his memory returns in time, we’ll find a way to help him piece things together. In the meantime, we can allow him to remain here at Hogwarts. He will be enrolled in classes with the other students. Let’s give him some time to recover, and we can discuss more when he’s feeling better. You are not the only refuge we've gotten these days, Harry. Worry not.”

Madam Gilbert seemed satisfied with this, though she didn’t offer Harry any comforting words. “Very well, Headmaster. I’ll see to it that he gets settled.”

“Excellent.” Dippet’s gaze shifted back to Harry. “I’m sure you’ll come to feel at home here, young man. Hogwarts has a way of making lost souls feel welcome. But for now, rest. When you feel ready, we’ll discuss your next steps. In the meantime, welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly, trying to still his expressions. He didn't know how to act. How to feel. It was surreal, Harry felt that if he closed his eyes hard enough, he'd open them and be in the Department of Mysteries again. That this was all some kind of sick hallucination.

Dippet nodded once, then turned to leave. Madam Gilbert followed him out, leaving Harry alone in the room again.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Harry let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His thoughts were a whirlpool of confusion and fear, but one thing was certain--he had to figure out how to survive in this strange time. And somehow, get back to his own.

Chapter Text

The lights were dim and muted, filtering through the stone walls of the infirmary as Harry placed his glasses over his eyes. As the room came into focus, Harry noticed his head was clearer now, the potion-induced haze having finally faded. As he shifted in the bed, he noticed a faint rustling sound a few beds over. His eyes darted to the source, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw another student; young, pale, and visibly ill, with their head resting on the pillow. The student’s robes were different from anything Harry had seen before: older, slightly worn, their design more intricate and regal, with deep shades of red and gold trimming. The robes looked almost ancient compared to the ones Harry was used to. It was a stark reminder of how far back in time he had fallen.

The atmosphere of the room felt oppressive, the stone walls encasing him in an eerie silence that hung in the air. There was none of the bustling energy he was accustomed to in Hogwarts. No voices or footsteps in the halls, no sounds of students preparing for the next class. Instead, it was as if the entire school was cloaked in stillness; a strange and unsettling contrast to the Hogwarts he knew.

He rubbed his temples, trying to process his surroundings. The room seemed to be stuck in the past, and the patient beside him seemed to be just as much a reminder of that from the strange robes they wore.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Madam Gilbert entered. Harry froze, unsure of what to expect now that he was feeling more like himself. She gave him a brief nod. “All cleared, Mr. Evans. Headmaster Dippet wants to see you. He’s ready to discuss your situation.”

Harry nodded, pushing himself out of bed with a sense of determination. His legs were a little unsteady, but he was able to stand. The past day and a half had been exhuasting, despite the fact that Harry had only stayed in bed the entire time. He had been given a strict potion regimine, and forced to rest. It was only when he practically begged Madam Gilbert to let him out that she agreed to talk to Dippet and arrange him to start his classes. He felt confident, already familiar with what was to come. In fact, he was so sick of staying in bed, he was almost looking forward to homework assignments; Hermione would be proud.

With Madam Gilbert leading him down the cold stone corridors, Harry’s thoughts drifted. He still couldn’t believe he was in 1943, nearly fifty years before his birth. But right now, he had to focus.

The journey through the castle felt much different than he was used to. There were fewer students in the halls, and those he passed were dressed in older robes, their faces unfamiliar, as though they belonged to a different age altogether. Eventually, they reached a large wooden door, and Madam Gilbert knocked once and murmered the password before opening it to reveal Dippet’s office.

The Headmaster stood behind his desk, looking every bit the authoritative figure Harry had seen in the portraits, and much more lively than he appeared from their first meeting. His expression softened as he saw Harry enter. “Ah, Mr. Evans. Come in, come in. I trust you’re feeling better?”

“Much,” Harry said, his voice steady as he sat down in the chair opposite Dippet. He felt almost at home here. Hogwarts was Hogwarts, after all, even if it was fifty years earlier.

“Good,” Dippet said, his sharp eyes studying him. “Now, Mr. Evans, I’m afraid we must get you sorted. I'm sure your familair with the idea; each student is placed in one of our four houses. The school year is well underway, but we’ll make accommodations for you. It’s important that we find your place here. Unfortunately, we can't have a ceremony for it, so I hope you are alright with it being done in this office."

“It’s okay.” Harry shrugged, knowing he would just end up in Gryffindor.

Dippet nodded and gestured for Harry to sit down. Harry sat patiently, feeling the oddly familar weight upon his head, reminding him of the day when he was 11 years old. Harry tried to steady his breathing. He had done this before. He was prepared.

Dippet turned toward Harry, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Go ahead.”

“Hmmm... interesting. A young one, quite different from what I expected. My first time traveler” the Hat finally spoke into Harry's mind.

Harry’s eyes widened and his thoughts ran rampant. You know? Can you help me get back? Harry had thought.

“Unfortunately I am but a hat, Mr. Potter. What I can do is sort you. I recall placing you in Gryffindor.”

Harry sighed, and willed it to just get it over with. Just place me in Gryffindor again.

But that hat continued. “Courageous, yes, but there’s something more... ambition. Much ambition... sly, clever...”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. That wasn’t what he expected to hear. Wait—what? Gryffindor, right?”

“You belong in... Slytherin!” the Hat declared loudly, causing the room to still.

Harry’s eyes widened as the Hat was removed from his head. His heart seemed to stop for a moment. Slytherin? This wasn’t possible. He had always been in Gryffindor. He had no idea how to handle this, it must be a mistake!

Dippet’s eyes twinkled slightly as he gave Harry a nod of approval. “Well then, Mr. Evans. It seems the Sorting Hat has spoken. Welcome to Slytherin.”

“Wait, this can’t be right,” Harry called out, his voice shaking with disbelief. “This must be a mistake. You’ve got to re-sort me. I don’t belong there. I’m not a Slytherin.”

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence. Dippet’s expression remained calm, but there was a glint of something in his eyes, something older, wiser.

Dippet’s voice was firm, but not unkind as he addressed Harry. “Mr. Evans, this is not a mistake. The Sorting Hat does not make errors.”

“But I don’t belong there,” Harry insisted, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I’m supposed to be in Gr-another house. Any other house. I’m not like them. There must be a mistake!”

Dippet’s eyes softened slightly, but his tone remained resolute. “You are not here by accident. The Hat has seen something in you that you may not understand yet. Slytherin is not a house of dark magic or ambition alone, it is a house of resourcefulness, cunning, and a fierce determination to succeed. You may not yet know it, but these qualities are part of you, whether you like it or not.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Dippet held up a hand, silencing him.

“Perhaps you don’t understand now, Mr. Evans,” Dippet said, his voice softer but still filled with conviction. “But one day, you will. And when you do, you will look back on this moment and see that this was always where you were meant to be.”

Harry’s fingers gripped the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles were white, his heart pounding in his chest. He could barely breathe as the weight of the Sorting Hat’s decision sank in. Slytherin. He was in Slytherin. The house of ambition, cunning, and dark magic. The house of the Malfoys and all the other dark families that contributed to ruining Harry's life.

The robes that had materialized around him were green. Slytherin green.

Harry’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t believe it. He hated it. Hated the thought of being in a house like this, a house full of people like Malfoy and his cronies. He wasn’t like them. He was brave, he had to be. He was supposed to be in Gryffindor. He wasn’t a Slytherin.

But as much as he wanted to argue, as much as he wanted to tear the decision apart, he knew deep down that nothing would change. The Hat had chosen, and Dippet wasn’t going to listen to him. He wasn’t going to let Harry change houses just because he didn’t like the decision.

Harry took a deep breath and let the frustration roll off of him. It didn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t supposed to be here forever. He wasn’t going to be stuck here. Eventually, he'd go home. This wasn’t his life. It was just a detour. A temporary stop.

Just get through it, he told himself. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Soon, Ron and Hermione can laugh about this stupid experience with me when I get back.

He gave a stiff nod, forced a smile, and looked up at Dippet. “...Okay.”

Dippet gave him a small, approving smile. “You’ll find your place here, Mr. Evans. The qualities of Slytherin are not weaknesses. In fact, they may be just what you need.”

Harry wanted to retort that he was a complete nutter, the Hat had chosen wrong, but he bit his tongue. What was the point? Dippet wasn’t going to listen. The decision had been made.

“Now,” Dippet continued, “Unfortunately since the year has already started, you cannot chose your curriculum. We have placed you in all the standard classes; potions, defense…but your supplemental curriculum were the ones we had room for. That means you are in ancient runes, and herbology.”

Harry tried to school his expression. Runes? He was screwed. At least his grades wouldn’t matter since he would be going home soon. “Okay.”

Another alarming thought passed through Harry’s mind, “Sir-- in regards to when I was found, was there anyone else with me, when you found me? Two girls and a boy? Ginger hair?”

Dippet paused thoughtfully before shaking his head, “Unfortunately not. The students that found you mentioned nothing about anyone else. Should we be expecting more…appearances of young students like you?”

Harry felt his throat close as he shook his head. He couldn’t be alone. Why wouldn’t Hermione, Ron, or even Ginny be with him? They were all in the same room when it happened. But the shelf only fell on me, Harry reminded himself. Perhaps Harry truly was alone here. The thought caused his chest to ache.

Headmaster Dippet, noticing Harry’s silence, dropped his head in silent apology. “We will keep a look out. You can send an owl as well if that helps,”

Yeah, if the owl can go fifty years in the future. Harry sighed.

Still with that calm demeanor, Dippet added, “I’ll have the Head Boy of Slytherin, Tom Riddle, show you around the castle. He’s an outstanding student. Brilliant, ambitious. He’ll be able to help you get settled in.”

Harry froze. His breath caught in his throat. Tom Riddle. Voldemort. The name rang like a warning bell in his mind.

Memories of the diary came swimming back to him, the dark haired boy who had almost killed Ginny. The boy that had become Voldemort. The future Dark Lord. And Harry was supposed to be in the same house, in the same timeline, with him? How had he forgotten this?

No. No way.

“No,” Harry said quickly, his voice sharp. “I… I don’t need his help. I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Dippet looked a little taken aback. “Mr. Evans, Riddle is one of our best students. He’s known for his excellence. I’m sure he could help you acclimate.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t let Voldemort anywhere near him. The very idea was terrifying. He wouldn’t allow himself to get entangled in the web of that future. Not now. Not like this.

“I’m not very sociable,” Harry repeated, his tone cold. “I’ll do it myself.”

Dippet studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. But then, as if weighing Harry’s words, he nodded slowly. “I insist you don't go alone, Hogwarts can be very intimidating and confusing for new students. I can arrange for Professor Dumbledore to show you around instead. He’s an excellent guide as well.”

Harry’s chest lightened just slightly at the mention of Dumbledore. That was more like it. Dumbledore was a name he could trust.

“Yes,” Harry said, his voice more relieved. “I’d prefer Dumbledore.”

Dippet smiled, the decision clearly made. “I’ll send for him shortly. In the meantime, I will guide you to the library. Dumbledore will fetch you there. He has a class as of right now, but it should finish up soon.”

Harry barely nodded, his mind already racing ahead. He had to get through this. He had to survive this timeline. And if that meant spending a little time in Slytherin, well, he would play along.

It didn’t matter. He would get through it. He would get home.

And for now, that was all that mattered.

After a few minutes of sitting awkwardly on one of the library benches, Harry grew bored and restless. He wondered how long Dumbledore’s class would truly run. The library was eerily quiet compared to what he was used to at Hogwarts. There was no Hermione shuffling through books with frenetic energy, no Ron huffing about the assignments. Just a vast, imposing silence that seemed to press in on him.

He glanced around at the towering shelves, their dusty tomes bound in cracked leather or dull, faded cloth. Many of the titles were unfamiliar, even in the general sections. Some of the books were entirely unlabeled, their spines bare except for strange sigils Harry couldn’t decipher.

His gaze drifted toward the back of the library, where the iron gate to the Restricted Section stood slightly ajar. Inside, a figure moved between the shelves with an ease that suggested they had every right to be there.

Curiosity piqued, Harry squinted to get a better look. The boy wasn’t much taller than him, with pale blond hair that practically gleamed in the dim light. His face was sharp and angular, every line of it perfectly composed, as if he’d been carved from marble. His expression, however, was anything but kind; there was an intensity in the way his lips curled into a faint smirk, his sharp gray eyes practically alight with calculation.

Then, as though sensing Harry’s gaze, the boy turned sharply. For a moment, neither moved, the silence between them thickening.

The boy stepped closer, before fully leaving the restricted section, his lips curling further into a knowing smirk. “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice low and measured. “If it isn’t our mysterious stranger. Fancy seeing you here.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He recognized the face and hair instantly. A Malfoy. Presumably, the same Malfoy who had found him outside the castle.

The blond boy raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening slightly. “You don’t seem much for conversation. Scared?” He didn’t wait for Harry to respond. “Abraxas Malfoy,” he said smoothly, inclining his head just enough to seem polite without relinquishing an ounce of confidence. “And you are?”

Harry hesitated for a beat, unsure of how much to reveal. He forced a neutral expression and offered, “Harry Evans.”

“Evans, is it?” Malfoy repeated, clearly turning the name over in his mind, his nose crinkling in acute disgust. His sharp gray eyes seemed to gleam with curiosity as they flicked to the Slytherin crest on Harry’s robes. “And a Slytherin. How curious.”

Harry straightened in his seat, his jaw tightening. “What’s so curious about it?”

“Oh, nothing,” Malfoy said airily, though his frown didn’t falter. “Just that most students who stumble onto the grounds unannounced don’t end up sorted into my house.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry muttered, crossing his arms, “the Hat and I don’t see eye to eye. I was misplaced.”

Malfoy chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Misplaced? That’s certainly one way to put it.” He stepped closer, his tone growing more curious. “But seriously, Evans, where do you come from? Hogwarts doesn’t get strangers apparating in. It’s rather unusual.”

Harry hesitated, searching for an answer that wouldn’t unravel his already tenuous story. “I’m just a transfer,” he said finally, hoping Malfoy would leave it at that.

“A transfer?” Malfoy repeated, clearly skeptical. “From where?”

“Does it matter?” Harry shot back, standing now to meet Malfoy’s gaze head-on.

The tension between them thickened for a moment before Malfoy’s smirk softened into something almost amused. “Fair enough. Keep your secrets. For now. And by the way… what’s your wand core?”

Harry blinked, taken aback by the question. “What?” He adjusted his glasses, desperate for his anxious hands to find something to do.

“Your wand core,” Malfoy repeated, his tone nonchalant but his gaze sharp, appraising. “You do have a wand, don’t you?”

Harry hesitated. “Phoenix feather,” he said cautiously, gripping the handle of his wand tucked in his robe pocket as if to anchor himself. As soon as he said it, he wondered if he should have kept his mouth shut.

Malfoy’s expression didn’t shift much, but Harry caught the faintest flicker of something--recognition, perhaps, or suspicion---n his gray eyes.

“Interesting,” Malfoy murmured, as if speaking more to himself than Harry.

“What’s so interesting about it?” Harry asked, his voice sharpening.

“Oh, nothing you need to concern yourself with.” Malfoy straightened, his demeanor cool and collected once again. “Just a coincidence, I’m sure.”

Before Harry could press further, the library doors creaked open, and Dumbledore strode in, his presence instantly commanding attention.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Evans,” Dumbledore said warmly, his blue eyes twinkling as he approached. “I trust you’ve been waiting patiently?”

“Something like that,” Harry muttered, grateful for the distraction. He rose to his feet, his earlier encounter with Abraxas fading into the back of his mind as he followed Dumbledore out of the library, eager to leave the conversation behind.

Still, as they walked away, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling of Malfoy’s piercing gaze burning into his back, like the boy had already decided Harry was a puzzle he intended to solve.

As Harry followed Dumbledore out of the library, he studied the man closely, taking in every detail. The Dumbledore he knew, his Dumbledore, was warm, wise, and endlessly patient, with a twinkle in his eye that made even the direst of situations feel manageable.

This Dumbledore, though younger, was strikingly different. His auburn hair was neatly combed, only faintly streaked with gray, and his trimmed beard was a far cry from the long, flowing one Harry remembered. His robes were dark blue and immaculate, simple but elegant, with none of the eccentric flair Harry associated with him. Even his posture was different; straighter, more formal, as though he carried the weight of the world with calculated precision.

Harry felt a flicker of hope, though. The twinkle in Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes was still there, albeit subdued. This was still the same man, wasn’t it? If he could just get a moment alone with him, he could explain everything. The time travel, the accident, his need for guidance.

But Dumbledore’s tone as he spoke next was distant, almost curt. “Hogwarts has stood for centuries,” he began, gesturing at the corridor ahead, “but this wing has seen recent renovations. The architecture retains its medieval charm, though much of the interior has been modernized. The chandeliers, for example, were commissioned in 1895 with real gold leaf.”

Harry’s eyes followed the pointed arches of the ceiling, where intricate patterns of vines and stars were carved into the stone. The chandeliers glittered, casting soft, golden light that made the polished marble floors gleam. Ornate tapestries lined the walls, depicting witches and wizards in grand historical scenes. Everything looked pristine, almost too perfect, as though Hogwarts was still trying to prove something to the world.

“It’s... different,” Harry said carefully, taking in the grandeur. He couldn’t help but notice how much brighter and more polished the castle felt compared to his own time, where every corner seemed to carry layers of dust and history.

Dumbledore gave a faint hum, not quite acknowledging the comment. “This staircase leads to the Astronomy Tower,” he continued, motioning to a spiraling staircase with wrought iron railings. “I assume you’re familiar with astronomy studies, given your supposed... transfer.”

Harry frowned at the subtle barb in the word “supposed” but forced a nod. “Yes, sir.”

They walked on, passing a set of massive oak doors carved with runes and heraldic designs. Dumbledore gestured briefly. “The Great Hall is through there. Meals are held promptly, and punctuality is expected.”

Harry felt conflicted. Why did Dumbledore sound so cold? “I’ll remember that.”

Dumbledore stopped suddenly, turning to face Harry with a critical look. “See that you do. Hogwarts is not a place for laxity, Mr. Evans. You may have found your way here under unusual circumstances, but I assure you, we expect nothing less than excellence from our students, regardless of how they arrived.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sharpness in his tone. “Of course,” he said quickly, unsure of what else to say.

Dumbledore resumed walking, his pace brisk. Harry followed in silence, feeling his earlier confidence begin to waver. The more they walked, the clearer it became that this Dumbledore wasn’t the same man he trusted with his life. He spoke of the castle and its history as though reciting from a textbook, his tone clipped and impersonal.

They passed a group of Gryffindor students near the entrance hall, and Dumbledore’s demeanor shifted in an instant. His stern expression softened, and a warm smile lit up his face. “Ah, Mr. Prewett, Miss Abbott,” he said kindly. “How are your studies progressing?”

The students beamed under his attention, their voices eager as they replied. “Very well, sir. Thank you.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said, his tone full of encouragement. “Remember, perseverance is key. If you find yourselves in need of assistance, do not hesitate to ask.”

As the students walked away, Harry couldn’t help but notice how quickly Dumbledore’s warmth faded. When he turned back to Harry, his expression was once again cool and distant. “Now, shall we continue?”

Harry nodded mutely, his earlier resolve crumbling. He’d wanted to tell Dumbledore the truth, but something about the man’s coldness made him hesitate. This wasn’t the Dumbledore who would sit him down with a cup of tea and listen without judgment. Not yet, at least.

By the time they reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Harry’s spirits had sunk. The stone walls around them were slick and damp, the air colder than the rest of the castle.

“Slughorn is your House leader. Address him for any concerns. He is teaching a class as of now, but you will meet him later. The password of this week is ‘Viper’. Say it and the door will open.” Dumbledore explained as they stopped at the dorms.

Dumbledore didn’t offer any other parting advice, only gestured for Harry to enter.

“Have a nice evening, Mr. Evans,” he said, his tone polite but devoid of warmth. Then he turned and strode away without a backward glance.

Harry stepped inside the common room, his heart heavy. The dark, emerald-green room was lit by a low fire, its reflection shimmering faintly on the black leather furniture and carved wooden tables. The windows looked out into the murky depths of the Black Lake, casting strange shadows that seemed to pulse with the movement of the water.

He sank into one of the armchairs by the fire, staring into the flames. For the first time since waking up in this time, he felt truly lost. If even Dumbledore, his greatest ally, was cold and distant, how was he supposed to navigate this alone?

Telling the professor the truth could wait. For now, he would simply have to figure things out on his own. It was as he walked throughout the empty dorm, finding an empty bed with an empty case for his belongings, that he realized how alone he truly was.

He missed Ron. He missed Hermione. He missed looking up at the red walls of the Gryffindor dorms.

I’ll find a way to get home, Harry reassured himself as he sat down. He was quick as he placed silencing and privacy wards around himself and his chest before he slowly fell asleep on the foreign bed.

I won’t be here long, he reassured himself, It’s going to be okay.

He told himself that, and yet, the words didn't resonate. A part of Harry felt completely helpless, and even worse, completely alone.

Chapter Text

Harry jolted awake, his heart hammering against his ribs as the remnants of the nightmare clung to him like cobwebs. The oppressive chill of the Slytherin dormitory seeped through the stone walls, wrapping around him like a shroud. He tried desperately to ignore the part of his mind that was wishing he would wake up and be back home, that all of this had been a bad dream. He wiped his damp forehead with the sleeve of his night robes, his mind racing to make sense of the vivid flashes that had dragged him from sleep: shadows that twisted into shapes, muffled voices, the sensation of being trapped.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the cold stone floor biting against his bare feet. His breathing steadied as he sat there, rubbing the ache in his temples. The room around him was silent—too silent. He glanced at the other beds, their covers neatly drawn, belongings scattered in the careless way of schoolboys. Dozens of boys living next to him, more in other rooms. Yet, somehow, he felt utterly alone. Especially as it seemed he was the only one who had slept in.

After a moment’s hesitation, he forced himself to move. The splash of cold water on his face in the bathroom was a relief, momentarily shocking him into focus. A quick shower followed, and as he slipped into his robes, he caught his reflection in the mirror: pale, drawn, and undeniably out of place.

By the time he made his way through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, the castle seemed to be holding its breath. Shadows danced across the walls, and the early morning stillness made every step echo like a drumbeat. When Harry finally reached the Great Hall, the hum of voices and clatter of cutlery was a sharp contrast to the oppressive quiet of the halls.

He hesitated at the entrance, scanning the long tables piled high with food. His instinct led him toward the Gryffindor table, but he stopped short when he realized what he was: a Slytherin. His stomach clenched as he approached the far end of the table, trying not to draw attention to himself.

“Evans!”

The voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. Harry turned to see Abraxas Malfoy lounging at the center of the table, a smirk plastered across his face. Around him sat a group of boys whose postures and expressions radiated the effortless confidence of those accustomed to power. Malfoy gestured toward Harry with a flick of his hand. “Come sit here.”

Harry swallowed his discomfort and approached, acutely aware of the eyes tracking his every move. The weight of their stares was suffocating as he walked up to them with apprehension. His feet were planted, unwilling to sit, and poised towards the door, ready to run. The air was thick with an unspoken hierarchy, one that Harry wasn’t sure how to navigate.

“This,” Malfoy began with theatrical flair, gesturing around the table, “is Rosier, Wilkes, Nott, Goyle, and Black.” Each name was accompanied by a nod toward the respective boy. Rosier barely glanced up, Wilkes and Nott exchanged a smirk, and Goyle was too busy eating to care. Alphard Black, however, leaned forward, his sharp features lit with curiosity.

“And that,” Malfoy said, his tone shifting to one of reverence, “is Tom Riddle.”

Harry’s gaze shifted to the boy sitting just a little apart from the others, his dark eyes fixed on Harry with an intensity that was both unsettling and magnetic. Tom Rid–No, Voldemort’s face was what some would consider handsome, his features sharp and symmetrical, but it was his presence that commanded attention. He radiated a quiet authority, as though the room bent to his will.

“Evans,” Tom-Voldemort said, his voice smooth and inviting, his lips curving into a faint smile. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

Harry nodded stiffly, unsure of what to say. Voldemort gestured to the seat beside him, and without thinking, Harry obeyed, settling into the spot as though compelled. Voldemort’s smile only grew larger.

“Evans?” Rosier drawled, his lip curling in mild disdain. “What kind of name is that? Sounds more like a Muggle’s than a wizard’s.”

A ripple of murmurs went around the table and whispers of a mudblood being sorted into Slytherin, but before Harry could respond, Voldemort’s voice cut through the noise, calm but firm. “That’s enough, Rosier.”

The laughter died instantly. Voldemort turned his gaze back to Harry, his smile returning, softer now. “A name doesn’t define a wizard’s worth,” he said, his tone almost soothing. “It’s what they do with their magic that matters.”

Harry felt a strange mix of gratitude and unease. Voldemort’s defense felt calculated, as though he’d done it not out of kindness but for some unseen benefit. He’s a blood purist. There’s no way he actually believes that. He’s a liar.

“So, Evans,” Black said, breaking the tension, his dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Where exactly did you transfer from? Hogwarts doesn’t see many transfers, especially not into Slytherin.”

“I was homeschooled,” Harry said quickly, hoping the vague answer would satisfy him.

“Really?” Black pressed, leaning closer. “Who taught you? Family? Private tutors? I can’t imagine homeschooling covers everything Hogwarts does.”

“Just… people,” Harry replied, keeping his tone deliberately flat. He picked at the food on his plate, hoping the conversation would move on.

“What people? Your parents? Muggleborns?” Rosier prodded.

“No. My parents are dead.” Harry sighed, hoping this would kill the conversation.

It only peaked their interests. “How?” Malfoy asked.

Black glared at Malfoy for asking, but Harry gave an answer, “A dark wizard killed them when I was a baby. It’s okay.”

“Grindlewald?!” Lestrange piped up.

“Yeah,” Harry went with the lie.

“I’m sure Evans does not want to relive that right now,” Voldemort spoke up.

Alphard took the chance to move on to lighter subjects, “And what about Quidditch? Did you play? Or dueling? Surely you must have picked up some skills outside of books.”

“Not really,” Harry muttered, his grip tightening on his fork, “Well. I guess I was a seeker. But I had other things to focus on.”

Voldemort chuckled softly, drawing Harry’s attention. “Don’t mind Alphard,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. “He’s always been insatiably curious. But I must admit, I’m curious too. A wizard like you must have quite the story.”

Harry forced a smile, determined not to let Voldemort’s charm disarm him. “There’s not much to tell.”

Voldemort’s gaze lingered, probing but not unkind. “I suppose we all have our secrets,” he said, his tone almost conspiratorial. “But you’ll find that Slytherin is a place where ambition and loyalty can take you far, Evans. You’ve been placed here for a reason. I’d hate to see you squander the opportunity.”

Harry nodded, though the words felt heavy with implication. Around him, the other boys were already resuming their conversations, but Voldemort’s attention remained fixed on him, as though he were unraveling a puzzle only he could see.

“We’ll talk more later,” Voldemort said, his smile deepening. “For now, welcome to Slytherin. I think you’ll find we’re not so different, you and I.”

A feeling of disgust washed over Harry at those words. Harry didn’t respond, but as he sat there, the weight of the morning pressed down on him. Voldemort’s words clung to him like a shadow, and for the first time since arriving in this strange time, he realized just how dangerous his position truly was.

As Voldemort continued to speak, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he was sitting at the center of something dangerous. Something he wasn’t meant to understand yet. And with every passing moment, he felt the weight of the truth closing in on him; he was in a time where the future hadn’t yet been decided, and the man who would become Voldemort was right beside him.

The food on his plate remained untouched.

Harry stood quickly, tired of the conversation. Everyone’s voices diminished.

“I need some air.” Harry muttered, shuffling quickly away from the table after his horrible excuse.

By the time he made his way through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, shadows danced across the walls, and the draft carried the faint whispers of the past. Breakfast had been a blur with all of the faces of future death eaters swirling in Harry's mind. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, not with a young Voldemort around.

The first class of the day was Defense Against the Dark Arts, taught by Professor Merrythought, a familiar face. It was mildly comforting. The room buzzed softly with the sound of students settling in, chairs scraping and quills tapping. Harry slid into an empty seat next to a polite-looking Ravenclaw, who nodded at him with a faint smile. Harry returned the gesture, grateful for the boy’s lack of questions or curiosity.

That brief moment of peace shattered as Tom Ri—no, Voldemort—strolled into the room. His mere presence drew every eye without him lifting a finger. Harry stiffened as Voldemort exchanged a quiet word with the Ravenclaw, who immediately gathered his things and moved, leaving the seat open. With deliberate precision, Voldemort sank into the chair beside Harry, his movements smooth and measured, like a predator settling into its den.

Voldemort clearly had more of an influence among the school by now than Harry would have thought. Forcing his gaze forward, Harry pretended to be utterly fascinated by the board, where Merrythought waved her wand and introduced the day’s lesson: Boggarts. A large wardrobe sat ominously at the front of the class.

“Today,” Merrythought said warmly, “we’ll be facing our fears. A Boggart preys on your mind, but with the proper spell and a strong sense of humor, you can defeat it. Who would like to go first?”

Harry blinked, startled. Wait...Boggarts? Didn’t we do this in third year? His mind raced, the memory of Professor Lupin’s class surfacing. He frowned, his stomach twisting. Different time, different curriculum, he thought to himself, pushing the confusion aside.

Harry slouched in his seat, trying to shrink into invisibility. Beside him, Voldemort leaned closer, his voice a soft murmur that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine.

“What do you think it will be?” Voldemort asked, his tone laced with faint amusement.

Harry glanced sideways, startled by the question, wishing that the boy would just leave him alone. “What?”

“Your fear,” Voldemort clarified, lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. “I’m curious what form it will take.”

“Why do you care?” Harry muttered, barely keeping the bite out of his tone.

Voldemort’s smile widened just slightly, his gaze gleaming with something that felt far too calculating. “Fear reveals so much about a person,” he said lightly, as though commenting on the weather. “Don’t you agree?”

“No, actually,” Harry shot back, folding his arms. “I think it's just nosy for someone to care about that.”

A soft chuckle escaped Voldemort, entirely too unbothered by Harry’s sarcasm. “You’re amusing,” he said simply. “Rare, for a slytherin.”

Harry rolled his eyes and pointedly looked away, focusing instead on the Ravenclaw now stepping up to face the Boggart. The wardrobe rattled and creaked, spilling out a swarm of bats. The Ravenclaw stammered through the Riddikulus spell, and the bats morphed into harmless paper decorations fluttering gently to the floor.

Harry swallowed hard, dread pooling in his stomach. It’ll be the Dementor, he thought grimly.

As the lesson continued, Voldemort’s attention didn’t waver. He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Your wand,” he said casually, his tone almost conversational. “May I see it?”

Harry stiffened, his heart skipping a beat. “No. What? Why?” he said firmly, his voice low but tense.

Voldemort’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Just a question.” he said, leaning back slightly. “I’m just surprised. Most people wouldn’t think twice about something so simple.”

Harry clutched his wand tighter, his knuckles white, but before he could react, Voldemort’s hand moved quick and deliberate, snatching the wand right from his grip.

“Hey!” Harry hissed, his voice low but sharp with anger. He leaned forward instinctively, his heart pounding, but Voldemort leaned back in his chair, keeping the wand out of reach.

“Relax,” Voldemort said smoothly, holding the wand up as if admiring it. “Phoenix feather core,” he murmured, his tone light, almost conversational. “Like mine. Not something you see every day.”

Harry leaned closer in his chair, but Voldemort’s free hand pressed lightly against Harry’s chest, halting him. The touch was brief, yet deliberate, and it sent a jolt of indignation--and something else--through Harry.

“Back off,” Harry snapped, his glare burning.

Voldemort smiled faintly, his hand dropping back to his side. “You’re awfully jumpy,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he studied Harry. “It’s just a wand. No need to panic.”

“Give. It. Back,” Harry said through gritted teeth, his voice icy.

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on him, unflinching, before he finally extended the wand, his movements annoyingly unhurried. “Of course,” he said lightly. “Wouldn’t want to upset you.”

Harry snatched it from his hand, his fingers trembling as he gripped the familiar wood. “Don’t touch my stuff,” he muttered, the words laced with venom.

As Harry returned to his seat, Voldemort’s fingers brushed over his own wand, tucked into his robes, a thoughtful look crossing his face.

When Voldemort’s turn came, Harry watched, unable to look away. The Boggart emerged, shifting and solidifying into a marble grave etched with the name Tom Marvolo Riddle. Harry’s breath hitched.

But Voldemort, calm, composed Voldemort, flicked his wand with a single, fluid motion. “Riddikulus,” he said, his voice smooth and confident. The grave shattered, transforming into an absurd jack-in-the-box that popped open with a squeaky laugh. The class tittered nervously, but Voldemort’s faint smile carried a quiet, unnerving satisfaction.

Then Merrythought turned to Harry.

“Evans,” she said, gesturing for him to step forward.

Harry froze, every muscle in his body protesting. Slowly, he stood, his heart hammering in his chest. Voldemort’s gaze burned into him, and Harry had to fight the urge to glare back.

“I can’t imagine what it’ll be,” Voldemort murmured, his voice dripping with intrigue.

Harry ignored him and stepped toward the wardrobe. The wood groaned as the door swung open.

Not a Dementor.

Instead, Ron, Hermione, Luna, and Ginny stood frozen before him. Their eyes were hollow, their faces twisted in pain, their lips moving soundlessly as if begging for help. A graveyard of bodies, people he had failed to save, lie beyond them. Harry’s chest clenched as guilt stabbed through him.

He gripped his wand tightly, forcing himself to speak through the lump in his throat. “R-Riddikulus!” he shouted.

The figures wavered, their forms distorting until they burst into balloons that floated lazily around the room.

The class clapped politely, but Harry barely registered the sound as he stumbled back to his seat, his breathing uneven.

“Interesting,” Voldemort said softly as Harry sat down. “Not what I expected at all.”

“Leave me alone,” Harry muttered, his voice low and tense.

But Voldemort only leaned closer, his tone dropping to a near-whisper. “Fear tells you what someone values most,” he said. “And you… seem to value too much. It’s admirable, in a way. Dangerous in others.”

Harry turned to him, his glare sharp enough to cut. “And what do you value? Nothing? Getting a nice font for your tombstone?” he snapped.

Voldemort’s smile grew, slow and serpentine. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The class ended, and Harry bolted for the door, but Voldemort caught his arm just as he reached the threshold.

“Evans,” Voldemort said smoothly, holding up a wand. “It seems I accidentally kept yours. Easy mistake, they’re so similar.”

Harry’s stomach plummeted as he pulled out the wand in his pocket. Surely enough; it wasn't his. How had he not noticed? He snatched the wand from Voldemort’s hand, his grip trembling.

“Don’t touch my stuff,” Harry muttered, shoving past him.

Behind him, Voldemort’s voice followed, soft and insidious. “See you around, Evans.”

Harry didn’t look back, but he could feel Voldemort’s eyes on him, a quiet, confident weight that made his skin crawl.

Harry had been wary before, but now it was amped up to ten. How could he have let his wand be taken and not even notice? Fuck.

Instead of going to his dorm like he had originally planned, Harry became desperate. The library was quiet, its rows of books stretching endlessly before him. Harry dove in with a desperation that bordered on frantic, pulling volume after volume from the shelves. Time-Turners. Alternate realities. Ancient magic. He scanned the pages, his hands trembling.

He missed Ron’s easy laughter, Hermione’s calming logic, the warmth of the Gryffindor common room. The ache of their absence felt like a physical weight, and for the first time since arriving in 1943, Harry allowed himself to feel it fully.

His breathing hitched, and he pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sound. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he blinked them away, forcing himself to focus. He couldn’t afford to break down. Not here. Not now.

He turned page after page, his determination solidifying. There had to be a way. He would find it. He had to.

…

...

Skipping his second class was probably a bad idea in hindsight. He had spent the entire class time in the library, finding nothing. Atleast now he was determined to be early to his next class, potions; and to his immense relief, Voldemort took a seat elsewhere, surrounded by his usual circle of admirers. Instead, Harry found himself next to Alphard Black.

At first, Harry wasn’t sure what to make of him. He carried the same aristocratic air as the other Slytherins but lacked the smarmy superiority that made them unbearable. His dark hair was neatly combed back, and his expression, while sharp, held an undercurrent of mischief. His face reminded Harry of Sirius; perhaps that's why Harry felt a vague sense of comfort around him.

“You look like you’ve been sentenced to Azkaban,” Alphard remarked as Harry hesitated before sitting down.

Harry snorted. “It’s Potions. Azkaban might be nicer than this.”

Alphard chuckled. “You’re not a fan, then?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m terrible at it. My old professor said I had the ‘subtlety of a rampaging troll.’”

Alphard smirked. “Not exactly high praise. Slughorn’s not too bad, though. Just sit back, nod along when he talks about his ‘connections,’ and try not to blow anything up.”

Harry settled into his seat, slightly surprised at how easy Alphard was to talk to. “You make it sound like you’ve got experience handling egotistical professors.”

“I’ve got experience handling egotistical people in general.” Alphard shot a meaningful glance toward Voldemort, who was deep in conversation with Abraxas Malfoy at the front of the room.

Harry hesitated before testing the waters. “Is Voldemort always like that?”

Alphard whipped his head to stare at Harry, eyes wide. Harry didn't understand until he realized what he had said.

Alphard whispered, "How do you know his name?"

"I don't. I-" Harry was mentally kicking himself for his own stupidity, "I heard Malfoy call him that. Are we not supposed to?"

Alphard sighed and glanced around before whispering to Harry again. "No. Not in public. Just--forget about what Malfoy said. Let's move on."

"Sorry. I didn't know," Harry sighed, relieved that Alphard bought the lie.

That was almost disastarous. Harry chewed his lip as he stared at the front of the class, watching as Slughorn droned on and then left the room to the loo. The class broke out in chatter. It dawned on Harry that he couldn't keep thinking of Riddle as Voldemort; he would keep slipping up. As much as he disliked it, he had to face that they were different. At least, for now. Riddle it is.

Alphard gave him a knowing look. “You don’t like him, do you?”

Harry shrugged. “He’s… unnerving.”

Alphard hummed, tapping his fingers against the desk. “Riddle is… a lot of things. Brilliant, for one. Powerful. Charismatic. Most of the time, anyway.” His smirk was wry, his eyes sharp. “But he doesn’t take kindly to people who don’t fall in line. You’re not subtle about your reluctance.”

Harry frowned. “And you? You don’t seem like the ‘fall in line’ type.”

Alphard huffed a laugh. “I pick my battles.” His gaze flickered toward Riddle again before he added, “But I’m not stupid.”

Harry let the words sink in. Alphard wasn’t blind to what Riddle was, but he also wasn’t willing to openly challenge him. It made sense. In this time, Riddle wasn’t yet the monster Harry knew him to be. He was just a student, one with a frightening amount of influence.

Before Harry could reply, Slughorn bustled back into the room after his break in the loo, beaming. “Alright my delightful young potion masters! Break is over. Today, we’ll be working on a Draught of Peace.”

Harry barely held back a groan. Great. A complicated potion requiring patience and precision. Exactly his worst nightmare.

Alphard shot him an amused glance. “Don’t worry, Evans. I’ll make sure you don’t kill us both.”

Harry huffed. “No promises.”

As the class progressed, Harry found himself grudgingly admitting that Alphard wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t like Ron or Hermione, but there was something sharp and strangely reliable about him. And for now, in a world where he was completely alone, Harry would take what he could get.

The classroom filled with the sounds of cauldrons clinking and pages flipping. Harry scanned the instructions on the board, already feeling a headache forming. Pulverized moonstone, four drops of Hellebore, stir counterclockwise until it turns turquoise...Merlin, this is going to be a disaster.

Alphard, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. He set up their station with a practiced efficiency, measuring out ingredients with the kind of precision that Snape had always favored in Harry’s time.

“You weren’t kidding, were you?” Alphard said, watching as Harry hesitantly picked up a knife to slice some Valerian roots.

“Nope,” Harry said flatly, nearly chopping his fingers off as he tried to mimic Alphard’s neat, controlled movements.

Alphard exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Here. Let me.” He reached over and adjusted Harry’s grip, his fingers briefly brushing against Harry’s. “Don’t hack at it like a madman. Think of it like—” He paused, eyes glinting with amusement. “—a delicate dance.”

Harry made a face. “If this is a dance, then I’ve got two left feet.”

Alphard let out a quiet laugh, but instead of making a cutting remark, he simply grabbed another root and started demonstrating. “Slow. Even cuts. You want the pieces uniform, otherwise it messes with the potion’s balance.”

Harry watched, slightly annoyed that Alphard made it look so easy. He tried again, his movements still clumsy but at least improved. Alphard gave a satisfied nod.

“Better,” he said. “You might not be a complete lost cause.”

Harry scoffed. “High praise.”

They worked in relative silence for a while, Alphard handling most of the delicate steps while Harry did his best to keep up. The potion turned a pale, shimmering blue--at least it wasn’t the violent sludge he was used to producing.

Slughorn’s voice cut through the moment.

“Excellent work, Mr. Black! And--oh dear, Mr. Evans, yours is… well, at least it isn’t exploding!”

Alphard snickered. “A true mark of success.”

Harry just groaned.

Despite Slughorn’s polite attempts at encouragement, Harry was ready to flee the classroom by the time the lesson ended. Alphard, on the other hand, looked entirely unbothered as he packed up.

“Do you remember where the great hall is? I’ll walk you there.” Alphard offered.

Harry felt himself smile, despite willing his face not to. “Sure,”

Alphard led Harry through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, away from the bustling Great Hall. The air was cooler here, the torches flickering against the ancient stone walls. Harry didn’t question it at first. He assumed Alphard was just showing him the best shortcuts, the way older students often did for first-years they took under their wing.

But then Alphard slowed his steps.

Harry barely had time to register the change in atmosphere before he heard footsteps behind him. A bad feeling coiled in his stomach. He turned sharply, just as four Slytherin boys stepped out of the shadows, blocking both ends of the hall.

A trap.

Harry looked to Alphard, who stood a few feet away, his expression unreadable.

“Really?” Harry asked, his voice low with disbelief.

Alphard exhaled through his nose, his shoulders tense. “You had to know this was coming,” he murmured, though there was no real malice in his tone, just resignation. “You don’t just get sorted into Slytherin without proving you belong. I'm sorry.”

One of the boys, the same broad-shouldered brute who had eyed him at lunch, stepped forward with a slow, deliberate gait. His wand was already drawn. “Consider this a test, Evans. And a warning to what happens to mudbloods in Slytherin.”

Harry felt anger churn in his chest. He had let himself believe, even for a moment, that Alphard was different. That he might be someone Harry could trust, even slightly. That was a mistake. This wasn't Gryffindor anymore, he had to remind himself. He was in a den of snakes with no one to trust. He schooled his expression into something flat and unimpressed, even as he tensed, preparing for what was coming.

“So, what’s the plan?” Harry asked, rolling his shoulders. “Four against one? You lot must be awfully terrified of me.”

The boy in front smirked. “Not at all.”

And then he fired the first spell.

Harry dodged on instinct, the Stinging Hex barely grazing his shoulder. He barely had time to register the pain before another spell shot toward him from the left.

He moved fast. Years of experience kicked in, he wasn’t some first-year fresh out of primary school. This was nothing like fighting death eaters, fighting for his life.

Harry ducked, rolled, and came up with his wand raised.

"Expelliarmus!"

The nearest Slytherin’s wand flew from his hand, clattering against the stone floor. Harry spun, immediately deflecting another hex with a well-aimed Protego, but he was already at a disadvantage. The numbers weren’t in his favor.

A Leg-Locker Curse hit him from behind. His legs snapped together, and he barely managed to twist out of the way before another hex could land. He hit the ground hard, his elbow scraping against the rough stone.

“Not so quick now, are you?” one of the boys sneered.

Harry clenched his jaw. He was outnumbered, but they were idiots, too cocky, too eager to toy with him rather than finish the fight quickly. And, there were pure blood. Their fighting stances were textbook, stiff and unmoving. They didn't dodge, they only used protego spells.

Big mistake.

He moved fast, flicking his wand upward. "Finite!" His legs unlocked just in time for him to push himself to his feet, whipping around behind them and casting with a shout-

"Expulso!"

The force of the spell sent two of them stumbling back, one of them crashing into the wall. Another tried to curse him from the right, but Harry sidestepped, his own spell already forming.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

A third Slytherin went rigid, his arms snapping to his sides as he collapsed backward like a felled tree.

Harry’s breath came hard and fast. That left just two standing, but they had recovered quickly.

One fired a Confringo, but Harry flicked his wand in a sharp arc, "Protego maximus!" The blast hit the shield and rebounded, barely missing the boy who had cast it.

Before he could react, Harry struck.

"Flipendo!"

The force of the knockback jinx sent the boy sprawling, his head cracking against the stone floor with a sickening thud. He groaned, rolling onto his side, clearly out of the fight.

That left one. The ringleader.

The boy hesitated now, his earlier confidence faltering. He looked around, realizing that the four-on-one advantage was gone.

Harry lifted his wand.

“Try it,” he said, voice steady despite the rapid hammering of his pulse.

For a moment, it seemed like the boy might go for it. But then, with a sharp glare, he scoffed and pocketed his wand. “Not worth my time.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving his unconscious, disarmed, and petrified friends in his wake.

The hallway was silent now, save for Harry’s heavy breathing.

He turned to Alphard, who still stood in the shadows, watching him carefully.

Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand. His heart was still pounding from the fight, adrenaline still burning through his veins.

“You knew this was going to happen,” he said, his voice low, controlled.

Alphard met his gaze evenly. “I'm sorry. Truly,"

Harry exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “And you let it.”

Alphard didn’t deny it. He just watched him with that same calculating expression. Then, after a long moment, he said, “I had to.”

Harry let out a humorless laugh. “Right. And I suppose this is the part where you tell me it wasn’t personal.”

Alphard’s jaw tensed. He glanced at the unconscious and cursed boys on the floor. “Well,” he murmured, “if it’s any consolation… I don’t think they expected that.”

Harry wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

Alphard turned to leave, but before he did, he paused. His voice, when he spoke again, was quiet.

“You wanted to know about Tom Riddle,” Alphard said without looking at him. “Well, now you’ve got his attention.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Harry standing alone in the wreckage of his first real fight at Hogwarts, his grip still tight on his wand.

Fuck.

That is the last thing Harry wanted.

Pain flared up Harry’s leg as he took a step, nearly sending him stumbling. One of the hexes must have done more damage than he’d realized. As the adrenaline ran out, the pain set in. He grit his teeth, glancing down. His left leg was throbbing, and when he experimentally tried to move his foot, a sharp, stinging pain shot through his calf.

Brilliant.

Healing spells weren’t exactly his strong suit, and he wasn’t about to ask for help from anyone here. He settled for muttering "Episkey", but the weak warmth that spread over his leg did nothing to dull the pain. It wasn’t broken, but he’d definitely be limping for a while. Harry was mentally hitting himself for being pants at healing magic; why had he never bothered learning?

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

Classes came and went, the lessons barely registering in Harry’s mind as he focused on avoiding everyone in his house. He kept his head down, ignored the curious glances, and dodged Alphard’s gaze when he caught it in the common room. He didn’t even acknowledge the whispers that followed him wherever he went.

By the time he made it back to the dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy in his bones.

He didn’t trust the other Slytherins, especially not after tonight, so before climbing into bed, he strengthened and added even more wards around his space. They were subtle enough not to be noticed but strong enough to jolt anyone who tried to mess with him. Only then did he allow himself to collapse onto the mattress, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg.

Harry was tossing and turning the whole night, wishing that he would just wake up and everything could be normal again.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry’s leg still ached, but he forced himself to walk as normally as possible. He had no interest in looking weak.

He made it through breakfast without speaking to anyone, barely acknowledging Alphard’s lingering stare from across the table. And when Tom Riddle approached, sliding into the empty seat beside him, Harry didn’t hesitate, he stood up immediately, abandoning his barely touched food and walking to the far end of the table without a word.

He didn’t miss the way Riddle’s eyes darkened slightly as he watched him go.

The pattern continued.

Days passed, and Harry made a point to avoid all Slytherins. He sat alone in class when he could, partnered with Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs when able to. He refused to engage with Alphard, who didn’t push (thankfully), and dodged Riddle whenever the boy tried to get near him. He couldn't wait to go back home, back to the future. Back to what he knew, and back to a time where he wasn't surrounded by untrustworthy Slytherins and egotistical maniacs.

It became almost routine.

One day, Harry turned a corner to get to Transfiguration, his next class, when he suddenly felt something shift in the air. A presence.

He stopped.

And then, too late, he realized he had walked straight into a dead end.

Harry turned sharply, already reaching for his wand, but before he could so much as take a step, a figure stepped into the corridor, blocking the exit.

Tom Riddle.

The light from the high windows cast sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the cool, unreadable expression he wore. His dark eyes locked onto Harry with unsettling focus, as if he were a puzzle Riddle was determined to solve. It was almost uncomfortable how much of Riddle's magic seemed to ooze out of him and into the air, almost suffocating.

"Running away gets exhausting, doesn’t it?" Riddle asked, voice smooth as ever.

Harry set his jaw. "Wouldn’t know. I’ve got plenty of energy."

Riddle hummed, tilting his head slightly. "That's interesting because I never see you eat. Regardless, let’s call this a coincidence. Just you and me. No audience."

Harry’s grip tightened on his wand. "Move."

"Not yet," Riddle said lightly. "You’ve been avoiding all of us. I’d like to know why."

Harry let out a sharp laugh. "Really?" He gestured vaguely with his wand. "Maybe it has something to do with the whole ambushed in a corridor thing. Just a thought."

Riddle’s lips twitched, but there was no real amusement in his eyes. "Yes, I heard about that," he admitted, as if they were discussing the weather. "I imagine you're quite upset with Alphard."

Harry’s expression darkened. "I don’t make a habit of trusting people twice."

"Smart." Riddle took a slow step forward, and Harry instinctively shifted his weight, preparing to move. "But also… shortsighted."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Meaning?"

Riddle smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "You can’t avoid us forever."

Harry held his ground. "Watch me."

Something flickered in Riddle’s gaze, something calculating, sharp, and just a little amused.

Harry held Riddle’s gaze, tense and unmoving, his pulse still elevated from their last exchange. He could feel the warmth of the room, the soft flicker of torchlight casting long shadows over the stone floor, but his focus was entirely on the boy in front of him.

“You’ll come to us eventually,” Riddle had said, the words threading through the space between them like an unspoken certainty.

Harry wasn’t so sure.

His grip on his bag tightened, fingers curling around the worn strap. He wasn’t going to stand here and argue. Riddle was too controlled for that, too patient. He didn’t need to win this moment. He was playing the long game.

So Harry pulled out his wand with a spell on the tip of his tongue only to stop short as a voice, calm yet undeniably firm, interrupted the moment.

“Ah. I see two of my students have taken a rather scenic route to class.”

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, masking his irritation as he turned and hid his wand away.

Professor Dumbledore stood at the entrance to the corridor, his sharp blue eyes assessing them both with quiet scrutiny. There was no open disapproval in his expression, but Harry could feel it all the same, lingering just beneath the surface like an undercurrent. The weight of it wasn’t directed at him, though.

It was directed at Riddle.

Riddle, to his credit, didn’t so much as blink. If anything, he smiled, polite, easy, and unruffled by the older man’s presence.

“My apologies, Professor,” he said smoothly, dipping his head just enough to be respectful without seeming meek. “I was merely ensuring Evans didn’t lose his way.”

Harry’s jaw tensed at the blatant lie, but he kept his expression neutral.

Dumbledore’s gaze flickered between them before settling on Riddle, unreadable. Then, after a pause, he said, “Walk with me.”

It wasn’t a request.

Neither of them spoke as they fell into step beside him, the quiet footfalls echoing down the corridor. Harry kept his eyes forward, conscious of Riddle’s presence at his side. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but there was something different in the way Riddle carried himself now. Slightly more composed, maybe. Slightly more… aware.

Like he was calculating something.

As they neared the Transfiguration classroom, Dumbledore’s hand came down lightly on Harry’s shoulder, stopping him.

“A moment, Mr. Evans.”

Harry hesitated, glancing toward Riddle, but the other boy was already looking at him, eyes dark with something unreadable. For the briefest second, Riddle almost showed discomfort on his face.

Then Riddle inclined his head in farewell and disappeared into the classroom.

Harry exhaled, turning back to Dumbledore.

The shift was immediate.

Where before the professor had been composed, almost detached, now his expression turned more severe, his eyes colder than Harry had ever seen them.

“I know you are new here, Evans. So I must give you warning; you would do well to stay away from that boy,” Dumbledore said quietly.

Harry blinked, the words hitting him like a bucket of cold water.

He hadn’t been expecting that.

There was something in the way Dumbledore said it, something that made Harry uneasy. The dismissal, the certainty.The...prejudice.

Harry frowned, shifting his weight. “Why?”

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, then said, “Because he is dangerous.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He knew who Tom Riddle was. Knew exactly what he was capable of.

But Dumbledore wasn’t speaking with the hindsight of someone who had lived through Voldemort’s rise. He wasn’t speaking with evidence. He was speaking with mere speculation. Curious, Harry probed. “He’s just a student,” Harry said, more cautious now, watching Dumbledore carefully, wondering what his response would be.

Dumbledore’s lips pressed into a thin line. “No, he is not.”

There was no room for argument in his tone, no room for doubt.

Something about it made Harry’s skin prickle.

For the first time, he wondered.

How much of what Tom Riddle became was already there? And how much was shaped by this? By the way people looked at him? By the way they spoke about him in hushed tones, avoided him, distrusted him without reason?

Harry had always believed Riddle was destined for darkness. That he had always been that way.

But maybe...just maybe, he had been led there, maybe there wasn't a complete intrinsic darkness to Riddle.

Dumbledore sighed, his expression cooling. “I do not expect you to understand, Mr. Evans. Only to be careful.”

Harry said nothing.

Because he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore.

He just knew that, as he stepped into the classroom and felt Riddle’s eyes flicker toward him, something had shifted.

And Riddle knew it too.

Riddle turned his head slightly as Harry stepped into the classroom, the motion smooth. Their eyes met, and, with an almost lazy certainty, Riddle inclined his head, the silent invitation unmistakable.

For a brief second, Harry hesitated.

His feet nearly moved of their own accord, drawn forward by the quiet gravity Riddle seemed to exert so effortlessly. But then his gaze flickered past him, to the seat beside him, where Alphard Black sat watching with that same sharp, unreadable expression.

Harry clenched his jaw.

The memory of that empty hallway flashed in his mind. The way Alphard had left, the quiet apology, the sharp sting of betrayal.

No.

He wasn’t playing their games.

So instead of taking the open seat, Harry veered away, moving toward the back of the classroom without a word. He could feel the weight of Riddle’s gaze on him as he sat, the deliberate nature of his decision laid bare.

And yet when Harry glanced back up, expecting something cold, something calculating...Riddle only smiled.

It was small, barely noticeable. But it was there.

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose and dragged his attention to the front of the room, where Dumbledore was beginning to address the class.

“Today, we will be refining our work on Avifors,” the professor announced, flicking his wand toward the chalkboard. The words scrawled themselves across it in neat, looping script:
Avifors – Inanimate to Animate Transfiguration

A rustle of parchment and quiet murmurs filled the air as students adjusted their notes.

“The spell itself is simple,” Dumbledore continued, picking up a small, gray stone from his desk and holding it up between his fingers. “The difficulty lies in achieving precision and permanence in the transformation.” He placed the stone down and drew his wand, tapping it once.

The effect was immediate--the stone shuddered, darkening, then burst outward into a raven with an elegant flick of its wings. It let out a single caw before settling on the desk.

“You will be working in pairs,” Dumbledore instructed, his gaze sweeping across the room. “Your goal is not only to complete the transformation but to maintain it without the result dissolving back into its original form.”

Harry barely had time to glance around before a dry voice beside him said, “Well, I suppose we’re stuck together, then.”

Harry turned to find a Slytherin boy watching him with an unimpressed expression.

Theodore Nott, he recognized. Part of Riddle's main little 'group' but not quite involved as the others. Not the Nott he knew--the quiet, calculating presence from his own time, but his grandfather, most likely. He had the same sharp features, though his hair was darker, his posture more rigid.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”

Nott smirked slightly, though there was little real amusement in it. “Well, I doubt anyone else is eager to volunteer.” He gestured vaguely. “And we don’t have all day.”

Harry sighed, deciding that picking a fight over something this small wasn’t worth it, and nodded.

They got to work, the air between them quiet but not hostile.

Harry attempted the spell first, aiming his wand at the small, dull stone on the desk. “Avifors.”

The stone twitched but didn’t transform.

Nott hummed, watching critically. “You hesitated.”

Harry shot him a dry look. “Brilliant observation.”

Nott ignored him. “You’re overthinking it. Transfiguration is intent-based. If you aren’t certain about the outcome, the magic won’t be either.”

Harry huffed, rolling his shoulders and trying again. This time, the stone stretched, morphed, and with a burst of movement, an awkward-looking crow flapped its wings, feathers patchy and uneven. It immediately flickered back into a rock.

Harry scowled. “I hate Transfiguration.”

Nott arched an eyebrow. “You’re in the wrong class, then.”

Harry gave him a flat look. What an arse,but before Harry could verbally retort, movement from the front of the room caught his eye.

“Ah, well done, Miss McKinnon. Five points to Gryffindor.”

Harry blinked.

McKinnon, one of the few Gryffindors in the class, had only just finished her first attempt. The bird on her desk was scruffy, with feathers that still had the dull sheen of stone, and it twitched oddly as though uncertain whether it should move or remain still.

Dumbledore gave an approving nod regardless.

Across the room, Riddle had flicked his wand at his own stone, and in an instant, a sleek, black raven emerged, preening its wing as though it had always existed.

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked to it.

There was a pause.

Then, without comment, the professor turned away.

Harry frowned.

The difference was subtle, barely noticeable unless you were paying attention, but it was there. The slight delay before Dumbledore acknowledged Slytherin students, the way he offered critiques rather than praise, the uneven distribution of points.

“Typical,” Nott muttered, adjusting his sleeve as he examined his own attempt, a small falcon, still and perfect. “Gryffindors could turn their rock into a dead pigeon and still get points for effort.”

"Why is he like that?" Harry found himself asking.

Nott laughed. "I know you're new here, mudblood, but surely you aren't stupid too, right?"

Harry gripped his quill tight in annoyance at the 'helpful' reply, but chose not to respond. Instead, he kept his head down, focusing on his own work, irritation curling in his chest.

By the time class ended, he had successfully managed a proper transfiguration. Though the raven he produced still had a slight shimmer of grey to its feathers and was missing an eye. It wasn’t perfect, but it held, and by the end of the lesson, it hopped along the edge of his desk, ruffling its wings.

As the classroom emptied, Harry hurriedly packed away his things, intent on avoiding any lingering interactions.

He had just stepped into the hallway when he felt it.

That presence.

That quiet inevitability.

Riddle was waiting. Harry wanted to slam his head on the wall. Could he just be left alone for one damn day? Apparently not.

Harry stopped a few steps away, tilting his head slightly. “You’re not gonna ambush me again, are you?”

Riddle smiled, amused. “No.”

Something about the way he said it, like it was such an absurd question, made Harry’s jaw tighten.

Riddle studied him for a long moment, head tilting in that way he did when he was dissecting something, breaking it apart piece by piece.

Then, quietly, he said, “You looked…irritated by Dumbledore today.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Riddle’s gaze flickered over him, considering. “You saw what he did. And yet, you didn’t say a word.”

Harry exhaled sharply, feeling irritation curl in his chest. “Not everything has to be a battle.”

Riddle smiled, sharp and knowing. “No,” he agreed. “Not everything. Just the ones that matter.”

Harry clenched his jaw before walking away from that cryptic mess of a conversation. If Riddle didn't kill Harry first, his own blood pressure definitely will.

...

The next morning, Harry woke with his leg no longer aching, finally. It had been days now, and his avoidance strategy was working, he hadn’t spoken to a single Tom Riddle surrounded Slytherin, and he intended to keep it that way. He finally had time to hit the library and found a book on time turners. But it was sparse and nothing compared to the knowledge of Harry's time. Maybe I should ask a professor if they know anything about time turners,Harry thought. His next class could actually prove useful; Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Professor Merrythought stood at the front of the class, a small but formidable witch whose presence demanded attention.

“I expect you’ve all had enough theory,” she said, clasping her hands together. “Let’s see how well you can put it into practice. Today, we duel.”

A ripple of excitement moved through the students.

“You will pair off,” Merrythought continued. “School appropriate spells only. If I catch any of you using anything beyond what we’ve covered, you will regret it.”

She began calling names.

“Evans, with Malfoy.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Malfoy was already looking at him, cool and expectant. Harry had no doubt the Slytherin would use this as an opportunity to assert some kind of dominance, and frankly, he wasn’t interested. Before Malfoy could even move toward him, Harry turned sharply and caught the sleeve of the nearest student.

A wiry Hufflepuff with perpetually wind-tousled hair, blinked at him in surprise.

“Switch with me,” Harry muttered under his breath.

The Hufflepuff hesitated, glancing between Harry and Malfoy. “We can’t.”

Harry felt his chest constrict in pain, "Please?"

The hufflepuff only turned away. Ouch. Accepting the inevitable, Harry found his way to Malfoy doing his best to avoid eyecontact and conversation as they took their positions. Merrythought flicked her wand. “Begin.”

Harry reacted instantly.

He twisted out of the way of Malfoy’s initial spell, barely needing to move, his reflexes honed by years of real combat.

"Expelliarmus!"

Malfoy blocked it, but the force of the spell still made him stumble. Harry pressed forward, but not with something expected.

He pivoted, fast and precise, then cast "Incarcerous!"

Ropes shot from his wand, but Malfoy managed to parry them at the last second.

Harry grinned.

Alright, maybe he was enjoying this a little.

He dodged another blast, then retaliated with "Petrificus Totalus!"

Harry was winning.

Malfoy had always been fast, always been talented, taught by expensive tutors that his family could afford to buy, but he wasn’t a fighter. He was a boy who had been trained in elegant dueling, in textbook-perfect form, but he had never been forced to fight for survival. His stance was too rigid, his footwork too predictable.

Harry had learned in fire. His style was instinct, reaction, adaptation. He didn’t wait for openings; he created them.

Malfoy flicked his wand forward, spitting out a sharp "Expelliarmus!"

Harry didn’t even blink. He sidestepped, shifting just enough for the red light to miss him by inches, his own wand snapping up without thought, shooting a nonverbal expelliarmus right back.

Malfoy’s wand was ripped from his fingers and onto the floor before he even realized what had happened.

Gasps rippled through the classroom.

Malfoy’s face twisted in fury as he lunged for his wand, but Harry was already moving. With a sharp flick--Accio!--he yanked it toward himself, holding it just long enough to make a point before tossing it back to Malfoy’s scrambling hands.

"Better luck next time," Harry said flatly.

Malfoy’s face flushed with anger, and this time, he abandoned basic spells.

"Confringo!"

Harry barely had a second to react before a bolt of orange light exploded toward him. He pivoted sharply, conjuring a Protego Maximus mid-turn, but the heat still brushed against his side as the blast struck the floor, sending shards of stone flying.

Merrythought didn’t intervene.

Harry ground his teeth. Fine.

He dropped low, wand flicking in a series of rapid movements--"Aguamenti!" A jet of water shot toward Malfoy, making him stumble, and before he could recover, "Petrificus Totalus!"

Malfoy dodged, barely, but Harry was already pressing forward. He used the moment to close the distance, weaving through Malfoy’s panicked spells with effortless fluidity, unrelenting.

A slashing hex barely missed his shoulder. Another spell aimed at his legs was dodged with a sharp sidestep, his own wand jerking in response, "Depulso!"

The force of the Banishing Charm sent Malfoy skidding backward, his feet barely catching traction before he slammed into the dueling platform's edge.

The other boys hands were clenched, rage clearly boiling over. Malgoy's next spell was a sharp, jagged movement and dark, the kind of magic that wasn’t taught in classrooms.

Harry had fought warlocks before.

He knew immediately what it was.

Harry's wand flicked in instinct before Malfoy even finished the incantation. "Expulso!"

The spell detonated against the young future death eater, knocking him on the ground. Harry stood proudly, untouched.

The dust settled, and Harry’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears as he noticed Malfoy’s ragged breathing, his grip tightening around his wand.

But more than that—

He noticed Riddle from the corner of his eye.

Watching.

Silent.

Interested.

Harry’s stomach plummeted.

He knew that look.

Riddle had been studying him this entire time.

And he had enjoyed what he saw.

Shit.

Harry’s movements faltered. He stumbled, barely dodging Malfoy’s next spell, and forced himself to react too slow, his defenses sloppy. He let the next hex strike his leg, a burning pain flaring up his calf as his foot locked into place.

Malfoy smirked triumphantly. "Petrificus Totalus!"

Harry didn’t resist.

His body snapped straight, his arms locked to his sides, and he hit the floor with a dull thud.

Malfoy exhaled sharply, pushing his hair back, his face flushed with exertion and triumph. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Not so clever now, are you, mudblood?"

Harry’s wand, still clutched tightly in his frozen fingers, twitched, watching as Malfoy walked off. The spell wore off moments later, and Harry slowly pushed himself up, forcing himself not to wince at the pain in his leg. He could feel the sharp throb where Malfoy’s hex had clipped him. He was especially pissed since that same leg had just stopped hurting a day ago from his last fight. Just brilliant.

Merrythought clapped her hands.

“Very good, Malfoy. Better. Evans, good technique, but you hesitate too much,” she noted before moving on.

Harry forced a sheepish smile, but inside, he was fuming.

At the end of class, he grabbed his bag and made for the door, only to remember that he was going to ask Merrythought about time turners. So instead, he pivoted on his heel (mistake--he winced as his ankle gave a sharp pain) and turned back toward Merrythought.

Harry was still tense when he reached Merrythought’s desk. The pain in his leg throbbed dully, but he ignored it. He needed something to focus on, something other than the way Riddle had been watching him.

“Professor,” he said, keeping his voice neutral, “I had a question about time magic.”

Merrythought quirked a brow. “Ambitious subject. What about it?”

Harry hesitated. He couldn’t outright ask about Time-Turners, not without drawing suspicion. He tilted his head, trying to sound casual. “Just wondering about different methods. Theory, applications… limitations.”

Merrythought hummed, tapping a finger against her desk. “Time is a tricky thing, Evans. Magic can bend it, but never break it. At least, not without consequences.” She studied him closely. “There are ancient rituals, of course. Dangerous and wildly unpredictable. But if you’re looking for something controlled, something legal,” she gave him a pointed look, “Time-Turners are your best bet. Highly regulated, though. Kept under lock and key by the Department of Mysteries. I'm glad to hear that you are expanding your studies, though. Very ambitious.”

Harry nodded, barely hearing the rest of what she said. His mind was already racing.

The Department of Mysteries.

His one chance to go back. His only way home. And it was buried in the most heavily guarded place in the Wizarding World.

Brilliant.

He mumbled a quick thanks and turned toward the door, only to stop short.

Riddle. Of course.

Harry groaned. A hand caught his wrist.

He tensed immediately, yanking back on instinct, but Riddle’s grip was firm. Unyielding.

"Walk with me," Riddle said, his voice pleasant but leaving no room for argument.

Harry glanced around, but the corridor was already thinning of students, and no one was paying them any mind.

He clenched his jaw. "Let go."

Instead, Riddle only smiled and pulled him along, guiding him down an empty corridor, away from prying eyes. Harry did his best to ignore the ache in his poor leg.

The moment they were alone, Riddle stepped in front of him with the same unreadable smile, tilting his head slightly. "Evans," he said smoothly, voice low, almost indulgent. "You’re avoiding me."

Harry sighed, glancing at the empty corridor behind them. "Are you always so observant?"

"And yet, for all your effort, you keep doing things that make me interested in you." Riddle leaned in just a fraction, just enough to make Harry aware of how unsettlingly close he was. "Tell me, are you exceptionally brave or just reckless? First you were defeating four trained duelists in the span of minutes? It’s almost impressive."

Harry stiffened. "That was self-defense. You should know, your friends started it. I thought we moved on from that."

"I should, shouldn't I?" Riddle murmured, eyes glinting. "I did wonder how you’d manage, but you exceeded expectations. And then today you were magnificent. Until you weren’t."

Harry didn’t reply.

"You noticed me watching, and suddenly you fumbled. Deliberately. That’s fascinating." Riddle's voice was velvet-smooth, coaxing. "You hide your skill, you play the fool, but you’re not a fool, are you, Evans?" He moved slightly, positioning himself so Harry had to step back, further into the shadowed corridor.

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose. "You’re making a lot of assumptions."

"Am I?" Riddle smiled wider, and it wasn’t a pleasant smile. "I know we share wand cores. Do you know how rare that is? I picked up your wand the night we found you and it felt just like mine. Malfoy confirmed it later. And now, here you are, acting the incompetent after putting on a spectacular performance. I don’t believe in coincidences."

Harry’s pulse quickened. "I don’t know what you want from me."

Riddle regarded him thoughtfully. "I want to know you. You’re intelligent, powerful, and wasted in the company you keep. Why pretend to be lesser than you are?" His tone turned almost coaxing, as if he were offering something precious. "Join me, Evans. I have a study group, an exclusive one. We push boundaries, explore magic beyond the standard curriculum. No restrictions, no limitations." He smiled again. "I think you’d fit right in."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Dark magic."

Riddle chuckled, a soft, amused sound. "Magic is magic. Light and dark are just classifications. I’m offering knowledge, power." He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "A place where you don’t have to pretend."

Harry hesitated. Every instinct screamed at him to refuse, to walk away, but Riddle wasn’t wrong. If he wanted to survive here, he needed to understand exactly what Riddle was doing, how he was gaining influence.

Riddle watched him closely. "Just one meeting. No commitment. See for yourself."

“If I go to this meeting, will you leave me alone after? Never bother me again.” Harry asked.

Riddle smiled. “Of course. If after the meeting you decide you want nothing to do with me, then I’ll never bother you again.”

“Really?” Harry confirmed, suspiciously, “I have a hard time believing that.”

“I’m a man of my word, Evans. I promise.”

It felt like a trap. But one Harry had no choice but to walk into.

"Fine," he said. "One meeting."

Chapter Text

Harry skipped breakfast the next morning and spent lunch tucked away in the library, poring over books on time magic. He had little appetite anyway, his mind too preoccupied with what he had agreed to. Just one meeting. That’s what he told himself.

He ran a finger along the brittle pages of Temporal Manipulations: A Study of Chronomancy and stopped when a passage caught his eye.

The Hour-Reversal Charm, commonly used in the construction of Time-Turners, allows a subject to travel backwards in time by a fixed increment per rotation. However, the longest documented use of such magic has only resulted in a reversal and forward of approximately five hours.

Five hours. That was it. Nothing even close to what he needed. Harry exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. That meant one thing: his only real chance was breaking into the Department of Mysteries. Again. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but there was no alternative. If he wanted to return home, he would have to plan, to be patient, to be careful.

Flipping through another book, he stumbled across something intriguing. The Ageing Charm: A rudimentary form of time manipulation that allows a wizard to temporarily increase their apparent age. Harry’s breath caught. If he could use that and make himself look older, he might be able to slip into the Department of Mysteries under a false identity. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was something. A start.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of classes and half-hearted conversation. He kept his head down, avoided unnecessary interactions, and by the time dinner rolled around, he wasn’t in the mood to be around people. He set off for the Slytherin dorms early, walking briskly through the dim corridors when a familiar figure appeared ahead of him. Alphard Black.

Harry tensed and immediately veered to the side, intending to walk past without a word, but Alphard fell into step beside him.

“You’re not eating,” Alphard observed, his tone casual.

Harry didn’t slow down. “Not hungry.”

Alphard sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look. About the other day...”

“Don’t,” Harry said sharply, his voice colder than he intended. In this moment Harry felt as if he barely recognized his own self. He missed his real friends, where ever- or rather, whenver they are.

Alphard hesitated before continuing anyway. “I didn’t want to leave you there. You know that, right? I’m sorry. I had to.”

Harry didn’t answer, staring straight ahead.

“I just,” Alphard exhaled before changing the subject, “I was surprised to hear you’re going to the meeting.”

Harry finally glanced at him, expression unreadable. “Who says I am?”

Alphard gave him a look. “Come on, Evans. You think anything involving Riddle stays secret for long?”

Harry only shrugged, unwilling to explain himself.

Alphard studied him for a long moment before speaking again, quieter this time. “Be careful.”

Harry frowned. “Why?”

Alphard’s lips curled into something wry. “Tom has a way of getting people exactly where he wants them. You’ll think you have everything under control until you don’t.”

Harry didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. Alphard had betrayed him once already, and yet... he almost seemed genuine now.

He walked away without another word, but as he reached the entrance to the dorms he found himself wondering whether or not to forgive Alphard. Whether or not he should.

But that was a question for another day.

Tomorrow night was the meeting.

Harry skipped breakfast again the next morning. He wasn’t in the mood for food, nor for the stares he felt burning into his back from Riddle’s circle. Ever since he had agreed to the meeting, they had been watching him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. He ignored them, keeping his head down as he moved through the castle.

Dumbledore’s class was the only part of the day that momentarily pulled him out of his thoughts. They were working on Conjuration, bringing objects into existence. It was a delicate and difficult branch of Transfiguration. Dumbledore demonstrated by summoning an entire flock of shimmering birds, which vanished in a cascade of golden light. The class murmured in awe.
Harry practiced in silence at his desk, his quill spinning between his fingers as he focused on conjuring something simple. He waved his wand, and a small silver goblet appeared, shimmering faintly before solidifying. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to earn a pleased nod from Dumbledore as he passed by.

For the briefest moment, when Dumbledore smiled at him with that knowing twinkle in his eye, Harry was reminded of the old man he had once trusted with everything. The man he could tell anything, the man he would fight beside in the growing war of his time. The warmth of memories lasted only a second before reality came crashing back. This wasn’t the same Dumbledore. And Harry wasn’t the same boy.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of distraction. After classes, he slipped into the library, settling into the furthest corner with a stack of books. This time, he wasn’t looking into time travel, he needed to understand the Department of Mysteries itself.

The books were dense, detailing the structure of the Ministry, the security measures, and what little was known about the department. Most of it was speculation; vague references to locked rooms, ancient studies into death, thought, time, and space. But it was the mentions of the Hall of Prophecy that made him pause. If those records existed, who else might have looked into them? Could Riddle have already been aware of his own prophecy?

Harry shook his head. It didn’t matter. What mattered was getting in. Security was tight, but there was the option of disguises. Ways an intruder could slip past the first layers of protection if they looked the part. That was something to consider. By the time night fell, the moment had arrived, and Harry was forced to close his book.

Harry made his way to the meeting room, heart steady but guarded. When he stepped inside, all conversation stilled. The room was filled with familiar faces: Malfoy, Nott, Rosier, Black, Lestrange, all watching him like he was some puzzle they had yet to solve.

Riddle, standing at the head of the room, was the only one who didn’t seem surprised. He smiled, smooth and unreadable. "Welcome, Evans. Take a seat."

Harry slid into a chair, observing as the meeting began. They practiced spells. Sharp, precise magic with an edge of something darker. Malfoy and Rosier dueled first, trading hexes that cracked against the walls. The atmosphere was electric, charged with ambition and excitement.

Harry didn’t participate, only watched. Riddle noticed.

Before long, Riddle settled next to him, closer than necessary. "You’re not joining in?"

"Just observing," Harry said smoothly.

"You have a habit of that, don’t you?" Riddle’s voice was light, teasing. "Observing, hiding, pretending."

Harry glanced at him. "And you have a habit of assuming."

Riddle only smiled, slow and knowing. "You disapprove of them," he said, nodding toward the others. "The way they talk about blood purity."

Harry exhaled, surprised and yet not surprised that Riddle noticed. "Well, of course. They’re all blood purists, a stupid line of thinking. One of my best friends was a muggleborn and she was the greatest wizard I knew.”

“Your best friend?” Riddle says.

“Yeah. Forget about it. I just think your whole group is prejudiced. And yet, their leader is a half-blood. It’s Interesting."

Riddle’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. "I never told you I was a half blood."

Harry tensed, but forced himself to stay neutral. Yet another slip up. Harry internally groaned at his mistake. "It’s obvious."

"Is it?" Riddle murmured. "Or are you just very good at knowing things you shouldn’t?"

Their knees brushed, but Riddle didn’t move away. Neither did Harry.

“I’m not as single minded as you think I am, Harry.” Riddle broke the silence.

Harry looked up, startled at the use of his first name. Riddle smiled at his reaction.

"I use their beliefs against them," Riddle said, voice dropping to a whisper only Harry could hear. "It’s easy, you know. They’re desperate for someone to follow."

Harry frowned. "And what do you believe?"

Riddle studied him, then smiled slow, deliberate. "Power," he said simply. "Everything else is just a means to an end."

“So…You think muggleborns are equal to purebloods?” Harry narrowed his eyes.

“If a muggleborn is powerful, then yes. You won against Malfoy, didn’t you? Until you threw the fight. You are proof of my point.” Riddle shrugs.

Harry wasn’t sure why, but that surprised him. He had thought Voldemort always truly believed in blood purity. But perhaps, at this point in time, Tom Riddle was still… evolving. The conversation drifted between sharp words and smoother banter. And the strangest thing? Harry found himself drawn in, despite himself. He wondered if this is what Riddle did with everyone in this room at some point in time. Draw them in with his sweet and alluring words.

Riddle watched him with the same quiet intensity he always did, except this time, Harry was starting to understand why.

Then, abruptly, Riddle stood. "Come."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"You agreed to this meeting. So let’s make it worth your time," Riddle said smoothly. "Let me teach you something."

Harry sighed, already regretting this. "What kind of something?"

Riddle’s smile was all sharp edges. "A spell. One you won’t learn in class."

Harry hesitated. Every logical part of him screamed not to. But he was in too deep already.

"Fine," he muttered, standing.

Riddle’s eyes gleamed. "Good."

The air in the room was thick with tension, the murmurs of the other students fading into the background as Riddle stepped closer. The others had finished their duels, their spellwork, but none had left. They remained, watching with interest as their leader took a special interest in Harry.

Riddle flicked his wand, speaking in a voice just above a whisper.

"Protego Diabolica."

Blue flames roared to life around him, coiling like living serpents, twisting and writhing with a sentience all their own. The eerie glow flickered against the walls, licking at the air but harming nothing. Atleast, nothing yet.

Harry swallowed, his grip tightening around his wand.

“A fire curse?”

“A fire ward,” Riddle corrected, letting the flames dance at his fingertips without burning him. “It will only harm those it considers enemies.”

As if to prove his point, he turned slightly, directing a tendril of flame toward an abandoned book on a nearby desk. The moment the fire touched it, the pages blackened, curling into nothingness before disintegrating into ash.

Harry tensed, a cold weight settling in his stomach.

“No.”

Riddle raised a brow. “No?”

“I’m not using that,” Harry said, voice firm. “That’s not a defense spell. That’s...”

“Powerful,” Riddle interrupted smoothly.

The flames died as he took a step forward, then another. The room was utterly silent now, the others watching, waiting.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” Riddle’s voice was quiet, taunting.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “I just don’t see the point in-”

Riddle was suddenly in front of him, close enough that Harry could feel the heat radiating from where the flames had been. He reached out and before Harry knew it, Riddle’s hand was atop Harry’s wand hand.

“You do,” Riddle murmured. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

Harry exhaled sharply. His pulse thrummed in his ears. The warmth of Riddle’s hand against his own was distracting, too distracting. He should pull away. He should.
But then Riddle moved closer, his free arm sliding around Harry’s waist.

Harry inhaled sharply, his entire body locking up at the contact.

“There,” Riddle murmured, his lips barely moving, his breath warm against Harry’s ear. “Just like that.”

The room had gone impossibly still. No one spoke. No one even dared to shift.

“What are you-” Harry whispered.

“Say the spell. You know the words,” Riddle murmured, almost pleasantly in Harry’s ear.

Harry felt his heartbeat hammer against his ribs, his entire body tense and coiled, but Riddle’s grip was firm, steadying, his fingers tightening at his waist in a silent command.
Harry’s fingers trembled around his wand.

“…Protego Diabolica.”

The moment the words left his lips, the fire exploded.

It was nothing like before, nothing like the controlled, twisting flames Riddle had conjured. This was wild, roaring out in a massive arc, the sheer force of it sending heat rippling through the air. It flared outward, towering and curling back as though the room itself was being swallowed by blue fire.

Gasps rang out around them. A few stumbled back or ran to the corners of the room to avoid the rapidly growing spell.

The flames surrounded Harry and Riddle like a protective cocoon, flickering dangerously before finally obeying, curling into a controlled, pulsing ring. He could feel it, thrumming inside him, the magic responding to him with an exhilarating, intoxicating power.

He turned to Riddle, breathless, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

Riddle was watching him, eyes dark, calculating, but beneath the sharpness, there was something else.

Satisfaction.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

The realization hit him all at once. What he had just done, what he had allowed, and the shame burned hotter than the fire.

He jerked away, violently pulling out of Riddle’s grasp, the flames vanishing in an instant. His breath came short, sharp, and his skin still burned. But not from the fire, from the ghost of Riddle’s touch.
The room was still silent, watching, waiting.

“I--” Harry swallowed hard. “I have to go.”

And then he turned, shoving past the others before the weight of what he had done could consume him whole.

Chapter Text

Harry’s breath came too fast and too shallow, and he couldn’t slow it down no matter how hard he tried. His mind was a jumble of static and tangled thoughts, clawing over one another, but one truth cut through the noise with crystal clarity. He had to go, and he had to go now, before it was too late.

He ran through the castle, his heartbeat pounding like thunder in his ears. The torches lining the stone corridors flickered wildly as he passed, casting his shadow in frantic bursts of light. His footsteps barely registered beneath the roaring in his head. He hardly remembered reaching the Slytherin dorm entrance or muttering the password that made the wall slide open.

Inside, the common room was full of startled faces staring at him, but Harry didn’t stop. He sprinted up the stairs, shoved open the dormitory door, and fell to his knees beside his trunk. His hands trembled as he yanked it open, digging through robes, books, and loose parchment. His pulse raced faster with every second that passed. He grabbed his heaviest cloak, the dark green fabric sliding across his arm, and threw it over himself.

His fingers searched the bottom of the trunk until they found what he was looking for. The book. The one he had borrowed from the library and hidden under his clothes, just in case. His only real plan. His only real way forward.

I have to go. I have to go now.

He slammed the trunk shut and pressed the book to his chest. His breathing came in sharp bursts as panic clawed up his throat and pressed against his ribs. His skin still burned where Riddle had touched him, where he had let himself be pulled in, where he had cast that spell. He refused to think about it. Not now.

Harry forced himself to his feet and tightened his grip on the book. He could not waste another second. He pushed open the door and slipped into the dim corridor, whispering a quick notice-me-not charm to cloak his presence. Moments like this made him ache for his invisibility cloak, because getting out of Hogwarts unnoticed was nearly impossible.

Prefects were already patrolling, their sharp eyes scanning the halls for stragglers. Harry kept his head low and moved with measured urgency, fast enough to cover ground but not so fast that it drew attention. If he ran, they would hear him.

He made it to the third floor without issue, but the moment he rounded a corner, he heard footsteps coming closer. Too close.

Harry froze and pressed himself into the shadows of an alcove as a prefect turned the corner. A Ravenclaw girl, tall and watchful, paused in the center of the hall. Her eyes swept over the corridor with a focused intensity.

Harry held his breath and didn’t move. Every second stretched unbearably long before she finally turned and continued down the hall. Only when she disappeared did Harry exhale and move again, careful and quick.

He cut through the castle’s winding passages until he reached the statue of the one-eyed witch. “Dissendium,” he whispered. The hump shifted open with a groan of stone, and Harry climbed inside.

The tunnel below was dark and cold, but familiar. He ran, his shoes striking the uneven floor, his heartbeat steadying with the rhythm. He barely noticed the sting of rocks beneath his soles or the scrape of air in his lungs. His mind was already ahead of him, reaching for the end, the moment when he could finally leave.

When he reached the trapdoor at the end, he pushed it open and emerged into the quiet backroom of Honeydukes. The shop was empty, closed for the night, and the sweet scent of sugar and chocolate filled the air. It was warm and nostalgic, but Harry ignored it. His focus was on the book.

He flipped it open with shaking hands and found the page he needed. The spell was simple, meant to shift one’s features just enough to appear older. He swallowed hard and pointed his wand at himself. “Mutatio Tempora.”

A faint shimmer of gold washed over him but faded quickly. Nothing happened.

Harry frowned and tried again, clearing his mind, forcing himself to push past the panic and noise crowding his thoughts. He focused on what he wanted most. To see Ron and Hermione again. To see Sirius and know he was safe. To go home.

“Mutatio Tempora.”

The magic took hold this time. A shiver rolled down his spine as his body changed. His limbs lengthened, his jaw grew sharper, his shoulders broadened slightly. It was subtle but enough. He pulled a small mirror from his cloak and checked. His reflection stared back, older and unfamiliar. His scar remained, faint but visible, so he covered it with his hair and raised his hood. The transformation was convincing. He could pass for someone in his early twenties now.

He let out a slow breath. This was it. No turning back. He tightened his grip on his wand and turned on the spot, Apparating.

The air rushed around him, cold and suffocating. Then, suddenly, solid ground.

He staggered slightly and caught himself. The towering black doors of the Department of Mysteries loomed ahead, glinting faintly under the dim light. He adjusted his cloak and straightened, forcing himself to breathe evenly. Confidence was the key.

He entered the atrium, where only a few Ministry workers remained. He held his head high with false confidence and walked through as if he was an official or Auror. No one stopped him. The lifts still operated, their golden grilles gleaming softly. Harry stepped into one and pressed the button for the ninth floor.

Just before the doors closed, someone stepped inside. Harry tensed immediately. The man was older, wearing the dark robes of an Unspeakable, his sharp eyes cool and unreadable.

The lift hummed as it began to descend. Silence stretched between them until the man finally spoke. “I don’t recognize you.”

Harry kept his tone calm. “New assignment.”

“You don’t look familiar,” the man said again, studying him closely.

“Transferred from international affairs. Temporary placement,” Harry replied evenly.

The man’s expression didn’t change. “Hmm.”

Harry forced himself to stay still, ignoring the pounding of his heart. The lift dinged as it arrived. He stepped out first, aware of the man’s eyes following him. It didn’t matter. He was close now.

He moved through the corridors until he reached the familiar door. The Time Room. Only something felt different before he even touched the handle. The air was heavy, charged with an uneasy stillness. He pushed the door open and froze.

The room was not what he remembered. The shelves of spinning time-turners were gone. The hum of constant magic was gone. Only four ancient, broken time-turners remained on a dusty pedestal, surrounded by shattered glass and silence.

Harry’s chest tightened painfully. The reality hit him like a blow. This was his only chance, and it was gone. His limbs felt heavy as despair settled over him. The room spun faintly at the edges of his vision. He wanted to scream, to break something, to undo the choices that had brought him here. What had he been thinking?

This wasn’t a plan. It had never been a plan. It was desperation pretending to be courage. He should have known better. Of course the room would be different. Of course there wouldn’t be hundreds of perfect time-turners waiting for him to use. That wasn’t how the world worked. In this moment, he was just a 16 year old child, a stupid rash Gryffindor and the consequences of everything were rushing over him. This was the first time it dawned upon Harry that he may actually forever be trapped in a time that didn’t belong to him.

He steadied his breathing, though it came uneven and shaky. He was not leaving empty-handed. He scanned the room again and grabbed the least damaged time-turner from the pedestal. The gold was tarnished and the glass cracked, but it was the best of what was left.

He turned toward the door, hoping he could make it back out quietly. But when he opened it, his stomach dropped. Five Unspeakables were waiting, wands raised. Among them stood the man from the lift, his expression unreadable but his stance alert. Harry froze where he stood.

Panic surged through him. His grip tightened around his wand. Think. He had seconds to act. He touched the time-turner’s chain with trembling fingers. It wouldn’t work, not the way he needed it to, but he didn’t have time to think. He twisted the hourglass twice, and the world lurched violently.

For one dizzying moment, everything blurred. Then he was outside the door again, seconds before they arrived. The Unspeakables were coming. Harry moved fast. “Celeritas!” he hissed, and the world sharpened as the speed charm took hold. He shot forward in a blur, reaching the lift just as the door swung open behind him. A spell missed him by an inch as the golden gates closed.

He hit the button for the first floor and braced himself. He could already feel the wards above, crawling with magic. They knew. They were waiting.

Harry’s mind raced through every possible spell and escape. He couldn't apparate from here. He thought of his invisability cloak that was unfortunately lying in his chest fifty years in the future and sighed. What if he just used another speed charm and ran through them? What if he used expelliarmus on all of them simultaniously? What if he just gave himself up? Dozens of stupid ideas wove throughout Harry's mind. None of the ideas were viable, and the lift had almost reached the first floor. He was running out of time. Until he remembered Riddle. The spell. He hated himself for even considering it, but he had no choice.

The lift reached the first floor, and the gates slid open to a wall of wands aimed directly at him. He didn’t hesitate, remembering the wand movement and the way Riddle's arms had been around him to show him the spell. “Protego Diabolica!”

Blue fire exploded around him, spreading like a storm. It twisted across the floor and walls, searing everything in its path. The Unspeakables fell back, shields flaring. Harry didn’t look to see the damage. He ran. The wards near the entrance faltered just enough for him to slip through, and he Apparated.

The darkness of Apparition folded around him, crushing and cold, before he landed hard on the floor of Honeydukes’ backroom. He stayed on his feet for barely a second before his knees buckled. His lungs burned, and his magic felt raw, aching from the spell’s corruption. He could still feel the echo of where the blue flames had touched others. It made his stomach twist.

He wanted to throw up.

With a shaking breath, he released the aging spell. His body shrank back to its normal form, the tension melting away. Relief flooded through him, sharp and fleeting. He sank to the floor, pressing his hands over his eyes.

God, he had been so stupid. This was the worst idea he had ever had. Hermione had warned him so many times. He could still hear her voice. “The Department of Mysteries is unpredictable, Harry. We don’t even understand how half those rooms function. You can’t just rush in without a plan.”

And he had done it again anyway, fifty years in the future and now. Wasn't that insanity, Harry recalled, Doing the same thing again but expecting a different result? Fuck.

He let out a hollow, broken laugh that faded quickly into silence. His eyes drifted to the time-turner in his hand. The glass was cracked, the frame was worn and it was all but useless. And yet he couldn’t find it in himself to let it go. It may be all he has left.

He sat there for what felt like hours, turning it slowly by its chain, watching the dim light glint off the fractured glass. He had tried everything. Turning it, whispering incantations, begging for it to work, but it could only go back five minutes. Nothing more.

Five minutes. That was all.

He sighed, the exhaustion in his body sinking deep into his bones. Five minutes was not enough to fix anything. Not enough to change his fate.

Eventually, he tucked the useless time-turner into his robes and stood up. His limbs ached with every movement, his magic drained and sluggish. He needed to get back before anyone realized he was missing.

He used the same secret passageway and returned the way he came, coming out through the painting feeling defeated. The halls were silent when he slipped through the Slytherin entrance. No one was waiting. No Riddle, no accusing eyes, no questions. Just quiet. He let out a heavy breath of relief.

He crept up to his dorm, warded his trunk, and tucked the broken time-turner safely inside. Then he lay down on his bed, his body sinking into the mattress as exhaustion finally dragged him under.

Chapter Text

When Harry woke up, it was late.

Sunlight was already streaming in through the enchanted windows, and the usual morning noise of the dorm was completely absent. He groggily sat up, rubbing his eyes, and glanced around. Everyone was gone except for Nott, who was still snoring softly in his bed, tangled in the covers. Harry blinked. Huh. Weird.

But then again, it was a day off, finally a weekend. Still, something about the quiet felt strange. Off. Harry shrugged it off, chalking it up to his 'activities' from yesterday. He internally cringed at how impulsive (and stupid) he had been.

He dragged himself out of bed and checked to make sure the stolen time turner was still hidden in his chest. It was. Harry debated taking it with him but ultimately decided it was safer to leave it there. After a shower to clear his thoughts he changed into fresh robes and made his way out of the dorms, stepping into the castle halls. The second he did, he noticed it.

The hushed whispers.

Students huddled together in small groups, speaking in urgent, anxious voices, their gazes flickering to one another with unease. Some looked outright scared.

“I heard there were bombings in muggle london just a few days ago.”

“What could he be planning?”

“Do you think they’ll postpone the Yule ball?”

“Hogwarts is the safest place we can be. Come on.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. What the hell happened?

He stepped forward, moving through the murmuring crowd, trying to catch bits and pieces of conversation. But nothing made sense, just bits of worried voices and fragmented words. Then his gaze caught on something. A copy of the Daily Prophet, clutched tightly in a student’s hands. The headline jumped out at him. A chill crawled down Harry’s spine.

DARK WIZARD ALLIED WITH GRINDELWALD BREAKS INTO THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES – TIME TURNER STOLEN!

His breath caught.

The world tilted beneath him.

His heart froze.

Harry’s hands clenched into fists, the newspaper crinkling beneath his grip. His stomach twisted as he stared at the headline, his mind racing.

He expected this, but not this soon. It had just happened last night, mere hours ago. And there was already panic, already news coverage? How?

He should have been more careful. Shouldn’t have used Protego Diabolica. Shouldn’t have gone at all. And now...now the entire wizarding world thought a follower of Grindelwald had broken into the Department of Mysteries.

He swallowed hard, nausea curling in his throat. He couldn’t tell anyone the truth. No one could know. With his pulse hammering in his ears, Harry turned sharply on his heel and walked away, his head down. He needed to think. Maybe he hadn't searched enough. Maybe there was another way back home and he didn't have to endure this torturous time anymore.

The library. He wasn't hungry for breakfast anyway. Why waste his time eating when he could be finding a way home?

It took him an hour of searching, rifling through books, flipping through indexes, scouring shelves of restricted magical theory before he was beginning to call it quits.

Nothing useful, anyway.

Every book on time magic either repeated what he already knew or was useless conjecture. The powerful time-turners had been destroyed or lost. Experimental spells were too unstable, and rituals...well, there were none designed for traveling decades into the future.

Harry rubbed his temples, exhaling sharply through his nose.

It was hopeless.

He pressed his forehead against the open book in front of him, closing his eyes. He felt like an idiot for even hoping. A chair scraped against the stone floor and woke him from his thoughts.

Harry stiffened, instinctively reaching for his wand until a familiar voice broke the silence.

“You look terrible.”

Harry lifted his head slightly, already recognizing the dry, amused tone. Alphard Black. The other boy had leaned against the opposite side of the table, dark brows raised, his sharp gray eyes scanning Harry’s face. His usual smirk was absent.

Harry exhaled and straightened, shutting the book in front of him. “Thanks, Black,” he muttered. “Really needed to hear that.”

Alphard huffed out a small laugh before glancing at the books scattered across the table. “What are you even researching?”

Harry hesitated. “Nothing important.”

Alphard gave him a look but didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back, studying Harry. “I figured I’d find you here,” he said casually. “After last night, you probably wanted to avoid everyone.”

Harry tensed, thinking that Black somehow found out the Harry was the one that stole the time turner. Calm down, he reassured himself, There's no way he knows.

Alphard smirked knowingly. “You certainly put on a show.”

Harry shot him a warning glare. “If you came here just to talk about that--”

“Relax,” Alphard said, waving a hand. “I’m not here to tease you. …Well, not much.” His expression softened slightly. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Again. For everything. I promise I’m not here to ambush you. Plus, it seems like you might hate Riddle more than me now, right?”

Harry studied him for a moment, then sighed. “Yeah. Well. It’s not like I expected any better from him.”

Alphard tilted his head, considering Harry. “You really don’t like him, do you?”

Harry scoffed. “What gave it away?”

Alphard chuckled, but then his gaze flickered back to the books. His amusement faded, replaced by something more thoughtful. “You’re moping again. You got that look on you that you always have.”

Harry stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Alphard gave him a knowing look. “Oh, please. You disappeared the moment Tom started playing teacher, and now you look like you might throw up at any second.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“Nothing happened,” he said flatly. “He showed me a spell. It was too dark for me. That’s it.”

Alphard raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You didn’t seem to mind it much at the time.”

Heat crept up the back of Harry’s neck.

Because you let him touch you. Because you let him guide you. Because you liked the power—

He shoved the thought away.

Alphard was still watching him, his smirk shifting into something more genuine. “I saw how he looked at you.”

Harry swallowed. “What?”

Alphard shrugged. “You’ve just captured his interest. More than I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

Harry blinked. “That’s ridiculous.”

Alphard scoffed. “Oh, don’t be so thick.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?” Alphard asked, voice softer now. “So...you don’t like him, then?”

Harry hesitated.

He shouldn’t. That was the obvious answer. That was the only answer. Tom Riddle was a murderer in the making. He was dangerous. He was everything Harry had spent his entire life fighting against.
And yet—

“I don’t know what to feel about him,” Harry admitted before he could stop himself.

Alphard leaned back slightly, looking thoughtful.

“He’s…not what I expected,” Harry continued hesitantly. “But I know what he’ll become. And I know he’s already dangerous.” He exhaled sharply. “I don’t want to be anywhere near him.”

“But?” Alphard prompted.

Harry exhaled through his nose. “But I keep ending up near him anyway.”

Alphard was quiet for a moment before shaking his head. “Well, you’re doomed, then.”

Harry hesitated. Then, carefully he switched the subject and asked, “What do you know about the Grindelwald stuff?”

Alphard blinked at the sudden topic shift. “Grindelwald?”

Harry nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “Yeah. Everyone’s on edge about him, right?”

Alphard frowned slightly. “Well, yeah. Of course. He’s at war with Europe. Britain’s just been lucky so far.” He studied Harry more closely. “Why do you care?”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

He couldn’t exactly say, Oh, because I accidentally kinda on purpose stole a time-turner and now the Ministry thinks Grindelwald’s behind it.

Before he could scramble for an excuse, Alphard’s expression shifted. Realization dawned in his gray eyes.

“…Oh,” Alphard murmured. “Right.”

Harry forced himself to stay still, watching as Alphard leaned back in his chair, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

“I forgot,” Alphard admitted. “You said your parents were killed by him, didn’t you?”

Harry’s breath caught, but he nodded. “Yeah.”

Alphard exhaled. “Damn. No wonder you look so rattled.”

Harry didn’t correct him.

After a moment, Alphard sighed. “Well, there’s not much to say. Grindelwald’s been at this for years. He’s got Europe in his pocket. He wants wizardkind to rule over Muggles, claims it’s for ‘the greater good,’ but,” He shrugged. “It’s a war. People are dying.”

Harry swallowed. “Why hasn’t anyone stopped him?”

Alphard gave him a look. “They’re trying. But no one’s powerful enough to take him down.”

Harry frowned, remembering that Dumbledore was the one to stop him, but that didn’t happen until 1945. Curious, Harry said, “Dumbledore could.”

At that, Alphard’s gaze darkened slightly. “Everyone’s waiting for Dumbledore to do it. People say he’s the only one who can.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Then why hasn’t he?”

Alphard scoffed. “That’s the question of the century, isn’t it? If I were that powerful, I’d end it. If you can stop something like that, why wouldn’t you?”

Harry didn’t respond.

Because something had clicked.

A new thought.

A new possibility.

Dumbledore refused to act. He hesitated. He waited.

Harry wasn’t Dumbledore.

He wasn’t afraid to do what had to be done.

If he couldn’t go home, if he was trapped in this time...

Then why not fix it?

Why not stop Voldemort before he ever starts?

Harry exhaled slowly, heart pounding.

If he couldn’t go back to his future, maybe he could change this one for the better.

He could kill Tom Riddle.

“You’re right,” Harry murmured, “Thanks, Black.”

“You can call me Alphard.” He smiled.

“And you can call me Harry.”

...

The next day, Harry and Alphard were lingering around the courtyard between classes, an easy camaraderie settling between them. Over the last twenty-four hours, Harry had grown to actually like Alphard. He was sharp, sarcastic, and most importantly, he didn’t push when Harry wasn’t ready to talk.

Riddle, on the other hand, had kept his word. He hadn't spoken to Harry once since the meeting. Hadn’t tried to corner him. Hadn’t even looked at him. It was as though he had simply erased Harry’s presence from his mind. And weirdly enough, Harry hated it.

He told himself it was a good thing. That Riddle staying away made it easier to plot against him, to work out how to kill him without interference. But deep down, something hot and frustrated curled in his chest every time Riddle walked past him without a glance.

Alphard had caught him staring at Riddle at least three times by the time lunch rolled around.

“You sure you don’t want him talking to you?” Alphard asked dryly, leaning lazily on the table. “Because you’re looking at him like a scorned lover.”

Harry scowled and stabbed his fork into his potatoes. “I’m not looking at him.”

Alphard raised a brow. “Right. And I’m a Hufflepuff. Anyways, any plans for the Yule ball? I was thinking…”

They talked mindlessly for a bit. Harry tried to be focused on his food, cold and untouched. His mind was too busy planning.

He needed to watch Riddle. Learn his habits, his routines. Figure out the when and where of how to strike. Half of him wanted to know his movements so he could kill him. The other half… just wanted to be near him.

So Harry started following him.

Not obviously, of course. He had practice in moving unnoticed. He timed his exits from classrooms so that he could watch where Riddle went, noted which corridors he favored, who he spoke to, which professors he charmed and which ones he merely tolerated.

It wasn’t difficult. Riddle was predictable in his perfection. He was always in control, always two steps ahead of everyone. And yet… there were moments where Harry swore Riddle could feel him watching. Moments where Riddle would pause just a second too long before turning a corner, or glance back as though expecting to catch someone in the act. But Harry was always faster.

Then, one night, he saw him slipping into the girls’ bathroom, the one where Myrtle had died.

Harry’s stomach lurched. Was it happening now? Was he about to open the Chamber?

Harry didn’t stop to think. He darted after him, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

Riddle whirled around, wand already in hand, his sharp features caught between surprise and irritation. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the air between them heavy with tension.

“I thought you wanted me to leave you alone,” Riddle said smoothly, lowering his wand but not putting it away. His dark eyes gleamed with something unreadable.

Harry’s breath came fast. “I do.”

“Do you?” Riddle tilted his head, lips curling slightly. “Because you’ve been staring at me for quite some time now. Ever since you came to our meeting.”

Heat flared in Harry’s chest, a mix of anger and something else he refused to name. “You’re imagining things.”

Riddle let out a quiet hum, considering him. “Am I?”

Harry forced his expression into something neutral. “What are you doing in the girls bathroom you creep?”

Riddle’s gaze sharpened. “What are you doing in here with me?”

They stood off, each unwilling to be the first to answer, the silence between them thick and charged.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them backed down.

And Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted to fight him or do something else entirely.

Riddle’s dark eyes glinted with interest as he took a slow step forward, his wand twirling between his fingers. “You’re in quite the habit of following me, Evans.” His voice was silk-soft, each syllable measured, coaxing.

Harry’s grip on his wand tightened. “And yet you don’t seem surprised to see me here.”

Riddle hummed in amusement. “Should I be? You do seem obsessed with me.”

Harry scoffed, but Riddle tilted his head, studying him like a puzzle to be solved. The bathroom was silent save for the soft dripping of water from a rusted faucet, and Harry’s heart pounded against his ribs. He needed to be careful. Riddle had already opened the Chamber of Secrets, Harry was sure of it. But how could he say so without giving himself away?

Instead, he folded his arms. “Funny, I was going to say the same thing. You’ve been watching me since I got here.”

Riddle’s lips curved, slow and deliberate. “Well, I do like to keep my enemies close.”

“Enemies?” Harry echoed. “So, that’s what I am to you?”

Riddle didn’t answer right away. He took another step, close enough now that Harry could feel the air shift between them. “That depends, Evans.” His voice dipped lower. “Are you?”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. His instincts screamed at him to back away, to escape, but he held his ground.

Riddle exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “No matter. I have things to attend to, so if you’ll excuse me,”

Harry stepped in his path. “Going somewhere?”

Riddle arched a brow. “You’re in my way, Evans.”

Harry smirked. “I know.”

Riddle studied him for a long moment before exhaling. “You’re insufferable.”

Harry shrugged. “So I’ve been told.”

The amusement faded from Riddle’s face, replaced with something unreadable. “Move,” he said softly, warningly.

Harry didn’t.

And then...

“Legilimens.”

A sharp pain lanced through Harry’s skull as Riddle pushed into his mind without warning. It wasn’t like Snape’s blunt force intrusion, it was smooth, practiced, intricate. Harry staggered back, instinctively throwing up his rudimentary Occlumency defenses. The attack rebounded, pushing Riddle out. Riddle must still be too young and unpracticed, much to Harry’s luck.

Riddle’s eyes widened slightly before he schooled his expression, intrigue flickering in his gaze. “How very interesting,” he murmured, tilting his head.

Harry’s breath came sharp and uneven, his wand already raised. “Try that again, and you’ll regret it.”

Riddle smiled. “Crucio.”

Harry barely had time to react. He dove to the side, the curse grazing past his arm, burning like fire in its wake. He hit the tiled floor and rolled into a crouch, flicking his wand toward Riddle. “Expulso!”
The force of the blast shattered one of the bathroom sinks, sending debris flying. Riddle deflected it with a smooth flick of his wand, his expression sharpening into something hungry.

“Confringo.”

Harry barely raised a shield in time before the spell struck, the heat of the explosion warming his skin. He needed to end this fast.

He lashed out with a nonverbal Depulso, aiming to knock Riddle off his feet, but Riddle countered it midair with an elegant Protego, twisting his wand to redirect the force back at Harry. The impact sent Harry stumbling.

Riddle closed the distance between them in an instant.

Harry barely got another spell off before Riddle disarmed him, his wand sailing through the air. In the same breath, Riddle shoved him back against the cold stone wall, pinning his wand hand down. His grip was iron-strong, his body pressed close, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips.

Harry struggled, trying to free his arm, but Riddle only pressed in further, their faces mere inches apart.

“Still resisting?” Riddle murmured, his voice maddeningly soft. “You really are fascinating, Evans.”

Harry glared. “Let. Me. Go.”

Riddle ignored the demand. Instead, he leaned in, his breath warm against Harry’s ear. “You could be more,” he whispered.

Harry’s breath hitched.

Riddle pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “You have power, Evans. I felt it. When you cast that spell the other night, it was stronger than mine.” He let that sink in before his voice dropped to something more coaxing. “Join me.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “And do what? Follow you around like your little fan club?”

Riddle chuckled, low and dark. “You would be more than a follower.”

Harry’s pulse pounded in his throat.

“You’re already walking the line,” Riddle continued. “Why not step over it?”

Harry exhaled sharply, the weight of Riddle’s words pressing against him.

He needed to get close if he was going to kill him.

So he forced himself to relax in Riddle’s grip. He met Riddle’s gaze, cool and calculated.

The silence between them was heavy, charged with something neither of them was willing to name. Harry’s back was still against the cold stone wall, his wand helplessly out of his reach on the floor next to him. There was a pause, then Riddle thankfully stepped off just enough to give him room to breathe and Accio his wand--though not enough to escape.

“Then tell me, really, what are you doing in here?” Harry challenged, “I’ll consider joining if you tell me.”

Harry watched as Riddle’s gaze flickered toward the sinks, as if debating whether to say anything at all. Then, finally, he spoke.

“This is where it all began,” he said smoothly, his voice holding that same quiet arrogance as always.

Harry raised a brow, feigning ignorance. “What began?”

Riddle’s lips twitched, like he was amused by the act. He turned slightly, running his fingers idly along the edge of the nearest sink. “The Chamber of Secrets.”

Harry forced himself to react just enough to appear appropriately surprised but not overly so. A sharp inhale, a slight widening of his eyes. But it was too late.

Riddle’s smirk deepened.

“You already knew that, didn’t you?”

Harry froze for a fraction of a second, mind whirring as he scrambled for a response. “What are you talking about?”

Riddle let out a quiet laugh. “Don’t play dumb, Evans. You’ve been watching me for weeks. You followed me here. And when I mentioned the Chamber, you barely reacted. You weren’t even surprised.” He turned to face Harry fully, sharp eyes scanning his face. “How long have you known?”

Harry clenched his jaw, trying to come up with a believable excuse. “I-”

“I don’t believe for a second that you figured it out on your own,” Riddle cut in, stepping closer. His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. “So tell me, Evans. Who told you?”

Harry exhaled sharply, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Malfoy.”

Riddle hummed, unconvinced, "That's interesting, beacuse I never told anyone about this place, not even Malfoy. Cut the shit, Evans."

Harry cursed internally at his horrible attempt at lying. The room felt as if it was closing in and Harry could feel the weight of his stare, the way Riddle was analyzing every microexpression, every flicker of hesitation. And for once, Harry wasn’t sure he could lie his way out of it.

So he changed tactics.

“It’s not that hard to figure out,” he said finally, straightening. “All the clues are there. You’re a Parselmouth. Slytherin’s heir. You disappear into the castle at odd hours and no one ever seems to know where you go. You’re hiding something. And considering Slytherin himself built a secret chamber somewhere in the castle, it wasn’t exactly a stretch to put two and two together.”

Riddle studied him, the amusement in his expression fading into something colder. Calculating.

Harry knew he had to be careful. If he pushed too hard, Riddle might grow suspicious. But if he backed down now, Riddle would see right through him.

“And your ‘study group’? Clearly they are just your followers with whatever dark shit you have planned.” Harry added.

The silence between them stretched, thick with tension. Riddle’s grip was firm, his fingers digging into Harry’s wrist, pressing him against the cold stone wall. Harry’s breath was steady, but his mind raced. He had said too much.

Riddle’s eyes burned with something unreadable, but Harry could see the gears turning in his head. He was trying to fit this new piece of information into his carefully controlled world.

“How could you possibly know all of that?” Riddle repeated, voice dangerously quiet.

Harry knew he had to choose his words carefully. If he denied it outright, Riddle would know he was lying. But if he admitted too much, he’d be in even deeper trouble.

“I told you,” Harry said, keeping his voice even. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. The signs were there if you knew what to look for.”

Riddle’s grip didn’t loosen.

“And what exactly do you think I’m planning to do with the Chamber?”

Harry inhaled sharply. “You’re going to release the basilisk,” he said plainly. “You’re going to use it against Muggle-borns.”

There. He said it.

For a moment, Riddle said nothing. His face remained unreadable, but his fingers twitched slightly against Harry’s wrist.

Then, he let out a soft hum. “And?”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “And?”

Riddle tilted his head slightly, watching him. “You say that like it’s something horrific.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He had known, of course, what kind of person Riddle was—who he would become. But hearing him talk about murder like it was nothing, like it was simply a logical next step, made Harry’s skin crawl.

“How could you even think about taking a human life?” Harry asked, voice tight. “How can you justify something like that?”

Riddle finally let go of Harry’s wrist, only to step back and cross his arms, as if considering the question. “You say that as if it’s some great moral dilemma,” he said. “But it’s not. Not really.”
Harry clenched his fists. “Not really?”

Riddle sighed, as if Harry was the one being difficult. “You’re still thinking about this in childish terms. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Dark and light. The world doesn’t work that way, Evans.” His gaze sharpened. “People are obstacles. And sometimes, obstacles need to be removed.”

Harry felt his stomach churn. “They’re people, Tom. Not obstacles.”

Riddle’s lips curled into a smirk. “That’s where you and I differ.”

For a brief moment, Harry saw the future in him, the dark lord he would become, the monster that would slaughter without hesitation.

And in that moment, he knew he had to stop him.

But he couldn’t do it now. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. He had seen firsthand just how powerful Riddle was, how easily he had overpowered him in their duel. If Harry was going to kill him, he needed to get closer. He needed to learn Riddle’s weaknesses.

So he forced himself to exhale, to relax his stance. “You think I don’t understand?” Harry said, leveling Riddle with a look. “Maybe I do.”

Riddle’s expression shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Do you?”

Harry hesitated for only a second before nodding. “I want to join you.”

This time, Riddle actually laughed. “Do you?” he echoed mockingly. “Just like that?”

Harry swallowed, forcing himself to meet Riddle’s gaze without faltering. “You wanted me to come to your little meeting. I did. You wanted me to hear your side of things. I did. And now I want to know more.”

Riddle’s smirk lingered as he studied him, trying to pick apart his motives. “You’re lying about something,” he murmured. “I don’t know what yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

Harry’s stomach twisted, but he kept his expression neutral.

After another long moment, Riddle nodded. “Fine. You want in? You’re in. Congrats.”

Harry exhaled slowly. He had done it. He had a way to be close. Now, he just had to find the right moment to strike.

Riddle turned on his heel, and without another word, he strode out of the bathroom. Harry followed, his mind a storm of thoughts.

They made their way back to the Slytherin common room in silence. Most of the students had gone to bed, leaving the fire burning low and the room empty.
Harry turned to head toward the dorms, but Riddle caught his sleeve. “Come sit.”

Harry hesitated. “Why?”

Riddle rolled his eyes. “Because I’m asking you to. And I’d think you’d want to get to know your new… allies.”

Harry wanted to say no. He wanted to escape to his bed, to be alone with his thoughts, to process what he had just done.

But he couldn’t.

So instead, he nodded and followed Riddle to the couch by the fire.

They sat in silence for a while, the flames casting flickering shadows across the stone walls.

Then, Riddle spoke. “Tell me something about yourself.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Riddle turned slightly, watching him with an unreadable expression. “You know a great deal about me, it seems. But I know very little about you. So tell me something.”

Harry hesitated, then shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

Riddle hummed, considering. “Where did you grow up?”

Harry tensed for a fraction of a second before answering. “Nowhere interesting.”

Riddle shot him a flat look. “That’s a terrible answer.”

Harry let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, well. I didn’t exactly have an interesting childhood.”

Riddle’s eyes gleamed with something Harry couldn’t quite place. “I find that hard to believe.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “What about you?” he asked, turning the question back on him. “You grew up in an orphanage, right?”

Riddle’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze. “I did.”

Harry nodded, waiting for Riddle to elaborate, but he didn’t.

Instead, Riddle’s sharp eyes flicked to him again. “How did you know that?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“That I grew up in an orphanage,” Riddle said smoothly. “I don’t make a habit of telling people that.”

Harry forced himself not to tense. He’d slipped up again. He had to be more careful.

“I heard it somewhere,” he lied easily. “Someone mentioned it.”

Riddle’s head tilted ever so slightly. “Who?”

Harry shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t remember.”

Riddle hummed, tapping his fingers against the armrest of the couch. He didn’t believe him. But he let it go...for now.

“Not many people know,” Riddle said, voice even. “Most assume I come from a wealthy bloodline, a respectable family.” He smirked. “It’s always amusing to watch their reactions when they realize they’ve been looking down on someone they should’ve been bowing to.”

Harry didn’t doubt that. “Do you hate it?” he asked. “The orphanage?”

Riddle’s smirk didn’t waver, but there was something bitter in his eyes. “I wouldn’t say hate. But I never belonged there. It was a place for the weak, the forgotten.”

Harry frowned. “That’s not their fault.”

Riddle scoffed. “Isn’t it?”

Harry exhaled, leaning back against the couch. “You talk about people like they’re either useful or useless,” he said. “Like they don’t have any value beyond what they can offer you.”

Riddle arched a brow. “And you disagree?”

“Obviously,” Harry said flatly. “People matter. Even if they don’t have power or status or anything to offer.”

Riddle’s lips curled in amusement. “A noble perspective.”

“It’s not noble,” Harry said. “It’s just human.”

Riddle gave him a long, assessing look before shifting in his seat, adjusting his posture like he was settling in for a conversation he wasn’t expecting to have.

“And what about you, Evans?” he asked. “Where did you grow up?”

Harry hesitated, but he had already made this choice. He was getting closer to Riddle, playing the long game. That meant giving him something real. Something that would make Riddle think he was being let in.

So, he took a breath and said, “With my aunt and uncle.”

Riddle’s brows lifted slightly. “Not your parents?”

Harry shook his head. “They died when I was a baby.”

There was a flicker of recognition in Riddle’s eyes. He remembered the lie Harry had toldth, e one about Grindelwald.

“I see,” Riddle said slowly. “And what were they like? Your aunt and uncle?”

Harry huffed a humorless laugh. “Awful.”

Riddle smirked. “Do tell.”

Harry hesitated, glancing at the fire. He had never talked about this, not really. It wasn’t something he ever wanted to give weight to.

“They didn’t want me,” he admitted. “They only took me in because they had to. And they made sure I knew it.”

Riddle’s expression didn’t change, but there was something intent in the way he listened. “Go on.”

Harry exhaled. “I lived in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven.”

That got a reaction. It was subtle, just the slightest flicker of something in Riddle’s expression, gone in a second.

“A cupboard?” Riddle repeated, his voice deceptively light.

Harry nodded. “It was small. Dark. Not much room to move. But it was mine, I guess.”

Riddle studied him for a long moment. “And you stayed?”

“Not like I had much of a choice,” Harry muttered.

Riddle hummed, tilting his head. “You did, though.”

Harry frowned. “What?”

Riddle’s lips curled. “You could’ve run.”

Harry blinked.

Riddle leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp. “You could’ve fought back. You could’ve left. But you didn’t.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “I was a kid.”

Riddle made a thoughtful noise. “I was a child, too,” he said. “But I didn’t let anyone control me.”

Harry scoffed. “Yeah? And how’d you manage that?”

Riddle’s smirk widened, something dark glinting in his eyes. “Let’s just say… people only have power over you if you let them.”

Harry shivered. He didn’t have to guess what Riddle meant by that.

“You think strength is all that matters,” Harry said.

“It is,” Riddle said simply. “Weakness invites exploitation. Power ensures control.”

Harry exhaled. “And you want control over everything, don’t you?”

Riddle didn’t answer immediately. He just watched Harry, as if trying to decide how much to reveal.

Then, he said, “Control is stability. Order. If you don’t control the world around you, someone else will.”

Harry frowned. “Is that why you-” He stopped himself.

Riddle’s gaze sharpened. “Why I what?”

Harry hesitated, then said, “Why you hate your parents.”

The air in the room shifted. The amusement on Riddle’s face didn’t fade completely, but something cold settled in his expression.

“My mother was weak,” Riddle said. “She died, leaving me in that place. And my father…” His fingers curled slightly against the armrest. “My father abandoned me before I was even born.”
Harry swallowed. He could hear the malice in Riddle’s voice, the resentment woven into every word.

“I see,” Harry murmured.

Riddle’s eyes flicked to him again. “And you? Do you hate your relatives?”

Harry exhaled. “No,” he said honestly. “I don’t think I ever did.”

Riddle’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why not?”

Harry considered that, and shrugged. He couldn't truly think of an answer now.

Riddle hummed, watching him closely. “Interesting.”

They lapsed into silence again, the fire crackling softly beside them.

The common room was quiet, the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. Most of the students had gone to bed, leaving only the two of them.
Harry had expected Riddle to leave after their tense conversation in the bathroom, after forcing him to acknowledge what he already knew about the Chamber of Secrets. But instead, Riddle had lingered, inviting him to sit. Now, they were talking, really talking, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened.

“I still don’t understand,” Riddle said, his voice calm, but persistent. “You lived in a cupboard, treated like you were nothing, and yet you don’t hate them?”

Harry exhaled, shifting in his seat. “I didn’t say I don’t resent them.”

Riddle tilted his head slightly. “But you don’t hate them.”

Harry hesitated. “No.”

“Why not?”

Harry finally thought of an answer, “Why waste my time and energy hating them? The best thing I can do is move on. I’d be letting them control me if I was hating them all the time.”

Riddle hummed, his expression unreadable. “Control,” he echoed. “Seems like we both care quite a lot about it.”

Harry frowned. “Not in the same way.”

Riddle smirked, but let the comment pass. “So, you grew up in a house full of Muggles, mistreated, neglected, and yet," He studied Harry closely. “You’re powerful. Why?”

Harry shrugged, feigning indifference. “Guess I got lucky.”

Riddle didn’t look convinced. “Luck doesn’t breed power.” His gaze flickered, thoughtful. “You weren’t trained in magic, were you?”

Harry hesitated before shaking his head and conjuring a lie, “...Not until I was 11. I ran away and my godfather taught me everything.”

Riddle’s brow furrowed slightly. “So you knew nothing about it until your godfather?”

Harry exhaled. “...Yeah.”

Riddle leaned forward slightly, intrigued. “And yet, you’re skilled, more than skilled. You matched me in that duel.”

Harry scoffed. “You make it sound like I won.”

Riddle smirked. “No, but you held your own.” He paused, studying Harry like he was a particularly interesting puzzle. “What was it like?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Growing up without magic,” Riddle said. “Knowing you were different but not understanding why.”

Harry hesitated. He had never really thought about it like that. “It was… frustrating, I guess.”

Riddle arched a brow. “Go on.”

Harry sighed, leaning back against the couch. “Weird things happened around me, but I never knew why. I made glass disappear at a zoo once. Made my cousin’s hair turn blue. I got in trouble every time something strange happened, but I couldn’t explain it.”

Riddle’s lips curled slightly. “And when you finally learned what you were?”

Harry exhaled. “It was like my whole life made sense.”

Riddle hummed. “And yet, they still tried to control you.”

Harry nodded. “They hated magic. Pretended it didn’t exist.”

Riddle’s expression darkened slightly. “Muggles despise what they don’t understand.”

Harry frowned. “Not all of them.”

Riddle gave him a knowing look. “But the ones who raised you did.”

Harry hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”

Riddle leaned back, considering him. “They were afraid of you.”

Harry let out a breath of laughter. “Yeah, actually. Once they realized I wasn’t normal.”

Riddle smirked. “Then they were right to be afraid.”

Harry’s stomach twisted at the way Riddle said it, like fear was power.

“They weren’t good people,” Harry admitted. “But I never wanted them to be afraid of me.”

Riddle scoffed. “Why not?”

Harry frowned. “Because fear isn’t the same as respect.”

Riddle hummed. “Perhaps not. But it’s useful.”

Harry exhaled. “Maybe for you.”

Riddle smirked. “Everyone fears something, Evans. Even you.”

Harry’s jaw tensed. “Yeah?” He met Riddle’s gaze. “And what do you fear?”

Something flickered in Riddle’s expression, but it was gone before Harry could place it.

“Nothing,” Riddle said smoothly.

Harry let out a quiet laugh. “I don’t believe that. I remember your boggart.”

Riddle’s lips curled. “Well, then you’ll also remember how easily I vanished it. Unlike yours.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the fire crackling between them. Harry’s eyes drifted to Tom without meaning to, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the smooth slope of his nose, the way the flickering flames caught in his dark eyes and made them glint almost gold. Every detail seemed impossibly precise, from the slight arch of his brows to the way his lips curved, subtle and controlled. He looked… handsome. Harry’s stomach tightened as he realized he had been staring, memorizing every feature as though he could somehow store it for later. Tom’s head turned slowly, and in an instant their gazes locked. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the intensity in his expression.

Then Riddle spoke again, quieter this time. “I learned about my magic in the orphanage.”

Harry glanced at him. “Yeah?”

Riddle nodded, his expression unreadable. “I made things happen. Things I couldn’t explain. But unlike you, I didn’t get punished.”

Harry frowned. “They didn’t notice?”

Riddle smirked. “Oh, they noticed. But they were too afraid to punish me.”

A chill ran down Harry’s spine. “What did you do?”

Riddle exhaled, like he was remembering something distant. “Just small things, at first. Made objects move. Made animals listen to me. But then…” He trailed off, tilting his head. “I realized I could hurt people who deserved it.”

Harry swallowed. “And you don’t regret it?”

Riddle’s gaze flicked to him, sharp. “Why would I?”

Harry hesitated. “Because they were people.”

“And?”

Harry exhaled. “Because life matters.”

Riddle chuckled, amused. “Does it?”

“Yes,” Harry said firmly.

Riddle studied him for a long moment. “You truly believe that, don’t you?”

Harry met his gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

They lapsed into silence again, the firelight flickering between them.

For the first time, Harry didn’t feel like he was speaking to an enemy. He was speaking to Tom, a boy who had never known family, who had learned power before he learned kindness.
And for a terrifying moment, Harry wondered if—under different circumstances—things could have been different.

But then Riddle smirked again, sharp and knowing, and the thought vanished.

“I…should sleep,” Harry mumbled.

“You could.” Riddle shrugged, giving Harry a half lidded stare, smiling.

Neither of them moved.

The fire crackled in the hearth, its glow casting shadows along the dark stone walls of the Slytherin common room. The warmth made Harry drowsy, but he didn’t want to leave just yet. Riddle was still watching him, thoughtful and searching, like he was unraveling a particularly difficult puzzle.

Then, quite suddenly, Riddle asked, “Are you a Seer?”

Harry blinked, jolted out of his tired haze. “What?”

“It’s the only logical explanation,” Riddle said smoothly. “You know things you shouldn’t. You knew about the Chamber of Secrets before I told you. You knew I grew up in an orphanage. You didn’t trust me before we even met.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You see things, don’t you?”

Harry hesitated. The last thing he wanted was for Riddle to know the truth. But this? This could be useful.

He forced a slow, careful nod. “Yes.”

Riddle’s lips curled, pleased. “Interesting.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, the fire flickering. Then Riddle leaned forward slightly. “And what do you see for me, Evans?”

Harry exhaled, choosing his words carefully. “You’re going to be powerful.”

Riddle smirked, unsurprised. “Of course.”

Harry’s fingers curled against the fabric of his robes. “But… you’re going to be a Dark wizard.”

Riddle let out a quiet chuckle, like he found the idea amusing rather than alarming. “Am I?”

Harry met his gaze. “Yeah.”

Riddle leaned back, considering this. “And you see this as a bad thing.”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I do.”

Riddle’s smirk lingered, but there was something thoughtful beneath it. “Why?”

Harry exhaled. “Because power without restraint leads to destruction.”

Riddle arched a brow. “And what would you have me do? Squander my potential?”

Harry shook his head. “No. But you don’t have to...” He cut himself off, realizing how close he was to saying something he shouldn’t.

Riddle’s gaze sharpened. “I don’t have to what, Evans?”

Harry swallowed. “You don’t have to hurt people.”

Riddle chuckled again, softer this time. “You and your fixation on life.”

Harry frowned. “Shouldn’t everyone be?”

Riddle studied him for a long moment before speaking. “You truly believe people have value.”

“Yes,” Harry said, unflinching.

Riddle hummed. “Even the weak?”

Harry exhaled. “Strength isn’t the only thing that matters.”

Riddle shook his head, amused. “You really are fascinating, Evans.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Glad I can entertain you.”

Riddle smirked. “You do.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh and leaned back into the couch, staring at the flickering flames. He had to be careful—Riddle was always watching, always analyzing—but he had an opportunity here. If he couldn’t kill him yet, maybe he could at least plant a seed.

“You know,” Harry said casually, “if you really wanted power, there are better ways than going full Dark Lord.”

Riddle turned his head slightly, intrigued. “Oh?”

Harry nodded. “You’re ambitious. Clever. The best student Hogwarts has seen in ages. If you played your cards right, you could have the entire wizarding world at your feet.” He glanced sideways at Riddle, gauging his reaction. “Ever thought about, I don’t know, getting a job in the Ministry?”

Riddle let out a quiet scoff, but there was amusement in his eyes. “A Ministry job?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugged. “Climbing the ranks, making real changes from within. You wouldn’t need to waste time scheming in the shadows.”

Riddle hummed, considering, then his voice turned sarcastic. “You think I should join the bureaucracy and waste my talents on…paperwork. Genius. Why haven’t I thought of that?”

Harry smirked. “If you became Minister of Magic, you could do whatever you wanted. Hell, people would thank you for it.”

Riddle exhaled a soft laugh. “And where would you be in this grand vision of yours, Evans?”

Harry stretched out his legs. “Dunno. Probably keeping an eye on you. Someone has to make sure you don’t let the power go to your head.”

Riddle smirked. “Ah, so you’d be my personal watchdog.”

“Someone has to keep you in line.”

Riddle studied him, his gaze sharp and unreadable. Then, after a beat, he said, “Well, if I ever become Minister of Magic, I’ll make sure you have a position.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Riddle’s lips curled into something amused—dangerous, but amused. “How do you feel about cleaning the loo?”

Harry snorted. “Wow. I’m honoured, Riddle.”

Riddle laughed softly, and Harry was caught off guard by how genuine it sounded. It wasn’t his usual calculated fake amusement, there was something real in it.

Harry shook his head. “Seriously, though. You don’t need to do the whole dark wizard thing.”

Riddle’s gaze flickered, and for a brief moment, Harry thought he saw something. Hesitation? Thoughtfulness? It was gone in an instant.

“It’s cute that you think that.”

Harry frowned. “I’m serious.”

Riddle just smirked again, tilting his head back. “And if I did follow your little plan? If I did take the Ministry route, would you stand at my side, Evans?”

Harry hesitated for only a second before smirking. “Depends. Would I still be your janitor?”

Riddle chuckled. “Naturally.”

Harry shook his head, but he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

Riddle’s gaze flickered with something unreadable. “And you’re entertaining.”

They lapsed into silence again, but this time, it was less tense. It wasn’t like the stand-off in the bathroom, where every word had been a test of willpower. Now, they were simply talking.

And, to Harry’s horror, it was… easy.

The fire was warm, and the common room was quiet, and for the first time in weeks, Harry wasn’t thinking about how impossible his situation was. He wasn’t thinking about how he was trapped in 1943, how he had no way back home, how he had made the reckless decision to get close to Tom Riddle just so he could kill him.

Right now, he was just sitting beside another boy, talking about the world and its philosophies.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, the exhaustion finally caught up to him.

His eyelids grew heavy, and before he could stop himself, he leaned slightly to the side resting his head against something firm and warm.

Riddle’s shoulder.

He barely registered the way Riddle tensed for a moment before relaxing.

Then, silence.

And finally, darkness.

When Harry woke up the next morning, the fire had long since burned to embers.

The common room was empty.

And Tom Riddle was gone.

Chapter Text

The castle had settled into the quiet that came with the approach of Christmas, the halls a little cheerier everyday as students prepared for the holidays. Snow clung to the windowsills, and garlands hung from the stone archways, giving Hogwarts a warmth that belied the sharp chill in the air.

Harry barely noticed.

His mind was elsewhere, on Tom Riddle.

He had known Riddle would stay behind over the break. Of course, he would. The orphanage he came from wasn’t exactly welcoming, and Hogwarts was where he thrived. And Harry? He had no family to go back to either. That worked in his favor.

Because the castle would be emptier. Quieter. Fewer people to get in the way. If there was ever a time to kill Tom Riddle, it was now.

And yet, every day that passed, he found himself hesitating.

It wasn’t just because he hadn’t figured out how to do it yet (which was a problem in itself…). It was because somehow, against all reason, he was starting to like him. Not Voldemort. Not the monster. But this version of him, the arrogant, sharp-tongued, infuriatingly brilliant boy who debated spell theory over breakfast, who made biting jokes that were just shy of cruel, who saw magic not as a tool but as something meant to be unraveled and reshaped at his whim.

Harry hated that he liked him.

He hated how easy it was to slip into conversation with Riddle, how natural it felt to sit with him and Alphard at meals, to spend his days walking beside them between classes. He reminded himself over and over that this was Voldemort. The man who killed his parents. Who left the world in ruins.

But Riddle hadn’t killed anyone yet.

And that made it so much harder to see them as the same person.

Sitting at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall still felt strange, though.

He had spent the first few days keeping mostly to Alphard, but by now, it was routine. He kept the time turner in his pocket as well, realizing that his trunk may not be as secure as he would hope it could be.

Riddle was there, always at the center of their group, and the others had accepted Harry’s presence(most of them, anyway).

Malfoy and Lestrange were less accommodating.

Harry caught the sneer just before Malfoy muttered, “Riddle must be losing his mind if he’s letting you sit with us.”

Harry didn’t even look up from his uneaten toast. “Say that a little louder, Malfoy. Maybe he’ll hear you.”

Lestrange chuckled beside him. “He’s right, you know. You don’t belong here.”

Harry didn’t bother replying. He had nothing to prove to them.

Riddle had already made his decision.

Alphard whispered to Harry, “Don’t listen to them.”

Harry nodded.

Everything seemed fine until their next unofficial death eater (Or rather, knights of walpurgis. Same thing, to Harry) meeting. The second one Harry will have ever attended.

The atmosphere in the abandoned classroom was different this time.

The first meeting Harry had attended had been an observation, he’d stood at the edge of the room, watching as Riddle led his followers through spells and discussions, shaping them into something sharper, more dangerous. But this time, Riddle didn’t let him remain a spectator.

Harry had tried, taking his place near the back, arms crossed as if he were content to simply watch again. But Riddle’s voice had cut through the murmuring conversation like a blade.

“Evans.”

Harry stiffened.

Riddle’s dark eyes found him through the dim candlelight, something expectant in his expression.

“You’re a part of this now,” he said smoothly. “That means you participate.”

Harry hesitated for only a fraction of a second before forcing himself forward, reminding himself why he was doing this. He had joined to get close. To kill Riddle before he became Voldemort. That was the only reason he was here.

He took his place beside Alphard, his pulse steady but his stomach twisting as Riddle turned back to the rest of the group.

“Tonight,” Riddle said, his voice controlled but brimming with anticipation, “we begin learning the Imperius Curse.”

Harry went cold.

It wasn’t unexpected, not really. He had known they would be practicing darker spells at some point, but this was something else entirely.

The others barely reacted. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. They were eager. Excited.

Riddle continued, pacing as he spoke. “The Imperius Curse is a test of both will and control. Some wizards-” his gaze flickered over the group, as if assessing them “can resist it, if they are strong enough. And those who can cast it successfully? They hold power unlike any other.”

His lips curled into something almost like a smile. “Let’s see which of you are weak.”

A ripple of anticipation went through the group.

Pairs were formed quickly, students turning to face each other as they prepared to attempt the spell. Harry clenched his wand tightly, unwilling to move, until Malfoy took a step toward him.

“I’ll go first,” Malfoy said, smirking.

Harry barely had time to brace himself before Malfoy flicked his wand.

“Imperio.”
The spell hit him like a wave, warm, weightless, coaxing him into compliance. For a split second, he understood why people gave in to it. It wasn’t a battle of force, not at first. It was persuasion. A whisper in his mind telling him that it would be easier to obey, to let go.

But Harry had been under the curse before. He had fought it before.

His mind snapped into focus, throwing the command off before it could fully take hold. The weight lifted immediately, and Malfoy’s smirk faltered.

Riddle’s eyes gleamed with interest.

“Well done,” he said, sounding genuinely pleased.

Malfoy scowled. “Beginner’s luck.”

Harry, still steadying himself, clenched his jaw and lifted his wand.

“My turn.”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Imperio.”

Malfoy barely had time to react before his expression went slack, his body relaxing as if every worry had melted away. Harry could feel the control settle in his grasp, like invisible strings tied to Malfoy’s limbs. It was unsettling, how easy it was to pull.

“Bow,” Harry said, testing the command. To death, his mind supplied, reminding him of the graveyard.

Malfoy did.

A murmur of approval swept through the group. Even Alphard looked vaguely impressed.

Riddle watched with an unreadable expression.

The spell broke a moment later, and Malfoy stumbled, his face twisting with rage. “You-”

“Enough,” Riddle said smoothly, stepping between them before Malfoy could retaliate. “We’re learning, not fighting.”

Malfoy gritted his teeth but backed down, though his glare at Harry promised that this wasn’t over. Harry ignored him.

The rest of the lesson continued with more practice, some struggling, some succeeding. Riddle gave pointers, correcting wand movements and intonation, his presence commanding the room without effort.

And then, the lesson was over, and the real meeting began.

Everyone moved to sit, forming a loose circle as Riddle stood at the center.

“Before you all leave for the holidays,” Riddle began, “there are plans to discuss.”

The air shifted.

Harry’s fingers curled around his wand.

“I’ve waited long enough,” Riddle continued, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of something sharp. “After the break, the Chamber will be opened again.”

Harry’s breath hitched.

“The basilisk will be released,” Riddle said, voice smooth, deliberate. “And this time, someone will die.”

Panic flooded Harry’s chest, sharp and immediate.

He had known this was coming. He had known that this was inevitable. But hearing it, hearing Riddle say it so easily, so assuredly, made something twist violently inside him. He couldn’t let this happen.

“Why wait?” Harry asked, forcing his voice steady. “If you’re going to do it, why not now?”

Riddle’s gaze flicked to him, intrigued. “Because I’m patient. And because the chaos of a murder at the start of term will have far greater impact than during the quiet of the holidays.”

Harry’s mind raced. He had to dissuade him. Make him think it was a bad idea.

“A death will bring more attention,” Harry pointed out. “Hogwarts will be crawling with Aurors. They’ll investigate, they’ll start questioning people-”

Riddle’s lips curled. “You sound concerned, Evans.”

Harry forced a smirk. “I just think subtlety is a better tactic.”

Riddle hummed, considering, but there was no real doubt in his posture. He had made up his mind.

Harry clenched his fists. He would have to act before then. Before Riddle could follow through.

The meeting shifted again, the conversation turning to the holidays and the upcoming Yule ball.

“Who are you asking to the ball, Abraxas?” Lestrange asked. “My sister is making me go with her.”

“Perhaps Walburga.” Malfoy shrugged, “Alphard, I assume you will ask your cousin?”

Harry tried to keep his head from snapping back in shock. He forgot how common inbreeding was during these times. But as he looked at Alphard, he found their eyes meet; Alphard had already been looking at Harry.

Alphard looked away in embarrassment. “Uh, yeah. I guess I have to. Druella has been mentioning it these past few weeks.”

“At least you have someone to go with,” Nott sighed, “I asked Andromeda and she laughed in my face. Can you believe it?”

“How about you, Harry?” Alphard asked, “Anyone catch your eye?”

Harry felt his cheeks turn red at the sudden attention. “Um. Not really. I actually forgot all about the Yule ball. I don’t think I will go.”

“Nonsense!” Nott said, “I know we aren’t the best of mates but you can come with me, Evans. You shouldn’t skip your first ball.”

“I don’t really dance.” Harry mumbled. It wasn’t as if he hated these events. It was just that he wanted to go with Ron and Hermione. And he couldn’t.

“I can teach you, if you’d like,” Alphard offered.

Riddle chimed in. “You have two left feet, Black. Evans, I’ll teach you.”

The room fell quiet for a solid few seconds. Heads turned to stare at Riddle’s suggestion, including Harry, who quickly replied, “It’s okay. I’m good.”

“Nonsense!” Lestrange gasped and whispered, “You can’t just turn down lessons from Tom Riddle! I’ve asked him a million times and he’s never given me the time of day.”

“Yeah,” Alphard looked discouraged, “Riddle is much better at dancing than me. You should agree, Harry.”

“I’m not going, so it doesn’t matter. Besides, why not teach whatever girl you’re going with, Riddle?”

“Riddle has never gone with a girl before.” Malfoy said.

“You don’t have to talk as if I’m not here,” Riddle glared, “But yes. He’s right.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “What? Why?”

Riddle looked intrigued, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Harry stumbled to find the right words, “You’re Tom Riddle. I’m sure every girl is lining up to be your date. How could you say no?”

“No girl has interested me.” Riddle shrugs, laughing at how shocked Harry was acting.

Harry raised an eyebrow at Riddle, still trying to process what he had just heard. It didn't make sense. Tom Riddle, a charismatic, brilliant student, who could charm just about anyone and yet he had never taken a girl to the Yule Ball?

Riddle, sensing the confusion, seemed to find a bit of amusement in Harry’s reaction. His dark eyes glinted with something Harry couldn’t quite place, a mixture of confidence and something… else. Riddle looked almost like he was daring Harry to ask more, to dig deeper into his mysteriousness.

“Is that so surprising?” Riddle’s voice was smooth, with a hint of challenge.

Harry shook his head, though he was still caught up in the puzzle of Riddle’s words. "It’s just... unexpected. I would’ve thought you’d have your pick of anyone."

A flicker of something passed over Riddle's face, something hard to read, but it was gone before Harry could make sense of it. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the table.
“Maybe I don’t need anyone, Evans,” Riddle replied, his voice almost too casual, but his eyes narrowing slightly as if waiting for Harry’s response. "Besides, I don’t have time for a girl.”

The atmosphere shifted subtly, a tension building in the air that Harry couldn't ignore. He was aware of the others in the room, the half-interested gazes of the other students, the mutterings of "It’s Tom Riddle, after all" and "Why wouldn't anyone want him?" But Harry was focused on Riddle. That strange tension between them felt... different from everything else.

Alphard’s voice broke the silence. "Well, you’ve at least got the whole ‘mysterious, dark, brooding’ thing going for you, Tom. Not like the rest of us can compete with that."

Malfoy laughed, though it seemed somewhat forced. "I wouldn't mind the ‘dark and brooding’ part, honestly."

Riddle’s lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “I’m not interested in your affections, Abraxas.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Malfoy nearly shrieked in embarrassment.

Harry almost felt a sense of relief at the sudden shift in conversation, though his mind was still on Riddle’s earlier statement. Was he really saying that no one had ever caught his interest? Or was it just that he didn't care to play along with the usual social games?

Riddle turned back to Harry, his gaze more intense now, almost scrutinizing. "You’re not planning to spend your evening alone, are you, Evans?" His tone had softened, but there was an underlying sharpness to it that Harry couldn’t ignore.

Harry hesitated. "I-- I don’t know," he mumbled, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks again. He didn't quite know how to explain that he had a different life outside of this school, one that was too complicated to bring into a place like this.

“You should come,” Riddle said simply, the words carrying an unexpected weight. “It would be... better with you there.”

Harry’s heart skipped, though he quickly forced himself to look away. This was ridiculous. Riddle didn’t care if he went. He was just being his usual enigmatic self, toying with Harry for some amusement. And yet, despite all the skepticism in Harry's mind, there was a part of him that found himself drawn in, that couldn't quite shake the feeling that maybe there was something more beneath Riddle’s cold exterior.

Before Harry could respond, Lestrange spoke up again. “Come on, Evans. You’re not going to get a better offer than that. Not from anyone here.”

Harry swallowed, unsure of how to handle the sudden flood of attention. “I...I’ll think about it,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Riddle studied him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he finally broke eye contact, leaning back in his chair as though nothing had just happened. But Harry could feel the subtle shift between them--the faint line of curiosity that had just been drawn in the air.

"Do as you like, Evans," Riddle said, his tone cool, though there was an underlying edge to it. "But don't let opportunities pass you by."

The conversation moved on, but Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that things were far more complicated than he had initially thought.

It was tradition, apparently, for the Knights to exchange presents with Riddle before they all left for the break. One by one, they stepped forward, presenting carefully chosen gifts: rare books, enchanted artifacts, things that Riddle accepted with smooth words and measured glances.

Harry had nothing.

Lestrange noticed.

“No gift for our fearless leader, Evans?” Lestrange drawled, smirking. “Or did you think your presence was present enough?”

A few others chuckled. Harry kept his expression blank, refusing to rise to the bait.

Riddle’s expression was irritation; but not directed at Harry, strangely enough. Riddle stared daggers at Lestrange.

Harry exhaled slowly, then stood. “I should go, the meeting is pretty much over,” he said, voice even. “I have studying to do.”

“Evans-” Riddle stood.

He turned before anyone could respond, making his way to the door. Just as he reached it, he glanced back and met Riddle’s eyes.

Something flickered there, unreadable.

Harry turned away, leaving the room behind.

…
A few days had passed, and finally, it was the day before winter break. Unfortunately, it was also the day of the Yule Ball.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed in the Slytherin dormitory, his mind reminiscing when it was him and Ron getting ready in their robes back then. Trying to work out the complicated mess of bow ties and figuring out how to dance. He couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for the way things used to be, for the comfort of the routine and the easy camaraderie of his friends.

This world, this time, felt so distant, and though he was slowly adjusting, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of missing something or someone. He thought back to his old life, his time with Ron and Hermione, getting ready together, laughing at how out of place they all felt in formal robes. He could almost hear Hermione’s voice in his head, reminding him to enjoy it, and Ron’s banter, making light of the whole situation.

But it wasn’t like that now. He was here, alone, in a time where his friends were nothing but a distant memory. His stomach twisted as he wondered what they would be doing that night. It only made him feel more out of place.

The door creaked open, pulling Harry from his thoughts. Alphard Black stepped into the room, looking effortlessly polished in his robes. He flashed Harry a smile, his eyes warm, but there was something more in his expression. Harry had begun to notice it recently, the way Alphard seemed to linger a bit longer when they talked, the way his gaze held a bit of softness whenever it landed on Harry. It was subtle, but it was there.

“Harry,” Alphard said, his voice a little quieter than usual, “are you still planning on skipping the ball?”

Harry sighed, turning toward the window. “I’m not really sure. I’m not exactly in the mood for crowds, and I don’t know if it’s even worth going alone.”

Alphard hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, his gaze softening. “You don’t have to go alone,” he said, almost too gently. “If you’d like, you could come with me. I... well, I think it would be nice.”

Harry blinked, a little taken aback. Alphard had always been kind to him, but this was different. His words held a sincerity that Harry wasn’t sure how to handle. For a moment, he opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the door swung open, and there, standing in the doorway with his usual calm, composed demeanor, was none other than Tom Riddle.

His robes were impeccable, dark and sleek, moving with a grace that seemed almost unnatural. Harry couldn’t help but notice how well they fit, how Riddle seemed to glide into the room, his presence filling it with an undeniable intensity. Riddle’s sharp gaze swept over them both, briefly meeting Harry’s eyes before he turned to Alphard.

“I see you’re still trying to convince him, Alphard,” Riddle said, his voice smooth, almost mocking.

Alphard seemed deterred. “I was offering,” he said with a light shrug, his tone playful, but Harry could hear the undercurrent of hope in it.

Riddle’s gaze flicked back to Harry, his lips curling into that small, enigmatic smile. “Well, Harry,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “I offered once, but I’ll offer again. You should come to the ball. It would be a shame to miss it, especially after I’ve extended the invitation so kindly.”

Harry felt his chest tighten, and for a moment, he could only focus on Riddle. The way the dark robes hung on him, the way the faintest smile tugged at his lips, it was mesmerizing. Harry felt his thoughts begin to scatter, his heart racing as he tried to keep his composure. Riddle was standing there, watching him with those piercing eyes, and Harry couldn’t quite figure out what he was feeling. It was something between fascination and confusion, something that unsettled him.

But then, as he stood there, the memories of Ron and Hermione flooded back. He could almost hear Ron’s voice teasing him about not getting caught up in the charm of Hogwarts, and Hermione’s gentle, reassuring words about being true to himself. Harry closed his eyes for a brief moment, thinking back to the way things used to be, how it had been easier to face the world with his friends by his side. This night, this ball--it would be nothing like that. It would only remind him of how alone he was here.

He took a deep breath and finally looked up at Riddle, trying to steady his nerves. “I... I don’t think I’m going to go,” Harry said quietly, his voice firm. “I don’t feel well. I’m sorry.”

Alphard’s smile faltered slightly, but he nodded in understanding. He didn’t push, though Harry could see the disappointment in his eyes. Riddle, however, didn’t react as Harry had expected. His gaze softened, just for a moment, before he straightened up and gave a small nod.

“As you wish, Evans,” Riddle said, his voice almost too neutral. “If you change your mind, I’ll be at the ball.” He gave them one last glance before turning and walking out of the room, his robes swishing behind him.

Harry watched him leave, the tension in his chest slowly easing, but the lingering feeling of Riddle’s presence stayed. He couldn’t deny that part of him had wanted to go, to see where the night would take him, to see Riddle in that setting. But in the end, Harry knew that he wasn’t ready for it--not without his friends, not without the familiar comfort of Ron and Hermione by his side.

The room felt quieter after Riddle had gone, and Harry let out a deep breath. He sat back down on the edge of his bed, tugging the covers over himself. It wasn’t the night he had imagined, but it was what he needed. Alone, but not lonely. Not yet, anyway.

Harry stayed in his bed for a while after Riddle’s departure, staring up at the ceiling, the weight of the night settling on him. The idea of the ball seemed even more ridiculous now, especially without his friends around. He needed to clear his head, to get away from the confines of his room and think, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something(or someone)was pulling at him.

So, with a quiet sigh, Harry slipped out of bed and carefully made his way out of the dormitory. He wasn’t sure where he was headed, but the Astronomy Tower seemed like a good place. It was high up, away from the noise and bustle of the ball, where he could think without anyone seeing him. The cool night air would clear his thoughts. That’s what he told himself.

The halls were eerily quiet as he made his way through the corridors, careful to avoid anyone who might be heading to the ball or wandering the halls. When he reached the Astronomy Tower, Harry stepped inside, feeling the chill of the stone walls as he climbed the winding staircase.

The view from the tower was breathtaking. The stars were shining brightly overhead, and the castle stretched out below him, a maze of light and shadow. He leaned against the cold stone, trying to let the silence fill the space where the thoughts of the day had been.

It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps echoing from below. He straightened up, listening carefully, but it wasn’t until the door opened that he saw him: Tom Riddle, standing in the doorway, still dressed in his sharp robes, looking every bit the part of the mysterious, perfect student.

“You’re up here,” Riddle said, his voice smooth, “Thought you were asleep.”

Harry crossed his arms, trying not to feel self-conscious under Riddle’s gaze. "What’s it to you? Thought you’d be dancing with someone at the ball."

"Getting a bit boring, honestly," Riddle replied with a nonchalant shrug. "You know how it is...they all want to impress, but no one really has anything interesting to say."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Ah, so you’re avoiding the crowd? Guess we’re both too good for them."

Riddle’s lips curled into a faint smirk. "Something like that." He paused before adding, "So, what’s the real reason you’re hiding up here, Evans? You must’ve had something better to do."

Harry tilted his head. "Don’t worry, I won’t jump," he repeated, deadpan. "Just here to enjoy the view."

Riddle stared at him for a moment, as if weighing Harry’s words. "You’re more interesting than I gave you credit for." There was a flicker of something in his gaze, but it was hard to tell if it was approval or just curiosity. "If we’re both here, why not take me up on my offer from earlier?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Riddle chuckled, looking like he had a plan, a twisted idea brewing in his mind. "To dance. I can teach you. No one’s watching so you don’t have to be embarrassed when you step on my feet.”
Harry gaped at him for a moment, unsure if Riddle was being serious or just playing with him. "Dance? With you? Are you-"

"Afraid?" Riddle interrupted smoothly, stepping a little closer. "Don’t worry. I’m sure I can teach you something."

Harry snorted, trying to cover up the fact that he was slightly intrigued by the idea. "I think you’ve got the wrong person. I told you, I don’t dance, Riddle."

Riddle smirked, moving just a touch closer, his voice lowering slightly. "Funny. I didn’t take you for someone who’d back out of a challenge." He didn’t give Harry a chance to protest. "We’ll keep it simple. I’ll follow your lead."

Harry stared at Riddle for a solid few seconds, waiting for him to start laughing or reveal this was a joke all along. But Riddle was serious. He held his hand out. Harry couldn’t help but think of the ridiculousness of his entire life right now. If someone had told him two months ago that he would be 50 years in the past dancing with Tom Riddle, that person would probably be sent to Mungos.
“I’m really, really not good at it,” Harry mumbled, stepping forward and giving in.

Riddle’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming. "I think I’ll manage, Evans. Lead the way."

The first few steps were awkward, both of them fumbling with their positions. Harry felt a twinge of discomfort as Riddle’s hand settled on his waist. It was a light touch, but the closeness of it made Harry feel suddenly self-conscious. He had no idea what he was doing. His feet felt heavy, his movements stiff. He shuffled a bit, trying to mimic some dance steps he’d seen before, but it all just felt off.

"You’re making this difficult," Riddle said, voice smooth but with a hint of amusement as he adjusted his grip. "Relax. You’re supposed to be leading."

Harry felt a flush creeping up his neck, his hands awkward at his sides. "I told you, I don’t know how to dance," he muttered, looking at his feet, embarrassed by how ridiculous this all felt. "This is stupid."

"Not really." Riddle’s voice was quieter now, and Harry could feel the shift as Riddle subtly took control of their movements. His hand on Harry’s waist shifted slightly, guiding him into a more fluid rhythm. "You just need to trust me. Follow my lead."

Harry hesitated but reluctantly allowed Riddle to direct their steps. It felt strange at first, but then something clicked. The tension in Harry’s shoulders eased as Riddle’s steady hand kept him aligned, leading him with a surprising gentleness. Harry hadn’t expected Riddle to be this... graceful. His feet moved more naturally now, matching Riddle’s pace, though he still couldn’t shake the awkwardness of it all.

Riddle’s movements were effortless, precise, like he’d been doing this for years. Every turn, every slight shift in their position felt deliberate and smooth, as if Riddle was an entirely different person when he danced. Harry had never seen this side of him. Riddle, usually so sharp and calculating, now seemed entirely in his element, his confidence bordering on effortless.

Harry followed his lead, his initial discomfort slowly melting away. He found himself falling into the rhythm, his body no longer stiff with hesitation. But then, Riddle’s touch on his waist shifted, becoming a little more possessive. His hand moved slightly lower, fingers brushing the curve of Harry’s hip, and Harry’s breath hitched.

Riddle didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did, but he didn’t seem to care. He tightened his grip slightly, pulling Harry closer as they continued to sway, the distance between them growing smaller with each step. The music was distant, almost nonexistent now, drowned out by the rush in Harry’s ears. He felt the heat of Riddle’s body against his, the way their movements seemed to align perfectly.

Harry’s heart was pounding in his chest, but he tried to keep his face neutral. The last thing he wanted was for Riddle to catch on to how affected he was by the touch. He couldn't let it show, couldn’t let Riddle have the satisfaction of knowing that the closeness was making his chest tighten and his breath shallow.

Riddle’s voice interrupted his thoughts, low and teasing, "You know, you're not bad at this. I expected more stumbles from you."

Harry swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. "Yeah, well... I’m just... following your lead."

Riddle smirked, his lips curling up at the corners. "Good. Just keep following me, and I’ll show you how it's done."

The dance continued, and Riddle’s hand never left his waist. Instead, it slid up slightly, fingers brushing the base of his ribs. The touch sent a jolt of warmth through Harry, making it harder to focus on the steps. He couldn't deny that there was something about the way Riddle held him, the way his hand lingered just a little too long, that made the whole situation feel oddly intimate. Harry’s chest tightened, his mind a mix of confusion and desire, but he refused to let himself give in to it.

It was a strange dance, in more ways than one. The closeness, the constant tension that Riddle’s touch created, it was almost like a challenge, one that Harry couldn’t quite back away from, even if he wanted to.

"I told you, I’m a good teacher. You’re enjoying this," Riddle said with a soft chuckle, his voice light but laced with something Harry couldn't place. The teasing lilt was unmistakable.

Harry’s face turned even redder, his hands clenching awkwardly at his sides. "No, I’m not," he muttered, but his words felt weak, even to him. There was a strange warmth spreading in his chest, and a part of him wanted to shrug it off, but the touch on his waist, the way Riddle’s fingers grazed his back with each step, made it impossible.

Riddle smirked, and the touch on Harry’s waist slid lower, fingers brushing the curve of his hip, and Harry felt his breath hitch again. His pulse quickened, his stomach fluttering in a way that made him feel exposed, vulnerable, and more than a little intrigued.

"Really?" Riddle’s voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible as they danced. "Because I can feel how you're responding."

Harry’s heart skipped, and he desperately tried to pull himself together. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. But Riddle’s touch, the closeness, the way their bodies moved together...it felt like it was more than just a dance. It felt like something else entirely.

As if to tease him further, Riddle’s hand shifted again, the fingers of his other hand brushing Harry’s arm before sliding down to his side, guiding him in a turn with a light but firm grip. Every motion Riddle made was sure and deliberate, a contrast to Harry’s fumbling steps, but somehow, it worked. Harry found himself sinking into the rhythm, his body responding to Riddle’s touch despite his mind trying to rebel.

Riddle’s hand on Harry’s waist never left. It was constant, like an anchor in the swirling dance. Harry could feel every shift, every subtle pull as Riddle guided him and it was getting harder to pretend it didn’t affect him. The touch, the proximity, the way Riddle was constantly adjusting their position, making Harry feel like he was being molded into something, made the whole experience feel incredibly intimate.

"You’re getting better," Riddle murmured again, voice low, almost in a purr. His eyes met Harry’s, the smirk still playing on his lips. "You like this, don't you?"

Harry’s chest tightened, and he almost couldn’t bring himself to respond. "No," he stammered, trying to turn his face away, but Riddle’s hand on his waist pulled him closer.

"I think you do," Riddle whispered, his lips brushing against Harry’s ear. There was a brief silence, then a small chuckle. "Next time, maybe you’ll go to the ball with me. It might even be fun."

Harry’s heart raced at the suggestion, but he forced himself to pull away, his breath coming out in shallow bursts. "Maybe," he muttered, looking away from Riddle's piercing gaze. He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed, but the distance Riddle created with that teasing smile made Harry feel strangely... empty.

Riddle stepped back, breaking the connection between them. He gave Harry a sly, knowing look, his smile wide and confident. "Next year, then. We’ll see if you’re still pretending not to like it."

Harry couldn’t bring himself to respond, his mind spinning in a thousand directions, all trying to make sense of the strange dance they’d just shared. The warmth in his chest hadn’t quite faded, and despite the chill in the tower, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Riddle had touched him, the way it had made him feel. But he kept his mouth shut, unwilling to admit anything.

As Riddle turned and walked away, Harry stood there, still caught in the moment, wondering just how much longer he could keep pretending he wasn’t affected by Riddle’s manipulations.

Chapter Text

The morning was filled with movement. Trunks being levitated down the stairs, students chattering excitedly about their plans for the break, last-minute goodbyes exchanged between those staying and those leaving.

Harry stood off to the side of the Slytherin common room, watching as the Knights of Walpurgis each took their turn bidding farewell to Riddle. Some clasped his hand in a show of respect, others murmured quiet promises about their return, all of them treating him with the reverence of a leader.

No one really acknowledged Harry.

Except Alphard.

“Guess it’s just you and Riddle now,” Alphard said, stepping beside Harry, watching as the last of the group left the common room. His tone was light, but there was something behind it, something knowing.

Harry exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair, remembering the events of last night and feeling embarrassment. “Yeah.”

Alphard turned to him then, reaching into his pocket. “Here,” he said, pulling out a small, wrapped bundle.

Harry blinked. “What’s this?”

“A gift,” Alphard said simply, as if it wasn’t something unusual.

Harry stared at the package, hesitating for a moment before unwrapping it. Inside was a silver necklace, a small, unassuming charm hanging from the chain.

“It’s a protection charm,” Alphard explained. “Wards off hexes, minor curses. Figured it couldn’t hurt, with the people we associate with.”

Harry swallowed. He hadn’t expected anything, hadn’t even considered the idea of receiving a gift, much less one from Alphard.

For a second, he didn’t know what to say.

Then, quietly, “Thanks, Alphard.”

Alphard grinned. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, Harry.”

Harry huffed a laugh but, on impulse, stepped forward and pulled Alphard into a quick hug.

Alphard stiffened in surprise before relaxing, patting Harry on the back.

“I’ll miss you,” Harry admitted as he pulled away.

Alphard smirked. “I’d say the same, but that might be too sentimental.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

Alphard slung his bag over his shoulder. “Try not to go insane being alone with Riddle.”

Before Harry could respond, Alphard turned and left, leaving Harry standing there, the weight of the necklace suddenly heavy in his hands.

He fastened it around his neck.

Then, he turned, realizing that the only person left in the common room was Riddle.

Their eyes met.

Riddle tilted his head slightly. “You and Black are close, huh?”

Harry snorted. “Yeah. He’s actually nice to me.”

Riddle’s lips curled, but he didn’t press the subject.

Instead, he glanced toward the entrance. “Breakfast?”

Harry shrugged, glad there wasn’t an atmosphere of awkwardness. In fact, Riddle had been acting remarkably normal. “Sure.”

They walked together through the empty corridors, the usual hum of Hogwarts reduced to silence now that most of the students had gone. It was unsettling in a way, the castle feeling hollow without the usual movement, the constant chatter of students filling the halls.

When they reached the Great Hall, it was nearly deserted.

Only about twenty students were scattered across the four house tables, small clusters of those staying for the holidays. It was strange seeing the hall so empty, the usual noise replaced by quiet murmurs and the clinking of utensils.

Riddle led the way to the Slytherin table, and Harry took his usual seat beside him.

The food appeared as usual, but Harry didn’t move to take any.

Riddle, who had already begun filling his plate, paused, his gaze flicking toward Harry’s untouched plate.

“You never eat,” Riddle observed.

Harry glanced at him. “What?”

“I never see you eat,” Riddle said, his tone light but probing. “You barely touched anything at lunch and breakfast yesterday. Or the night before.” He studied Harry for a moment before adding, “You’re thinner than when you arrived.”

Harry forced a scoff. “I eat.”

Riddle didn’t look convinced. “Not enough.”

“I’m just not hungry.”

Riddle hummed, watching him for a long moment before glancing at his own plate.

“I used to do the same,” he said idly.

Harry stilled.

Riddle took a slow bite of his food before continuing. “At Wool’s. The orphanage.” His voice was detached, casual, but Harry knew there was a bitterness behind his words, “There was never enough food for everyone, and even when there was, I didn’t always get my share.”

Harry said nothing.

Riddle continued, his tone almost conversational. “It changes something in you, hunger. It teaches you things.” His fingers tapped absently against the table. “Like how to take what you need. How to make sure you never go without.”

He glanced at Harry then, something sharp in his gaze. “But it also lingers. Even when there’s food, the instinct remains.”

Harry felt his jaw tighten.

“I’m not starving myself,” he said, though even he wasn’t sure if that was the truth.

Riddle didn’t argue, but his eyes lingered on Harry’s face a second too long before he finally looked away, cutting into his food again.

Harry stared at the table, at the spread of food he had no appetite for.

The conversation had turned too personal, too revealing. He had to shift it back.

Harry cleared his throat, pushing his plate away slightly. “So,” he said, forcing a casual tone, “this plan of yours. Opening the Chamber after the holidays.”

Riddle didn’t react immediately. He took his time, finishing a sip of his tea before setting the cup down carefully. “Yes. What about it?”

Harry chose his words carefully. “You really think it’s worth it?”

Riddle’s lips curled slightly. “Of course it’s worth it.”

Harry exhaled, leaning back. “Killing a student. That’s the goal, right?”

Riddle didn’t answer, but the silence was enough.

Harry sighed. “You don’t need to do this.”

Riddle’s expression didn’t change. “Need is irrelevant.”

“Is it?” Harry pressed. “You’re already the most powerful student at this school. You have more influence than any of us. People follow you because they want to, not because they’re scared of some legend.”

Riddle tilted his head. “Fear and respect go hand in hand.”

“You don’t need to kill someone to prove a point.”

Riddle hummed, unimpressed. “What an idealistic view.”

“It’s not idealistic,” Harry said. “It’s practical. You want power, right? Influence? That all comes crashing down the second someone dies.” He leaned forward slightly. “Because Dumbledore’s already watching you.”

Riddle’s expression darkened just a fraction.

Harry pushed on. “You think he won’t put the pieces together? The moment someone turns up dead, he’ll come straight for you.”

Riddle held his gaze for a long moment. Then, he smiled slow and sharp. “I see what you’re doing.”

Harry met his eyes steadily. “Do you?”

“You’re trying to talk me out of it.”

“Well,” Harry said, “is it working?”

Riddle exhaled through his nose, amused. “I’ll consider it.”

Harry clenched his jaw, knowing that was the best answer he was going to get.

Then Riddle turned the conversation back on him. “You seem particularly invested in this, Evans.”

Harry stiffened.

Riddle studied him, tapping a finger against the table. “Why do you care so much?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, scrambling for a reason that wouldn’t raise suspicion. “Because I don’t want to see Hogwarts shut down.”

Riddle smirked. “A rather selfless answer.”

Harry forced a shrug. “Call it what you want.”

“If you eat your breakfast today, I’ll consider what you're saying.” Riddle offers, smirking.

Harry stared at him, unamused. “That’s blackmail.”

Riddle’s smirk widened. “Persuasion.”

Harry glanced down at his untouched plate, stomach twisting. He wasn’t hungry. He hadn’t been hungry in days. The very idea of forcing food down made his throat tighten, but Riddle was watching him expectantly, like he’d already won.

Harry scowled. “That’s a ridiculous deal.”

Riddle arched a brow. “Then you must not care that much.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Riddle said, leaning forward slightly, “here you are. Negotiating with me over breakfast.”

Harry huffed, stabbing at a piece of toast with unnecessary force. He took the smallest bite he could manage, just enough to make a point. “Happy?”

Riddle made a show of considering it. “Mildly satisfied.”

Harry shot him a glare and took another reluctant bite, just to shut him up. “There. Now you have to actually think about what I said.”

Riddle smirked. “I always think about what you say, Evans.”

Something about the way he said it made Harry pause. He swallowed, setting the toast down and eyeing Riddle warily. “I feel like that should concern me.”

Riddle just sipped his tea, looking smug.

They sat in silence for a moment, the Great Hall unusually empty around them. The handful of other students staying for the holidays were scattered across the long tables, lost in their own conversations. The usual buzz of Hogwarts had faded, leaving an eerie sort of quiet.

It was strange. Being here, alone with Riddle. Stranger still, that it felt almost... comfortable.

Harry shook the thought away. He had to stay focused. He wasn’t here to make friends with Tom Riddle. He was here to kill him.

They lapsed into silence again, the conversation still hanging in the air between them, unfinished.

Harry hadn’t convinced Riddle to abandon his plan, not really. But maybe, just maybe, he’d bought himself some time.

Riddle watched him for a long moment before finally standing. “Come on, Evans.”

Harry frowned. “Where?”

Riddle’s smirk was unreadable. “You’ve got a lot to learn if you want to keep up.”

Harry hesitated for only a second before following him out of the Great Hall.

As they made their way up the moving staircases, Harry let out a quiet chuckle.

Riddle shot him a dry look. “Something funny?”

Harry grinned. “I already know where we’re going.”

Riddle sighed, shaking his head. “Of course you do.”

Harry smirked. “The seventh floor room, right?”

Riddle rolled his eyes. “Tell me, Evans, is there anything I can do that would actually surprise you?”

Harry pretended to think about it. “You could decide not to commit murder. That’d be pretty shocking.”

Riddle gave him a look, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

They continued up the staircase, their footsteps echoing in the quiet corridor. The castle was emptier than usual with most students gone for the holidays, and it felt strange, almost eerie. Just as they were nearing the seventh floor, a voice cut through the quiet.

“Mr. Riddle. Mr. Evans.”

They both froze.

Dumbledore stood at the end of the corridor, watching them with that piercing gaze of his, hands folded neatly in front of him.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. Riddle’s posture straightened, his expression smoothing over into one of careful politeness. Harry, meanwhile, felt his stomach twist uncomfortably.
“Professor,” Riddle greeted smoothly, inclining his head. His voice was respectful, but there was an undeniable edge beneath it.

Dumbledore nodded in return, though his sharp blue eyes didn’t stray from Riddle. “I must say, I hadn’t expected to see the two of you spending so much time together.”

Harry forced a casual shrug. “Well, it is the holidays. Not many people left in the castle.”

Dumbledore hummed, gaze flickering between them. Then, after a brief pause, he turned to Harry. “Mr. Evans, I’d like you to come with me to my office.”

Harry tensed. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Dumbledore’s expression remained calm, but his next words left no room for argument. “I wasn’t asking.”

Harry clenched his jaw. He glanced at Riddle, who was watching the exchange with an unreadable expression.

“I’ll meet you there after,” he muttered under his breath as he turned to follow Dumbledore.

Riddle didn’t respond, but his gaze lingered on Harry for a second longer before he turned and continued down the corridor alone.

Dumbledore’s office was warm, filled with the soft ticking of various enchanted instruments and the occasional rustling of Fawkes on his perch. But despite the cozy atmosphere, the tension in the room was suffocating.

Harry stood in front of the desk, arms crossed, as Dumbledore settled into his chair.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Dumbledore finally broke the silence. “I found out recently that a student snuck out to Hogsmeade weeks ago, late at night.” He looked at Harry knowingly. “To Honeydukes, specifically.”

Harry kept his face carefully blank. “That so?”

Dumbledore nodded. “The very next day, a report appeared in the papers. A time-turner had been stolen from the Department of Mysteries. This could all be coincidental…until professor Merrythought brought to my attention that a student of hers had asked about time turners just a bit prior.”

Harry’s stomach plummeted. Merrythought had told on him. Why had he asked her outright? Stupid!

Dumbledore watched him, eyes sharp and knowing. “Time travel is a dangerous thing, Mr. Evans.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Sounds like it.”

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable. “Your arrival at Hogwarts was… unusual, to say the least. A boy with no past, no family, sorted into Slytherin without hesitation. It was only logical to wonder.”

Harry forced himself to meet Dumbledore’s gaze. He knew.

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken truths. Harry’s throat was tight, his fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to deny everything, to pretend that Dumbledore was grasping at straws but what was the point? Dumbledore wasn’t an idiot.

So, instead, he exhaled sharply, shoulders tense. “I wasn’t sent back on purpose.” His voice was quieter than before, but firm. “I don’t know why I’m here. I just want to go home.”

Dumbledore studied him, the lines on his face deepening. “I am afraid that kind of time travel, the kind you are speaking of is impossible, Harry.”

“Impossible? Are you sure? What if you tried the time turner? Maybe you can make it better.” Harry said, desperate as he held out the stolen item. Dumbledore glanced over the object disapprovingly, with some pity.

“I did my research and even asked my friends at the ministry. There is no known way of going that far forward in the future. I’m sorry, my boy.” He said.

Harry flinched at the name.

Dumbledore continued, tone even but filled with quiet certainty. “If you are here, then there must be a reason.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I know the reason.”

Dumbledore didn’t speak, waiting.

Harry exhaled slowly, tilting his head back slightly, staring at the ceiling. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the stone, making the space feel even heavier.

“I know what happens,” he finally muttered. “I know what he becomes. I know what he does.” His hands twitched. “And I know how to stop it.”

Dumbledore’s expression remained calm, but his gaze sharpened. “And how do you intend to do that?”

Harry hesitated, then let his eyes drop back to Dumbledore’s. “You know how.”

The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken.

For the first time, something flickered in Dumbledore’s gaze like disappointment. Or maybe sadness.

His voice, however, remained steady. “Do not lose yourself in the pursuit of the future, Harry.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”

Dumbledore tilted his head. “Don’t I?”

Dumbledore sighed, leaning back slightly in his chair, his eyes distant, as if he were seeing something long past. “You remind me of myself, in some ways.”

Harry frowned, wary. “How so?”

Dumbledore’s gaze flickered back to him, the weight of years pressing into his features. “A long time ago, I met a boy who saw the world the way I did. Who spoke of change, of power, of a future that only we could shape.”

Harry swallowed, already knowing where this was going.

Dumbledore continued, voice quieter now, almost… tired. “His name was Gellert Grindelwald.”

Harry stayed silent, heart pounding.

“He was brilliant. Charismatic. A mind unlike any I had ever known.” A faint smile ghosted over Dumbledore’s lips, but it was tinged with something melancholic. “I was young. I believed, truly believed, that we could change the world together. That the ends would justify the means.” His eyes darkened. “That power was ours to take.”

Harry’s fingers curled into his palms.

Dumbledore exhaled. “But power corrupts. Ambition blinds. And in the end, I lost a part of myself to him.” He paused, his gaze piercing now. “Just as you risk losing yourself to Tom.”

Harry tensed. “It’s not the same.”

Dumbledore tilted his head. “Isn’t it?”

Harry clenched his jaw. “I’m not trying to join him. I’m trying to stop him.”

“And yet, you sit at his side. You speak with him. You find yourself drawn into his world, just as I was once drawn into Gellert’s.” Dumbledore studied him. “Tell me, Harry… has he begun to make sense to you?”

Harry’s breath caught.

Because the answer was yes.

And he hated that.

Dumbledore’s expression softened, though his eyes remained sharp. “I do not tell you this to dissuade you from your path. Only to warn you. I have walked where you now tread. And I know how easy it is to believe you are in control… until you no longer are.”

Harry forced himself to breathe. “I know what I’m doing.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “I hope so.”

Harry was about to argue, to snap back, but then Dumbledore sighed.

“I must admit. I have seen a change in Tom since you arrived.”

Harry stilled.

Dumbledore continued, his words careful, measured. “He is not… soft, by any means. Nor do I expect him to be. But he is different. Less isolated.” A pause. “Less cruel.”

Harry scoffed. “You think I’m changing him?”

Dumbledore’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I think influence is a powerful thing.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to think about it. Because if Dumbledore was right, if he was changing things what did that mean for the future?
What did that mean for him?

Dumbledore exhaled softly. “Be careful, Harry.”

Harry swallowed hard.

Not Evans. Harry.

He turned without another word, his pulse pounding in his ears as he walked out of the office, on the way to the seventh floor. He thought about Dumbledore’s words carefully. He knew some semblance of his old mentor was right. Harry wasn’t the type of person that could kill. Even Riddle. The person he had danced with last night, the person who had confided in him about his childhood and was perhaps the only one that could understand him.

But he was also Voldemort. Manipulative. Everything Riddle does is for a reason. Was Harry just falling for an act? The possibilities made Harry’s head hurt.

So he trudged on, trying to make sense of his muddled mind as he paced to conjure the door.

The Room of Requirement was breathtaking.

When Harry stepped inside, he was met with towering shelves filled with books, ancient tomes of dark and light magic stacked neatly, the scent of aged parchment lingering in the air. The walls were lined with flickering torches, casting long shadows over a space that was both grand and oddly intimate. At the center of the room sat two ornate thrones, side by side, as if they belonged to rulers of some hidden kingdom. Surrounding them were plush couches, elegant yet comfortable, inviting in a way that Harry hadn’t expected.

This was Riddle’s mind brought to life. His ambition. His obsession. His control.

And yet, it wasn’t just cold, calculated grandeur, there was something deeply personal about it. Every detail, every choice, spoke of the boy who had created it.
Harry’s gaze snapped forward at the sound of low hissing.

Riddle was reclined on one of the couches, speaking in Parseltongue to a sleek black snake coiled around his arm. He noticed Harry enter, and nodded his head in a quick greeting as he continued his conversation, his voice smooth and hypnotic in the ancient language. Something about the image of the dark haired boy, hair slightly tousled and imperfect now that he didn’t have his followers around forcing him to upkeep a perfect image, was weirdly alluring. The way he allowed the snake to coil further up his arm with no sign of fear, his whole body instead exhibiting confidence.

Harry hesitated, suddenly conscious of himself and his messy robes, his messy hair and crooked glasses. Next to Riddle, Harry felt so small. Memories of last night, of Riddle’s hand on his waist as they danced surfaced.

He walked further in, trying to ignore his thoughts as he took a seat beside Riddle. He grabbed a random book from the table, flipping it open as if utterly uninterested.
But he listened.

"I want food, Speaker,” The small snake hissed. Harry almost laughed.

“Food just sat next to you. Go after him,” Riddle said, his words in jest.

“What!? He is too big for me!” The small black snake hissed in protest.

Harry couldn’t suppress a grin at the conversation between Riddle and the snake, the absurdity of it making him feel momentarily lighter. As the snake hissed in frustration, Riddle let out a quiet laugh, low and rich, his eyes still fixed on the creature winding up his arm.

“You know,” Riddle said, voice smooth, yet tinged with something almost playful, “if you spent less time being dramatic and more time hunting, you might actually catch something."

The snake gave an exaggerated hiss of annoyance, but Harry wasn’t paying attention to it anymore. He was focused on Riddle, on the way his lips curled into an amused smile, the way his posture was relaxed despite the dark, powerful atmosphere surrounding them.

Riddle’s eyes flicked to Harry, catching the lingering glance. His expression shifted slightly, a subtle change, but Harry felt the shift deep in his chest.

Harry shifted slightly in his seat, trying to ignore the weight of the silence stretching between them. The snake was still coiled around Riddle’s arm, its sleek black scales glistening in the dim light of the Room of Requirement. It was watching Harry now, its bright yellow eyes flicking toward him every so often, its low hissing punctuating the otherwise quiet room.

“So what did Dumbledore want?” Riddle asked.

Harry only groaned. “Lecture. It was dumb. Why is the snake here?” Harry asked, his voice a bit too casual, betraying his curiosity. He knew enough to suspect the snake’s significance, but he didn’t want to reveal his knowledge of Parseltongue just yet.

Riddle glanced at him, and there was a brief moment where his lips twitched, but he didn’t offer a smile. Instead, his tone was matter-of-fact when he spoke. “It came with the room.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Came with the room?”

“Yeah.” Riddle shrugged slightly, his eyes flicking down to the snake, which had now settled comfortably on his arm. “This place… it responds to need. And it must have sensed mine.”

Harry nodded slowly, trying to digest the idea. The Room of Requirement always had a mind of its own, but the snake...something about it seemed more… deliberate. “Does it have a name?”

Riddle’s eyes flicked up at Harry, and for a brief moment, the two of them just stared at one another. Harry felt a strange sense of calm in the room, despite everything. It was like the tension had momentarily melted away, replaced with something softer.

Riddle looked at the snake, then back at Harry. “It doesn’t have a name.”

“Right,” Harry said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Well, we can’t leave it without a name, can we?”

Riddle raised an eyebrow. “You want to name it?”

“Why not?” Harry shrugged.

Riddle considered this for a moment, then, to Harry’s surprise, leaned closer, holding out his arm so the snake was more visible. “Alright then. What do you think? What shall we call you?”

The snake hissed softly in response, and Harry’s grin widened. It felt almost like the snake was considering the question, which was ridiculous and oddly endearing.

Riddle gave a slow nod, as if in deep thought. “We need a name with gravitas. Something strong, something worthy of this... creature.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Alright, what have you got?”

Riddle’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Lord of Death and Destruction.”

Harry blinked. “Lord…of Death and Destruction. You’re joking, right?”

Riddle looked at him seriously. “Why not? It’s a name that commands attention. Fear, even.”

The snake in question hissed, “Yesss. I like that.”

Harry shook his head to both Riddle and the snake. “He’s too tiny and cute for that name.”

Riddle thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Fine. How about something more… elegant? The Dark Serpent?”

Harry snorted. “It’s a snake, not a gothic novel.”

“Right, subtlety,” Riddle muttered, tapping his chin. “Alright then… how about just… Snake?”

Harry couldn’t help himself and laughed. “Snake. Seriously?”

Riddle smirked, looking satisfied. “It’s efficient. Direct.”

“Yeah, sure, but maybe it deserves something a little less... blunt,” Harry said, still amused.

Riddle paused, looking at the snake. “What about Onyx?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Onyx... I kind of like that.”

Riddle gave a nod of approval. “It’s simple, but it fits. Dark, sleek, strong. Like it belongs here.”

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, Onyx works. Seems fitting, doesn’t it?”

Riddle grinned, leaning back with satisfaction. “I knew you’d come around. Onyx it is, then.”

The snake gave another soft hiss, “Fine! Now where’s my food?”

Riddle conjured a mouse and they both watched Onyx feast for a moment in comfortable silence, before Riddle finally broke it, his voice thoughtful. “You didn’t answer my question, though.”

Harry blinked, confused for a second, but then it clicked. “Right. Dumbledore.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of the conversation shift. He wasn’t entirely sure how to explain without revealing too much. “He warned me to be careful. Said I shouldn’t get too close to you.”

Riddle’s expression hardened slightly, his eyes narrowing. “And what else?”

Harry hesitated, unsure whether to share the whole truth. But then again, he couldn’t lie to Riddle. Not completely. “He said you were dangerous. That you’re manipulative. He thinks I could be... influenced by you.”

Riddle scoffed, rolling his eyes. “He really has a high opinion of me, doesn’t he?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Well, Dumbledore doesn’t exactly trust you, does he?”

Riddle’s gaze turned distant for a moment, a flicker of something dark crossing his features. He didn’t respond immediately, but instead leaned back slightly, his fingers absently toying with a piece of parchment on the desk.

“I suppose not,” Riddle muttered after a beat, his voice colder than before. “Dumbledore and I... we’ve never seen eye to eye.” He paused, as if weighing whether or not to share something. Finally, with a sardonic grin, he continued. “He was the one who delivered my Hogwarts letter, you know.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, not expecting that. “Really? I thought they just sent those by owl.”

“Not for me,” Riddle said with a smirk. “He came himself. Came to my orphanage, knocked on the door like he was delivering some kind of precious gift. But the best part? He caught me. Caught me stealing.”

“Stealing?” Harry echoed, surprised. “What, like... things from the orphanage?”

Riddle’s smirk widened, though there was no humor in it. “Not just that. I had a whole collection of... treasures. Things that weren’t mine, things I’d taken from the other children, from the staff.”
“Why?”

Riddle scoffed, “You’re telling me you never stole things from your aunt and uncle? Food? Clothes? For your cupboard? The orphanage practically starved us. I just wanted to get back at them. And have things of my own.”

Harry blinked, understanding washing over him. As a child, he would sneak out of his cupboard and take food. He was so hungry. Sometimes he took Dudley’s things in his cupboard, toys or even pencils and crayons, just to have something to do. Something for himself.

Riddle’s eyes glinted. “Dumbledore saw my little shelf of stolen goods. And what did he do? Set it on fire. Just like that.”

Harry blinked, trying to picture it. “He... set it on fire?”

Even Onyx let out a hiss of surprise, “Not to my master! How dare he!”

Riddle nodded slowly, almost as if savoring the memory. “Yes. Without a word, without a warning. Just... boom. Gone.” He scoffed, leaning back again. “As if burning my things would make me change. Like I’d suddenly see the error of my ways. Pathetic, really.”

Harry could hardly believe what he was hearing. “So that’s it? That’s why you don’t get along?”

Riddle’s lips twisted into a thin smile. “Oh, it’s part of it. You see how biased he is, right? Points to Gryffindor but never to Slytherin. He judges us harshly and doesn’t give us the time of day, even though I’ve been nothing but respectful to him.”

Harry nodded in the silence, not sure what to say next. He agreed with Riddle’s view; how could Dumbledore do that to a child? It felt as if everyday it made more sense as to how Riddle came to be the way he was.

“Well. Nevermind that. Come. I have some reading material.” Riddle nodded towards the shelves of books.

“You brought me here…to read? On our break?” Harry grimaced.

“Well of course. A break is no excuse to fall behind in our studies. I’ve noticed you lacking in potions and runes.” Riddle smiled.

Harry raised an eyebrow but couldn’t suppress a small smirk. “Lacking in Potions, huh? Is that what you call it? I’ve been trying to avoid blowing anything up.”

Riddle gave a dry chuckle, his expression as serious as ever. “If only your understanding of the subject were as strong as your avoidance tactics, I might have been impressed.”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t protest as he moved toward the shelves. He selected a book on advanced potion-making, settling into the armchair near the desk. Riddle didn’t seem to mind his lack of enthusiasm as he picked out a different tome on runes and sat opposite him, flipping it open.

The two of them worked in companionable silence, the occasional turning of a page or the sound of quills on parchment the only noise filling the room. Harry tried to focus on the textbook in front of him, but his mind kept wandering back to the Chamber of Secrets. He couldn't shake the thought of what he knew would happen, how Tom Riddle would eventually unleash the basilisk. It had to be stopped.
He glanced over at Onyx, still curled contentedly on the floor. There was something unsettling about how calm she seemed, considering what she was capable of. Harry’s eyes narrowed as an idea began to form in his mind. A sudden thought hit him: he could go down to the Chamber himself, speak to the basilisk, make sure it never harmed anyone. He could stop the chaos before it started. No one had to die.

If he could convince the basilisk to not hurt anyone, or kill the basilisk again, then Riddle’s plan would be ruined. And Harry wouldn’t have to kill Riddle.

Riddle’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’re quiet. What are you thinking about?”

Harry blinked, pulling himself back into the present. “Nothing,” he replied quickly, brushing off the question. “Just focusing.”

Riddle raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it. “Well, focus faster. I’m not going to sit here all day waiting for you to catch up.”

Harry just nodded, forcing himself to turn back to the Potions book in front of him. But his mind wasn’t on the words in front of him. He couldn’t stop thinking about the Chamber. How he would get there. How he would stop the basilisk from killing anyone.

He wasn’t going to let things happen the way they had in the past. Riddle would never know about his plan. Harry would have to go down to the Chamber alone.

As he sat there, pretending to focus on his studies, the weight of what he was planning settled on him. It wasn’t a small task. But Harry knew it was the only way to ensure that the tragedy of the Chamber of Secrets didn’t happen again.

...

It was the next morning, and Harry had woken up earlier than usual, a quiet urgency pressing him to move. The common room was empty when he arrived: no Riddle, no lingering shadows of his presence.

Onyx had taken to sleeping on Harry’s bed, saying he disliked the way Riddle tossed and turned at night. Harry had only laughed, biting down the urge to respond. It was getting harder to pretend he didn’t understand the little serpent, especially when Onyx liked to chatter.

As he slid on his robes, Onyx curled around his wrist and hid beneath his sleeve, his smooth scales cool against Harry’s skin. The young snake hissed happily, “Warmth… Let us see other young master.”

Harry hummed noncommittally, changing into new robes. He saw the flash of gold in his trunk; the time turner. He grabbed it, sliding it in hid pocket before making his way toward the exit. He had only two weeks of break left, and three days had already passed in a blur. If he was going to stop the disaster before it happened, he needed to act fast.

But there was a problem: Tom Riddle was always there. Always watching, always lingering, whether physically or in the back of Harry’s mind. It wasn’t just a matter of slipping away unnoticed. Any attempt to vanish for a few hours would draw attention, and Harry couldn’t afford that kind of suspicion.

Not to mention, they were practically co-parenting Onyx. The little snake would probably report everything if he saw Harry do something odd.

That was why he needed the perfect excuse. Something Riddle couldn’t argue against.

By breakfast, he had one.

Riddle’s sharp gaze flickered toward Harry more than once, his disapproval growing more obvious each time Harry skipped another meal. Breakfast had passed without Harry so much as looking at a plate, and now, in the library, lunchtime was slipping by in much the same way.

Riddle tapped his fingers impatiently against the wooden table as Harry flipped through a thick tome on magical theory, seemingly absorbed in its pages. “You’re going to pass out,” Riddle finally said, voice flat.

Harry didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

“That’s a lie,” Riddle countered, narrowing his eyes. “You didn’t eat this morning, and now you’re skipping lunch, too? I don’t think you ate yesterday either. What exactly are you trying to accomplish? Starvation?”

Harry shrugged, turning a page. “I’m just not hungry.”

Riddle scoffed, but after a long moment, he returned to his own book, muttering something under his breath that Harry was fairly certain wasn’t complimentary.

By the time dinner rolled around, Riddle was thoroughly unimpressed with him. The Slytherin common room was quieter than usual, the lingering remnants of winter break still keeping the usual crowd at bay. Harry could feel Riddle’s eyes on him as he leaned back in his chair, feigning exhaustion.

“I think I’ll skip dinner,” Harry murmured, rubbing his forehead like he had a headache. “I’m not feeling great. I should probably see the healer.”

Riddle gave him a look that was somewhere between incredulity and exasperation. “You think? Perhaps because you haven’t eaten all day?”

Harry just shrugged again, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

Riddle exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly restraining the urge to argue. Harry was thankful for the lack of questions. His gaze drifted to Onyx, who was curled lazily around his own wrist, hidden under his sleeve. “Can you take Onyx for the night?”

Riddle nodded, “Fine. He’s going to complain, you know. He likes you more than me.”

Harry only shrugged and carefully uncurled the small serpent from his arm, handing him over. He knew it would only be for a few hours, but it was still strange to part with Onyx, who had taken to following him everywhere. The little snake flicked his tongue in mild protest but settled against Riddle’s sleeve soon enough.

“I’ll be back later,” Harry said simply.

Riddle, still watching him closely, only nodded. “Don’t waste too much time. And. Feel better.”

Harry gave a half-hearted nod before turning toward the exit. His steps were steady, his movements calm, but inside, his heart was racing. He had bought himself time, just enough to get to the Chamber of Secrets. Just enough to find the basilisk.

Just enough to change everything.

The castle was quiet, the torches flickering in their sconces as Harry slipped through the corridors unnoticed. His footsteps echoed softly against the cold stone, but he kept his pace steady, purposeful. The further he went, the more the air seemed to change; thicker, heavier, as if the very walls held their breath.

Reaching the entrance to the second-floor girls’ lavatory, he pushed open the creaking door, stepping inside. The scent of damp stone and mildew curled in the air. Water dripped from a leaking pipe, the sound eerily loud in the silence. The cracked mirrors reflected his own shadowed expression back at him, fractured and distorted. He moved swiftly to the sinks, his fingers ghosting over the cool porcelain. There it was: the faintest engraving of a snake, almost unnoticeable unless one knew what to look for.

Harry exhaled, centering himself. His mouth felt dry as he leaned forward, voice slipping from his lips in a whisper, low and hissing, the words flowing as naturally as breathing.
"Open."

The sink trembled, the stone grating against itself as it spiraled downward, revealing a gaping, endless passage. A gust of stale air rushed upward, carrying the scent of something ancient, something that had been waiting.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He slid forward, letting gravity take him as he plunged into darkness. The tunnel twisted and curved, the rush of air roaring in his ears before he was spat unceremoniously onto the damp floor below. He landed in a crouch, steadying himself as he rose to his feet, brushing dust from his robes.

The Chamber loomed ahead, a vast cavern swallowed in shadow. The walls were lined with massive stone serpents, their weathered eyes seeming to watch his every step. Raising his wand, he flicked his wrist, Lumos but spoke nothing aloud. The tip of his wand flared to life, casting long, stretching beams of pale light across the slick ground.

Then, he heard it.

A distant, deep slithering. The sound of something massive shifting, scales dragging against stone. The weight of it filled the air, a slow, deliberate movement, as though it had been disturbed from a long rest.

Harry inhaled sharply, then forced himself to close his eyes.

"Come out," he whispered in Parseltongue. His voice was smooth, unbroken, though his pulse quickened.

The sound ceased. Silence fell, heavy and waiting. Then-

A rush of movement.

The presence of something vast unfurled before him, the air thickening with a scent of old earth and decay. He felt the displaced air brush against his skin as the creature shifted, circling, drawing closer.
"You speak," the voice was deep, a slow, measured hiss. It vibrated through the chamber, as if the very stones trembled at its presence.

Harry kept his breathing steady.

"I do."

A pause. Then-

"You are not the one who calls me."

A chill slid down his spine.

"No," he admitted.

The basilisk slithered forward, and though his eyes were firmly shut, he could feel the weight of her gaze settling upon him.

"Then who are you?" Her voice curled around him, almost curious.

"A student," Harry answered carefully.

"A student," she echoed, almost amused.

Then, something shifted in her tone.

"You are not Tom."

It wasn’t a question.

"No," Harry said again.

There was silence, but it was no longer the silence of patience. It was a silence waiting. The air had changed to be warmer, the faintest brush of breath far too close.

"Why do you wake me, little speaker?"

Harry straightened his spine.

"I need you to stop."

A slow, rumbling sound....laughter.

"Stop?"

"Do not listen to Riddle. Do not obey him. Do not kill for him."

The amusement vanished.

"Why should I not?"

"Because he is dangerous," Harry said evenly. "You are his weapon. You are his tool. Nothing more. Do you truly wish to be a servant?"

A sharp, slow inhale.

Then, laughter again.

"You misunderstand, little speaker." The basilisk’s voice curled with something sharp, something ancient. "I do not serve. I hunt. I consume. I am hunger, and hunger does not obey—it takes."

A slow slither, the scales scraping closer.

"And I am so very hungry."

Harry's grip on his wand tightened. His heart pounded, but he did not step back.

"Then I will give you a choice," he said, voice like steel. "Leave the students of this school untouched. Or I will end you myself."

A hiss, sharp, dangerous.

"You would threaten me?"

Harry raised his wand. Though his eyes were still closed, his stance was unwavering.

"I would," he answered. "And I do not make idle threats."

A deep, rumbling hiss filled the Chamber, and the basilisk let out something that sounded disturbingly like laughter.

"You are bold, little speaker. I admire courage… it makes the hunt more thrilling."

Harry's grip on his wand tightened. His heart pounded against his ribs, but his stance remained firm. If she lunged, he would have no choice but to fight. He steadied his breathing, drawing upon the magic simmering beneath his skin. If he had to cast dark magic to survive, then so be it.

He whispered an incantation under his breath, his wand tip darkening with an ominous glow.

Then,

"Enough."

The single word sliced through the air like a knife. It was spoken in Parseltongue.

Harry’s breath caught. His stomach twisted into a knot as he whirled around, his spell fizzling out before it could be cast.

Tom Riddle stood at the entrance to the Chamber, bathed in dim wandlight. His expression was unreadable at first, his sharp features carved from shadow; but then his gaze landed on Harry.
His eyes darkened.

"You speak Parseltongue?"

Chapter Text

"You speak Parseltongue?"

The words were spoken with quiet fury, laced with disbelief. His wand was clenched in his fingers, his posture rigid, like a predator who had just caught the scent of something unexpected—something wrong.

Harry forced himself to stay still, even as his pulse pounded in his throat.

The basilisk let out a slow, questioning hiss. Riddle flicked his wand sharply.

"Hide away. You too, Onyx." he ordered.

The massive serpent hesitated for only a moment before obeying, retreating into the darkness of the Chamber, slithering out of sight. Onyx did the same, giving a sad hiss before retreating into the dark. Harry kept his eyes shut until the last sound of her movement faded. When he finally opened them, Riddle was still staring at him, his expression unreadable but his fury palpable.

"Why would you keep that from me?”

Harry swallowed hard. This is bad.

"Riddle, listen—" Harry responded back in parseltongue.

Riddle let out a breath—sharp and cold, like steel being drawn from a sheath.

"You’ve been lying to me from the very start." His expression twisted into something dangerous. "Why?"

"I had to."

"You had to?" Riddle’s lip curled in disgust.

Harry clenched his jaw.

"I didn’t come here to fight you, Riddle. I came to stop her before she hurt anyone—"

Riddle’s eyes flickered with something unreadable before it hardened into anger again.

"You’re lying again." His fingers tightened around his wand. "Only the Gaunts have the gift of Parseltongue. Which means we’re related."

Harry felt weird at that accusation. "We’re not."

Riddle took a step forward.

"And yet, you speak it." His voice was laced with venom. "You’ve known you could speak it, all this time. And you chose to keep it from me."

Harry’s mouth opened, then closed. There was no explaining this in a way Riddle would accept.

The realization in Riddle’s gaze sharpened into something ugly.

"That’s why you came here, wasn’t it? You’ve been lying to me—pretending to be my fr–ally—because you want to take what’s mine."

Harry stiffened.

"That’s not true—"

"You want Slytherin’s legacy for yourself!"

The accusation struck like a physical blow.

"Riddle, I don’t—"

"Liar."

The word was spoken softly, but it burned like acid.

And then—

Riddle attacked.

A jet of dark magic erupted from his wand, streaking toward Harry with deadly speed. Harry barely had time to raise a shield, the force of the impact sending him skidding back. Sparks danced across the Chamber floor.

There was no time to think. No time to reason.

Because Riddle wasn’t holding back.

Another curse shot toward him, dark and vicious. Harry dodged, rolling to the side, wand slashing through the air as he countered with a hex of his own. The Chamber erupted into flashes of green and silver light, their spells clashing in violent bursts.

Harry gritted his teeth. Riddle was fast—almost too fast. His movements were razor-sharp, each strike calculated, unrelenting. The magic in the air crackled with lethal intent.

"Stop!" Harry tried again, ducking behind one of the massive serpent statues as a spell shattered the stone beside him.

"You don’t get to tell me what to do!" Riddle snarled.

Another curse slammed toward him—Harry barely deflected it in time.

Riddle’s fury burned like wildfire.

Harry’s heart pounded. He could keep up—for now. But he knew this was the real Tom Riddle. Brilliant. Ruthless. Deadly.

Riddle’s lips curled into a sneer, but his eyes gleamed with something darker. Satisfaction.

"I never fully trusted you." His voice was soft but sharp as a blade. "And I’m glad I didn’t. My instincts were right."

Harry’s breath was ragged. His pulse thundered in his ears. There was no reasoning with him. No way to explain.

Riddle was going to kill him.

Something inside Harry shifted. His grip on his wand tightened. If talking wouldn’t work—if there was no getting out of this—then he had to fight.

Really fight.

The next spell he cast was not defensive.

A raw, powerful Expulso blasted from his wand. Riddle barely managed to flick his own wand up in time, skidding back as the force of the explosion shattered the stone at his feet. His eyes widened for half a second—then a grin split his face.

"There you are."

He laughed. Laughed. A giddy, breathless sound.

"I was wondering how long it would take before you got serious."

Harry’s only answer was another spell, vicious and fast. He aimed to incapacitate—he wasn’t holding back anymore.

Riddle dodged, the gleam in his eyes burning hotter. He was excited. Enjoying this.

Spells clashed in midair, the chamber echoing with their duel. Harry was faster now, his movements sharper. He could see it—see the moment Riddle noticed. The precise instant his amusement turned into something closer to fascination.

"You’re full of surprises," Riddle murmured, blocking another attack. "What else are you hiding, Harry?"

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He had to end this—now.

He hesitated for only a second before lifting his wand.

"Avada Ked—"

His throat locked.

He couldn't. It wasn’t who he was.

The words died before they could fully form, his grip trembling around his wand.

I can’t do it.

The moment of hesitation cost him.

Riddle saw it. Took advantage of it.

A spell slammed into Harry’s chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. He hit the cold stone floor hard, his wand slipping from his fingers. Before he could reach for it, Riddle was there—on top of him, pinning him down, wand pressed to his throat.

"You should have finished that curse," Riddle murmured, voice low, almost gentle in parseltongue. "But you couldn’t, could you?"

Harry’s heart pounded.

"Riddle—"

"No more lies." Riddle’s grip tightened. He raised his wand. "Goodbye, Harry."

Green light ignited at the tip.

He was going to die.

Harry’s fingers scrabbled against the stone. His mind raced. He needed—something—

The Time-Turner.

The realization slammed into him. His fingers found the delicate chain in his pocket, grasping the tiny hourglass—and pulled it.

The world lurched.

Then—

He was standing again. Heart still racing. Back only five seconds ago. Harry couldn’t see the time turner in his pocket to accurately use it as Riddle was pinning him down.

Riddle was still raising his wand.

Harry didn’t waste a second.

"Riddle, listen to me!"

Riddle didn’t pause.

"No more lies, Harry."

Shit.

He turned it again.

The chamber twisted.

Back five more seconds.

He tried again.

"Riddle, you have to understand—"

No use.

Another flash of green.

Again.

The twist of time left him breathless, but he forced himself to move.

He turned back five seconds once more.

And this time—he said something different, in English this time.

"I’m from the future!"

Riddle froze.

The green light at the tip of his wand flickered out.

Riddle’s wand didn’t move. His expression remained unreadable, but his grip on Harry’s shirt was iron-tight.

"You’re lying."

Harry’s chest heaved. "I’m not."

Riddle’s eyes were sharp, calculating. "Prove it."

Harry swallowed hard. His mind was still reeling from being seconds away from death. His pulse pounded against the tip of Riddle’s wand, still pressed into his throat.

"How do you think I knew everything?" Harry rasped. "The basilisk. The Chamber. You. I’m not from this time—I’m from the future."

Riddle stared at him, unmoving.

The silence stretched. Then, voice quiet but firm, Riddle asked, "Then why come here? Why insert yourself into my life? What did you want?"

Harry hesitated.

Riddle’s grip tightened.

"To kill you."

Riddle inhaled sharply, but his wand didn’t waver. He didn’t look shocked—if anything, it was as if he’d expected it.

Harry pushed on. "That was the plan. I knew what you’d become—I knew what you’d do. I thought if I could stop you now—" He swallowed. "But I couldn’t."

Riddle remained silent.

"I spent so much time with you. I got to know you. And when the moment came..." Harry shook his head. "I couldn’t do it."

Riddle was unreadable. His face was a mask of control, but his fingers had gone white around his wand.

"Legilimency."

Harry tensed.

"Let me see," Riddle said.

Harry didn’t respond.

Riddle pressed his wand harder into Harry’s throat. "Now."

Harry clenched his jaw. He had no choice. He gave a single, sharp nod.

Riddle’s eyes gleamed, and then—

Pain.

A sharp, invasive pressure, like fingers digging into his skull.

Harry gasped as memories surged forward—uncontrolled, unstoppable.

Flashes of Hogwarts. Classes that hadn’t happened yet. Spells Riddle didn’t know.

Then—

Dumbledore.

The memory sharpened.

Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes bore into him. His office was warm, lit by the golden glow of the fireplace.

Harry sat in a chair across from him, his hands gripping the armrests.

“I wasn’t sent back on purpose. I don’t know why I’m here. I just want to go home.” Harry had told Dumbledore in the memory.

The memory blurred. Riddle pulled back.

Harry gasped for air, his mind spinning from the intrusion. He barely registered Riddle shifting above him, sitting back slightly.

Riddle was silent, his expression calculating.

Seconds passed. Then—

"So," Riddle finally said. "Are you my great-grandson or something?"

Harry let out a breathless, sad laugh, still dizzy from the Legilimency. "No. That would be weird.”

"Why would that be weird?" Riddle asked, lightening his hold on his wand, the anger that was once there fading.

“Because-" Harry's mind flashed back to the time they danced together, "Just--that's not important. I'm not related to you at all."

"Good," Riddle murmered.

Harry blinked, his breath still uneven. "What?"

Riddle tilted his head, watching him closely. "I said, good." His voice was quiet, but firm.

Something in Harry's chest tightened. He didn't know what to say to that—what could he say? He was still pinned beneath Riddle, the weight of him pressing Harry down, the remnants of Legilimency leaving his mind hazy and raw.

"You’re still lying to me," Riddle murmured, studying him like a puzzle he was determined to solve.

Harry swallowed. "I’m not."

"You hesitated."

Harry clenched his jaw. "Because it doesn’t matter. Look, I’ll tell you everything, I promise. But it’s a little hard when you're pinning me down like this.”

Riddle hummed, unconvinced. His grip on his wand had loosened, but he still didn’t move off of Harry. He was watching him too closely, like he could drag the truth out of him with sheer will.
The silence stretched between them.

Harry tried not to think about how warm Riddle was. How close. The way his breath ghosted against his cheek, the way the dim light from Harry’s still-lit wand cast shadows across Riddle’s face, sharp and unreadable.

His mind flashed back—unbidden, unwanted—to the Yule Ball.

The way Riddle had smirked when he extended his hand. The way Harry had taken it despite everything telling him not to. The way they’d danced, tense at first, then fluid, then—
Harry shoved the memory away.

It didn’t matter.

"Your mind is guarded. Even with Legilimency, you only let me see what you wanted me to. But you slipped up." His eyes gleamed, something sharp and satisfied lurking beneath them. "That memory of the Ball—it was important, wasn’t it?"

Harry stiffened.

Riddle laughed.

It wasn’t mocking—it wasn’t cruel—it was genuine, like he was genuinely amused.

Harry hated the way it made something twist inside him.

"You danced with me," Riddle mused, like he was piecing it together in real-time. "And you didn’t hate it. In fact, you loved it. I knew you did.”

Harry clenched his jaw. "Shut up. How did you see that?”

Riddle hummed. "Your occlumency is good,"

Harry almost burst out laughing, tempted to ask Riddle to put that in writing so he can one day show Snape.

"but not as good as you think.” Riddle continued, “I think I’m beginning to understand why you couldn’t kill me."

Harry’s blood ran cold. "That’s not—"

"It would be difficult, wouldn’t it?" Riddle interrupted smoothly, leaning in just slightly, his voice quiet, almost smug. "After all, I am the only one who truly understands you here, aren’t I?"

Harry exhaled sharply. "You don’t understand me at all."

Riddle hummed again, unconvinced. He finally, finally sat back, releasing his hold on Harry’s robes, but didn’t move away entirely.

“So you trust me?” Harry murmured.

The weight of his words still hung between them.

Harry sat up slowly, his entire body tense, like one wrong move would shatter whatever fragile truce they’d stumbled into.

Riddle watched him carefully.

"You’re not going to kill me," he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I won’t.” Harry sighed.

“Okay. Well, now you’re going to tell me everything. What happens in the future?” Riddle demanded.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know if I can tell you everything. What if that messes with…the universe or something?”

Riddle laughed, “For how smart you are, you sure can be daft. Your presence here has already, surely messed up everything in our timeline. In fact, you probably aren’t in the same timeline as before.”
“What?” Harry whispered. How could he have not thought of that?

Riddle smirked at his reaction, clearly enjoying watching Harry process the revelation. “Think about it,” he said, tilting his head. “You didn’t exist here before, did you? And yet here you are, walking around, changing things, interacting with people you never should have met. This is no longer the timeline you left.”

Harry felt a chill creep down his spine. His mind raced. If what Riddle was saying was true—if he was already in a different timeline—then did that mean nothing he did here would affect his own time? Or did it mean he could never go back at all?

The thought made his stomach drop.

Riddle studied him, amused. “It’s adorable how this is only now occurring to you.”

Harry scowled. “Shut up.”

Riddle laughed. “I’ll consider it, but first, you’re going to tell me what happens in the future.”

Harry hesitated. He couldn’t tell Riddle everything—not about the war, not about what he became. But how much could he say?

Riddle seemed to sense his hesitation. He leaned in, eyes glinting. “If you’re worried about altering the future, don’t be. That future is no longer yours. Which means you have no reason not to tell me what happens.”

Harry swallowed. His mind was still spinning. Was that true? Was the future he left behind already gone? No—it couldn’t be, could it?

But what if it was?

Riddle’s smirk widened. “You’re panicking.”

Harry forced himself to take a slow breath. “I’m thinking.”

“Well, think faster,” Riddle said smoothly. “You owe me answers, Harry.”

The way he said his name sent a shiver down Harry’s spine.

Riddle must have noticed, because his smirk deepened. “So?” he pressed.

Harry hesitated. Then, finally, he said:

“There’s a war.”

Riddle’s smirk faded slightly. He sat back, considering him. “Go on.”

Harry took a deep breath. “It’s a war in our world. The wizarding world. And you…you’re at the center of it.”

Riddle’s eyes flashed. “Am I?”

Harry clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

Riddle was silent for a moment, studying him. Then, slowly, he said, “And what do I do in this war?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He could feel the weight of the moment, the way Riddle was watching him, waiting, calculating.

“Go on,” he said, voice quieter now, awaiting Harry’s response.

Harry swallowed. “You don’t just start a war,” he said. “You become something else. You change your name. You become Voldemort.”

Riddle’s eyebrows twitched, his lips parting slightly, as though he hadn’t expected to hear his own chosen name from Harry’s mouth.

“You lose yourself to dark magic,” Harry continued, forcing himself to hold Riddle’s gaze. “You--You’re nothing like you are now. Your face, your body… it’s unrecognizable. And worse than that, you become obsessed with immortality, so much so that you start doing the unthinkable. And because of that obsession, because of you—” Harry’s voice faltered just slightly, but he pushed through. “You killed my parents.”

Riddle went very still.

The flickering torchlight of the Chamber cast his face in shifting shadows, but even through them, Harry could see the change—the sharp, momentary flicker of shock before Riddle carefully masked it with cool indifference.

“Really?” Riddle finally said, his voice unreadable. “Your parents? And why, exactly, would I do that?”

Harry exhaled slowly. He could still hear his mother’s screams in his nightmares sometimes, the flash of green, the way Voldemort’s voice had echoed in the night.
“That’s what happens when you lose yourself to dark magic,” he said. “You do horrific things.”

Riddle didn’t say anything, but his fingers curled slightly against his wand.

Harry hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “You want proof?”

Riddle’s sharp eyes snapped back to his.

Harry took a breath. “Fine. Take it.”

Riddle didn’t need to be told twice. He pressed his wand against Harry’s temple, and the moment Harry lowered his mental defenses, Riddle dived in.
It was instant. The cold rush of Legilimency, the feeling of something slithering through his thoughts, prying, peeling them open—

Then—

His childhood. Growing up with the Dursleys. Being told his parents are dead and its his fault.

The graveyard.

Cold stone. The towering, twisted headstone of Tom Riddle Sr. The moonlight glinting off Voldemort’s pale, serpentine face.

“Kill the spare.”

The flash of green. Cedric’s lifeless body hitting the ground.

The pain—so much pain—

Voldemort’s voice, high and cruel, laughing as he taunted Harry, circling him like prey—

“You have been taught how to duel, I presume? Bow to death, Harry…”

The Death Eaters laughing. The graveyard spinning. The weight of his wand. The knowledge that he was going to die here—

Riddle ripped himself out of the memory, gasping.

He staggered back, barely catching himself with a hand on the damp stone floor. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something darker.
Harry, breathing hard, forced himself to sit up, rubbing his temple. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s you. That’s what you become.”

Riddle didn’t move. His face was pale, his jaw locked so tightly it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The Chamber was silent, save for the distant dripping of water.

Then, at last, Riddle straightened. His face was unreadable.

“That,” he said slowly, “was not me.”

Harry met his gaze. “Not yet.”

“Okay.” Riddle whispered, brows furrowed and eyes flickering around, as if searching for answers. “How did I–the other me, fuck up? And that still doesn’t explain how you can speak Parseltongue.”
Harry hesitated. He knew he had already said too much.

And then there was the Parseltongue question. How was he supposed to explain that? He himself had no idea.

Harry took a breath. “You—he—wanted immortality. More than anything. And he—” Harry searched for the right words, ones that wouldn’t reveal too much. “Well, there's a prophecy.”

Riddle’s gaze sharpened. “What was the prophecy?”

“I wish I knew. I had it. But then I came here and it was gone.”

Riddle frowned. "Then what? Do I fail? What becomes of me?"

Harry shakes his head underneath the boy, "I won't tell you."

A flicker of irritation crossed Riddle’s face, but he masked it quickly, tilting his head. “You do realize you’re not in a position to bargain, right?”

Harry clenched his jaw. “You wanted to know how you messed up? That’s how. You became so obsessed with power that you lost sight of everything else. And eventually, that power destroyed you.”

Riddle hummed, thoughtful. “So dramatic.” He shifted, leaning closer, and Harry had to fight the urge to fight back. Riddle studied him like a puzzle, dark eyes gleaming. “But you’re still avoiding my question.”

Harry stiffened.

Riddle smirked. “You said we’re not related. And yet, you speak Parseltongue. Why?”

Harry swallowed. “I don’t know,” he said, truthfully.

Riddle’s expression darkened. “You have got to be the worst liar I’ve met in my entire life, Evans.”

Harry forced himself to hold his gaze, "I'm not lying. I don't know. Dumbledore I think knew, but he never told me. All I know is that we're not related."

Riddle regarded him for a long moment, then suddenly sighed, his demeanor shifting. “Alright,” he murmured, as if relenting. His voice softened, turning almost… coaxing. “Fine. Keep your secrets, for now. As long as you're not a Gaunt, it doesn’t even matter.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He didn’t like that tone.

Riddle crouched slightly, bringing himself to Harry’s level. “You’re so stubborn, Harry,” he mused, his voice like silk, smooth and dangerous. “You think withholding information is protecting me? That you’re saving me?” He tilted his head. “That’s not how this works.”

Harry clenched his fists, his mind racing.

“You’re worried,” Riddle continued, his tone thoughtful, eyes scanning Harry’s face. “You think that if you tell me too much, I’ll become him.” A slow smirk curled his lips. “Is that it?”

Harry didn’t respond.

Riddle let out a quiet laugh. “You must care about me a great deal, then.”

Harry tensed. “That’s not—”

“Of course it is,” Riddle cut in smoothly. “You wouldn’t be trying so hard otherwise.”

Harry scowled. “Don’t twist this.”

Riddle merely smiled. “I don’t need to twist anything, Harry. I think you’ve already done that to yourself.”

Harry exhaled sharply, trying to rein in his frustration. “I’m not playing whatever mind game you think this is.”

Riddle hummed in amusement. “No, I suppose you’re not. You’re just trying to rewrite fate.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. “I wonder… do you really think you can change me?”

Harry stared at him.

Riddle held his gaze, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between them.

Then, just as suddenly, Riddle straightened, his smirk returning. “Well, I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Riddle’s smile was sharp, knowing. “It means, Harry, that I like you.” His tone was unreadable, a mixture of amusement and something darker. “And that means you’re mine to figure out.”
Harry’s pulse quickened.

Before he could respond, Riddle stood and turned sharply on his heel. “Come on,” he said, voice light, as if the past ten minutes hadn’t happened. “It’s getting late. We wouldn’t want anyone getting suspicious, would we?”

Riddle muttered in parseltongue, calling out Onyx from his hiding spot. The small snake hissed in annoyance as it followed Riddle.

Harry hesitated, still wary. He didn’t trust this sudden shift, didn’t trust the way Riddle had gone from murderous to intrigued in a matter of minutes. But he also knew that staying here, alone in the Chamber, wasn’t an option.

So, against his better judgment, he followed.

Chapter Text

Harry was dreaming.

Something about a warm bed, a quiet castle, and a life where he didn’t have to worry about time travel or homicidal Slytherins. It was nice. Peaceful. Comfortable.

Then, someone shoved his shoulder.

Harry groaned, rolling onto his side and burrowing deeper under the covers. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.

“Harry.”

The voice was far too close.

“Go away,” he mumbled, pulling the blanket over his head.

A beat of silence. Then two hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently.

“Harry, wake up.”

Harry yelped, jolting upright, heart hammering. His vision was still blurry with sleep, his brain fogged and slow to process, but there was no mistaking the dark-haired figure looming over him.

“What the hell, Riddle?!”

Riddle, looking entirely unbothered, arched a brow. “Good, you’re awake.”

Harry groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. “No thanks to you.”

Riddle ignored him completely. “Come on, get up. We need to talk.”

Harry squinted toward the window, noting the dim, bluish light seeping through the curtains. He slumped back against his pillow with a pained groan. “It’s way too early for this.”

Riddle scoffed. “You were unconscious for hours. That was plenty of rest.”

“That’s how sleep works,” Harry muttered. “People do it for hours.”

Riddle rolled his eyes. “Fine, since you’re clearly too lazy to get up, we’ll talk here.”

Before Harry could protest, Riddle sat down.

Right next to him.

Harry froze. His body went rigid, heat rising to his face as Riddle leaned comfortably against the headboard, far too at ease with the situation.

“What? Why are you sitting here?” Harry spluttered, shifting awkwardly.

Riddle tilted his head, looking at him as if the question itself was absurd. “Because you refused to get up. This is your fault.”

Harry groaned, half-muffled against his hands. “You can’t just sit on my bed.”

Riddle smirked. “Why not? It’s not as if I’m in it.”

Harry turned even redder.

Riddle let out a low, amused chuckle but didn’t push further. Instead, he folded his hands neatly in his lap, his expression settling into something more calculating.

“Now, let’s start with something easy how did the war with Grindelwald end?”

Harry, still too groggy to argue, sighed. “Dumbledore. He defeated him in a duel.”

Riddle nodded, thoughtful. “Expected. I assume he used the Elder Wand?”

Harry stilled.

Riddle scoffed. “Oh, please, Harry. I know about the Hallows.” His lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk. “Though I suppose you knowing about them means they must be real.”

Harry hesitated before nodding. “Yeah. Grindelwald had the Elder Wand, but Dumbledore took it from him. He’s had it ever since.”

Riddle hummed, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Fascinating.” He flicked his gaze back to Harry. “And what about me? Did I get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job?”

Harry let out a short, bitter laugh. “No.”

Riddle’s smirk vanished. His brows furrowed. “No?”

Harry sighed. “You… tried. But Dumbledore didn’t trust you.”

Riddle scoffed, clearly offended. “Of course it would be him. Bastard.”

Harry shot him a pointed look. “You cursed the job, too. When you didn’t get it.”

Riddle stared.

Harry stretched, yawning. “That’s why no professor has lasted more than a year.” He gave Riddle a smirk of his own. “Nice work.”

Riddle stared at him for a long moment before laughing. “You’re serious?”

Harry nodded.

Riddle smirked, shaking his head. “Incredible.”

Harry groaned. “Can you not be proud of that?”

Riddle ignored him, as usual. “Alright. What about the Chamber of Secrets? How did I first open it?”

Harry tensed. He knew this question was coming.

Riddle, of course, noticed immediately. “Oh? What, was it something awful?” His smirk widened. “Tell me.”

Harry sighed. “You… found the entrance and spoke Parseltongue to open it.”

“Yes, obviously,” Riddle said dryly. “And then?”

Harry clenched his jaw. “You let the basilisk out.”

Riddle’s eyes lit up with interest. “Did I kill anyone?”

Harry hesitated, then sighed. “There was a girl. Myrtle. She died.”

Riddle was silent for a moment, considering. Then, he nodded to himself. “Ah, a girl. So that’s why you’ve been trying so hard to stop me from releasing the basilisk. Did you like that girl?”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wait-what? Moaning Myrtle? She’s not even from my time! I don’t care about that-–I just don’t want anyone to die.”

Riddle only grinned. “I know. Just messing with you.”

Harry groaned, flopping back against his pillow. “This was a terrible idea. Let me sleep, Riddle.”

“I have many more questions,” Riddle nudged Harry with his elbow, “And. Call me Tom.”

Harry blinked up at him, sleep-fogged brain stalling.

“…What?”

Riddle--or rather, Tom--watched him expectantly, head tilted ever so slightly, as if waiting for some grand revelation to dawn on him.

Harry pushed himself up on his elbows. “You...you want me to call you Tom?”

Tom gave a slow, deliberate nod. “That is my name, is it not?”

Harry frowned. “Yeah, but you don’t let people call you that.”

Tom hummed. “Most people don’t deserve to.”

The words sent a strange shiver down Harry’s spine. He wasn’t sure what unnerved him more; the casual way Tom said it, like it was some undisputed fact, or the fact that, apparently, Harry was an exception.

Harry wet his lips. “Okay… Tom.”

Something flickered across Tom’s face; satisfaction, amusement, approval? It was hard to tell.

“Good,” Tom said simply. “Now, about my next question--”

“Oh, for the love of-” Harry let out an exaggerated groan and flopped back onto his pillow. “Can’t you just… give me an hour? I was having a nice dream.”

“I’m sure you were.” Tom smirked. “But your dreams are irrelevant. I, on the other hand, have spent the entire night pondering you.”

Harry froze. “...That’s not creepy at all.”

Tom waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be dramatic. You are simply an enigma, Harry. One that I intend to unravel.”

Harry groaned into his pillow. “Great. Glad to know I’m your latest experiment.”

“Hardly.” Tom smirked. “You’re more of a curiosity. A very chatty curiosity, for once.”

Harry huffed, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. Ask your damn questions.”

Tom leaned back against the headboard, looking utterly pleased with himself. “Excellent. Now, what was my greatest achievement?”

Harry blinked. “Uh, what?”

Tom gave him a pointed look. “Surely I did something impressive after Hogwarts. I refuse to believe I left no mark on history.”

Harry hesitated. “You, uh… had a pretty big impact, yeah.”

Tom smirked. “I knew it. Go on, then. What was it?”

Harry bit his lip. “I might need you to be more specific?”

Tom scoffed. “Don’t play coy, Harry.” He narrowed his eyes. “I changed the world, didn’t I?”

Harry hesitated, fingers twisting in the blanket. “Yeah… you could say that.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed. “Tell me everything.”

Harry exhaled slowly, gaze flickering toward the ceiling. Where the hell did he even start?

Harry exhaled, shifting to sit up properly. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing at Tom, who was watching him with sharp, expectant eyes. Waiting.

“Well,” Harry started, voice quieter now. “You died.”

Tom stilled. The amusement, the arrogance, all of it vanished.

“…What?”

“You died,” Harry repeated, watching him carefully. “And I was the one who killed you.”

Tom’s lips parted slightly, his expression unreadable.

“As a baby.”

That got a reaction.

Tom jerked forward, eyes flashing. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Harry said evenly. “I was the first person to ever survive the Killing Curse.”

Tom stared. “That’s impossible.”

Harry only shrugged. “And yet, here I am.”

Tom shook his head, disbelief flickering across his face. “No. No spell, no magic, no force in existence can stop the Killing Curse.”

Harry’s gaze dropped to his hands. “It wasn’t a spell.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Then what was it?”

Harry exhaled. “My mother’s love.”

A beat of silence.

Then-

Tom laughed. It was sharp, disbelieving, like he couldn’t fathom something so ridiculous.

“Love?” he repeated, scoffing. “Don’t insult me, Harry.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s absurd.”

Harry met his gaze. “And yet, you’re dead.”

Tom’s expression darkened. His hands curled into fists. “Love is not a shield, nor is it a weapon.”

Harry shrugged. “It was that night.”

Tom’s jaw tensed. He looked genuinely frustrated, like he wanted to argue, to rip apart Harry’s explanation, but he couldn’t.

Because Harry was alive, and in this timeline, Tom was not.

After a long silence, Tom leaned back slightly, studying Harry as if trying to find the lie.

“…You’re infuriating.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

Tom exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. “Unbelievable.”

“Believe it or don’t,” Harry said. “It’s the truth.”

Tom didn’t respond. He seemed… lost in thought, gaze unfocused, lips pressed into a thin line.

Harry took a breath. Now was his chance.

“I won’t tell you anything else,” he said, “unless you promise me something.”

Tom blinked, focus snapping back to him. “Oh?”

Harry nodded. “You can’t unleash the basilisk.”

Tom’s expression flickered. “And if I don’t?”

Harry met his gaze, steady. “Then I don’t say another word.”

Tom smirked, but there was something dangerous behind it. “Harry, you are not in a position to bargain.”

Harry only shrugged. “I have nothing to lose if I die.” He tilted his head. “But you? You lose all of this.”

Tom’s smirk faltered.

Harry pressed on. “You lose the chance to understand what went wrong. You lose the knowledge of how you failed.”

Tom’s fingers twitched.

Harry gave a slow, pointed nod. “I can walk away right now. And you’ll never know.”

Tom huffed, clearly annoyed. He rolled his eyes, like Harry was the difficult one.

“Fine,” he said at last. “I won’t unleash the basilisk.”

Harry’s shoulders loosened.

Tom tilted his head. “Besides, I don’t need to now that I have you here.”

Harry groaned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re the key to my success. You know everything.” Tom smirked.

Harry wasn’t sure what he had expected.

Maybe some sort of acknowledgment that he was more than just a convenient source of information. Maybe some indication that Tom saw him as more than a puzzle to be picked apart.
But no. Tom had played along, smirking like always, indulging in the game of words and bargains, completely unbothered.

It shouldn’t have bothered Harry as much as it did. He knew what Tom was. Manipulative. Self-serving. Calculating. It wasn’t like he had expected kindness.

And yet-

His chest felt tight.

"I'm just your key to success?" Harry murmered.

Tom shrugged, "Well, of course you are."

Tom was watching him, head tilted in mild confusion, like he didn’t quite understand why Harry had stiffened, why his expression had closed off.

Harry swallowed, forcing himself to move. To leave.

He pushed back the covers, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood.

Tom’s brows furrowed. “Where are you going?”

Harry didn’t answer. He grabbed his robes, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and stalked toward the door.

Tom sat up straighter. “Harry.”

Still, Harry didn’t look back.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The corridors were quiet. The castle had yet to fully stir, the usual hum of morning activity still distant, muffled.

Harry walked. Onyx slithered out of his sleeve, waking up from his nap and also questioned him with a hiss, “What is wrong, speaker?”

“Nothing, it’s okay.” Harry responded in parseltongue.

The snake tilted his head as if wanting to call out the blatant lie, but said nothing.

His feet moved without direction, without thought, carrying him through the winding halls. The air was crisp against his skin, the stone floors cool beneath his feet.

His hands clenched at his sides.

Why had he let himself believe, even for a second that things could be different? That Tom could be different?

Harry exhaled sharply, tilting his head back to stare at the high-arched ceiling. It was stupid. He was stupid.

Tom wasn’t like his friends.

His thoughts stuttered as he turned a corner and froze.

The portrait before him was all too familiar.

The Fat Lady.

She was asleep, snoring softly within her gilded frame.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

The Gryffindor common room.

A lump rose in his throat as memories crashed into him, vivid and sharp. Ron and Hermione.

The warmth of the fire, late nights spent cramming for exams, the way they would claim their usual seats near the best armchairs. Hermione’s exasperated sighs, Ron’s loud complaints, the easy laughter, the sense of home.

A home that didn’t exist here.

His chest ached.

Harry took a slow step forward, fingers itching to reach out, to press against the canvas and whisper a password that no longer worked.

He didn’t.

Instead, he let out a shaky breath and let his hand fall back to his side.

Ron and Hermione wouldn’t understand.

They wouldn’t understand this place, this time. They wouldn’t understand Tom. They would think he was crazy for even talking to a young Voldemort.

Harry exhaled.

Tom.

A Slytherin. A liar. A manipulator.

Nothing like Ron and Hermione.

But-

Harry frowned, shifting his weight.

For all his cruelty, Tom had listened. He had pressed and prodded and wanted to know.

Harry had never had that before.

His friends had been there for him, always, but they had never understood the weight he carried. They had tried, but they had never felt it, not the way he had.

Tom did.

Maybe that’s what made it worse.

Tom understood him better than most and yet, he still only saw Harry as useful.

Harry’s lips pressed together.

He turned away from the portrait slid against the wall to sit on the floor.

His thoughts drifted again.

To the past.

To Cho.

His first relationship. His first kiss. His first failure.

He grimaced, running a hand through his hair. That had been a disaster. Miscommunication, grief, expectations neither of them could meet.

Cho had wanted something from him.

Something soft, something vulnerable. A piece of himself that he hadn’t known how to give.

And Tom-

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Tom wanted something too.

Not softness. Not vulnerability.

No, Tom wanted Harry’s secrets. His knowledge. The pieces of himself that Harry didn’t know if he should give.

Cho had been gentle. Tom was ruthless.

Cho had wanted to love him.

Tom wanted to own him.

Harry exhaled, pressing his fingers to his temple. How had he even ended up comparing the two? He shook his head, letting out a low laugh. Merlin, he was losing it. Still, the thought lingered, curling around his mind like smoke.

The stone floor beneath him was cold, but Harry barely noticed. He had been sitting outside the Gryffindor common room for hours now, back resting against the ancient castle wall, legs stretched out in front of him. He had no idea how long he had been here. Morning had blurred into afternoon, and now afternoon was slipping into evening.

Eventually, even Onyx left him, hissing something about wanting food as he slithered away. Harry watched him go, glad that the halls of Hogwarts were so empty that Onyx didn’t have to worry about being caught.

His fingers traced absent patterns against the golden surface of the Time-Turner he had stolen. The chain dangled loosely between his fingers, the small hourglass gleaming in the dimming light. He turned it over and over, the smooth plating cool beneath his touch.

It was ironic, in a way. This little thing had the power to undo time, to take him backward, to bend the laws of nature itself. And yet, despite everything, he was still stuck. Trapped in a past that didn’t belong to him. A future that wasn’t certain.

His head ached. His limbs felt heavy, weighted down by exhaustion. He hadn’t eaten all day and still hadn’t felt hungry. It wasn’t hunger that gnawed at him, anyway. It was something deeper. Something hollow.
He just wanted to go home.

Harry exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the stone. His thoughts drifted, swirling between past and present, between what was and what could never be.

He barely registered the approaching footsteps until a shadow fell across him.

His eyes flickered open, and there he was.

Tom stood a few feet away, watching him with that same unreadable expression, his sharp features softened slightly by the dim candlelight. But something was different. He wasn’t empty-handed.
In each hand, he carried a plate of food.

Harry blinked at him, momentarily thrown.

Tom’s gaze flicked over him, assessing, calculating, before he finally spoke. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Harry sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Just-” His voice was hoarse, cracked from disuse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I just want to be left alone, Tom.”
Tom didn’t move. Didn’t leave.

Instead, he sat down.

Right beside him. Onyx was on his shoulder, staring at Harry. Traitor, Harry thought, the snake had told Tom where he was.

Harry turned to glare at him, but Tom wasn’t looking at him. He simply set one of the plates on the floor between them, adjusting his robes as he leaned back against the wall.

They sat there like that for a long moment, neither speaking. The castle around them murmured softly with distant voices and footsteps, the world moving on as if nothing had changed.

Harry exhaled, his fingers tightening around the Time-Turner. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I used to be in Gryffindor. In my time.”

Tom went very still.

Slowly, he turned his head, his dark eyes scanning Harry’s face, as if searching for some kind of deception.

“…Gryffindor?” he repeated, incredulity creeping into his tone.

Harry let out a tired, humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

Tom frowned, gaze flickering between Harry and the portrait behind him, as if trying to reconcile what he had just learned with what he thought he knew.

“That explains why you act like one all the time,” Tom finally said.

Harry snorted. “Yeah, well. I guess time doesn’t change everything.”

Tom studied him for a moment longer before shifting, drawing one knee up to his chest. “And so, you’re here,” he said, almost thoughtful. “Sitting outside your old common room. Reminiscing?”

Harry didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with things neither of them were willing to say.

Chapter Text

The next few days passed in an uneasy quiet.

At first, Harry remained distant, still simmering with frustration over Tom’s detached pragmatism, his willingness to use Harry for information without a second thought. And yet, despite his cold demeanor, Tom never pushed. He didn't try to force conversation or pry. Instead, he simply stayed nearby, offering quiet companionship without demanding anything in return.

Slowly, the frost began to thaw.

Harry found himself speaking to Tom again, albeit begrudgingly at first, their conversations regaining their usual rhythm. Sharp, biting, yet laced with something else. Something that neither of them had the words for.

By the time the week had passed, things had settled back into their strange, precarious normalcy.

They sat together for lunch in the Great Hall, their usual place in the empty Slytherin table. The holidays were just about over, only a few days until everyone returned.

Tom ate methodically, like someone who saw meals as an obligation rather than a pleasure, pausing between bites to idly scan a book propped against the edge of the table. Across from him, Harry sat with an empty plate.

It wasn’t intentional. He just wasn’t hungry.

Harry barely had time to react before Tom set down his fork and let out a quiet sigh, his sharp gaze sweeping over him with an almost clinical assessment.

"You’re not eating again," Tom observed, voice level but firm.

Harry exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Not hungry."

Tom’s brow creased, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. "This is a horrible habit of yours."

Harry ignored him, staring at the empty plate as if willing it to vanish.

Tom’s voice dropped lower, quieter but not softer.

"I see the way you move," he said. "Slower. Like you’re dragging yourself through the day." He leaned forward slightly. "Your mind isn’t as sharp. You hesitate more. Your cheeks--" His gaze flickered over Harry’s face, just briefly. "They’re hollower than before."

Something in Harry bristled, irritation flaring in his chest.

"Why do you even care?" he snapped. His hands curled into fists on the table. "Would dying of starvation ruin your plans of using me for information?"

A beat of silence.

Tom’s expression didn’t change; no immediate protest, no sharp retort. He simply looked at Harry, studying him with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

Then, finally, Tom shook his head. "No," he said simply. "That isn’t it."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Then what?"

Tom hesitated.

It was the barest hesitation, hardly noticeable, but it was there and it was real.

"I don’t like seeing you like this," Tom admitted, voice quiet but steady. "Tired. Sickly." His gaze flickered to Harry’s empty plate. "Just eat something."

Harry’s breath hitched, caught off guard.

For the first time, he considered the possibility that Tom’s concern might be genuine. “Careful, Riddle,” Harry emphasized the use of Tom’s last name, “I might start to think you actually care.”

Without another word, Harry picked up a slice of bread with some eggs and placed it on his plate. He didn’t look at Tom, but he felt the weight of his stare.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the briefest twitch of a smile on Tom’s lips.

He had won.

The day went on quietly.

The air was damp and cold in the abandoned corridor outside the girls' bathroom. The scent of mildew clung to the stones, the dim torchlight flickering against the cracked tiles.

Tom stood beside him, arms crossed, watching as Harry eyed the entrance warily.

"I don’t know why you still don’t trust me," Tom said, exasperation creeping into his voice. "The basilisk isn't going to leave. I told her."

Harry shot him a look. "I just want to make sure."

Tom sighed, but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned to face the sink and hissed.

The language of serpents slithered off his tongue, low and smooth, reverberating against the stone walls. The sink shuddered before spiraling open, revealing the dark, yawning descent into the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry took a breath, steeling himself. Then, without another word, he jumped down.

Tom followed.

The journey through the underground tunnels was silent, save for the occasional drip of water echoing against the cavern walls. Their footsteps were muffled by the dampness in the air, the oppressive darkness stretching endlessly before them.

At last, they reached the Chamber.

The vast, open expanse loomed around them, ancient serpent statues lining the walls, their stone eyes gleaming in the dim light. At the far end, curled in the shadows, the basilisk waited.

Tom stepped forward first, his presence commanding.

He spoke in Parseltongue, his voice resonating through the chamber. The basilisk’s head lifted, her great golden eyes unseeing, yet somehow knowing.

Harry swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand firm, and avert his eyes from the basilisk.

The chamber was thick with the scent of damp stone, a clinging, subterranean musk that mixed with the faintest trace of something older, something woven into the bones of the place. The basilisk’s presence was a heavy thing: vast, ancient, watchful, even from Harry’s peripheral.

Then, shifting his weight, he hissed his own greeting, “Hello again.”

Harry barely had a moment to take in the sight of her before he noticed Tom looking at him.

Not just looking. Smiling.

It was a strange expression, not his usual smirk, nor the carefully practiced charm he wore in front of others. This was something else, something amused and almost... fascinated.

Harry narrowed his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. "What?"

Tom tilted his head slightly, his smile deepening. "It's just… interesting."

Harry frowned. "What is?"

"Hearing you speak Parseltongue," Tom said simply, his voice smooth, unreadable.

Harry stiffened. Oh.

He hadn't really thought about how it sounded to other people before, especially another speaker—he hardly ever spoke the language in front of anyone. It was just… instinctual. Natural. But now, with Tom watching him like that, with that look in his eyes--

"I'm sorry," Harry muttered, glancing away.

Tom made a soft sound, almost like a chuckle, and shook his head. "No. I like it."

Harry turned red, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He swallowed, fixing his gaze somewhere, anywhere, but at Tom. "Oh," he said lamely.

Tom didn’t say anything else, but the amusement still lingered in his expression, in the way he held himself. So relaxed, so certain, so aware of the effect he had.

Harry tried not to let it bother him.

Tried.

He cleared his throat and turned back to the basilisk, who had been waiting patiently through their exchange, her massive coils shifting slightly.

"I'm sorry," Harry said in Parseltongue, directing his words at her. "For threatening you before."

The basilisk’s head lifted slightly, a slow, deliberate movement, and for a long moment, she was silent. Then, her voice slithered through the chamber, cool and unimpressed.

"You threatened me, little speaker."

Harry winced. "Yeah, I did."

"And now you apologize?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. I was… angry. And afraid."

The basilisk let out a low, almost thoughtful hum, but her body remained taut, the coil of her tail twitching slightly.

Tom, who had been watching with idle amusement, finally stepped in. He didn't apologize on Harry's behalf, nor did he try to excuse him. Instead, his voice lilted in the language of serpents, smooth and coaxing, persuasive in a way that only Tom Riddle could be.

"He is young," Tom said, his tone carefully measured. "And foolish, sometimes. But he meant no harm, great one. Consider this a debt repaid with my word."

The basilisk regarded him for a long moment before exhaling, a slow, rattling breath. Then, she lowered her head, ever so slightly.

"Very well."

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Tom had done that.

But before he could dwell on it, there was a small, familiar hiss from behind him.

Onyx. The little snake had emerged from his sleeve, flicking his tongue in the air, eyeing the massive serpent before him with a mix of wariness and curiosity.

"A hatchling," the basilisk observed, lowering her head further. "You are not afraid of me, little one?"

Onyx hesitated for half a second before responding. "Harry is not afraid. I will not be afraid."

A low, almost approving rumble rolled through the basilisk’s chest.

Tom let out a quiet laugh beside Harry, shaking his head. "Brave little thing, isn’t he?"

Harry found himself grinning, something warm blooming in his chest at the sight of Onyx and the basilisk conversing—at the way Tom was watching them, eyes alight with amusement.

For a moment, just a moment, everything felt… good.

They stood there, watching the two snakes, before Tom finally turned back to Harry.

"This place," he said casually, glancing around the chamber, "it would make a rather convenient meeting spot, don’t you think?"

Harry blinked, thrown by the sudden change in conversation. "For the Knights?" he asked, skeptical. "They’ll be petrified."

Tom let out a soft chuckle. "No," he clarified, "just for you and me. And Onyx, of course."

Harry hesitated. There was something in the way Tom said it, something that felt like more than just practicality.

Like an invitation.

Like a secret.

Harry swallowed. "Why?"

Tom took a slow step closer, something knowing in his eyes. "Because I like talking to you," he said simply. "And I think you like talking to me, too."

Harry didn’t answer, but the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, the way he suddenly couldn’t meet Tom’s gaze said enough.

Tom hummed. "You should speak Parseltongue more often," he mused.

Harry frowned, glancing up. "Why?"

Tom’s smirk deepened. He reached out, fingers tilting Harry’s chin up just slightly, not forceful, not rough. Just… deliberate.

"Because," Tom said smoothly, "it sounds natural on you."

Harry burned.

He couldn’t even think of a response, not when Tom was looking at him like that, not when he could still feel the faint, lingering press of fingers against his skin. Tom tilted his head, as if waiting for something.

And then, softly, almost hesitantly, Harry hissed a single phrase in Parseltongue, “Okay.”

Tom’s expression flickered—something sharp, something pleased.

He smiled.

"Good.”

Harry ducked away, heat rushing up his neck as he willed himself to focus on something other than the way Tom was looking at him. He could still feel the ghost of Tom’s fingers under his chin, the way his voice had dipped just so, coaxing.

Clearing his throat, Harry latched onto the first thought that came to mind. “So… what are you going to tell the Knights?”

Tom hummed, tilting his head. “About what?”

Harry gave him a pointed look. “About why you’re not going to unleash the basilisk.”

There was a pause as Tom considered, his brows furrowing just slightly. Then, with a quiet exhale, he said, “I’ll tell them the plan changed.”

Harry blinked. “And?”

Tom's expression changed slightly as if he was in deep thought. “I’ll say that her power is too great a risk, that if she were to escape and run wild, she would be uncontrollable. Hogwarts would fall under scrutiny. Dippet would bring in Aurors.” He tilted his head slightly. “It wouldn’t be the first time I changed the story to suit my needs.”

Harry let out a slow breath. It was a good lie. A convincing one. He didn’t doubt that the Knights would believe him. They worshipped Tom. They never questioned him.

Tom glanced at Harry, his gaze unreadable. “Will that suffice?”

Harry hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. That should work.”

Tom hummed again, satisfied. Just as they turned to leave, a small hiss of protest stopped them. Onyx was still curled near the basilisk, looking entirely too comfortable, his tiny body draped lazily across one of her coils.

“I don’t want to go,” Onyx complained, flicking his tongue. “She tells such interesting stories.”

Harry sighed, crouching down. “Onyx, come on. We can’t stay here all night.”

Onyx coiled tighter. “I like it here.”

The basilisk let out something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, her massive tail shifting slightly. “He is welcome to stay, little speaker.”

Harry shot Tom a look, but Tom only smirked. “Well, go on, Harry. If you don’t want to leave him, you’ll have to carry him.”

Harry rolled his eyes but reached out, carefully scooping Onyx up in his hands. The little snake wriggled in protest but ultimately settled, curling around Harry’s wrist with an air of resignation.

“Traitor,” Onyx muttered.

Harry smiled.

Tom watched them with something like amusement before turning toward the passageway. “Come on, then,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, they left the Chamber of Secrets together.

The last two days of the holiday break passed in a quiet, unspoken rhythm.

They spent their time in the common room, tucked away in the quieter corners, speaking only in Parseltongue. Tom never insisted, never made it a demand—it had just happened.

It was easy.

Comfortable.

Harry found himself forgetting. Forgetting, just for a little while, that he was trapped in the past. Forgetting that Tom Riddle was supposed to be someone to fear. Forgetting everything that had once made his chest feel tight with grief and longing.

Onyx was always with them, either coiled lazily around Harry’s wrist or draped over Tom’s arm, flitting between the two of them with ease.

And for the first time in a long time, Harry felt… happy.

He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed this—missed having someone.

But the holiday couldn’t last forever.

Morning came too soon.

And with it, the return of the rest of the student body.

The morning was chaotic.

Harry stood near the entrance of the common room, watching as the Knights of Walpurgis filed in, one by one, along with every Slytherin; first year to seventh. Lestrange. Nott. Malfoy. Black. The names and faces of the past, younger and sharper than he had ever known them, filling the space that had once been just him and Tom. They crowded around Tom, greeting him with eager words and expectant smiles, like moths drawn to a flame. Tom, for his part, wore his usual mask of effortless charm, acknowledging them with polite nods and quiet laughter.

Harry watched from a distance, unsure how to place himself now.

Would things change? Would Tom go back to what he had been before the break—before Harry?

Then, in the midst of conversation, Tom glanced up.

Their eyes met.

And Tom smiled.

Harry swallowed, something strange twisting in his chest.

Before he could dwell on it, a blur of movement came from the side, and suddenly, someone threw their arms around him.

“Harry!”

Harry barely had time to react before he was pulled into a tight embrace.

Alphard Black.

Alphard held him like they were old friends, like he had been waiting to see him again. His grip was firm but warm, and when he pulled back, his dark eyes were bright with something Harry didn’t quite understand.

“How was your break?” Alphard asked, still holding onto his shoulders. “I was going mad with boredom without you here.”

Harry blinked. “Oh--uh, it was… fine.”

Alphard grinned. “Just fine? What did you get up to? Did Riddle keep you entertained?”

Harry hesitated. “I… guess?”

Alphard huffed a laugh. “You’re not giving me much here, Harry. Come on, what did you do?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but something over Alphard’s shoulder caught his eye. Tom was still across the room, still engaged in conversation but his attention wasn’t on the people around him. It was on them. On Alphard’s hands, still resting lightly on Harry’s shoulders.

Tom’s expression hadn’t changed much, but there was something in his posture, in the way his fingers curled just slightly at his sides, that sent a shiver of unease through Harry’s spine.
And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. Harry wondered why he himself had even looked over at Tom in the first place. Alphard was talking and Harry hadn't been listening.

Tom turned back to his conversation, his mask slipping neatly back into place.

...

The corridors of Hogwarts buzzed with the usual first-day-back energy, students chattering about their holiday breaks as they made their way to class. Harry barely had time to process the shift from the quiet of the holiday to the bustling hallways before Alphard fell into step beside him, grinning.

“Well, back to classes. How you lived without me all this time is beyond me.” Alphard drawled, bumping Harry’s shoulder.

Harry snorted. “You were gone for two weeks.”

“Exactly. An eternity in the life of a scholar,” Alphard said dramatically. “I was worried you’d die of boredom without me.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah. It was dreadful. I nearly wasted away.”

Alphard grinned, clearly pleased, and as they entered the Potions classroom, he kept close, guiding Harry toward an open pair of seats near the middle.

“You don’t mind partnering up, do you?” Alphard asked, already setting his things down.

Harry shrugged. “Not at all.”

Alphard winked. “Perfect.”

Nearby, Tom took a seat beside Malfoy, but his eyes flickered toward them briefly before he settled into place.

Class began as Professor Slughorn bustled in, beaming at them all. “Ah, welcome back, my dear students! I trust you all had a restful holiday? Wonderful, wonderful. Now, let’s get straight to business, shall we? Today, we’ll be brewing the Wit-Sharpening Potion, a delightful little elixir to keep your minds sharp for the rest of term.”

As Slughorn waved his wand, instructions appeared on the board, and the students set to work.

Alphard and Harry quickly fell into an easy rhythm, measuring ingredients and preparing their cauldron with practiced efficiency.

“You’ve gotten better at potions,” Alphard noted as Harry expertly crushed some scarab beetles into a fine powder.

Harry almost burst out laughing, “That would be the first time anyone has said that to me.”

“Well, it’s nice having a competent partner for once,” Alphard said with a grin. “Last term, I was stuck with Rosier, and let me tell you, that boy nearly blew off my eyebrows twice.”

Harry chuckled. “That bad?”

“Worse.” Alphard shuddered dramatically. “I was convinced he was actively trying to kill me.”

Harry laughed, shaking his head, and as they continued working, Alphard leaned in a little closer, his shoulder brushing against Harry’s.

Tom, from his spot across the room, had been idly stirring his potion, eyes half-lidded as he listened to Malfoy’s murmured comments.

A soft hiss reached Harry’s ears, and he stiffened instinctively.

“Why aren’t you answering me?”

It was Onyx, peeking out of Tom’s sleeve.

Harry swallowed hard, focusing on slicing his next ingredient. Not now.

But the snake continued, puzzled. “You hear me. I know you do. Why are you ignoring me?”

Guilt coiled in Harry’s stomach, but he couldn’t respond. It had been Tom’s idea to keep his Parseltongue ability a secret which was something Harry hadn’t fully agreed with, but he understood the logic. So instead of replying, he only pressed his lips together, ignoring the way Onyx’s confusion deepened.

Harry kept his head down, forcing himself to ignore Onyx’s hissing. The snake sounded genuinely confused, and guilt pressed heavily against his ribs, but he couldn’t risk answering.
Instead, he let his gaze drift sideways to Tom.

Tom hadn’t been looking at him, but the moment Harry’s eyes lingered, Tom seemed to notice. Their gazes locked, and for a brief second, Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Tom, ever perceptive, narrowed his eyes slightly before shifting his shoulders in a way that looked casual but was anything but. Then, without hesitation, he turned his head ever so slightly and murmured something under his breath, so softly that no one else would hear.

The hissing quieted.

Harry exhaled slowly, tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding finally easing from his shoulders. Tom had understood. He had explained it to Onyx.

Satisfied, Harry turned back to his potion, carefully measuring out the next ingredient while Alphard worked beside him. The class buzzed with quiet conversation, cauldrons bubbling, and the occasional scrape of glass against metal. The thick scent of crushed herbs filled the air, blending with the faint acidity of simmering liquids.

Alphard nudged him lightly with an elbow. “You’re oddly focused today.”

Harry shrugged. “Trying not to ruin the potion.”

“Mm. Good plan.” Alphard sighed, “Though, honestly, I think we’re doing better than most. Slughorn might as well start giving us extra points now.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “I think he only gives those to his favorites.”

“Well,” Alphard said, tilting his head, “you could be one if you wanted.”

Harry shook his head, stirring the potion with careful, even strokes. “I think I’ll pass.”

Alphard watched him for a moment, something unreadable in his expression before he leaned in slightly. “It'd probably be for the best. You're lucky you've never had to go to one of Slughorns parties. Awful, I must say."

"Slughorn has parties?" Harry asked.

Alphard sighed, his eyes downturned as if Harry's words had just brought up years of trauma, "Yup. Slug club. Awful, just a bunch of self rightous pricks. But it's good for networking. Riddle goes everytime, even though he hates it."

"Tom hates it?" Harry cracked a smile.

Alphard looked at Harry, intrigued, "Well, he'd never say it outloud. But I can tell. It's torture to him. And...When did you start calling him Tom?"

Harry hesitated, the question catching him off guard.

“What?”

Alphard smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “Tom,” he repeated. “You call him Tom. Not Riddle, not his last name--Tom.”

Harry frowned slightly, stirring their potion with unnecessary focus. “That’s his name.”

Alphard hummed, still watching him. “Sure. But I don’t hear anyone else calling him that. Just you.”

Harry felt an odd warmth creep up his neck. He had been doing it since the winter break, at first because Tom had asked him to. But overtime, he just got used to it.

“Guess I just don’t care about formalities,” Harry muttered, hoping to brush past the topic.

Alphard, still grinning, opened his mouth to say something else—but before he could, a new voice cut in.

“I see you two have managed to avoid completely ruining your potion.”

Harry didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Malfoy.

The blond leaned against their table, his sharp gray eyes flicking over their bubbling potion with mild surprise. He exhaled slowly, as if it pained him to admit they had done well. “It’s almost…decent.”

Alphard snorted. “Thank you, Malfoy, for your generous approval. I’m sure I’ll sleep soundly tonight knowing I’ve earned your praise.”

Malfoy gave him a thin smile. “I wouldn’t go that far. You know, I don't know why you have been hanging out with Evans so much. You changed, Black.” He turned his gaze to Harry, looking him up and down in a way that made it clear he was assessing something far beyond potion-making skills. “You look dreadful, by the way. Perhaps you should focus less on not ruining the potion and more on taking care of yourself.”

Harry bristled slightly but kept his expression neutral. “Thanks for the concern.”

“Who said I was concerned?” Malfoy scoffed, straightening. “Just an observation. Though, if you collapse mid-lesson, do try not to land near my cauldron.”

Alphard rolled his eyes. “Merlin, Malfoy, you really do have a way with words. Ever consider a career in motivational speaking?”

Malfoy gave him an unimpressed look before flicking his gaze back to Harry. “Enjoy your potion-making, Evans. Try not to let Alphard drag you down.”

And with that, he turned and strode off.

Alphard let out an exaggerated sigh. “You know, I think that was the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever gotten from him.”

Harry shook his head. “I think he’s just bored.”

“Maybe. Riddle probably isn't giving him enough attention since you've taken over as Riddle's second hand.” Alphard said as he gave the potion a final stir.

"Second hand?" Harry scoffed, "Hell no. I'm not one of the knights or whatever. I just...talk to Tom sometimes."

Alphard raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything further, focusing on his cauldron.

Harry glanced across the room, where Malfoy had returned to his own cauldron. Tom stood beside him, seemingly uninterested in whatever Malfoy was saying, his attention once again drifting toward Harry.

Their eyes met. There was something thoughtful in Tom's expression. Harry wasn’t sure what it meant. But he could feel the weight of it.

He looked away first.

Alphard nudged him. “Alright, let’s bottle this up before Slughorn starts hovering.”

When class ended, Alphard stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Finally,” he sighed. “I swear that lasted twice as long as usual.”

Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Every class of potions lasts twice as long because it's a miserable subject.”

“Exactly.” Alphard shot him a grin. “It was dull. We should do something not dull.”

Harry laughed, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Like what?”

“Well,” Alphard started, adjusting the strap of his bag, “Hogsmeade this weekend?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh--”

Before he could respond, movement at the door caught his attention.

Tom had barely taken two steps before pausing, gaze flicking toward them. The other knights had already begun gathering around him, engaged in quiet conversation, but Tom’s attention was elsewhere. In the space of a breath, he changed course, stepping in just as Alphard was about to finish his sentence.

“Harry,” Tom said, smooth as ever.

Alphard cut off mid-word as Tom moved closer, not looking at him, not acknowledging him, only focusing on Harry.

Harry frowned slightly. “What is it?”

“Our next meeting.” Tom’s voice was even, unreadable. “We need to discuss it.”

Alphard exhaled through his nose, but he didn’t argue.

Harry hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Alright.”

The knights were already moving, shifting around them with a practiced ease.

As they walked, Tom fell into step beside Harry, positioning himself just slightly ahead of Alphard—forcing a bit of space between them.

Harry barely noticed, too focused on whatever Tom was saying about the meeting. Tom was discussing his new plan; to not release the basilisk. Harry tried his best to act as if he didn't know anything about it as Tom spoke. Alphard stared at Tom for a few seconds, walking alongside Harry in silence. Harry gave a small smile towards him, as if trying to say that they would catch up later.

The group talked and Harry mostly remained silent. It was only until it was officially dinner time that the knights finally allowed everyone to disperse for food.

The Great Hall hummed with the chatter of students discussing their weekend plans, the usual clatter of plates and silverware filling the space. Harry stared at his empty plate, wondering if he should bother with eating tonight, until Alphard nudged his shoulder.

"So," Alphard started, grinning. "About Hogsmeade, what do you say?"

Harry didn’t have to think much about it. He hadn't been since...well, a long time. Harry tried to push down the thoughts of his friends in his own time and simply responded, "I’d love to go."

Alphard’s expression lit up, and he leaned in slightly. "Brilliant. I was thinking we could--"

"I would love to go as well," Tom cut in smoothly.

Alphard’s smile stiffened for half a second before he turned to Tom, raising an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Tom simply nodded, lifting his goblet to take a measured sip. "It would be interesting to see how Hogsmeade looks during the winter. And it wouldn’t hurt to get some fresh air, don’t you think?" His gaze flickered to Harry at the last part, unreadable as always.

Harry, oblivious to any underlying tension, nodded. "Yeah, that sounds good. We’ll all go together."

Alphard sighed quietly but didn’t argue. Instead, he smiled again, though there was something in his eyes that suggested this wasn’t quite what he had envisioned.

...

Hogsmeade in the 1940s was both eerily familiar and jarringly different. The streets were the same with winding cobblestone paths, the sharp scent of cold air mixed with the inviting aroma of baked goods from the small cafés. The Three Broomsticks still stood proudly in the center of town, its windows glowing warmly against the winter chill. Zonko’s was there too, though the window displays had subtle differences, advertising pranks Harry had never seen before.

Harry took everything in with an odd sense of nostalgia and unease. It wasn’t his Hogsmeade, but it was close enough that he felt almost transported back to his own time, as though he might turn a corner and find Ron and Hermione waiting for him.

He didn’t realize he had slowed his pace until Tom’s voice broke through his thoughts.

"You look like a ghost."

Harry blinked, startled, and turned to find Tom watching him closely.

"Sorry," he muttered, shaking his head. "Just taking it all in."

Tom hummed in understanding, though there was something sharp in his eyes, something knowing. "I’m guessing Hogsmeade hasn’t changed much?”

Harry tensed, before remembering that Tom knew everything. There was nothing to hide. Sighing, Harry honestly said, “Yeah. It’s very similar.”

Tom brushed Harry’s elbow with his arm, but didn’t say anything else.

Alphard, unaware of the exchange, bumped their shoulders together playfully. "Try not to get lost in thought. You’ll miss all the fun."

Harry forced a chuckle, shaking off the unease as the three of them moved further into the village.

They stopped by Honeydukes first, the warmth of the shop a welcome contrast to the crisp winter air outside. Shelves lined with colorful sweets surrounded them, the scent of chocolate and caramel thick in the air.

Harry tried not to remember the night where he had sat in the back, desperate and tired, holding the time turner that he had stolen. The night where he had tried and failed to return home.

Alphard picked up a box of chocolate frogs and handed one to Harry with a smirk. "If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll get a rare card."

Harry chuckled. "I’ll take my chances."

As he moved to grab a few more things, Tom stepped closer, fingers ghosting over the wrapped confections before plucking a small, ornate tin of peppermints from the display, and buying it at the counter. He turned to Harry, holding it up.

"Here, these are for you," Tom said, voice low enough that Alphard wouldn’t overhear. "They help with lightheadedness."

Harry blinked at him, surprised, before realizing Tom had noticed. The way Harry sometimes swayed hen he stood too quickly, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly because he hadn’t eaten properly.

Harry hesitated, then reached out, taking the tin from Tom’s fingers. "Thanks."

Tom’s lips curled into the faintest smile.

Later, they ducked into the Three Broomsticks to warm up. A fire crackled in the large hearth, the scent of butterbeer and roasting meat filling the air. They claimed a small table near the back, the wooden benches slightly worn but comfortable.

Alphard leaned in with a grin. "Alright, Evans, I have to ask, have you ever had firewhiskey?"

Harry blinked. "Uh..."

"He has not," Tom answered before Harry could.

Alphard shot Tom an amused look. "And how would you know that?"

Tom only smiled. "Call it intuition."

Harry shook his head. "You’re both ridiculous."

He flagged down the innkeeper, ordering a small bottle.

Tom sighed. "This is a terrible idea."

"You don’t have to drink, Riddle," Alphard teased.

Harry snorted. "You say that like he’d ever let us have fun without keeping a watchful eye."

Tom shot him a dry look, but there was something amused in his gaze.

When the firewhiskey arrived, Harry took the first sip, the liquid burning down his throat, warming him instantly. Alphard followed, laughing at the heat of it, and for a while, it was easy. Just drinking and laughing, Alphard telling ridiculous stories about his family, Harry trading back sarcastic remarks.

Tom remained quiet at first, arms crossed as he watched them.

And then Alphard nudged Harry’s arm, grinning as he poured another shot. "Come on, Riddle, don’t just sit there judging us. You might actually enjoy yourself."

Tom’s gaze flickered between them, his expression unreadable. Then, before Harry could say anything, Tom reached for a glass, filled it, and downed the shot in one smooth motion.

Harry blinked. Alphard let out a triumphant laugh.

"See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?" Alphard said.

Tom hummed, licking the taste off his lips. "No, I suppose not."

Harry found himself watching Tom's tongue as it licked around his lips. Something about it made Harry stare. The warmth of the alcohol softened the edges of their conversation. Harry felt lighter, his laughter easier. He barely noticed the way Tom had shifted closer, the way their knees brushed under the table.
At one point, Alphard leaned in, grinning. "So, Evans, if you could go anywhere, where would you go?"

Harry hesitated. He thought of home, of a future that was no longer guaranteed. "Somewhere far away."

Tom’s fingers tapped against the table. "You don’t strike me as someone who likes running from fate, Evans."

Harry’s breath caught. He turned, finding Tom watching him with that sharp, knowing look again.

"You don’t know me as well as you think," Harry muttered.

Tom only smiled. "Don’t I?"

Alphard, oblivious to the tension, leaned dramatically against Harry’s side. "I think we should all run away together. The three of us. Set up a little shop somewhere, sell dangerous artifacts, live like kings."

Harry laughed, shaking his head. "You’re ridiculous."

But Tom didn’t laugh. He only tilted his head, studying Harry carefully.

"Maybe," Tom said. "But I’d wager Evans already has plans to leave us behind."

Those words cut deep. Of course Harry had plans–plans to go back to his time, back to his friends. It wasn’t like those plans were achievable, though. He had no idea why Tom would bring that up. Rather than dwell, Harry took another shot.

Alphard was grinning, cheeks flushed, as he nudged Harry’s shoulder. "So, Evans," he slurred slightly, "tell me. Why Slytherin? You don’t strike me as--" He made a vague gesture. "--the usual sort."

Harry smirked, resting his chin on his hand. "And what sort would that be?"

Alphard waved a hand dramatically. "You know...blood purists, ambition-driven maniacs, people who like the color green a little too much."

"Hey now," Harry said, feigning offense, "I do like green."

"Mm, it does match your eyes," Alphard hummed, watching him playfully. "Maybe that’s the only reason the Hat put you there. Fashion choice. But seriously, you’re too nice to be with those snakes.”

“You say that as if you aren’t one of those snakes,” Harry snickered, grabbing another glass.

“So? You and me don’t count. We’re different,” Alphard joked. Tom was oddly silent.

Harry only rolled his eyes, the warmth of the firewhiskey settled deep in Harry’s bones, making everything feel hazy and light. The conversation had unraveled into something easy, playful, and unguarded. Tom, despite his initial reluctance, had clearly succumbed to the effects of the alcohol, his usually pristine composure softening around the edges.

Alphard, still grinning like a fool, knocked back another shot before groaning and stretching dramatically. “Alright, I need the loo. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.” He smirked at them both before stumbling off toward the back of the pub.

Harry barely noticed him leave. His focus was entirely on Tom, who was still sitting too close, his fingers absently trailing against the rim of his glass. The firewhiskey had darkened his gaze, but the sharpness hadn’t left entirely, it never did.

Harry shifted in his seat, turning to face him properly. “So,” he drawled, tilting his head, “you having fun, Tom?”

Tom’s eyes flicked to him, and something in them gleamed with amusement. “You’re drunk,” he noted, though there was no real bite to his words.

Harry grinned. “So are you.”

Tom exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I told you I don’t get drunk.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Right, of course. You’re above such things.”

Tom smirked, but before he could reply, Harry leaned in just a little, resting his chin on his hand as he regarded Tom with lidded eyes. “You know,” he mused, “you look good like this.”

Tom went still.

Harry could see it, the flicker of surprise, the sharp inhale he barely let himself take. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to say it, but something about the way Tom had been watching him all night, the way his presence curled around him like something tangible, made Harry want to push.

He saw the exact moment Tom collected himself, saw the shift from surprise to something else. A slow smirk curled on Tom’s lips, his head tilting just slightly. “Do I?”

Harry hummed, swirling the last of his firewhiskey in his glass. “Mhm. You’re less… rigid when you’re like this.”

Tom let out a low hum of amusement, and before Harry could react, Tom leaned in, closer than before, close enough that their noses nearly brushed.

“And you,” Tom murmured, voice smooth as silk and his breath hot as he spoke into Harry’s skin, “are bolder when you’re drunk.”

Harry swallowed, his skin suddenly feeling too warm, too tight. His mind was foggy, but not enough to miss the way Tom’s gaze flickered to his lips before meeting his eyes again.

Harry swallowed, suddenly all too aware of how close Tom was. The warmth of the firewhiskey in his veins was nothing compared to the slow burn of Tom’s gaze, the way it settled over him like a heavy, silken weight.

“Maybe,” Harry admitted, his voice quieter now, a little breathless.

Tom smirked, but it wasn’t his usual self-satisfied expression. It was softer, almost lazy, as if he was indulging in something rare, something fragile.

“I don’t mind it,” Tom murmured, and Harry caught the flicker of his gaze, the way it dipped to his lips for the briefest moment before meeting his eyes again.

Harry’s breath hitched. A part of him, the part not dulled by alcohol, screamed at him to be careful. This was Tom Riddle, and he was...well, Harry didn’t even know. A manipulator? A liar? Dangerous? And yet, right now, sitting in the dim candlelight of the Three Broomsticks, with the scent of firewhiskey in the air and Onyx curled lazily around under Tom’s robes, he felt… different.

Less like a future Dark Lord, more like a boy who was staring at Harry with a kind of curiosity that bordered on something else, something intense.

Harry licked his lips, and Tom’s eyes definitely flickered down again, brief as a lightning strike.

Something twisted in Harry’s stomach, something unfamiliar and electric. He should move away. He should say something to break the moment. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned in a fraction more, resting his chin on his palm, studying Tom as much as Tom was studying him.

“You always stare at me like that,” Harry murmured, and Tom’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was something sharper in his expression now, something unreadable.

“Like what?”

Harry tilted his head. “Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

Tom hummed, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. “Maybe I am.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Find anything interesting?”

A beat. Then, so quietly Harry barely heard it over the hum of the pub,

“Everything.”

Harry’s stomach flipped.

Tom’s voice was low, smooth as velvet, but there was something in the way he said it that made Harry feel like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous.

The air between them felt charged, stretched too thin, as if one wrong move would snap it entirely.

Harry didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly their knees were pushing against eachother under the table, a phantom pressure that made his breath hitch. His fingers curled slightly against his cheek, fighting the urge to reach out.

He was too drunk for this. Or maybe not drunk enough.

He needed to break the tension. Say something. Anything.

“You’re really dramatic, you know that?” he blurted out, voice a little hoarse.

Tom blinked, then he was laughing.

Not a smirk, not a scoff, but an actual laugh, low and rich, curling through the air like smoke.

Harry had never heard Tom laugh like that before, and it made something strange twist in his chest.

“I think you’re projecting,” Tom mused, swirling the last of his firewhiskey before taking a slow sip.

Harry huffed. “Am not.”

“You are,” Tom said, and Harry swore he heard a trace of fondness in his tone.

His skin felt too hot, his heartbeat too loud in his ears. He needed air.

Or maybe--

He needed Tom to stop looking at him like that.

Tom leaned in, his voice dropping to something just above a whisper. “Tell me something in Parseltongue.”

Harry’s breath hitched.

He blinked at Tom, caught completely off guard by the request. “What?”

Tom tilted his head, a slow, knowing smirk curling at his lips. Tom's hand found its way onto Harry's thigh, a light touch, sending shivers down Harry's spine. Tom only smiled, “You heard me.”

Harry hesitated. He knew this was a game. He knew Tom was testing him, playing with him like a cat with a particularly interesting piece of string. But the way Tom was looking at him, the way the candlelight flickered across his sharp features, the way his hand began to grip his thigh, made Harry’s thoughts feel muddled.

He exhaled slowly, shifting in his seat. “What do you want me to say?”

Tom’s gaze darkened. “Anything.”

Harry swallowed, then let the words slip past his lips before he could think twice.

“You’re insufferable.”

The words slithered through the air, low and smooth, foreign and familiar all at once. The moment they left his mouth, something shifted in Tom’s expression—his smirk faded, replaced by something more intent, more focused.

Harry felt his face heat up. He wasn’t even sure why.

Tom exhaled, slow and deliberate, before murmuring, “Again.”

Harry’s heart stuttered.

He should say no. He should push Tom away, roll his eyes, and call him a pretentious git.

But instead--

Instead, he leaned in, close enough that he could see the flicker of candlelight in Tom’s dark eyes, and began to whisper in Parseltongue–

Tom’s lips parted slightly, his lashes lowering just a fraction.

Then--

“Oi, you good Harry? You’re all slumped over Riddle!”

Alphard’s voice cut through the moment, and Harry jolted back, blinking rapidly.

Tom didn’t move right away. His expression smoothed out effortlessly, but his eyes remained locked on Harry’s for just a second longer before he finally leaned away, turning toward Alphard with an infuriatingly unreadable expression.

Harry, heart hammering, forced himself to act normal as Alphard plopped back into his seat, oblivious to whatever had just happened.

“Don’t be getting too drunk without me,” Alphard joked, knocking back the last of his drink.

Harry forced a grin. “You’re already sloshed, Alphard.”

Tom merely hummed, swirling his firewhiskey, his expression thoughtful.

Harry exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the way his skin still tingled from where Tom had almost touched him.

The trip back to Hogwarts was a mess of laughter and unsteady steps, the firewhiskey still buzzing in their veins. The cold night air bit at their flushed faces as they stumbled through the darkened streets of Hogsmeade, making their way toward Honeydukes. Harry shushed Alphard as he tripped over nothing, nearly sending them all tumbling into a pile of drunken limbs.

"Shhh," Harry whispered, giggling. "You're gonna get us caught."

"I'm whispering," Alphard shot back, voice entirely too loud for a whisper.

Tom sighed, rubbing his temples as if their antics were physically painful. "If anyone gets us caught, it'll be you two. Try to at least pretend to have some self-control."

"Mm," Harry hummed, swaying slightly. "You like that we're reckless. Keeps things interesting."

Tom shot him a sharp look but didn’t argue.

Navigating the tunnels beneath Honeydukes was even harder with the three of them drunk. Alphard nearly walked into a low-hanging beam, and Harry snorted as Tom yanked him back by the collar, irritation clear in the set of his jaw.

When they finally clambered through the passageway and emerged inside Hogwarts, the castle felt eerily quiet. The familiar green glow of the Slytherin common room was a welcome sight as they stumbled inside, warmth wrapping around them like a heavy blanket.

Tom exhaled through his nose and turned to Alphard, who was swaying on his feet. "Go to bed before you fall over and make a spectacle of yourself."

Alphard grinned, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulders. "Only if you tuck me in, Riddle."

Tom gave him a deadpan look. "Go."

Alphard snickered but relented, swaying toward the dormitories with a half-hearted wave. "G’night, boys."

Harry chuckled, watching him disappear before turning back to Tom. His head felt pleasantly light, his body warm, and when he met Tom’s gaze, something in his stomach did an odd little twist.

"You should sleep too," Tom murmured, voice softer now. "I’ll walk you to your bed."

Harry considered teasing him for the offer, but instead, he just nodded. "Yeah. Alright."

They moved together toward the dormitory, Harry’s steps slightly uneven. Tom didn’t comment, but he stayed close, matching Harry’s pace with an ease that felt oddly natural. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable, it felt charged, as if something was waiting just beneath the surface, ready to slip free.

Harry was nearly to his bed when his foot caught on the edge of the rug. His balance wavered, and for a brief, terrifying second, he thought he was about to hit the floor but before he could, Tom’s hands were there, catching him by the waist and pulling him in.

Harry inhaled sharply as he collided against Tom’s chest. The world tilted, or maybe it was just him, but suddenly, they were pressed together, body to body, warmth sinking into every inch of contact.
Harry's breath stuttered.

Tom’s hands were firm at his waist, steadying him, but he didn’t push Harry away. If anything, his grip tightened, fingers pressing into the fabric of Harry’s robes as if he was reluctant to let go.

"You really are hopeless," Tom murmured, voice dipping into something almost fond.

Harry swallowed, tilting his head up to meet Tom’s gaze.

The space between them felt nonexistent. Harry could feel the slow rise and fall of Tom’s breathing, the warmth of it ghosting over his skin. His body fit against Tom’s like it was meant to, like something intended for this to happen.

"Not my fault," Harry murmured, voice slightly slurred. "Gravity’s just… rude."

Tom huffed a quiet laugh, his lips curving slightly.

"Yes," he said, voice low, "I’m sure that’s it."

Harry swayed, not entirely because of the alcohol this time. His fingers curled against Tom’s chest, his pulse drumming in his ears, hands gripping the fabric of Tom’s robes. Harry watched as Tom’s eyes dragged down to watch Harry’s movements. He wasn’t sure if it was the firewhiskey or something else, but his head was light, his thoughts slow, and Tom’s touch burned in a way that made him feel awake.

Tom's fingers brushed up along his waist, subtle but deliberate.

"You get away with a lot," Tom murmured, voice soft but edged with something unreadable. "I wonder if you even realize it."

Harry blinked, struggling to focus. "Huh?"

Tom’s thumb traced a slow, absentminded circle against Harry’s hip before he exhaled sharply and shook his head.

"Never mind," Tom said, and for a second, Harry swore he saw something frustrated flicker in his expression, something that wasn’t there before.

Harry opened his mouth to say something—he wasn’t even sure what—but before he could, Tom stepped back.

The loss of warmth was jarring.

"You should sleep," Tom said, and his voice was smooth, even, like nothing had just happened.

Harry frowned slightly but nodded. "Yeah. Probably a good idea."

Tom lingered for a second longer, his gaze sweeping over Harry, before he finally turned away.

Harry stood there, watching him go, something strange curling in his chest.

He was exhuasted, and fell asleep in an instant. What a day.

Chapter Text

The next morning was rough, to say the least. Harry awoke early, stumbling to the bathroom, his entire body feeling like–--well, shit. When he passed back out into bed, he awoke many hours later to hissing complaints in his ear.

“Speaker Harry, are you alive?” Onyx was ontop of Harry’s head, almost as if making a nest in his hair.

Harry groaned. “Yes. Let me sleep,”

“But it is light. Other speaker Tom has already come to search for you,”Onyx complained.

That made Harry’s head peak up, shifting so he was no longer buried under his covers. “Really? Why?”

“He did not say.” Onyx tilted his head, a snake equivalent to a shrug.

“Okay. Well. Give me a few more hours,” Harry face planted right back into his sheets, eyes closed and ready to drift off again.

“You have not eaten,” Onyx reminded.

“Not hungry. Goodnight, Onyx.”

“Stupid speaker.” Onyx made a disappointed hissing noise before slithering over Harry’s sheets and onto the floor.

“Where are you going?” Harry had the smallest bit of consciousness left to say, “Don’t get caught, okay?”

“I know.” Was all Harry heard before he fell back into a restless sleep.

Darkness pressed in from all sides. A suffocating, endless void.

Harry was falling—plummeting—his body weightless and cold. The wind howled past his ears, but there was no sky, no ground, only the sensation of descending faster and faster and faster—

Then—

A flash of red.

Cold.

The air was cold and damp, thick with the scent of wet earth and something metallic—something wrong.

Harry stood in the graveyard, his breath shallow, heart pounding in his ears. The shadows stretched long and eerie, the tombstones looming like silent watchers.

Cedric was beside him. Alive. Confused. Wand raised.

"Wands out, d’you reckon?"

Harry’s throat locked. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t warn him.

A rustling. A flash of movement.

And then—

A voice, soft and amused.

"Kill the spare."

Harry turned, panic clawing up his chest—

But it wasn’t Voldemort standing there.

It was Tom.

Not the spectral shade from the diary. Not the boy he had come to know in 1943.

But a version of him twisted and dark, his features sharp with cruelty, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

Harry froze.

Tom tilted his head, wand lazily raised.

"Avada Kedavra."

The green light exploded across Harry’s vision.

A rush of wind, a sickening thud—

Cedric hit the ground. His eyes wide. Empty.

Dead.

Harry couldn’t move.

His chest seized, horror choking him, bile burning his throat.

Tom turned to him, expression unreadable.

"Are you afraid of me, Harry?"

Harry tried to lift his wand, but his limbs wouldn’t obey. His body felt sluggish, heavy—like he was sinking, like the graveyard itself was swallowing him whole.

"You should be."

A hand reached for him—Tom’s hand, long fingers grasping his wrist, firm, inescapable—

Harry jolted awake. His body lurched, tangled in sheets, his skin damp with sweat. His chest heaved, his heart hammering so violently it hurt.

He barely had time to process before—

“You’re finally awake,” Alphard’s voice drawled from somewhere above him.

Harry blinked blearily. He was still here.

Still in 1943.

Still—

“Harry?” Alphard’s smirk faltered, his gaze sharpening.

Harry forced himself to breathe.

He swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he croaked. “I’m fine.”

Alphard didn’t look convinced.

Alphard was sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one brow arched in amusement. “It’s well past lunch, you know.”

Harry groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes. His head pounded. His limbs felt like lead.

“Merlin,” he croaked. “What time is it?”

Alphard smirked. “Does it matter? You’ve already slept through half the day. I didn’t think you drank that much last night. Was it really your first time drinking, mate?”

Harry let his head drop back into the pillow with a groan. “It’s an off day,” he mumbled. “Let me sleep. And don’t worry about it.”

“Mm. I would, but you missed breakfast and lunch, and I, being the saint that I am, decided to come check if you were dead.” Alphard poked Harry’s shoulder. “Still breathing, I see.”

Harry swatted at his hand halfheartedly.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

Alphard snorted. "Yeah, sure you are. That's why you look like you just crawled out of a crypt."

Harry groaned but forced himself to sit up. The moment he did, the world tilted. His vision swam, his stomach twisting unpleasantly as a wave of dizziness crashed over him. He barely had time to steady himself before a firm hand caught his arm.

“Oi—steady there,” Alphard said, brows furrowing as he held Harry upright. “You good?”

Harry inhaled sharply, blinking until the room stopped spinning.

“Yeah,” he exhaled, forcing a weak grin. “Just got up too fast.”

Alphard didn’t look convinced. “Right. Because getting up normally involves swaying like a bloody tower in an earthquake.”

Harry rolled his eyes and shrugged off Alphard’s grip. “I said I’m fine.”

Alphard didn’t push, but his gaze lingered on Harry, assessing. Eventually, he sighed, ruffling his own hair. “Well, since you’re miraculously still alive, what do you want to do? Want to sneak into the kitchens? You clearly need food before you keel over.”

Harry shook his head. “The kitchens are probably closed by now. Besides, I’m not really hungry.”

Alphard gave him a look like he was debating whether to strangle him or shove food down his throat. “Okay, well, that’s a terrible answer.”

Harry ignored him. “How about the library instead?”

Alphard blinked, then scoffed. “You wake up from a half-day coma and the first thing you want to do is read?”

Harry shrugged, standing up more carefully this time. “What can I say? I like my studies.” In his head, he couldn't help but think of Hermoine.

Alphard rolled his eyes. “Fine. Library it is. But if you pass out in the middle of the stacks, I’m leaving you there.”

“Duly noted,” Harry said dryly.

Alphard smirked and stretched. “I’ll meet you there, then. Try not to take another century getting ready.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

With that, Alphard left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Harry exhaled, rubbing his face before heading to the bathroom.

The cold water was a shock against his skin, but it helped shake off the lingering heaviness in his body. As he ran his hands through his hair, his mind drifted back to the dream.

The graveyard.

Cedric’s body.

Tom.

Harry shuddered. He braced himself against the sink, staring at his reflection in the fogged-up mirror.

It had felt so real. Too real.

He wasn’t stupid—he knew nightmares were expected after everything he had been through. But this one—

Why Tom?

Harry swallowed hard and forced himself to push the thought away.

It was just a dream. It didn’t mean anything.

With that, he quickly finished getting dressed, shaking off the chill that clung to his skin.

The library awaited. And maybe, just maybe, burying himself in books would keep his mind off the lingering unease in his chest.

...

The library was quiet in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the tall windows and casting long shadows over the wooden tables. Most students had already left for dinner, but Harry and Alphard remained, their books and parchment spread out between them in a feeble attempt at productivity.

Harry was only half-paying attention to his notes, idly tapping his quill against the edge of his textbook as Alphard sighed heavily beside him. In all of his own thoughts about Tom, Harry hadn’t even noticed that Alphard seemed…off.

“Something on your mind?” Harry asked, looking up.

Alphard scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Something? Try everything.”

Harry raised a brow, finally glancing over. Alphard was staring at the ceiling, arms crossed over his chest, a deep frown tugging at his lips. It was rare to see him looking so serious.

“What’s wrong?”

Alphard was silent for a long moment, then exhaled sharply, as if resigning himself to the conversation.

“My parents,” he said at last. “They’ve been talking about… arrangements, again. They sent an owl this morning.”

Harry frowned. “Arrangements?”

Alphard waved a hand, irritated. “Marriage. Betrothal. All that pureblood nonsense.”

Harry’s stomach twisted slightly. He knew enough about the old wizarding families to understand what Alphard meant. “At your age?”

Alphard snorted. “Yeah. It’s all about keeping the bloodline pure.” He said the word with open disdain, shaking his head. “They want me to marry Druella.”

Harry blinked. “Your cousin?”

“Yes,” Alphard muttered. “She’s decent, I suppose. But—” He hesitated, then sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not what I want.”

There was something heavy in the way he said it, something tired.

Harry frowned, feeling a twinge of sympathy. He knew what it was like to have expectations forced upon him, to have people decide the course of his life without his say. And Alphard—cheerful, carefree Alphard—was rarely this open about anything that bothered him.

“What do you want?” Harry asked softly.

Alphard was quiet. Then, without answering, he reached forward, fingers catching on the chain around Harry’s neck.

“You’re still wearing it,” Alphard murmured, rolling the silver pendant between his fingers.

Harry’s breath hitched slightly at the unexpected closeness. “Yeah.”

Alphard’s gaze flickered up to meet his, something warm and searching in his eyes. “I’m glad.”

Harry swallowed, unsure of what to say. The moment felt… different. Heavy in a way he didn’t fully understand. Then Alphard huffed a laugh, breaking the tension as he released the necklace and leaned back in his chair. “Merlin, listen to me. I sound tragic.”

Harry smirked, shoving him lightly. “You are tragic.”

Alphard gasped. “How dare you?”

They fell into easy laughter, the weight of the conversation lifting slightly. Alphard stretched, yawning. “You know, I remember you saying you were a Seeker.”

Harry blinked at the sudden shift in conversation. “Yeah?”

Alphard gave him a pointed look. “And?”

Harry hesitated. His thoughts felt sluggish, like wading through fog. “I really liked it.”

Alphard grinned, like he’d been expecting that answer. “Figured. I mean, anyone who plays Seeker is usually obsessed with it. It’s the most exciting position.”

Harry huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.

“You should play,” Alphard said suddenly.

Harry frowned. “For what?”

“Slytherin’s Seeker is out sick. Nasty case of dragon pox. If he doesn’t recover soon, we need a replacement for the next match.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Wait. You want me to play for Slytherin?”

Alphard shrugged. “Why not? You’re good. Plus, a bit of chaos might be fun. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little competition.”

Harry blinked. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

Alphard smirked. “Not even a little.”

“Well, that’s a bloody awful idea,” Harry said with a grin. “But I’m in.”

Alphard laughed. “Knew I could count on you.”

And for a moment, Harry forgot about the nightmares, about the weight on his chest. It was just him and Alphard, sitting in the quiet library, plotting their next bit of mischief. It reminded him of Ron and the twins. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all.

It only took until the late afternoon for the quidditch leader to approach Harry.

"Help? Mate, from what Alphard told me, we should’ve had you on the team from the start. If you fly half as well as he says, we’ll have the Snitch in the first ten minutes." Mulciber, the Slytherin captain had found Harry in the halls and was more than eager to welcome him to the team.

Harry just shrugged, not wanting to show outwardly how excited he truly was. "I’ll do my best."

"That’s all I ask," Mulciber said. "We’ll see you on Friday!"

Harry nodded, and Mulciber clapped him on the back again before disappearing into the crowd.

Alphard, who had been listening nearby, shot Harry a smirk. "Told you they’d love you."

Harry only shook his head with a quiet chuckle before grabbing his books and heading to their next class. Harry set his things down quickly, smiling at Alphard as he sat next to him, before leaving the room.

Harry made a quick detour to the bathroom, hoping to splash some cold water on his face and clear his head.

But as soon as he pushed the door open, his vision swam.

His limbs felt unsteady, too heavy.

Then the ground lurched.

His shoulder hit the stone floor before he even realized he was falling. The world tilted around him, spinning, tilting—

Then, a quiet hiss.

From the folds of his robes, Onyx slithered out, coiling near his face, tongue flickering.

"Something is wrong," the snake murmured. "You are weak."

Harry exhaled sharply, shifting until he was sitting against the cold wall. "I’m fine," he muttered.

Onyx flicked his tail. "Liar."

Harry scrubbed a hand down his face. "I’m just tired."

"You are more than tired."

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. Onyx watched him, unblinking.

"Stop looking at me like that," Harry grumbled.

"I will stop when you stop being foolish," Onyx replied.

Harry let out a slow breath, then bent down and scooped Onyx up, tucking him back into his robes.

"Let’s get to class," he muttered, determined to push past whatever was going on with him.

Weirdly enough, when they sat down they saw Merrythought instead of Dumbledore. Harry and Alphard turned to eachother, both sporting a quizzical look; they must have gone to the wrong class.

Until Merrythought spoke, flipping through an old book, “Dumbledore is out sick right now so I will be filling in for Transfiguration these next days. Now, let’s continue from last week's curriculum.”

Alphard whispered to him, “Well, at least Slytherin can get some more points now that Dumbledore isn’t here.”

Harry gave a weak nod, barely paying attention as his focus scattered as his vision swayed. He couldn’t wait to go to sleep.

The class passed by far too slow. That night, Tom caught up with him just outside the common room, his expression unreadable as he fell into step beside him.

"You don’t have to do this," Tom said quietly.

Harry glanced at him, brows furrowing. "What are you on about?"

"The match on Friday," Tom said. "You don’t have to play."

Harry sighed, already knowing where this was going. "How did you hear about that--of course you did. You know everything. Well, it doesn't matter. I want to play."

Tom studied him, gaze sharp. "You’re not well."

Harry couldn't help but feel offended at the accusation. "I’m fine."

"You nearly collapsed in Transfiguration."

Harry scoffed. "I did not."

Tom’s stare didn’t waver. "You’re making a mistake."

Something in Harry bristled. He turned to face Tom fully, eyes flashing. "You don’t get it," he said. "I haven’t played Quidditch since—since I was back in my own time. It was one of the only things that ever made me feel—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "I miss it."

Tom’s gaze was intense, calculating. "And that’s worth risking yourself over?"

"Yes," Harry said, voice firm. "I need this."

For a long moment, Tom said nothing. Then, finally, he let out a slow breath and shook his head.

"You’re impossible," he muttered.

Harry smirked. "I try."

Tom didn’t look amused, and Harry felt a pit in his stomach. Normally Tom would just laugh or roll his eyes, but he looked oddly serious. At least he didn’t argue further.

And that was that.

Friday arrived with clear skies and an electric buzz in the air.

By the time Harry changed into his Slytherin Quidditch robes and stepped onto the pitch, the stands were already packed. Green and silver banners waved from the Slytherin side, while blue and bronze filled the opposite end. Students cheered, the noise rumbling through the stadium like rolling thunder.

Harry mounted his broom, his heart pounding—not with nerves, but with anticipation. This—this was home.

Across from him, Ravenclaw’s Seeker, a wiry boy with sharp eyes, adjusted his gloves and nodded in greeting.

He was locked in.

The whistle blew.

The game exploded into motion.

Harry kicked off the ground, wind rushing past him as players shot in all directions. The Bludgers were already soaring, one nearly clipping a Ravenclaw Chaser as he looped around.

Slytherin gained possession of the Quaffle immediately. Montague, their best Chaser, streaked down the field, dodging a Ravenclaw Beater with ease.

Harry ignored all of it. His focus was on one thing.

The Snitch.

He climbed higher, scanning the field, eyes sharp. Below, the game raged—Ravenclaw’s Keeper barely blocked a shot from Rosier, the Slytherin Beaters hammering Bludgers left and right. And yet, still nothing. Harry wheeled his broom around, scanning the pitch. The game had raged on while he was chasing the Snitch’s first feint. The Ravenclaw Chasers were pressing hard, but Mulciber and the Slytherin Beaters were holding them off.

As he climbed higher, his eyes flickered toward the stands.

Among the sea of green and silver scarves, Tom Riddle sat, arms folded, his expression unreadable.

Their gazes met.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Harry gave the slightest nod, a challenge in his eyes.

Tom tilted his head ever so slightly in response, something sharp and knowing in his gaze.

Then Harry was off again.

The match dragged on, both teams pushing their limits. The Quaffle was tossed back and forth in a brutal display of speed and coordination. Bludgers were sent flying with reckless force, and Harry had to dodge more than one that came dangerously close to his ribs.

Ravenclaw scored again. Then Slytherin.

The points were climbing.

Harry hovered above the action, his sharp gaze darting from side to side, waiting for any flicker of gold.

And then—

There.

Far above the stadium, the Snitch gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, darting like a firefly.

Harry’s pulse kicked into overdrive.

He shot forward, his broom responding instantly.

The Ravenclaw Seeker saw it too.

They climbed, higher and higher, wind roaring past their ears.

Harry’s body was taut with focus, every muscle straining as he forced his broom faster. The Snitch was weaving through the sky in erratic zigzags, forcing them both into a deadly dance of speed and precision.

They were neck and neck.

The crowd’s cheers became distant noise. The rest of the game no longer existed.

It was just Harry, the Snitch, and the Ravenclaw Seeker battling for the prize.

Higher.

The cold bit at his face. His robes flapped wildly in the wind. His fingers twitched in anticipation.

The Ravenclaw Seeker was reaching—

No.

Harry gritted his teeth, twisting his body in a dangerous maneuver. His broom spun, his whole form coiling like a striking snake—

Then—

His fingers closed around the Snitch.

A triumphant grin spread across his face.

He had it. As the crowd began to erupt, Harry couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation; Harry, being glad that Slytherin of all teams, won. He could hardly believe it. A victorious grin spread across his face.

Slytherin had won. Harry had won.

The crowd went wild, and Harry’s heart raced with exhilaration. His vision blurred slightly, but he kept his focus, willing himself to stay on his broom and avoid any sudden dizziness. As Harry landed, he had to quickly dismount and steady himself. The roaring crowd made it hard to hear his own thoughts, but he smiled anyway, basking in the glory of the victory.

The match had ended. Slytherin had won 160-120.

Harry hovered for a moment, still feeling the rush from the catch, until he saw the rest of the team descend to join him. As they congratulated him, Mulciber clapped him on the back and gave him a grin. “Nice catch, our new Slytherin Seeker! Welcome to the team, Harry.”

Harry managed a breathless smile, nodding in response, but before he could say anything, Mulciber moved in smoothly, his hand brushing lightly against Harry’s shoulder. His smile was easy, almost smug, and his voice low as he spoke.

“But seriously, nice work, Evans,” Mulciber said, his eyes glinting with something more than mere camaraderie. He nudged Harry with his elbow, “You’ll fit in perfectly with the team.”

Harry chuckled softly, though the motion was strained, his breath still coming in uneven gasps from the rush of the game. The dizziness he’d been fighting seemed to be creeping up on him, but he pushed it aside, forcing himself to stand straight. “Thanks, Mulciber,” he replied, his voice steady, but his head was already starting to spin. The edge of his vision blurred slightly, and his hands felt colder than they should have.

Mulciber gave him a knowing look, leaning in just a little closer, his voice dropping to a more private tone. “Why didn't you try out before? We could've used you last game!” he said, his fingers brushing Harry’s arm with a touch that bordered on possessive. “You're going to be a great addition to the team, I can already tell. You’ve got a good feel for it.”

The words should have been encouraging, but something in the way Mulciber held his gaze made Harry feel off-balance. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. Harry cleared his throat, trying to focus, but the pressure on his chest was growing, the air around him feeling heavier. “Yeah, well... I’m just glad we won,” he muttered, his words a little shakier than he intended.

But before he could finish, Mulciber leaned in even closer, his breath warm against Harry’s ear. “We’ll see how much you can handle, Evans,” he said, his voice lower now, almost teasing. “I’m sure you’ll be a real asset.” His fingers lingered on Harry’s back, brushing lightly against his spine. The touch wasn’t overt, but it made Harry’s skin prickle uncomfortably. Mulciber pulled away just slightly, but the gaze he gave Harry seemed to stretch the space between them, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

Harry tried to force a grin, but it felt strained. His vision wavered slightly, and the dizziness was making it harder to focus on Mulciber’s words. He took a step back instinctively, his balance a little wobbly. The world around him seemed to tilt, but he kept his feet under him.

It was then that Harry noticed the air around him grow colder, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. A soft but undeniable pressure in the space. He didn’t need to look to know who had just arrived, but he couldn’t help himself. He turned slightly, and there stood Tom, arms crossed, his gaze colder than the evening air. His sharp eyes were fixed on Harry, and there was no mistaking the intensity of that look. It wasn’t warm, but it was certainly... pointed.

Mulciber noticed too, and with a sly grin, he stepped back, though not without casting a glance at Tom. “Well, looks like Riddle’s finally decided to show up,” Mulciber said, his voice teasing but with an edge that wasn’t quite playful. “Guess we’ll find out if he’s impressed.”

Harry could feel the shift in the air. The weight of Tom’s presence seemed to press in on him, but he didn’t move, didn't let it show. He’d faced Tom's scrutiny before, but today, it felt different. There was something in Tom’s eyes that made Harry’s heart race despite the dizziness clouding his thoughts.

Tom didn’t respond to Mulciber’s comment, his gaze never leaving Harry’s face as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. He moved with that same calm authority that always seemed to make others fall into line, but there was something sharper now, something more focused, in the way he looked at Harry.

Mulciber, still lingering near them, clearly had something else to say, but Tom’s voice cut through the tension, smooth and cutting. “Mulciber,” Tom said, his tone warning. “How about you check on the rest of the team?”

Mulciber froze; there was no mistaking the command in Tom’s voice. It was subtle, controlled, but it made Harry’s pulse quicken. Mulciber hesitated, and for a moment, the space between them felt charged with something more than just rivalry. With a slight, tight-lipped smile, Mulciber shrugged and backed off, casting one more look at Harry before turning away.

As soon as Mulciber was gone, Tom’s posture shifted, his arms uncrossing as he moved even closer to Harry. There was no hesitation now, no distance between them. Tom reached out and gently placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, guiding him back a step, his fingers warm through the fabric of Harry’s robes.

“You did well,” Tom said, his voice almost too soft, but Harry felt the weight of those words all the same. The coolness in Tom’s eyes had melted into something... different. Something more intense. His hand slipped from Harry’s shoulder, his fingers trailing down Harry’s arm, moving with slow, deliberate pressure.

Harry felt his chest tighten, but it wasn’t the usual discomfort from the game. No, this was something else—something deeper, something unfamiliar. His head was spinning, and each step seemed to make the dizziness worse. His vision swam at the edges, and a wave of nausea twisted in his gut. He tried to shake it off, but it clung to him, stronger than he expected. The world around him felt unstable, but Tom didn’t let him go. His grip was firm, steadying Harry as he swayed.

“Steady, Harry,” Tom murmured, his voice quiet but not unkind. The grip on Harry’s wrist tightened slightly, not harsh but insistent, as if Tom wouldn’t allow him to fall. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

Harry forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine,” he muttered, trying to stand a little taller, but his legs weren’t having it. They felt like jelly, and the dizziness spun even faster now. His vision blurred, and he felt like the ground might just tip out from under him at any moment. He tried to step back, but Tom wouldn’t let him go. His fingers curled around Harry’s wrist, pulling him in closer until their faces were nearly level. The heat of Tom’s breath brushed against his cheek, and Harry’s heart thudded in his chest, but he couldn’t focus on that. He couldn’t focus on anything except the growing nausea and the pounding in his head.

“No, you’re not,” Tom’s voice dropped, quieter now, like a warning. There was no mockery in his tone, no arrogance. Just a calm, controlled command. “You’re exhausted, Harry. Stop pretending you’re fine. If you had taken my advice earlier, then you wouldn't be like this now.”

Harry clenched his jaw, trying to shake off the dizziness, but it wasn’t working. “I’m... I’m just a little tired,” he said, though his voice was weak, and it wasn’t convincing. His chest was tight, and he could feel the air in his lungs getting thinner. He tried to pull away, but Tom’s grip didn’t budge. It was steady, not forceful, but unyielding. Tom’s face was inches from his, his gaze intense, but there was something about it—something in the way he was looking at Harry—that made the air between them thicken with something unspoken.

“Harry...” Tom’s voice softened, but only slightly. His gaze flickered over Harry’s face, like he was weighing every word, every movement. “You need to stop pushing yourself.”

Harry swallowed hard, trying to mask the dizziness that was starting to overwhelm him. “I just need a second,” he murmured, but his words were barely there, breathless. His stomach churned, and the world tilted again, everything spinning too fast. But still, he tried to stand tall, to pretend like he was fine. He couldn’t let himself fall apart in front of everyone. Not yet. Not like this.

Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were weighing the truth of Harry’s words. His hand slid from Harry’s wrist, slowly, but it wasn’t gone. Instead, Tom’s arm slipped around Harry’s waist, holding him in place with quiet authority. The touch wasn’t rough, but it was firm, as if Tom was silently telling Harry he didn’t have to pretend anymore. “You’re not fooling me,” Tom said again, his voice now low, the words carrying a slight edge of something Harry hadn’t quite expected. “I told you before. You should have listened to me.”

Harry wanted to protest again, but his thoughts were becoming clouded, distant. He could feel Tom’s warmth seeping into him, grounding him, but at the same time, the world around him seemed to move faster and faster. His breath caught in his chest, shallow and uneven. “I’m fine...” he whispered, though his words felt hollow. He was slipping. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Tom seemed to notice the change in Harry’s breathing, his brow furrowing just slightly. The calm façade he’d been wearing cracked for a moment, just a crack. “Yeah, you look great,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He tightened his hold around Harry’s waist, pulling him closer, his face softening in a way Harry wasn’t sure he was ready for. “You need to rest. You’ve pushed yourself too far.”

But before Harry could respond, before he could even try to stand again, the world tilted too sharply. His knees buckled, and for a moment, he felt weightless in Tom’s arms, as if the ground had disappeared entirely beneath him.

“Harry?” Tom’s voice changed, a hint of panic threading through the coolness that usually defined him. His grip tightened as he caught Harry, holding him up with surprising strength, as if trying to keep him tethered to reality. But Harry could feel it slipping away, slowly, piece by piece.

“I’m...” Harry tried to say, but the words died in his throat, his vision fading to black as his legs gave out completely. His body felt too heavy to control, and the last thing he heard before everything went dark was Tom’s voice, low and urgent, though it was laced with an unfamiliar edge of fear.

“Harry? Damn it...”

Chapter Text

A dull throbbing pulsed in Harry’s skull as he drifted back to consciousness, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like a heavy fog. The world around him was slow to take shape with soft sheets beneath his fingers, the faint scent of antiseptic in the air, the distant murmur of voices beyond a closed door.

“So, would now be a good time to say ‘I told you so’?”

The voice was smooth, edged with amusement but with an unmistakable undertone of frustration. Harry had spent enough time around the boy to recognize behind Tom's mask.

Harry forced his eyes open, blinking against the dim light of the infirmary. The ceiling above him was an unfamiliar stretch of stone, and when he turned his head slightly, his gaze landed on Tom, seated beside his bed.

There was an unmistakable smirk playing at Tom’s lips, but his expression was carefully composed, his fingers steepled together as he watched Harry stir.

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. “Oh, shove off.”

Tom let out a quiet huff of laughter, tilting his head. “You’ll forgive me if I find this moment rather satisfying.”

Harry scowled. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Tom said smoothly, “I’m the one who’s been sitting here for the past two days waiting for you to wake up.”

Harry blinked. “Two days?” His voice was hoarse, his mind sluggish. “What-”

“You weren’t reacting to anything.”

Something in Tom’s tone made Harry pause.

The teasing lilt had faded, replaced with something quieter, something unsettled.

Harry turned his head slightly, getting a better look at him. There was no humor in Tom’s expression now. His posture was rigid, fingers curled against the armrest of his chair.

“They almost sent you to St. Mungo’s,” Tom admitted, voice lower now. “You wouldn’t wake up. Madam Gilbert tried everything.”

Harry stared at him.

Tom looked back, gaze steady.

It was a rare thing to see any crack in Tom Riddle’s carefully maintained control. But now, sitting in the infirmary, watching him with something close to wariness, Harry could see it.

The worry.

Harry exhaled slowly. “Guess I was worse off than I thought.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “Clearly. This is what happens when you don’t listen to me.”

Silence stretched between them, heavier than before.

“Where’s Onyx?” Harry asked, to fill the silence.

“He’s with the basilisk,” Tom shrugged.

“Is he going to be okay?” Harry sat up, alarmed.

Tom let out a half-hearted laugh, “Of course. He was begging me to let him stay there, how could I say no?”

Harry sighed, shaking his head but smiling as he stared at Tom.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint rustling of the sheets as Harry shifted slightly, the weight of Tom’s stare still lingering. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but the opening of the doors interrupted him.

Madam Gilbert entered the room with the brisk efficiency of someone who had long since lost patience for nonsense. Her sharp eyes flicked between Harry and Tom, her lips pursed in that way that immediately told Harry he wasn’t going to like whatever came next.

“I need to discuss your medical condition, Mr. Evans,” she said, her tone making it clear she expected compliance. “Mr. Riddle, you may leave.”

Tom, still lounging in the chair beside Harry’s bed as though he belonged there, simply tilted his head. “Harry doesn’t mind me staying, do you?”

Harry hesitated for only a moment before shaking his head. “No, it’s fine.”

Madam Gilbert’s gaze sharpened. She didn’t argue, but Harry could tell she wasn’t pleased. Instead, she muttered something under her breath before waving her wand in a complex pattern over him. The air around Harry shimmered as she performed a full-body diagnostic spell, her expression turning graver by the second.

“You were severely malnourished,” she announced, giving Harry a pointed look. “We had to administer multiple potions and fluids to stabilize your condition. Your nutrient levels were dangerously low. Frankly, I’m surprised you lasted this long without collapsing sooner.”

Harry didn’t reply. He wasn’t about to explain that his body had adjusted to years of neglect before Hogwarts or that he had never really gotten used to eating three meals a day. He could feel Tom watching him, though, gaze unreadable.

Madam Gilbert continued her scan, her brow furrowing. A moment later, her wand flickered, pulsing with dark red light. She inhaled sharply.

“This…” Madam Gilbert murmured, more to herself than to them. “There’s something...some kind of lingering dark magic in you.”

Harry went rigid, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at Madam Gilbert, a cold chill settling in his stomach. “What kind of dark magic?”

Madam Gilbert took a step back, her face neutral, but Harry noticed the slight concern in her eyes. “It’s old,” she said slowly, “but deeply embedded. I’ll need more supplies to examine it properly.”

Harry tensed, his mind racing. He didn’t need more time to know what this was. The scar on his forehead began to itch and it took all of Harry's willpower not to scratch and draw attention to it. “It’s not a curse,” he said quickly, his voice a little too sharp. “They-uh, the Aurors think its from when V-uh, Grindelwald struck me when I was a baby.”

Harry wanted to curse at himself for stuttering so much in his lie, but thankfully by her face, she seemed to buy it. Madam Gilbert paused, her brow furrowing for a brief moment, before she nodded. “Ah, I see.” She gave him a brief, calculating glance before her professional demeanor returned. “In that case, I’ll leave it for now. I won’t bother with it unless it causes more trouble. I will be back soon. I must inform the headmaster that you are awake.”

She gave him one last look, then turned to leave the room, leaving Harry and Tom in a thick silence.

Tom, unusually quiet, continued to watch Harry, his gaze intense. Harry shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

After a moment, Harry exhaled, forcing a laugh to cut through the tension. “Well, atleast I'm not dead?”

"The dark magic...it was me, wasn't it? The scar?" Tom leaned on the medical bed across from Harry, crossing his arms. He didn't seem angry, but his tone was dry as he was clearly pondering Madam Gilberts words.

"Not you. I mean him, Voldemort from my time." Harry ruffled his hair and found his fingers tracing the scar upon his forehead, "from when he hit me with the killing curse."

Tom’s expression changed, something sharp and calculating flickering behind his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “some of Voldemort’s dark magic is still inside you.”

Harry’s hand went instinctively back to his forehead. “What, in my scar?”

Tom regarded him with quiet fascination. “It is possible,” he said at last. “There are ways to preserve parts of a soul. Fragments that survive beyond the body. It would explain why I can sense that power within you.”

Harry frowned. “Preserve a soul? What does that even mean?”

Tom’s voice softened, his tone almost indulgent. “It means ensuring you cannot die completely. Imagine splitting your soul and hiding it within something. An object, perhaps. That object would become a vessel for a part of you. Even if your body were destroyed, that fragment would remain.”

Harry stared at him, his stomach tightening with unease. “That sounds like something no sane person would try.”

“Few people would,” Tom agreed. His gaze didn’t waver. “But imagine the brilliance of it. The perfection of a life that cannot be ended. The soul anchored to the world through sheer will.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. “You’ve… thought about this. That's what Voldemort did to come back to life.”

“Of course I have,” Tom said, almost gently. “I have studied death my entire life. I wanted to know how to overcome it, how to master it. That is what power is, Harry. The refusal to be erased. And it seems like the Voldemort from your time succeeded in the ritual.”

Harry looked down, his fingers brushing over the familiar lightning-shaped scar. It tingled faintly under his touch. “So you think that’s what this is? Some kind of… soul fragment?”

Tom’s eyes followed the motion of his hand. The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “Perhaps. Maybe that is why I feel connected to you.”

Harry blinked. “Connected?” He laughed, though it came out quieter than he intended. “You feel connected to me? I didn’t think you felt emotions.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened. “You think I am without them?” He stepped closer, the movement slow and deliberate. “You think you are the only one who feels something when we stand this close?”

Harry hesitated, his pulse quickening. “You’re making it sound like there’s something between us. This isn't even your 'soul fragment' or whatever in me. It's Voldemorts.”

Tom stopped just in front of him. The air between them felt charged, heavy with the warmth of the fire and something far less nameable. “You talk as if we are different people. In a way, I am him. I will become him...Maybe. But regardless of that, there is something,” he said quietly. “Whether it is magic or memory or something we cannot yet define, I feel it. You cannot tell me you do not.”

Harry wanted to deny it, to laugh it off, but the words caught in his throat. He had felt it--an odd pull, a quiet awareness that lingered whenever Tom was near. He had tried to ignore it, convincing himself it was nothing more than caution or instinct. But now, with Tom’s eyes fixed on him, he could not lie convincingly, not even to himself.

Tom lifted a hand, his movement unhurried. His fingertips brushed the skin just above Harry’s brow, tracing the edge of the scar. The touch was almost reverent, his expression unreadable. Harry tensed, expecting pain. Instead, warmth spread outward, a low hum that settled somewhere deep in his chest. He exhaled shakily, startled by the gentleness of it.

Tom’s thumb lingered, his voice a murmur. “Does this hurt?”

“No,” Harry said softly. “It feels… different. Not bad.”

Tom’s eyes met his, their color difficult to name in the shifting light. “Maybe that is because a part of me rests inside you. Maybe that is why I can find you, even in the dark.”

Harry swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice. “Part of you,” he repeated. “That sounds like something I should be worried about.”

Tom’s mouth curved, faint and knowing. “Perhaps you should. Or perhaps it means that neither of us will ever be truly alone.”

The room seemed to have narrowed until there was nothing left but the sound of their breathing and the pulse that thrummed in his scar. He did not understand what had bound them together, but in that moment, he was no longer certain he wanted to break it.

Then, Harry exhaled, shifting the conversation to something lighter and pulling away from Tom. His head began to ache from all of this soul talk. “So,” he said, hoping to lighten things up, “what did I miss while I was unconscious?”

Tom’s expression remained unreadable, but he allowed the change in topic. “Grindelwald’s men attacked Hogsmeade.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Tom shrugged. “It was minor. Aurors dealt with it quickly, but it’s making people nervous.”

Harry absorbed that, frowning. Grindelwald’s war had always been distant history to him until now.

“Anything else?” he asked.

Tom smirked faintly. “Malfoy got slapped in the face by a girl.”

Harry snorted. “Who?”

“Walburga.” Tom’s eyes glinted with amusement. “It was deeply satisfying to witness.”

Harry grinned despite himself.

“Dumbledore is still out sick,” Tom continued. “No word on when he’ll return.”

Something about that made Harry uneasy, but he kept his expression neutral.

“Oh,” Tom added, as if just remembering, “and Slughorn asked me to extend an invitation.”

Harry frowned. “Invitation to what?”

“The Slug Club.” Tom’s smirk widened slightly. “Apparently, you’ve caught his interest.”

Harry groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not going.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Of course you are.”

Harry sighed. “I really don’t care about impressing Slughorn, Tom.”

“You should,” Tom said smoothly. “He has connections, influence. It would benefit you.”

“I don’t need Slughorn’s influence,” Harry muttered. “I’m fine without it.”

Tom’s smile didn’t waver, but something in his gaze sharpened. “That’s rather short-sighted.”

Harry shrugged. “So? It doesn’t matter for me.”

Tom leaned forward slightly, his voice turning soft, persuasive. “It does, though.”

Harry frowned.

Tom tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair. “I need to uphold my image with Slughorn. He favors those he sees as talented, ambitious. You refusing to go makes me look bad. And, you could use a reference or two for your future job. He’s easy.”

Harry blinked. “How does me not going have anything to do with you?”

Tom gave him a look like he was being particularly dense. “Because Slughorn considers me the leader of our… social group. If someone I personally invited refuses, it raises questions. It weakens my position.”

Harry scoffed. “So what? Your reputation will take a minor hit?”

Tom tilted his head. “You should know by now that I don’t take hits to my reputation.”

Harry exhaled through his nose. “Tom, I don’t want to go.”

“And yet, you will,” Tom said, his voice light but firm.

Harry scowled. “No, I won’t.”

Tom regarded him for a long moment before sighing, as if this was an exhausting inconvenience. “Harry, think logically. You might not care about Slughorn, but he cares about you. He only invites those he considers promising. Declining could damage your standing.”

“I don’t care about my standing.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “Perhaps you should.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t see why it matters.”

Tom leaned forward again, his voice dropping into something almost casual, but with an unmistakable edge. “You’re alone here, Harry. No family name, no known history, nothing to secure your place. You should be building connections, not burning them.”

Harry frowned, offended, feeling a fire in his chest. How could Tom say that? He may be alone here but it was temporary. All of this was, Harry knew it. Going to a suck-up miserable party was a waste of time. Complaints were on the tip of Harry's tongue but he forced himself to stay quiet. Arguing with Tom would of course go nowhere.

Tom saw it and pressed further. His face was mere inches away from Harry’s, smiling as he leaned over him. “Besides, it’s just one evening. You attend, smile, let Slughorn be impressed by you, and that’s it. No harm done.”

Harry hesitated.

Tom’s smile widened slightly. “Friday night. I’ll escort you myself.”

Harry sighed, already regretting this. “…Fine.”

Tom leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“And, for the record, I’m going to find a way home,” he muttered. “I won’t be stuck here forever. So my future here doesn’t matter.”

Tom, who had been idly tracing patterns on the bedside table stilled. Then, to Harry’s irritation, he let out a quiet, amused laugh.

“Do you really believe that?” Tom asked, tilting his head. His voice wasn’t mocking, not exactly, but there was a sharp, assessing tone.

Harry clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

Tom hummed, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “How, exactly, do you intend to accomplish that?”

Harry had no answer. He didn’t know how to get back; didn’t even know how he got here in the first place. But there had to be a way. There had to be.

When he didn’t respond, Tom’s smirk deepened. “That’s what I thought.”

Harry glared at him. “I’ll figure it out.”

Tom leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You’ve been here for months now. Have you made any progress?”

Harry’s silence stretched too long.

Tom studied him for a long moment. “I suppose it’s possible,” he admitted, as if considering the idea for the first time. “Time travel is complicated magic, but not entirely unheard of.”

That was almost reassuring. Almost.

Tom continued, “But who knows? It could be decades before you are able to go back.”

Harry bit his lip, frustrated at how Tom was right, to some degree, “Yes, but It could also be days. I will get back.”

Tom tilted his head, “Okay. But for now, you are stuck here.”

Harry hated the way that sounded. “For now,” he stressed. “Not forever.”

Tom’s lips curled slightly, but there was no triumph in his expression, only curiosity. “If you say so.”

The words made something in Harry’s chest tighten.

Before he could respond, Madam Gilbert returned, a tray of potions floating beside her, and Alphard. Tom leaned back into a chair, his smirk still in place but his eyes thoughtful.

Friday arrived far too quickly for Harry’s liking.

He had been dreading the Slug Club meeting all week, and when the time finally came, he made every excuse to delay leaving the dorm. He was tired. He didn’t care about Slughorn or his stupid little club. He saw no reason why he had to be there just to help uphold Tom’s carefully crafted image.

Tom, of course, was having none of it.

"You’re not getting out of this, Harry," he said, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching Harry make absolutely no effort to get ready.

"I don’t want to go," Harry muttered, leaning back against his pillow, arms folded stubbornly. "Slughorn can keep his stupid club."

Tom sighed through his nose, then took a deliberate step forward. "You’re going," he said simply, leaving no room for argument.

Harry shot him a glare. "Why do you even need me there?"

"You’ll benefit from it as well," Tom replied smoothly. "Connections, influence--you may not care about them, but you should. And more importantly, I care about them, and I need you to make a good impression. So, get up."

Harry didn’t move.

Tom rolled his eyes, and then before Harry could react, he grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him off the bed.

"Tom--bloody hell!" Harry stumbled, but Tom had already started dragging him toward the door.

"I will haul you through the corridors if I have to," Tom warned.

Harry groaned, but he knew resistance was pointless. "Fine! Fine," he snapped, shaking Tom off. "I’ll go. Happy?"

Tom smiled. "Ecstatic."

The Slug Club meeting was held in one of the more lavish rooms at Hogwarts, set up with cushy armchairs, ornate decorations, and a long table filled with food and sparkling drinks. A fire crackled in the fireplace, casting a warm glow over the assembled students; nearly all of them Slytherins.

The moment they arrived, Tom wasted no time ditching Harry.

One second, he was beside him, steering him into the room, and the next, he was already across the room, flashing that charming smile at Slughorn, shaking hands and sliding effortlessly into conversation.

Harry clenched his jaw.

Of course.

Now he was stuck. Alone. In a room full of Slytherins he didn’t particularly like.

A house elf passed by, offering a tray of sparkling drinks. Harry took one purely to have something to do with his hands, sipping it while surveying the room. He considered leaving, just walking out and letting Tom deal with it...but then someone stepped up beside him.

Orion Mulciber.

“You doing alright?” Orion asked, tilting his head slightly. “After the whole Quidditch match thing?”

Harry blinked at him, caught off guard by the question. No one had really asked him about aside from Alphard and even Malfoy the other day (who was shockingly sympathetic? Perhaps because Harry had won them the quiddich game) “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Orion nodded, taking a sip of his own drink. “Figured. Just thought I’d check. Thanks again, for filling in. You really carried the game, mate. We appreciate it.”

Harry gave a short nod in return, and Orion lingered for a moment longer before moving on, disappearing into the sea of green and silver.

That was…unexpected.

Harry barely had time to process it before another voice cut through the room.

“Well, this is a surprise.”

Harry turned, already scowling before he fully registered the face.

Malfoy.

He was standing a few feet away, swirling his drink idly, watching Harry with something between amusement and skepticism.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” Malfoy remarked, his breath reeking of champagne.

Harry let out a short, humorless breath. “Neither did I.”

Malfoy smirked. “Riddle forced you, then?”

Harry didn’t answer, but his silence was enough of a confirmation.

Malfoy chuckled, shaking his head. “Typical.”

Harry didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he followed Malfoy’s gaze across the room toward Tom.

Tom, who was standing beside Slughorn, talking animatedly, wearing that polite, easy-going expression that made people want to listen to him. His charisma filled the space, commanding attention without ever demanding it. Slughorn was already nodding along enthusiastically, clearly enchanted by whatever Tom was saying.

Harry frowned.

Malfoy hummed beside him, swirling his darkly coloured drink. “That’s what he does best, you know,” he said idly.

Harry glanced at him. “What?”

“Charming people into doing things for him.” Malfoy’s eyes remained on Tom, his voice carrying a knowing edge. “It’s his greatest talent.”

Harry didn’t respond.

But as he watched Tom work the room, seamlessly gaining favor and influence with every word, he realized he couldn’t exactly argue with that.

As Harry and Malfoy stood watching Tom work the room, another voice joined them.

“Enjoying yourselves?”

Rosier strolled up, holding a drink in one hand and eyeing them both with mild amusement. He was dressed sharply, as always, with the air of someone who knew he belonged in rooms like this. He nudged Malfoy lightly with his elbow. “I was just over there listening to Ogden drone on about business investments. You owe me for leaving me alone with him.”

Malfoy smirked. “You should’ve been smarter and avoided him altogether.”

Rosier scoffed. “If I wanted to be a coward, I’d be a Hufflepuff.” He turned his attention to Harry, eyeing him curiously. “So. You’re Riddle’s new favorite.”

Harry nearly choked on his drink. “What?”

Rosier just grinned. “Oh, come on, don’t act like you haven’t noticed. He’s never been as close to any of us as he is to you. Not even Malfoy.”

Malfoy hummed, neither confirming nor denying it, idly sipping his drink in his hand.

Harry blinked. “That’s not-- I don’t-” He shook his head, noticing the room beginning to sway from the alcohol. “That’s ridiculous.”

Rosier exchanged a knowing look with Malfoy. “You say that, but I’ve never seen him tolerate anyone the way he tolerates you.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He took another sip of his drink to avoid answering.

Rosier didn’t seem to expect a response, though. Instead, he shifted, turning more toward Malfoy. “I assume you heard about the attack in Hogsmeade?”

Malfoy nodded. “Gellert’s men.”

Harry tensed slightly. “Gellert?”

“Grindelwald,” Malfoy clarified, shooting him a look. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been keeping up?”

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ve been a bit busy.”

Rosier smirked. “Riddle doesn’t tell you everything, then?”

Harry glanced over at Tom again, who was still talking with Slughorn, looking perfectly at ease. “He did mention it.”

Malfoy sighed, leaning against the wall. “Doesn’t matter. The Ministry will sweep it under the rug, just like always.”

Rosier nodded. “They’re trying to act like they have things under control, but if they did, there wouldn’t have been an attack in the first place.”

Malfoy’s expression darkened slightly. “This is why the Wizengamot is a joke. They play politics instead of actually doing anything.”

Harry listened, somewhat surprised by the depth of their conversation. He had expected Malfoy and Rosier to be like most of the other pureblood Slytherins--arrogant, entitled, concerned only with their family names. But there was an intelligence in the way they spoke, a sharpness that reminded him, grudgingly, of Hermione’s calculated thinking.

Harry frowned, swirling his drink in his hand. “But why now? Why attack Hogsmeade?”

Rosier exhaled, exchanging a look with Malfoy. “It’s not just about causing chaos; though he certainly enjoys that part.”

Malfoy nodded. “Grindelwald’s been searching for something.”

Harry’s grip on his glass tightened. “Searching for what?”

Rosier shrugged. “That’s the question, isn’t it? His men have been raiding different places for weeks--old wizarding families, libraries, even private collections. It’s not random. He’s looking for something specific.”

Malfoy glanced around before lowering his voice. “My father told me that one of his men let something slip during the attack.”

Harry’s heart kicked up a notch. “What did they say?”

Rosier’s expression darkened. “Right before he was killed, he was raving about how they were ‘so close’--that he was close. That they’d ‘found traces’ but needed more time.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Traces of what?”

Malfoy scowled. “That’s what no one knows. The Ministry isn’t exactly keen on sharing their intelligence.”

Rosier smirked. “If they even have any.”

His stomach twisted. The Deathly Hallows.

But no--Grindelwald already had the Elder Wand. He wouldn’t be looking for that. Perhaps, then, the cloak and the stone?

Harry was so deep in thought that he barely registered Rosier speaking again.

“You never did say, Evans,” Rosier said, tilting his head, “why Grindelwald killed your parents.”

Harry froze.

Malfoy glanced at him, curious but not pressing. Rosier, however, was watching him carefully.

Harry forced himself to breathe. He couldn’t exactly tell them the truth. But he needed something close enough to be believable.

“He--” Harry cleared his throat. “My parents were against him, they were trying to stop him. He didn’t like that.”

Rosier raised an eyebrow. “Really? They must’ve been influential, then.”

Harry shook his head. “Yeah, I guess.”

Malfoy hummed. “Grindelwald isn’t the type to allow rebellion. And, well, he isn’t a fan of muggleborns.”

Harry forced a bitter smile. “Yeah. I noticed.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. The conversation had taken a heavier turn, and Harry could feel their eyes on him, assessing, curious.

Then Rosier exhaled, breaking the tension. “Well, whatever he’s after, I hope he doesn’t find it. We’ve got enough to deal with.”

Malfoy nodded. “For once, I agree.”

He was still processing that when Rosier turned back to him. “Well, enough of that. Harry…So?”

Harry frowned. “So… what?”

Rosier smirked. “What did you do to get Riddle to like you so much?”

Harry scoffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Rosier exchanged another glance with Malfoy, both of them clearly not believing him.

Malfoy took a long sip from his glass, eyeing Harry with a half-amused, half-bewildered expression. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Harry frowned. “Get what?”

Malfoy smirked, his words slightly slurred from the alcohol. “You know, Riddle.” He tipped his glass slightly, his gaze flicking back toward Tom, who was still holding court with Slughorn across the room. “He’s never been interested in anyone for this long. You’re... different.”

Harry glanced at Tom, feeling the weight of Malfoy’s words settle uncomfortably in his chest. He couldn’t deny that Tom seemed to single him out in a way he never did with anyone else, but to actually think it meant something...

“I’m sure it’s just temporary,” Malfoy continued, waving his free hand dismissively. “Riddle gets bored of his toys, you know. After a while, he just tosses them aside when they no longer amuse him.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the words, the suggestion that he was just another distraction for Tom hitting harder than he would’ve liked. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice steady. The thought of being just another one of Tom’s fleeting interests made him feel... exposed. And that wasn’t something he was ready to face.

Malfoy leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with drunken amusement. “Oh, I know more than you think.” He tapped his finger against the rim of his glass, his gaze flicking back to Tom. “I’ve seen it a hundred times. Riddle gets what he wants, plays with it for a while, then finds something else to occupy his attention. And you,” He turned back to Harry, his voice softening as he eyed him with a strange kind of pity. “You’re just the latest shiny thing.”

Harry clenched his jaw, irritation bubbling up inside him. “I’m not just some toy for him,” he snapped, his voice low but sharp. “I’m not like that.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said, his tone almost playful. “Riddle’s always got something new on the horizon. And you’re just the latest in a long line. You really think you’re different?”

Harry’s fingers tightened around his glass, the weight of Malfoy’s words settling like a heavy stone in his stomach. “Yes,” he bit out, unwilling to let Malfoy get under his skin. “I do think I’m different.”

Malfoy snorted, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing. “Of course, you would. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turned his gaze back toward Tom, the faintest flicker of something darker passing through his eyes. “If you think Riddle won’t get bored of you, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

Before Harry could argue further, a new voice interrupted.

“Ah, Evans!”

Slughorn. Wonderful.

The potions master waddled over, beaming as he clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Glad to see you here, my boy! Riddle mentioned you might need a bit of convincing, but I knew you’d come around.”

Harry forced a polite smile. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Slughorn chuckled, oblivious to Harry’s lack of enthusiasm. “You’re in good company, of course! Malfoy, Rosier, two of my best, just like Riddle.” He grinned. “And Riddle speaks quite highly of you, Evans. Said you’ve got a keen mind.”

Harry glanced across the room at Tom, who was deep in conversation with another student, entirely unaware that he was being discussed.

“He did?” Harry asked, mildly skeptical.

Slughorn chuckled again. “Oh, indeed! He’s got an eye for talent, that one. I daresay you’ll do quite well here.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but Slughorn didn’t seem to need an answer. He patted Harry on the shoulder once more before moving on, engaging another group in conversation.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Rosier smirked. “See? Even Slughorn’s noticed.”

Harry groaned. “I hate this.”

Malfoy just laughed.

The meeting eventually wound down, Slughorn bidding them farewell with his usual exaggerated enthusiasm. As they stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, Malfoy fell into step beside Harry, an odd sort of expectation in his sharp gaze.

Malfoy slowed his pace slightly, his expression more serious now, almost contemplative. His voice, when it came, was quieter, more deliberate.

“You know,” Malfoy began, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the hallway, “I’m not trying to be cruel. But there’s something about you, Evans. Something that Riddle finds interesting. And that’s... rare.” He paused, and when Harry didn’t immediately respond, he smirked. “But just remember this--you won’t be the first, and you certainly won’t be the last. Riddle moves on when he’s done.”

Harry’s stomach twisted again, the familiar discomfort from earlier creeping back. He didn’t respond immediately, feeling the weight of Malfoy’s words pressing down on him. But before he could manage a reply, a soft sound of footsteps approached from behind them.

“There you are.”

It was Tom, strolling down the hallway with an easy, confident air that seemed to shift the atmosphere around him. His gaze landed on Harry for a brief second, his eyes softening with that familiar, unreadable intensity. Malfoy, without missing a beat, grinned and fell into step beside him. The two of them exchanged a brief, knowing glance that made Harry’s chest tighten, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. The closeness between them felt... different, too familiar, in a way that made Harry feel like an outsider.

Malfoy’s smile stretched a little wider, a touch of amusement in his eyes. “Ah, Riddle. Fancy seeing you here.”

Tom’s lips quirked in a half-smile. “I didn’t realize you were so fond of the corridors, Malfoy.”

Harry watched them, an uneasy sensation creeping up his spine. There was something about the way they were so naturally aligned, so comfortable in each other’s presence, that made him feel suddenly small. The way Malfoy leaned in slightly toward Tom, the way they exchanged casual, intimate glances, felt so different from how Harry had come to know Tom. The realization hit him like a punch in the gut: they were close, far closer than he had ever imagined. The thought gnawed at him, though he quickly suppressed it. He wasn’t *jealous*, not really. It was just...just strange, that’s all.

Malfoy and Tom shared a laugh at something one of them had said, their voices low and conspiratorial. It felt like a private moment, one Harry wasn’t invited into, and that made his throat tighten. He wanted to look away, to retreat into the shadows of the hall and leave them to their quiet bond, but for some reason, his feet stayed planted to the spot.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. The words Malfoy had said echoed relentlessly in his mind, the idea that Tom could--and probably would--discard him like some plaything. He wasn’t sure when the feeling turned from confusion to frustration, but it was enough. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel, not caring to give any explanation.

“Harry”

Tom’s voice was soft, almost curious, but Harry didn’t stop. His pulse raced, and his breath came quicker as he made his way toward the entrance. The last thing he wanted right now was to be caught in the middle of whatever unspoken understanding Tom and Malfoy shared. He didn’t need this. Not tonight.

Behind him, he heard Tom’s footsteps quicken. “Why are you leaving so soon?” Tom asked, his voice low and steady.

Harry didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. If he looked back, if he saw that steady gaze, it might break him. So he kept walking, shrugging nonchalantly, even though his heart was pounding in his chest.

“Just... felt like it,” he said, his tone cold even to his own ears.

He didn’t wait for Tom to say anything else. He could feel Tom’s presence behind him for a moment longer, could almost hear his mind working as he processed Harry’s retreat. But then, after a brief silence, the footsteps behind him stopped. Tom didn’t try to follow, didn’t press any further. Harry could feel the weight of the unspoken words between them, but he didn’t want to know what they were. Not now.

With a final glance toward the doors, Harry stepped out into the night, the cool air brushing against his skin, a slight relief from the suffocating tension of the evening. He didn’t know what to make of everything that had happened tonight, or of what Malfoy had said, but for the first time in a long while, he didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Before Harry even knew it, he found himself in cool winds, staring down below at a view he hadn't truly appreciated back in his own time.

The Astronomy Tower was as cold as it had always been, the vast expanse of the night sky stretched above Harry like an endless canvas of darkness, dotted with a thousand tiny stars. But tonight, the view did little to calm him. He felt like the weight of everything was pressing down on him, harder than ever before. The words Malfoy had said earlier kept swirling in his mind. *Temporary.* Like he was just another plaything for Tom to discard when he grew bored. The thought made his stomach twist painfully, and he found himself walking towards the edge of the tower, barely noticing the cool breeze that cut through the air.

Harry’s fingers fumbled inside his jacket pocket, pulling out the Time-Turner he had almost forgotten about. The familiar weight of the small golden hourglass settled into his palm, but tonight it felt like nothing more than a cruel reminder of how out of place he truly was. He stared at it for a long moment, watching the sand trickle slowly from one side to the other. He hated how useless it was. It wouldn’t let him go back, wouldn’t let him change things. The knowledge that he was trapped here, unable to fix the mess he’d found himself in, made his chest tighten.

His grip on the Time-Turner tightened, his knuckles turning white with the pressure. “Why won’t you work?” he muttered under his breath, his voice edged with frustration. He felt the angry burn of tears threatening to rise in his eyes, but he swallowed them back. He wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not when everything felt so damn hopeless.

For a moment, Harry entertained the thought of throwing the Time-Turner off the tower, watching it fall into the abyss. Maybe that would make it all go away. But even as the thought crossed his mind, something in him recoiled. He couldn’t do that. It was his only link to another time, and perhaps somehow his only way back to a world that made sense.

“You’re useless,” Harry spat, staring at the Time-Turner with all the venom he could muster. He was about to throw it, when a soft rustling sound broke his train of thought.

“Up here alone?”

Harry didn’t have to look to know who it was. That voice was too familiar, too smooth, and his stomach did a little flip in response. He turned around slowly, his heart skipping when he saw Tom standing a few paces away, looking effortlessly calm, as if he owned the entire tower. His eyes locked with Harry’s, and Harry felt the pull immediately, the way Tom’s gaze was always just a little too intense, a little too consuming.

“What do you want?” Harry asked sharply, his words coming out more defensive than he intended. His pulse quickened when Tom took a step closer, but he refused to move away.

Tom smiled, the expression too knowing, too calculating. “Nothing much. Just thought I’d join you,” he said, his voice cool and casual as he moved toward the railing. “It’s a nice view, isn’t it?”

Harry didn’t trust the way Tom’s eyes were gleaming now, a little darker than usual. “I’m fine on my own.”

Tom chuckled low in his throat, the sound sending an unwelcome shiver down Harry’s spine. “You’re lying, you know.” He was standing closer now, so close that Harry could feel the heat radiating off Tom’s body. Tom didn’t seem bothered by the proximity. If anything, he leaned in just slightly, as if testing Harry’s reaction. “You’re not fine. You never are when you're alone up here.”

Harry clenched his jaw, trying to focus on anything else but the way his body was betraying him, leaning just a little closer to Tom, as if his presence was magnetic. He’d never let Tom see him like this--vulnerable, almost... needing. “I’m not... whatever you think I am,” he said, but the words didn’t sound as convincing as they should have.

Tom’s smile widened, his eyes dropping to Harry’s lips for just a moment before returning to his eyes. “Sure you’re not.” He reached out, brushing a loose strand of Harry’s hair behind his ear, his fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. Harry’s breath caught, and he immediately wished he hadn’t let his guard down.

“Stop that,” Harry muttered, shifting uncomfortably as his stomach churned with something he didn’t want to admit.

Tom didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers trailed down Harry’s jaw, slow and deliberate. “Why?” he asked quietly, his voice turning softer, almost coaxing. “Why do you pull away from me, Harry? You’re always so guarded when it comes to me. What’s the problem?”

Harry stayed silent, unsure how to answer, his chest tightening with an emotion he didn’t want to deal with. Tom was too close, and every word felt like it was peeling away his defenses one layer at a time. He couldn’t afford to let Tom see this side of him—not when he’d worked so hard to stay distant. Tom was making him question everything, and Harry hated it.

Tom leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice softer now, but still insistent. “Is it because of your parents? Because of what happened?”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He flinched, the words cutting deep. A sharp rush of heat surged up his neck, his skin prickling with a mixture of anger and pain. He immediately pulled away, stepping back as his jaw clenched tight. His heart was racing.

“Don’t talk about that,” Harry snapped, his voice breaking a little more than he intended. The space between them felt too small now, too tight. Harry turned his back on Tom, his hands balled into fists at his sides as he started to walk away.

Tom didn’t stop him. But just before Harry was out of earshot, he murmured, his voice low and quiet, “I’m not him.”

Harry froze. He didn’t turn around, but he heard Tom’s words in the stillness of the tower. A part of him wanted to argue, to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he took another breath, and walked away, leaving Tom standing in the shadows of the tower, his presence still lingering in the air.

Harry’s footsteps echoed through the empty tower, his pace quickening as he reached the Slytherin dorms. He didn’t need to look behind him to know Tom was still there, following him like some sort of shadow.

“Don’t run away from me, Harry,” Tom’s voice floated up the stairs, smooth and almost amused, as if he wasn’t in any rush at all.

Harry clenched his jaw but refused to slow down. He just wanted to be left alone. He reached the dormitory door, pushing it open and stepping inside. He didn’t look back, heading straight for the bathroom without even thinking about it.

He was almost there, almost able to breathe again, when Tom’s voice called out from the doorway. “Oh, so that’s how it is?”

Harry froze for a moment, irritation crawling under his skin. He ignored Tom as best he could, grabbing his toothbrush and starting to brush his teeth. He was not going to let Tom get to him. He wasn’t.

Tom leaned casually against the doorframe, watching him. “You’re really just going to shut me out like this, Harry?”

Harry focused on the mirror, his reflection blurry as he quickly moved the brush back and forth. He wanted to shout, to say something biting, but he didn’t. He just kept brushing.

Tom’s smirk grew as he took a step closer. “Pretend it doesn’t bother you all you want, but it does, doesn’t it? I’ve got your attention, and you can’t even look away.”

The words were like a challenge, prodding at Harry’s nerves. He clenched his teeth and spat into the sink, wiping his mouth quickly. “I don’t know what you want, Riddle.”

Tom’s gaze never wavered. “I want you to stop running. Stop hiding from me.”

Harry whipped around, his frustration finally boiling over. “I’m not running, and I’m not hiding,” he snapped. “I’m just trying to get away from you.”

Tom took a step forward, unbothered by Harry’s sharp tone. “So, you think ignoring me will make it all go away? You think if you pretend I’m not here, I’ll just vanish?”

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, the urge to fight back stronger than ever. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said, stepping closer, his eyes flashing. “You’re not the same as him, but you’re still a manipulative, controlling bastard. And I’m not letting you drag me into your games.”

Tom’s lips curled into a smile, dark and knowing. “Games, Harry? You think I’m playing with you?”

“I think you’re toying with me. Trying to get inside my head,” Harry growled.

Tom’s eyes softened, but his smile didn’t fade. “I don’t need to play, Harry. You’re already here, aren’t you?” His voice dropped, quiet and almost dangerous. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re too curious to turn away.”

Harry’s breath quickened, and for a moment, he wanted to shove Tom out of the bathroom, slam the door behind him, and be done with it. But he didn’t. Instead, he stared at Tom, his words coming out sharp. “You can’t control me. You won’t.”

“Are you mad, Harry?” Tom took a step forward, crowding Harry’s space.

"Well no shit. You’re insane.”

Tom hummed as if weighing the words, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. Then, with an infuriating amount of ease, he reached out and caught a lock of Harry’s hair between his fingers, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as though it were something fascinating.

Harry stiffened. “The hell are you doing?”

Tom didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gave the strand a gentle tug, just enough for Harry to feel the pull at his scalp. The touch was deliberate, calculated, and far too familiar for comfort.

“You need to relax,” Tom murmured, still playing with the strand, twisting it lazily before letting it slip from his grasp. “You’re always so tense.”

Harry batted his hand away, scowling. “Don’t touch me.”

Tom barely reacted, his smirk deepening. “Why not? I’m only playing.”

Harry inhaled sharply, willing himself to calm down. “You’re a manipulative bastard, you know that?”

Tom chuckled, reaching for his toothbrush once more. “I’ve been told.”

Harry hated this. Hated how easily Tom dismissed him, how he made everything seem like it was on his terms. Harry wanted control back.

With a sharp movement, he grabbed Tom’s wrist, yanking it away from the sink. Tom didn’t look startled(he never did)but his amusement shifted into something sharper, more assessing. “Oh?” Tom murmured. “Now, this is interesting.”

Harry tightened his grip. “I’m not one of your little followers, Riddle. And if you ever try something like that again--”

Tom moved. Quick as a snake, he twisted his wrist free and grabbed Harry’s in return, his grip like iron. He stepped in again, so close Harry could feel the warmth of him, could see the sharp gleam in his dark eyes.

“You’ll what, Harry?” Tom whispered, his voice low and taunting. “Hate me? Fight me? Leave?”

The way he said it...like he already knew the answers, made something burn in Harry’s chest. He should shove Tom away, should leave, should--

But Tom was still watching him with that knowing smirk, and suddenly, the air between them felt charged.

Tom lifted his hand again and caught a lock of Harry’s hair between his fingers. He rolled it lazily, twisting it like he was testing its texture, before giving it a small, deliberate tug. Harry stiffened. “The hell are you doing?”

Tom didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the strand slip through his fingers only to catch another, this time closer to Harry’s temple. He gave it another slight pull, watching intently.

Harry’s jaw clenched, and he took half a step back--just enough to show resistance but not enough to actually break away.

That hesitation wasn’t lost on Tom. His smirk deepened, slow and knowing. “Oh?”

Harry scowled. “Don’t touch me.”

Tom chuckled. “Strange,” he mused. “You keep saying that, and yet, you’re still standing here.”

Harry shoved at Tom’s shoulder, but the other boy barely moved, standing firm in the space between Harry and the door.

“What, exactly, are you trying to prove?” Harry bit out. “That you can get under my skin? Congratulations, Riddle, you’re annoying as hell.”

Tom exhaled a quiet laugh. “That’s not what I’m proving at all.” He reached out again, and this time, his fingers skimmed over Harry’s temple, trailing down to his jaw. A fleeting, feather-light touch, just enough to make Harry flinch, to make his breath catch in the way he clearly didn’t want it to.

Then, almost as if he were testing something, Tom let his fingers drift back up, barely brushing through Harry’s hair again. Harry stiffened but didn’t pull away immediately. Not fully.

Tom’s eyes darkened, triumphant. “Interesting.”

Harry suddenly jerked back, scowling. “Shut up.”

Tom tilted his head. “You like this, don’t you?” His voice was soft, almost coaxing. “You don’t like that I can tell.”

“Tell what?” Harry snapped.

Tom smirked. “That you like it.”

Harry’s stomach clenched. “I don’t.”

“No?” Tom took a slow, deliberate step forward. “Then why are you still standing here?”

Harry gritted his teeth. “Because you’re blocking the fucking door.”

Tom laughed. “Is that the excuse you’re going with?” He reached up again, but this time, he didn’t touch Harry’s hair, he traced the curve of his jaw again, letting his fingers linger at the hinge, right where Harry’s pulse beat beneath the skin. He could feel the way it jumped.

Harry slapped his hand away, but not before Tom caught the flicker of hesitation, the barely-there falter.

“Ah,” Tom murmured, eyes gleaming. “There it is.”

“There what is?” Harry snapped.

“The guilt.” Tom’s voice was silk-smooth, a whisper curling between them like smoke. “You hate that you don’t hate this.”

Harry scoffed. “You’re delusional.”

Tom only smiled. “You want to hate me, don’t you?” His voice was almost gentle now, coaxing, like he was unraveling a secret Harry didn’t even want to admit to himself. “It would be easier if you did. If none of this--” he reached out again, tracing a lazy circle against the side of Harry’s neck before he could slap his hand away, “--got to you.”

Harry’s breathing was uneven. His fingers curled into fists. “You’re wrong.”

Tom tsked. “Lying doesn’t suit you, Harry.”

Harry shoved him this time, harder. “I’m not lying.”

Tom let himself be pushed back a step, but the smirk never left his face. “If you say so.”

Harry’s entire body was tense, his heart still pounding, his skin burning where Tom had touched him.

Tom, satisfied, turned back to the mirror, picking up his toothbrush as if none of it had ever happened. Harry didn’t look back as he stormed out, rushing to his bed, closing the curtains and hiding under the covers. Wishing he could just hide away forever.

Chapter Text

It was a rare evening when Tom wasn’t hovering nearby. After dinner, he had been pulled into a meeting with Headmaster Dippet and Slughorn, leaving Harry to fend for himself for once. The common room was warm with low firelight, the hum of chatter filling the air. Alphard, sitting sprawled across an armchair with a book half-open on his lap, glanced up when Harry passed. “Harry,” he said, patting the empty chair beside him. “Come save me from the thrilling company of Malfoy and Rosier.”

Harry gave a faint smile and sat down. Malfoy and Rosier were across from them, both deep in quiet conversation over a game of wizard’s chess. Rosier’s hand hovered over a bishop, his brow furrowed in concentration. “You’re playing that wrong,” Malfoy drawled without looking up. “You always overthink the move, Rosier. Just commit.”

“I don’t overthink,” Rosier shot back. “I strategize.” He moved the piece anyway, earning a faint smirk from Malfoy that was almost approving. Almost.

Harry leaned toward Alphard. “So this is what you do when Tom’s not here? Chess tournaments and sarcasm?”

“Mostly mock each other until someone storms off,” Alphard said dryly, stretching his legs. “It’s tradition.” His tone lightened, but there was an edge of distraction in his voice. After a pause, he shut the book with a soft thump and added, “Druella wrote to me today.”

Harry turned toward him, understanding immediately. “About the engagement?”

“About the *announcement,*” Alphard corrected bitterly. “It’s official now. Our families are already drafting invitations for the dinner.” He ran a hand through his hair, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “She’s not even happy about it either. We’ve known each other since we were children. We’re cousins, for Merlin’s sake, but that never mattered to the Blacks.”

Rosier, who had been pretending not to listen, finally looked up. “You could do worse,” he said. “Druella’s… respectable.”

“Respectable?” Alphard scoffed. “That’s exactly the problem. I’m sixteen, not eighty. I don’t need to be ‘respectable.’”

“You’re a Black,” Malfoy said, his voice even. “It isn’t about what you want. It’s about what strengthens the family name.”

Alphard gave him a sharp look. “You sound just like my mother.”

Malfoy’s expression tightened for a brief second, something flickering in his eyes before he replied quietly, “Believe me, I don’t mean to.”

Rosier shifted uncomfortably. The mood had changed, heavy with the kind of truth no one in their circle liked to touch. Harry stayed silent, watching the firelight flicker across their faces. For all their pride and power, the cracks were showing. Alphard was restless, Malfoy disillusioned, and even Rosier’s quiet loyalty was starting to strain under the weight of expectation.

“If you could leave,” Harry said softly, “would you?”

Alphard blinked, caught off guard. “Leave?”

Harry nodded. “The family, the expectations. If you ever found a way out… would you take it?”

For a long time, Alphard didn’t answer. The fire popped, filling the silence. Then, with a quiet breath, he said, “If I ever found a way out, I’d run and never look back.”

Rosier let out a soft laugh that didn’t sound amused. “You say that now. But where would you go? People like us don’t just walk away. We’re bred to belong to someone.”

Malfoy’s tone was sharp, but not unkind. “You talk as if there’s no choice, Rosier. There’s always a choice. Even if it costs you everything.”

“You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” Alphard said with a small smirk, though his eyes held something gentler. “Tell me, Malfoy, what does rebellion look like when it’s wrapped in silk and family crests?”

Malfoy gave him a sidelong glance, and to Harry’s surprise, he didn’t retaliate. Instead, he said, “It looks like keeping your mouth shut at dinner. Like pretending to care about my fathers rants and support of Grindlewald while secretly despising every word of it.” His lips curved faintly, a hint of irony softening his words. “It looks like surviving.”

For a while, they sat in a quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable. Rosier shifted the chess pieces idly, and Alphard stared into the fire. Harry could see in all of them; beneath the masks of wit and arrogance was a shared fatigue. They were all trapped in their own way.

Eventually, Alphard broke the silence with a sigh. “I suppose I should be grateful. At least Druella isn’t insufferable. She deserves better too.” He stood, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Come on, Evans. You’re due at the infirmary, aren’t you? Before Madam Gilbert hunts you down again.”

Harry groaned but stood, pocketing his hands. “You’re coming with me?”

“Someone has to make sure you don’t faint in the corridor again,” Alphard said, and Malfoy and Rosier exchanged knowing looks before rising as well.

“You’ve somehow made that sound like a social outing,” Malfoy said dryly, following them out. “Shall we all hold hands next?”

“Only if you insist,” Alphard replied with a grin. “I’ll even let you pick the hand.”

Rosier chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. The air between them lightened as they walked the dim corridors together, their laughter echoing faintly against the stone. It wasn’t much—but for a few fleeting moments, Harry could almost pretend they were just ordinary young men instead of heirs to something dark and suffocating.

When they reached the hospital wing, Alphard pushed the door open and gestured theatrically. “After you, Evans. Try not to collapse too dramatically. It would ruin my reputation.”

Harry smiled faintly as he stepped inside. “Thanks for the escort. And. I'm sorry about the engagement,”

“It's okay. I appreciate your support,” Alphard said, leaning in the doorway. “It's just like I said, I don't have a choice. That's life. Feel better, Harry.”

Harry met his eyes, unsure what to say. Maybe Alphard wasn’t the only one who wanted a way out. Maybe they all did. Before Harry could respond, the door closed and Madam Gilbert’s voice called him over briskly.

Madam Gilbert met him the moment he entered, her expression brisk but not unkind. “You’re late,” she said, motioning toward the nearest bed. “Sit. The fluids are ready.”

Harry obeyed without protest. She lined up several potions on the table beside him--one shimmering green, another faintly blue, and a third thick and silver. He tried not to look too closely; experience had taught him that the more interesting a potion looked, the worse it usually tasted.

“All of them, please,” Madam Gilbert instructed. “And don’t make that face. You need the nutrients. You’re still dangerously underweight for your height”

Harry sighed and began drinking, one after another. The first was bitter and metallic, the second unbearably sweet, and the third burned slightly as it went down. He grimaced, coughing once as she handed him a glass of water. “Delightful as always.”

“Good,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. “You’ll stay here for at least an hour while I monitor your response. After that, I’ll check your vitals again and run another charm to see if the nutrient absorption has improved.”

She flicked her wand, and a soft shimmer spread over his arms and chest, settling into his skin like a faint, warm mist. “That will help circulation. Try not to move too much. Rest.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry muttered, leaning back against the pillow. She gave him one last assessing look before leaving to attend to a cabinet across the room. The infirmary was quiet, the fire crackling faintly in the grate. Harry stared up at the ceiling, letting his mind wander. Alphard’s words still lingered in his head...if you ever find a way out, tell me. The idea sat heavy in his chest. He didn’t know if there was a way out for any of them.

The door creaked open softly, and Harry looked up to see Tom step inside. He was still in his uniform, cloak draped neatly over one arm. “You disappear for an hour and I find you here,” he said quietly, approaching the bed. “You really are determined to keep Madam Gilbert in business.”

Harry smiled faintly. “I’d rather not, but she doesn’t trust me not to collapse again.”

Tom’s eyes flicked over the bottles on the bedside table. “Nutrient restoratives,” he observed. “You look less pale than before.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly. “You really know how to flatter a man.”

That earned a small laugh--quick, restrained, but real. Tom sat on the edge of the next bed, hands folded in his lap. “You shouldn’t push yourself so hard,” he said after a moment. “You can’t afford another collapse.”

Harry tilted his head, studying him. “You sound like you care.”

“I don’t make a habit of wasting my time on people who don’t matter,” Tom replied easily, but his tone softened as he added, “Rest, Harry. The castle feels quieter without you speaking.”

Harry chuckled, the sound low. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward but thoughtful.

The infirmary doors swung open.

“Ah,” came the familiar voice of Dumbledore, light and warm as ever. “Good to see you awake, Mr. Evans.”

Harry turned his head, watching as Dumbledore strolled into the room, his usual twinkle in his eye. The golden lamplight gleamed faintly against his half-moon spectacles.

Tom’s expression shuttered instantly, his earlier ease vanishing as if someone had flipped a switch.

“Tom,” Dumbledore said pleasantly, “would you mind giving us a moment?”

Harry could feel the way Tom went still beside him, though outwardly, he remained perfectly composed. For a fraction of a second, something dark flickered across his face before he smoothed it away again.

“Of course, Professor. Glad to see you feeling better,” Tom said smoothly, rising from his chair. He glanced down at Harry, his expression unreadable, a perfect mask once more. Harry watched as he turned, walking toward the door with precise, measured steps. But just before stepping out, Tom paused, his fingers curling slightly at his side.

Then, with a carefully polite smile, he glanced back at Dumbledore. “Don’t tire him out,” Tom said. His tone was pleasant, but there was something pointed about it.

Dumbledore merely smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

With one last look at Harry, Tom stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Dumbledore approached the bedside, his robes whispering softly across the floor. “I have some good news,” he said, smiling lightly.

Harry blinked. “Good news?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I have been in contact with the Department of Mysteries. The Unspeakables have been studying your case quite closely, and after much discussion, we believe we have found a way to send you back.”

Silence fell over the room. The ticking of the clock on the wall grew unbearably loud. Harry’s mind flatlined, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm. Dumbledore’s words barely processed. He felt like someone had just yanked the ground out from beneath him, like his whole world had suddenly tilted at an unnatural angle.

A way back.

Back home.

Back to his time.

His first instinct was an overwhelming rush of relief, almost dizzying in its intensity. He could go back. He could return to the future, to his friends, to his Hogwarts. To Ron and Hermione. To a time where Voldemort was a dark memory instead of a living, breathing boy sitting at his bedside.

His chest tightened.

Tom.

The thought hit him like a spark in the dark. If he left—if he went back—what would happen to Tom? Would things simply unfold as they were always meant to? Would he become the Dark Lord anyway?

Or had Harry changed something? Had he truly altered the course of history just by being here?

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. He thought about the way Tom had worried over him, the way his mask had cracked, even for just a moment. He thought about how Tom had stayed by his bedside, refusing to leave. Tom had called him a mystery, a puzzle he couldn’t solve. And yet, Tom had also trusted him. More than Harry ever thought possible.

Would that progress shatter if he left? Would Tom hate him for it? Would he still become Voldemort, regardless of whether Harry stayed or went?

Harry’s hands clenched against the sheets. The answer should have been simple. He should have felt nothing but relief at the news. But instead, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Dumbledore watched him closely, eyes still bright. “You don’t seem as excited as I thought you would be,” he said gently.

Harry squirmed in the bed, biting his lip as he searched for words. “I am. Excited. It’s just... so sudden.”

“I understand, my boy,” Dumbledore said kindly. “But the opportunity won’t last long. The Unspeakables discovered that the magic keeping you here is tied to a rare celestial alignment. If we don’t act now, we may never be able to send you back.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “So... it has to be now?”

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid so. This kind of magic is unpredictable. The Unspeakables have been working tirelessly to ensure we can safely return you, but the conditions are fleeting. We must leave immediately. If not now, then we can’t guarantee there will ever be another chance like this.”

Harry swallowed hard. There wasn’t time to think it over. He had spent months wishing for something, anything, to get him home. And now it was right in front of him.

He should have been thrilled. But why did it feel like something was tugging at his chest, holding him back?

His mind flickered to Tom, to Alphard, and even those arseholes Malfoy and Rosier, to the life he had been forced to build here. It wasn’t his world, but he had made something of it.

And yet... he had to go home. He thought of Ron, Hermione, Sirius, everyone who had been waiting--or rather, would be waiting. The thought gave him a shaky kind of strength.

Harry forced a nod. “Okay.”

Dumbledore’s smile widened. “Good. Gather yourself, but be quick. We mustn’t waste time.”

Harry stood slowly, his legs still unsteady from his time in the infirmary. “Right. Let me just talk to Tom.”

“We must be quick, Harry,” Dumbledore said softly.

Harry barely noticed the tightness in his tone as he left the infirmary.

Tom was waiting for him when Harry opened the door. He stood in the corridor, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The moment he saw Harry, his brows furrowed in sharp focus, studying him like a puzzle that suddenly didn’t make sense.

“You’re up. Why are you walking? Are you okay? You shouldn’t be on your own,” Tom said, his voice edged with concern. “What happened?”

Harry exhaled. “Dumbledore found a way to send me back.”

Silence.

Tom’s face didn’t change, but something behind his dark eyes flickered. “Back where?”

Harry gave a small, bittersweet smile. “Home. In the future. He’s been working with the Unspeakables. There’s this rare magical alignment or something, and if I don’t go now, I might never be able to. He’s taking me to them.”

Still, Tom said nothing. His gaze burned into Harry’s face, searching for something.

Finally, he asked, very quietly, “And you believe him?”

Harry frowned. “Tom, it’s Dumbledore. Of course I believe him.”

Tom’s expression darkened. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I know you don’t trust him, but this is my way home. I have to take it. He said it’s now or never. And I can’t just... pass it up.”

Tom was silent for a moment. His jaw tightened, and his fingers twitched at his sides.

Harry forced a small laugh. “You’ll be fine without me. I know you were using my knowledge of the future, but you’ll figure things out. You always do. You’ve always been too smart for your own good. Goodbye, Tom.”

He turned to leave.

But before he could take a single step, Tom grabbed his wrist.

Harry froze. The touch was firm, grounding. He turned back, startled, and found Tom staring at him with something raw in his expression.

“It’s not the information I want,” Tom said, his voice low.

“Then what is it? Another follower? I’m sure you’ll find my replacement.” Harry tried to sound like it was a joke, but it came out more bitter than he intended.

Tom’s face grimaced before slipping back into composure. “No, Harry. Must you make me say it?”

Harry’s heart thudded. “Say what?” He stepped forward, Tom’s hand still gripping his wrist, keeping them close.

“You can’t just leave like this,” Tom muttered, his voice breaking for the first time. “You can’t leave me.”

Something in Harry’s chest cracked open. He stared, caught off guard by the sheer vulnerabilty in Tom’s words. Tom never said things like this. He never let his guard down. But right now, he was.

“…Tom.”

They stood there, locked in place, the unspoken stretching between them. The quiet seemed to pulse with something alive, fragile and tense.

Then a voice broke through it.

“Harry.”

Dumbledore emerged from the entrance of the infirmary, watching them. His expression was perfectly composed, his smile still gentle. But there was something expectant in his gaze, something that made the hairs on Harry’s neck stand up.

“It’s time,” Dumbledore said.

Harry swallowed, looking back at Tom. Tom’s grip on his wrist tightened.

“I’m coming with you,” Tom said.

Harry blinked. “What?”

Tom’s gaze was sharp, determined. “If this is really happening, I want to see it myself. I want to see you leave.”

Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but the way he tilted his head--just slightly--sent a shiver down Harry’s spine.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Tom,” Dumbledore said smoothly. “This is an incredibly delicate procedure. Too many people could interfere with the magic.”

Tom’s grip didn’t loosen. His eyes flickered, sharp and assessing, his mind working rapidly behind the calm exterior.

Harry, unaware of the storm raging in Tom’s head, just sighed. “Tom, it’s fine. I-”

“No,” Tom said.

Harry blinked at the force of it.

And then, finally, Harry saw it. The tension in Tom’s posture. The way his muscles had coiled tight, like he was preparing for something. The way his breathing had slowed.

Harry had seen Tom wary before. He had seen him suspicious, calculating. But this wasn’t just suspicion. This was certainty.

“Harry,” Tom said carefully, “that isn’t Dumbledore.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. “What?”

Tom didn’t take his eyes off the figure in the doorway. His grip on Harry’s wrist became an iron vice. “Something’s wrong,” Tom murmured.

Harry turned to look at Dumbledore, confusion twisting in his gut. “Tom, it’s Dumbledore. What are you talking about?”

Tom took a slow step forward, moving slightly in front of Harry. The air around him seemed to thicken, charged with tension.

“I don’t know who you are,” Tom said to Dumbledore, voice smooth but edged with danger. “But I suggest you leave now.”

Dumbledore sighed. “That’s a shame.”

Before either of them could react, a wand flicked.

A flash of red exploded across Harry’s vision.

His body froze. His thoughts cut out.

A strangled noise came from beside him—Tom.

And then--

Darkness.